Into the Dark Lands

by Michelle Sagara

  Lernan. She longed to rest a moment in the hand of God as only true Servants could do. But she could not leave; the dread and anticipation of what was almost the present caught her in its ugly web and pinned her to Earth.

  Why? Why is there no other way?

  The drivers mounted their wagons, and the surrounding Lernari guards took up their positions. She searched for a glimpse of her granddaughter. Ah. There, sitting on the coach seat beside the driver. Talking. Erin so rarely talked, and never quite this cheerfully.

  As the wagons began to roll, she started to her feet, then forced herself to be still.

  Choice. Lernan’s hope.

  For the sake of certainty, she would have willingly borne all. But Lernan’s hope was only that: hope—hope of an end to Darkness, to the Enemy and his schemes for all life; hope that rested not only on her choices, but on all the choices she could not influence and could not predict.

  And for this she must sacrifice kin? For this she must forsake daughter and send granddaughter into a darkness that had no escape?

  Yes. Because there is only one hope.

  But not all of the choices that must be made are mine to make.

  Oh, grandchild, as I must be strong, so must you be.

  She let her head drop into her hands and began her endless wait.

  chapter four

  “Well, Erin, you’ve certainly taken well to the traveling life.” Gordaris’s fingers were tangled in the red-gold of his beard. Just as well the lines wore gray—his hair was so striking, it didn’t blend well with most bright tones. It was pulled back in the warrior braid and bound with what looked like copper. At this time of day, it looked as if the sunset had reached through the trees to touch and color him. “Where on Earth did you learn to pitch a tent so quickly?”

  Erin smiled almost shyly at the compliment. Rain and the unusual chill of the past four nights hadn’t managed to dampen her spirit. She watched Gordaris as he inspected her tent pegs; he’d done it every night since they’d left Elliath. And he always said the same thing, too; sort of like Belfas.

  “Telvar,” she answered, as she straightened out her bed roll, taking care to see that it rested against the oiled tarp and not the sodden ground.

  “That’s right. You mentioned that. ”

  She sighed. It was her first real hint that becoming adult didn’t necessarily mean being adult. Belf would, no doubt, be something like Gordaris. It could be worse; he could somehow grow up to be Telvar. The thought made her want to giggle—but not in front of adults.

  “Well, I imagine you’ll be happy enough when we arrive. Hillrock’s a few hours away yet, but we should hit it by midday tomorrow. I hear your mother’s out that way. ”

  She nodded, catching his momentary frown. Everyone seemed to react that way to the news that her mother was near the border. She couldn’t understand it.

  “Still, it’s quiet enough now. The last attack may have cost us—but it cost the Enemy as well.”

  She nodded; it was something that everyone hoped for. But she didn’t really believe it. “Gordaris?”

  “Hmmm,” he answered as he sat on a large rock, carefully avoided its sharper edges.

  “Is the Sarillar going to be there?”

  “The Sarillar? No.” He scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Not unless things have changed quite a bit since we left. Andin’s out on the northern flank. Fighting’s worst there, and his power’s needed.”

  She hadn’t heard much about the news from the north, but the Sarillar always went where the battle was fiercest.

  She poked at the ground with her toes. The Sarillar was special; out of all priests, he was chosen by the Lady to be a vessel for a part of her power. The white-fire he could call at will was one example of that; he didn’t need to complete the True Ward to do it. She envied him.

  Of the seven lines, only Elliath had chosen—could choose—to invest so much of its power into a living being. But Elliath was special in other ways: Only Elliath, of all the seven lines, had been founded by a Servant of Lernan. The other six had been started by mortal followers of Lernan, their strength of blood the heritage of other Servants—Gallin of Meron, Bethany of Culverne, Gareth of Destarre, Curranen of Lovar, Marellesit of Laneth, and Guerdan of Cormont: the greater circle of initiates. They had all commanded great power in their day, and to guarantee that their power did not die with their mortal selves, they had vested it in various items: crown, staff, and ring.

