Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (8 page)

“Forgive me, Sarillorn. Forgive me, child of my blood. But there was no other path. And even this one is only the fragile hope of the First of Lernan and her troubled God. I cannot even be of aid to you when you need it most; I cannot share the burden that I have forced upon shoulders that may prove too mortal to bear it. Daughter ... ”

Again the voice trailed off, and for a moment Erin feared that it, too, had left her. She felt trapped by the Lady’s Hall, trapped by the Lady’s choice, and trapped by the God that she had sought solace from all her life.

She tried not to think of her mother’s death. She tried not to think of the last time she had seen Belfas, with his red wet face. She tried hardest not to think of how it could have been avoided but for the duplicity of those whom she had trusted.

Is this
how you felt, Belfas?
she thought bitterly.
Is this what
you remember of me? That you loved me, that you trusted me-and that I failed you?

“Lernan!
God, why?”

It was not Lernan who answered. “Erin, I have little left to say.

“I have made a map for you; you will need it. The lands have changed. Marked especially, in gold outline, is the former boundary of the Culverne holdings. For Culverne, unlike for either you or I, it is not too late. If I guess correctly—and if you do not choose to abandon my hope entirely—your road lies through those lands. They are recently conquered, and they still remember our touch.

“I have also preserved a sword for you. It is light, but hard and sharp. I have seen your sword-work, and believe that it will prove worthy of your skill. Last, there is the fruit of the garden—my garden. It is made by the same magic that sustains the Eyes of God, and it will hold you in your journeys. More I cannot offer. Nor can I tell you what you must do to free the land—but I can offer you this: The seed of the Enemy’s destruction has already been sown, and you carry it within you. What fruit I hope it will yield, you already know.

“Take these, dearest of daughters.”

The voice faltered, and then continued.

“I have spent too long in the mortal lands; it hurts me—I never knew how much it could hurt. In the Final Judgment, it is you who will judge me, and I who will abide by your decision.

“Ah. The First Servant is on the field now and waiting for me. My time here is done. I go now, to peace. I pray that you find yours in a different way—and that it not be as Pyrrhic a victory as mine.

“Forgive me ... ”

The light ebbed, and Erin stood alone. She stepped woodenly out of the fountain. The water ran off her to lie at her feet. Ignoring it, she walked over to her boots and found them in a pile beside a gray pack. She lifted it automatically and found it rather heavy. Numb fingers undid the ties, and when she lifted its flap, she found the first of the Lady’s gifts: a rolled piece of ivory parchment.

She did not open it. Beneath the rolled map there were a variety of round gold-tinged objects: the third of the Lady’s gifts. She forced herself to ignore the urge to throw them away.

Instead, she mechanically put on her socks and her boots, not minding that her feet were still damp from the fountain. She swung the pack over her shoulder and noticed, beneath it, a sword in a scabbard.

Slowly she leaned over to pick it up. The handle and pommel of the sword were wrought in a pale silver color, and they gleamed in the light of the garden. All along the scabbard, in gold work and etching, were seven linked circles and some type of rune that she could not read. Nor did she take the time to try to. She knew what it said.

It was Gallin’s sword. Gallin, the greatest hero that the Lernari had ever known. And the being who had crafted it lay dead these three centuries.

In one lightning move, she pulled the sword out of the scabbard, hearing the faint whisper of metal against metal. The blade seemed to leave a lingering trail across the air as she tested its balance and weight, a signature, in ink made of light.

“What you made, Lady,” she said bitterly, “you made well.” Again she felt the urge to have an end to this horrible, endless game. The edge of the sword was sharp and unblooded. She brought it close, and closer still to her throat, until she could feel the edge of it against the skin of her neck.

And then she put it down. She would take blood-vow to end the work of the Enemy and his First Servant. Death before that was not an option—not through suicide. She swung the sword about in a tight, sharp circle, her wrist flipping back with a surprising elasticity. Three times she circled the flashing blade about her body, and as the third arc ended, she opened her mouth on a silent syllable. At long last, and too late, the Sarillorn of Elliath was going to join the war again. But this time she did not intend to leave it—not alive.

