Lady of Mercy

by Michelle Sagara

  As Erin was lost in it.

  “Erin,” he said gently, “put the sword aside.”

  “Pardon? ”

  “Lay it aside a moment.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve trained enough for the day. There isn’t much more you can do, and I can’t join you at the moment.” He walked over to her and very gently began to unbuckle the scabbard.

  She lifted her arms, making no move to help him, but none to hinder either. In the light of day, she would never have done this. But the shadows held a promise of privacy and escape from the light.

  “Why are you fighting in the darkness?”

  “I can see.”

  He didn’t ask what. Instead he walked over to the bench and laid the sword down beside the flickering lamp. She started toward it and then stopped as he shook his head. “Time enough for fighting tomorrow. The next time you wear it, it will be in earnest.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know.”

  “We’ve got so little time-”

  “I know. ” He walked toward her and very gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “What was life like, with the Line Elliath? ”

  She shrugged. “It was like life.”

  “What did you do?”

  She shrugged again, feeling the pressure of his hands. “I don’t know. ”

  “When you were younger?”

  “I took my lessons.”

  “Where?”

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Because I know so little of your life, Erin.” He could hardly see her face at all, although her hair had been pulled back and tightly bound with copper wire. A swath of shadow hid all but the most prominent of her features. “Where?”

  “In the south wing of the great hall. ”

  “What did you learn?”

  “History. ” She sighed heavily, to make clear that she answered only to humor him. “Genesis. The beginning of the wars. We learned of Gallin and his fall and what his fall gave us. Learned of the Twelve of the Enemy and their plans and their methods of fighting.” Her eyes met his, asking permission to stop.

  “And?”

  “Renar, what difference does it make?”

  “And? ”

  “We learned to use our powers. How to draw light enough to see by, how to draw light that normal eyes might see, if we had the power. Some of us learned to memory-walk”here she drew breath too sharply and struggled to steady herself—“and some to heal; some learned to hold the fire of the line.” She took another breath, a more even one. “We learned to fight. To use the sword, and the bow, if we had the strength for it. I didn’t. We spent hours in the drill, with different weaponsmasters.”

  “And? ”

  “The Lesser Ward. The Greater Ward.” She bit her lip and looked away. “The True Ward.” She thought he might press her and wondered what she would say if he did. He surprised her.

  “Did you learn to sing?”

  “Sing?”

  “Ah. No. Did you learn any musical instruments?”

  She shook her head dumbly.

  “Did you read any poetry? Did you write it?”

  “No. And no. Why are you asking this?”

  “Numbers. Did you learn those?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you learn to—”

  “Renar! ” She pulled away, lifting her hands the way they did to stop each other in drill.

  He did not accept her surrender. “Erin, Lady, did you ever learn to do anything other than fight the war?”

  “Anything other than—” Her eyes widened and caught flecks of lamplight, blurring and then sharpening as his meaning, veiled by seemingly pointless questions, was suddenly made clear. “Renar, the war never stopped! When did we have the time?”

  His eyes were dark.

  The tears started before Erin could stop them, and it frightened her because she hadn’t any idea why she was crying. She stumbled backward into darkness. She called the light, called it as a shield.

  “I’m sorry,” the prince whispered. His face was ringed by a warmth he couldn’t see. “Maybe you didn’t have the time. Not then.

  “But tonight, Erin, we have that time.”

  “Tonight?” Her voice was a shriek; all her control had ebbed away in the shadows. “We’re going to do battle in the morning!” She choked on the words and the anger that remained just beyond her comprehension. “We don’t have the time to waste!”

  “We have the time.”

  “I don’t understand you! This is your city, these are your people! How can you talk about anything but war at a time like this?”

  “Because, Erin”-he stepped forward, stalking her—“my people as you call them, know war—but they know why they’ll fight it, too. They have a life—a life-based on living. Not on death. Not on killing. And it’s a life that they want back.”

  She couldn’t speak. Her throat was too swollen, too tight. He caught her then, and without another word pulled her close, as he once had Kayly.

  She was trembling, and it wasn’t with fear, yet fear was there beneath the wild anger that Renar had somehow invoked. No red-fire had summoned her light, but she fought now, as surely, as desperately, as she had ever been forced to do.

  “We did it for you!” she shouted in fury, the velvet of his jacket catching the noise before her voice broke. “We did it so you could have a life! That’s what the light means! That’s what it means. ”

  “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t curl down protectively around her; they were of a height. “But we don’t ask it anymore, Erin. You don’t have to fight the darkness for us-fight it with us. Fight it the way we sometimes fight it when we just live. ” He wiped the tears away as they fell.

  And she looked at him, as his fingers brushed her cheeks. That look, seen across the faces of so many children, no matter what they might later become, contained her whole face, her whole thought.

  “I don’t know how,” she whispered.

  “I know.” He cupped her face gently in his hands. “I know. That’s why I came.” He took a breath and exhaled the softest of breezes against her brow.