  Only the Lady of Elliath could be assured that the death of the Sarillar—or, of course, if it were a woman, the Sarillorn—did not mean an end to her power, for it flowed back into her to wait again upon her choice for a vessel.

  And among the initiates of Elliath, there was no greater honor, and no greater responsibility to the line.

  At least the enemy Malanthi and Servants didn’t part from their power for any common good. It was one of the few advantages the Lernari had in their long fight.

  “Don’t look disappointed, Erin. If I’m not mistaken, you’ll be adult soon enough. And if you’re one of Telvar’s, the border’s where they’ll send you. You’ll see the Sarillar—and more of battle than you could possibly want to see. They sort of go together.” He stood with a soft smile. “He’s a sight when he calls the line power. Almost like the Lady—a little piece of God on Earth.

  “Now come on, I smell what passes for food in these parts and I’m not going to trust my share of it to these wolves. ”

  Erin smiled and joined him.

  They were almost at Hillrock.

  The road was rugged and hilly, twisting ever upward through dense thickets or scraping close under low-lying branches. The wagons, with their great wheels, had been built for it, though, and the horses seemed not to notice. Hillrock was aptly named, for it rested at the summit of a steady incline. Farms were there, but the ground was meant for mining, and the people of Hillrock split their time between these occupations.

  Before the caravan entered Hillrock they saw the first wave of people from the village. A group of children, too young to be useful in the fields, caught sight of the wagons and came running. Erin watched them from the cab of the wagon, noting the way that their clothing fit—or didn’t; Hillrock was not on an easy route for Elliath merchants, and clothing supplies were limited.

  The children stopped about ten yards away; she could see the older ones craning to catch a glimpse of the wagons that followed hers. The little ones all shouted, waved frenetically, then turned heel and ran toward the farmhouses that were coming into view.

  Gordaris smiled broadly.

  “This is why we fight, Erin,” he said as he urged the horses on. “Don’t forget it. No cause, no deep ideal, can possibly mean more than this.” His face hardened. “And this,” he added softly, “is what we stand to lose. But that part you’d do best not to remember.” He caught the curious look on her face. “War is a mass of contradictions and carefully acknowledged truths.”

  Maybe, she thought, as the wagons rolled onward, Gordaris was more of an adult than he first appeared. The brief pain that showed on his face was only the barest hint of what he had suddenly reminded himself of. Without thinking, she reached out and clutched one of the hands that held the reins. She felt a warmth swell briefly in her and flow out through her hands.

  The tight grip relaxing was barely noticeable. But it was there, and it made her feel better.

  As the fields came into sight, Erin sat forward in her seat, precariously balancing on her hands.

  “Back, Erin,” Gordaris said. But he smiled; she reminded him—for the first time—of his own young children, curiosity evident in every move she made. Not that she would be a child for much longer. He sighed, letting his glance stray from the road for a short while.

  There are so many of you that we cannot protect.

  It was the hardest lesson of adulthood to accept. Even accepting it, no Lernari could dwell on it for long—leave that to the Lady and the other Servants of the Bright Heart.


  The wagon rolled noisily into the village center, toward a series of large tents. It was obvious that they were not a permanent part of the village. They were gray, bearing the circle proudly atop their peaks, but they had also been decorated with ribbons of red and yellow—Hillrock’s colors.

  Erin’s eyes widened.

  “Yes.” He nodded at the silvered circle on the tent flap. “But wait until we stop. You didn’t come this far just to break an arm or leg.”

  She was so excited she didn’t resent his comment, although it was obvious he was talking to her as if she were a young child. Instead she waited for the wheels of the wagon to grind to a halt.

  Before that happened, the flap of the tent lifted and someone peered out. He disappeared too quickly to be identified, but Erin heard the happy shout that came from behind the cover of gray canvas.