The sword went back into its scabbard, and she belted it around her waist. Even as she did so, she noted that the flowers in the garden were beginning to wither. The spell that had kept them safe from time had done its purpose. Erin of Elliath, last of her line, had received the Lady’s final message.

She walked out of the garden and back toward the great hall. Ahead of her, she could see the glowing Tree grow larger with each step she took. She felt alone, sullied and scarred by what she had found. Even the gifts of the Lady couldn’t change that.
Grimly she walked up to the Tree, free from the awe that had always been inspired by it before. She held her arms out, to catch it in a final embrace—and to be free of it forever.

Even as she did so, she heard the Lady’s voice one last time.

“Erin, child, my love goes with you.”

She couldn’t even raise the strength to express the bitter, dark laugh that lurked beneath her clenched throat. Without a backward glance, she walked out the door of the Lady’s Woodhall, never to return.

The fact that she walked without limp, or any sign of injury, escaped her notice for the moment; only later would she remember the golden glow that had warmed her before the ice had truly set.

 

The first person she saw was Darin. He stood, hands bound together in plain sight. His face was white, except where it was purpled by bruising and a trace of blood. His shirt was torn, and the dark soil of the Lady’s wood clung to his hair and clothing. But worst of all were his eyes; they were flat, almost lifeless—and when they met hers, although they flickered briefly, they did not change.

The Swords, though, they had expressions. As did the priest—the two priests—that were visible in the clearing. Black robes, black armor, and the solid gray of steel formed a half circle of attendance before the Lady’s Woodhall. It encircled Darin, who stood, bound more by fear, Erin judged, than by the simple ropes that restrained him.

“Well met,” the older priest said quietly. He even took pains to bow, and the gesture was not meant as an insult. It angered her anyway. “You must be of Elliath blood. We thought all of your line dead, centuries past.” He ran his fingers through his beard as he straightened. “This”—he raised one hand—“must be the famous Woodhall of the long-dead Lady. We’ve searched for it before, you know.” His smile deepened; his expression took the aspect of his God. “Thank you for leading us to it.”

“Enough, Tarantas,” the younger priest said. He was not so finely dressed as the older man and did not bother with the conceit of a beard that would be, at best, sparse. But he carried himself with the impatience of power. Erin knew him for the leader. He nodded to his Swords. She counted fifteen in all. “Take her. We don’t have time for pleasantries.”

“You realize,” she replied, shifting her sword as she met Erliss of Mordechai’s eyes, “that I can’t allow that.”

“We realize that it wouldn’t be your first choice.” He gestured, again without relying on words to form a command, and one Sword, weapon drawn, came to stand behind Darin. He lifted his sword; it glinted where it caught the light. Its shadow fell halfway between Darin’s shoulder and neck. “If you fight, we’ll kill the boy.”

She looked for some sign from Darin; some acknowledgment of his fate. She searched in vain. He lowered his head, exposing his neck as if he could expect nothing better than a clean strike.

“I see,” she said softly. Once or twice before, she had been in a very similar circumstance. And war had its mandate. If they killed Darin, they killed the last of Line Culverne. But if they did not, and that because she surrendered, they would shortly kill the last of both lines. Without fight, and without loss to themselves.

I’m sorry
,
Darin.
She raised her sword as she steadied herself against the back of the tree; the effects of the transition were still with her.

And then the head of the Sword exploded. His weapon fell, unblooded by all save he, and his body toppled stiffly forward, knocking Darin off his feet.

Lord Erliss wheeled, his eyes wide and then narrow.

“It isn’t her power!” Tarantas cried. “It isn’t the magic of the Enemy!”

Erin barely had time to react before the Sword closest to her
fell, clutching his neck. Wire, weighted on either side by small, dense balls, was tightly wrapped around his throat. And a very, very small portion of that throat had been exposed.