  “Have you ever been in—”He felt her shudder and cut the question short. If she hadn’t reminded him so much of a child, he might have stopped speaking altogether. But he saw her in darkness, alone. The road to Verdann had nearly swallowed her; the road to the palace was no longer one he was willing to let her walk alone. Now, he knew more of who she was and of what she could do. He thought of Ruth and the tentative, half-abashed way that Erin had approached her—as if the comfort she offered might not be good enough, might be rejected.

  “Erin.” His voice was light, the way only a forced voice can be. “Can you dance?”

  “D-Dance? ”

  “Dance.”

  “No.”

  “I used to dance. I was good at it—and it was one of the few things I could share with someone else. I won’t drill with you tonight. Will you dance with me?”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “I can teach you now.” It wasn’t true—the dances at which he excelled had taken months of work, years of lessons. But what was true was the fact that it was one of the two things he could share with her. The other was war.

  “We don’t have any music.”

  He might have cried at the sound of that voice had he been any other man. “We don’t need it. Not yet.” He held up her arms, just so. Held out his own, a cradle around her. “Have you seen this done?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  “Don’t worry, then. You know that dancing is just so much footwork. I’ve seen you move when you fight; this should be easier.” He moved his right foot forward and ran into hers. Shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “What do I do?”

  “You move your left foot back. Then your right to the side, then pull your left to your right.”

  More awkwardly than he could have imagined, she did as he said. He stepped back, couching his instruction
in a low voice. “That’s it. Just keep that up.”

  “I’ll hit the wall.”

  “Start here. I’ll tell you what to do about the wall in a minute.”

  She was stiff as she looked down at her feet, and he knew he wouldn’t have nearly enough time to talk of posture, grace, elegance. It didn’t matter.

  In the darkness, he began to hum.

  “What are you singing?”

  “The ‘Spring of Marantine,’ ” he answered. “It isn’t a song that one normally sings—and I make a very poor orchestra. But if you don’t mind, I think we can make do.”

  She began to move again, her feet slowly taking up the rhythm as she grew more confident.

  “Now,” he said, as he approached, “let me lead you. Keep that movement and follow me.” He caught her again, his stance superior to hers; he held her rigidly, compensating with his experience for her lack.

  He began his wordless hum anew as he moved across the room. The voice that had been one of his mother’s joys was full and vibrant, if wordless; it never once strayed from the tune that it seemed to carry without effort.

  What is war, without this to fight for? He said nothing. Come, Lady. Do as we do.

  He thought he might never again have a partner such as Erin; he thought that maybe in this dance, he was at his finest, with his feet moving madly to avoid crushing hers and his arcs and sweeps out of time, out of step.

  And when he caught the hint of the tentative smile she offered, he knew he was right. He pulled her close then, loving her, accepting her gift. He, too, had been long away from life.

  chapter eighteen

  “Hildy, do you know what you’re doing? ”

  “Now, dear, you’ve asked me that four times today.”

  “And you haven’t answered once.”

  “No, Hamin, I don’t suppose I have.” She shrugged. “Well, then, no. No, I don’t.”

  Hamin was too tense to give her his usual theatrical sigh. Just make sure the wagons don’t move. It was not unlike Hildy to come up with odd commands, but this one was the strangest he had ever received; he knew it would be the most dangerous, precisely because Hildy refused to give him any details. He’d already spoken with his men and hoped that his anxiety had not somehow transmitted itself to them.

  And of course, there was now no time left for dialogue. Action, whatever that action might be, was all that was left them.

  They approached the north gates; the walls grew above them, towering in sharp, pale relief against the too-bright sky. Very few were the people out on the roads at this time; the sun was sinking, and with dusk came the cold. Hamin’s breath came out in a plume of fog that was the very mirror of his thoughts: murky, heavy, and lingering.

  He signaled a stop to the caravan, although the wagons were, at any rate, coming to an automatic stop; the gates were closed, and the horses couldn’t go much further. The guards at the gate, looking very much as bored as they felt, perked up a little as the wagons rolled to a standstill.

  Hildy pulled out her papers in a curt, businesslike way. Firmly clutching them in heavy mittens, she walked over to the guard at the closed gate. He took them and began to leaf through them almost casually.

  “Short stay,” he muttered, nodding to the four men behind him. He was familiar enough with the Brownbur crest on the documents; they meant trouble for him if he offered any but the barest of inspections—but Hildy had never caused any difficulty, and for that reason, a cursory inspection didn’t hurt his pride. His men were fairly quick, though, and after a few moments, the gates began to creak open.

  “Early for you, isn’t it, Hildy?” he asked, with the cheery wave that had become perfunctory between them.

  The merchant, heavily bundled as always, jerked to a stop, and then turned back to wave. It was a good thing, this day, that Hildy wore scarves and hats; they hid her sudden twist of lips. Her breath was weak before she straightened out and walked back to her wagon. She usually liked to ride in the center—but this time she had chosen the tail end of the caravan.

  The wagons began to lurch slowly forward, horses pulling easily at the lighter weight. She regretted, briefly, that she hadn’t had the time to load them down. Maybe it was better; less could be lost if things got “messy.”

  The first wagon came through, followed by the second. Hildy peered out, seeing the looming arches of the massive gate approach. They were thick, these walls, and pale gray. But it was the gates that worried her; heavy iron, hinged in place by mechanisms that were meant to close in a hurry. Never mind thinking about it, though. She was committed. She gave a brief glance back into the wagon and nodded as the horses continued to pull.