  She clambered down the side of the wagon, adjusting the hilt of her sword. For a brief moment she wished that she had waited until she’d achieved her True Ward—she could see clearly just what her mother’s silent expression would say.

  Then she had no time to wish at all—her mother walked into the open. Erin’s small feet nearly flew off the ground in her attempt to bridge the distance.

  Kerlinda had barely enough time to recognize the hurtling figure before it was around her. And then her eyes widened; she disentangled herself just long enough to free her arms, then scooped her daughter into them. Only the care that she took to make sure that Erin’s sword hilt didn’t jab into her spoke of her experience with the warriors.

  Later, Gordaris thought, as he took a moment to watch them, later you’ll wonder what she’s doing here. But it was the now that warmed him. He’d been fighting for long enough to take joy in any reunion, however brief or unusual. It was the one thing that all hoped for and too many never saw; no one here could take it for granted.

  God, will this fighting never cease?

  Kerlinda watched her daughter sleep on one of the makeshift cots that had served the injured so well. It was obvious that she was one of Telvar’s young—and eager—students; even in sleep she didn’t let the sword stray from hand’s reach.

  But this sleep, untroubled and gentle, made of the sword something of a stuffed animal; Erin’s hands curled around it and drew it in.

  Well, Erin, you may be a fine swordsman, but you are still a child. The thought gave her comfort; it meant that among the faces of the wounded and dying that drifted through her life, Kerlinda would not yet have to dread seeing Erin’s. She felt guilty at the thought and wondered if all mothers of Lernari warriors felt thus when their children chose to take to the sword.

  Very gently she leaned down and smoothed out Erin’s hair. The darkness of it glistened with hints of deep red; Cordan’s heritage. She hesitated, not wishing to wake her child. It had been years since she could sit so.

  Nor would she have too much time to enjoy it; in a few hours she would have to see to the rationing of supplies and make sure that those who carried them knew their routes well enough to take alternates in case of trouble.

  But then, finally, she would have a few weeks, sandwiched between the comfort of daughter and mother—the Lady of Elliath.

  It was from you, Lady, that I gained my power. She sighed, letting rings of light cascade idly down her fingers. But from father all else.

  I used to think you so cold, so distant. She cocked an ear, listened carefully, then turned back to her thoughts. Maybe I didn’t understand. Maybe distance is what you need if you have to live forever in this world.

  Instead of distance, Kerlinda had been forced to cultivate a peculiar numbness; to continue to heal the injured solely to send them, armed and ready, to the waiting fields. The deaths didn’t hurt her as much now as they had when she’d lived at home in Elliath. There, life was almost normal, and what you lost to war was so clear and so blindingly sharp. But here, amid the noise and pain, it was easy to forget that death was loss.

  Cordan, she thought, was this the life you knew? Perhaps there is peace, not in dying, but in death.

  She leaned down once again, hovering over her daughter like shadow.

  “Kerlinda.”

  She smiled up at the familiar face framed in its golden red. “I’m almost ready.”

  “You’ve been saying that for well over an hour now. You’ve got a few minutes more, but the last of the wagons is nearly loaded.” He put an arm out and tapped her gently on the shoulder. “They’ll survive well enough without you for a few weeks. They’ve done it before.”

  She nodded, a gesture that had no force behind it.

  They shouldn’t have sent you out here without training you first. Gordaris frowned. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought it. The whole world is too large a burden for any ane of us to try to bear.

  Erin quietly carried what her mother had given her, slipping into the wagon she thought of as hers. Between bedrolls and supplies, she put down her mother’s clothing. Maybe, if the Bright Heart smiled on her, she wouldn’t have to watch her mother leave again. If she could somehow attain her True Ward, she would be adult—she could go with her mother back to the front to fight in the cause of God. Everybody told her she’d be adult soon.

  She straightened the bedrolls, calling light to alleviate the darkness of the enclosed wagon.