“Kill her!” the young priest shouted, in a voice that seemed to have grown more distant. She didn’t dare look beyond the men that now circled to see where their leader lay.

When the second Sword fell, she had no time to see the manner of his injury. Gallin’s sword moved her hand with an almost-tangible will; it was weightless, almost supple, for all that it was a southern blade. She saw its legendary signature—the flash and spread of green light across the air—and wondered if the Swords could see it, too, before they met its edge. She almost expected to hear a voice, some sign of Gallin, but in this she was disappointed.

They tried to force her from the tree to open ground, where they could attack more easily, and with greater numbers. They chose the west to concentrate their drive, and she defended as heavily as possible against attacks from that quarter. It quickly grew impossible; where two men had stood against her, with the advantage of height and distance, a third, and then a fourth, came to join them.

And in such close quarters, the speed afforded by light armor became much less of an advantage than the protection afforded by chain. She was fast, yes—she had always been among the fastest in any unit she had served—but she had no room to maneuver and had no shield with which to block.

She called light; it came, sealing the two glancing blows she
had taken. She called fire, and it, too, came—but where it touched the Malanthi, it caused only pain, not death, only giving her a second’s respite, rather than a reprieve. These were weak of blood, these enemies, almost completely gray. Only the most powerful of all light could serve as a weapon against them—and she needed that power to heal herself if she was to continue her fight.

Sweat beaded her brow, but at least the Lady’s greatest Tree sheltered her from the worst of the sunlight. She was tiring too quickly. A sword sneaked in at her side; she pivoted on her feet and caught its edge with her armor. In battle, she had never felt so closely pressed.

She would die here, she felt certain of it; she would die alone, with no comrades and no other warriors of her once-great line, her once-great God. At last.

And then, without warning, she felt the pressure of the Swords lessen. She spared a glance up and saw someone new enter the fray, brandishing a sword as if it were a hat, and he in the middle of a flowery bow.

“Take that, scoundrels! Quake in fear!”

She almost laughed out loud.

“Have no—
mmph
—fear, Lady!” The black-clad man said. “We’ll be—
urk
—out of this in a minute.” Through some quirk of luck, he actually managed, albeit clumsily, to parry the weapons that his—and her—enemies raised against him. His shoulders seemed to shake as he tried to brace himself for their weight and ended up teetering back on his feet.

“Don’t talk!” she shouted back, breaking one of her former weaponsmaster’s cardinal rules. “Fight!” If he could. Suddenly, she was no longer alone; some strange, dramatic young oaf, from God alone knew where, had chosen to enter battle, on her side. And if she couldn’t kill the two that she fought against, she wouldn’t be in time to rescue him.

For one second, her sword was in midswing. A heartbeat later, another explosion tore through the air. Her blade, trailing light and danger, passed harmlessly over what remained of the Sword’s head. There was no blood; no bits of flesh or bone were left to rain down upon her. Ashes, the acrid smell of cooked meat, and the black smoke of burned fat were all that remained of the Sword’s face. His body fell. She dodged it, and put an end to the Sword that stood spellbound in shock.

And then there was silence.

The odd, loud stranger stood, arms crossed, face wreathed in an obviously self-congratulatory smile. At his feet lay two Swords; neither moved. And both were charred beyond recognition.

There, in the shadows of leaved canopies, she could see tufts of white hair and the wreckage of a priest’s robe. All around, in armor that was smeared red or black, lay what remained of the Swords. She counted carefully and hoped that her memory was up to the task.

Fifteen. One priest. That left only one unaccounted for.

“Well, Lady,” the stranger said loudly. “It appears that I arrived in good time.” He lifted his sword and swung it back into the scabbard that hung too low on his waist. Or at least he tried. He narrowly avoided splitting his thigh open the first time.

She moved as if he hadn’t spoken; her feet were light upon orvas, grass, and moss—and careful, as she vaulted over the great roots of the tree. The young priest who had obviously been this squad’s leader was nowhere in sight.