  Mittened hands grabbed the reins, counting the preternaturally loud click of hooves against stone.

  Three. Two. One.

  She yanked the reins back as hard as she could; the horses brought their heads up and whinnied in protest. The wagon rolled to a lurching stop, midway between the gates. Hamin, dear Hamin, acted immediately, bringing his men to surround the wagon.

  There was a moment of silence, and then the guard at the gate came forward, waving them on. He spoke, but the word was lost.

  Trethar came through the side of the wagon. Tarp flashed briefly as flame struck it and passed through it as if it were air. The guard had time to raise his eyebrows before a column of living flame engulfed him.

  Hildy closed her eyes.

  She opened them when shouting overcame the sound of choked-off screams. Trethar stood at the back of the wagon now, clear of the arched gateway. Old, she had thought him; her age at least. But now, standing straight and tall, he had the strength and seeming of youth gathered about him. His arms swept up in a wide, smooth arc. His face, tilted upward, was calm, almost tranquil. He opened his mouth, moving it around words that Hildy could not catch. She shivered. His eyes were silver. They flashed as he spoke.

  Red and black had been the colors that Hildy had always associated with power, with death. They were gone now; she could not remember them clearly. Silver remained, underlined by the sudden screams high above her. She was grateful that the arch protected her from seeing what went on above; the one guard had been enough.

  Trethar’s face was lined in a gentle pink glow.

  From the left and the right, a large group of guards erupted, swords drawn. Their livery was city garrison; Hildy recognized it.

  They made a line for Trethar.

  “Stop them!” she cried, her voice so harsh and so urgent that it sounded foreign to her ears.

  Hamin hesitated a moment, and in that time, one of the guards wheeled round to see them blocking the gate. He started to wave them aside, and then his mouth fell open.

  “Over here!” he shouted, and half the group broke away, the barest hint of relief on their faces. “Clear the gates!” They rushed forward past him as he shouted another set of orders.

  Hildy turned to look outward, beyond the city.

  She heard a sharp crashing, as if of thunder, but didn’t turn back.

  Men were coming. Some twenty were mounted, and more were on foot. She thought one carried a banner, but they were still too far off for her to be sure.

  Never mind.

  “Trethar!” she shouted, her voice cutting above the sound of clashing metal. “Trethar! The gates! Watch the men on the gates!”

  She wasn’t certain that he heard her. She could barely see him through the curtain of flame he’d erected. But his head turned slowly, arms dancing delicately. The flame cleared as he spoke again.

  Silver glowed, but less harshly than it had before. Hildy caught sight of the brief bolt that started in front of him and shot outward.

  Lightning.

  She wondered if there was anything that he couldn’t do. Then she stopped thinking about it at all. The horsed men were upon the gates, weapons raised. Farther behind them, the rest continued on foot, not slackening the pace they had set for themselves.

  The city was their goal.

 
She closed her eyes again as she caught sight of the banner. It was nearer now; close enough to be read, to be clung to with eyes and more. Her lips curled into a hint of smile, her cheeks dimpling against the light scarf she wore. The king. They came for the king.

  The guards saw the same thing. They began to back out of the arch, some holding their ground, some breaking.

  “Hildy! What do you think—Damn it!” Hamin neatly blocked the wild swing of a retreating sword. “Not at my age, Hildy!” But he advanced as quickly and as cautiously as he dared. Why on earth had he not insisted that she remain behind? “Get back inside the wagon!”

  Hildy shook her head and reached for the reins of the horses. She was tense, but only a little—no time to worry now about a stray weapon. Quietly, but with visible determination, she dragged the horses off the road, timing her retreat to coincide with the arrival of the forefront of the king’s army.

  Once or twice before, she’d been caught in a bandit raid; she told herself this over and over again when the clash of steel against steel rang out, impossibly crisp and impossibly close. Thank the Bright Heart the horses were good. She led, they followed.

  She heard the thunder, saw the flash of lightning, and shivered. It disturbed her more than fire; fire had always been a thing of man. Lightning was a force that no human should ever control.

  The first of the horsemen passed her, spear raised. She turned, knowing her wagon was safe. The spear found a target, albeit only a leg. She closed her eyes then. In words of battle there was glory, honor, and strength. She preferred mere words; they couldn’t capture the splash of crimson; the sight of severed flesh, the shouting, or the occasional scream, choked off in midcry.

  I’ll never understand, she thought, as she half raised her hands to cover her ears, you women who choose to fight for your rights to honor in battle. The hands stopped. She forced her eyes open, hating the weakness that kept them shut.

  Do I not understand? She looked at her wagon, at the strips of cloth hanging from one side. She wondered what had ripped it.

  For strength, her eyes caught the king’s banner and held it. It rippled in the air in the hands of a youth who bore it so painfully proudly. Men surrounded him, weapons drawn. Protecting the standard. The group pushed forward, through the open gates. In minutes there was no one to stop them. Still she stared, struggling between tears and a fierce, hard smile. Both won.