  The Lady of Elliath stood at the edge of line holdings. The grass, broken by the shadowed outlines of scrub, wavered inches below her feet. No building, no Great Hall, touched the horizon; no people, and no sound. Only here could she feel certain that Latham’s power would not find her before she had proper warning.

  It was dark.

  She held herself very still, felt the breeze touch and gently lift her pale hair.

  Once . . . once I would have walked . . .

  But she did not look up at the stars; she did not seek the face of the helpless moon.

  Is it darkness alone that I yearn for?

  Her fingers bit bloodlessly into her palms. It helped to still their shaking.

  It has not happened. She looked up now, seeing in the night sky all that she had seen in her five-year trance. It has not happened yet. Her feet suddenly touched the ground as she spun around to look almost wildly at her woods. She took a step forward and then let her knees collapse.

  Yes, she was alone here, and the better for it. It would do no good to let Latham find her in such a state. Although her actions were rarely futile, she allowed herself this one indulgence: She covered her face with her cold, cold hands, feeling them as slim, ivory bars.

  She waited. It was the most horrible thing that she had ever been called upon to do.

  Time ends the burden of all mortals. I envy you.

  It had not happened yet; she knew it because she knew the exact position of the moon in the clear sky. But it would happen; she would do nothing to prevent it.

  The wait, the interminable, terrible wait, was almost over. She counted the minutes. She saw again the darkness, the flash of red-fire. She heard the terror and pain of Lernari screams.

  She made no move to rise. This decision had been made almost fifteen years ago, and the cost had been accepted then. But she shook as she waited, curled against the living grass.

  And when she raised her white face, her eyes were dark.

  Kerlinda . . .

  It was dark; in the years to follow, Erin would remember this clearly. Their camp fires burned cheerfully, lighting rock and leaves alike. They sat around them, playing with the images that each could find out of the burning of the wood. It was pleasant; a cool wind blew gently through the air, moving the low flicker of firelight as it pleased.

  She sat beside her mother, too old to huddle in the curve of her arms, but too young to need to sit at a distance to prove her age. Gordaris and Trevor were there as well, resting their arms on their knees and conversing quietly.

  All around the camp fires the wagons were huddled like walls, and between these, tents housed their weary travelers

&nbs
p; “Kerlinda.”

  Her mother looked up, eyes drawn away from the fire that seemed to hypnotize her.

  Gordaris gave a tired smile. “To bed, I think.”

  “Bed?” She stretched, feeling almost idle. Leather chafed slightly at her arms, but it was a familiar feeling; no warrior went without armor except in the home of his line. “I’ve not had this much sleep since . . . since . . .”

  “Since the last time you traveled with me, I’ll warrant.” He stood, stretching his arms. “But you’ll have it now, Erin.”

  She stood up before her mother did; four weeks of traveling with Gordaris made his friendly tone impossible not to obey.

  “Leaving me already?” Kerlinda smiled wistfully. “You’ve grown so much. I’m not sure I should let you out of my—what was that?”

  The smile that had warmed her face fell away, and Erin saw clearly for the first time how lean her mother had become. Firelight shadowed the hollows of her cheeks as she spun around, her head tilted upward.

  “Kerlinda?”

  She stood thus a few moments as if listening, and then her face paled. Wheeling, she grabbed her daughter by the shoulders.

  “Go,” she said, her voice brooking no argument. “Not the tent. The second wagon. Go now. ” Not here, Bright Heart! Her daughter’s face loomed before her like an accusation. Not now!

  But power recognized power; this rule she understood clearly. And somehow—Bright Heart’s blood, somehow—seventy miles from enemy lines, red-fire was burning.

  Erin stumbled forward at the force of her mother’s push. She righted herself and turned to see that her mother had already unsheathed the small sword she carried.

  “Gordaris, call the alarm!”

  Gordaris’s sword already glinted in the darkness, his face the mirror of Kerlinda’s. He nodded, and the sharp bark of his voice filled the clearing. Nothing remained of the friendly, absent-minded driver that Erin had come to know so well.