Into the Dark Lands (12 page)

“Erin?”

“Yes, Kat?”

“If we've finished here, I think I could use your help setting up in the circle for tomorrow.” She began to remove her apron.

“I—I have a lot of studying to do.”

She always had. If it weren't for Belfas, her studying would have been a mausoleum.

Why hasn't she cried?
The older woman shook her head.
It isn't natural.
Then again, by all accounts neither was her mother's death. What had happened to kill the special hesitancy that was Erin's childhood?

She shook her head again. Better not to know. What mattered now was bringing that back, if it was possible.

“Study can wait. I'm not as young as I used to be and I could use the help.”

They both knew it wasn't strictly true, but Erin nodded listlessly. She removed her own apron—brown and green at Kat's insistence—and set it aside on a chair.

 

The circle was quiet, the flagpoles naked in the evening breeze. Katalaan approached her stall and set the boards up so she could enter. Erin trailed behind, a quiet ghost. Even her feet made no sound.

On impulse, Kat said, “Why don't you set the flag to fly?”

Erin looked mostly confused as Kat deposited the carefully curled flag into her vacant arms. “Now?”

“We're here. Might as well let people know it.”

“But you've nothing to sell.”

“Erin, when you came three years ago, I'd nothing left to sell either.”

Erin swallowed. “Oh, Kat—” Her eyes glimmered for a moment
as Kat held her breath. Then Erin shook herself and bolted to the pole, her student browns flying at her sandaled feet.

Damn,
Kat thought. But she let her almost-child flee.

 

The ropes and pulleys of the pole were stiff; if not for Telvar's training, Erin doubted she'd have had the strength to put up the flag on her own. She carefully tied the flag into place and, once she was sure it was secured, began to pull for all she was worth.

She stopped when something began to tug at her dress. The flag was at half height.

A young child, fist attached to her robes, looked up at her. “Is that Kat'laan's?”

“Yes,” Erin said quietly.

“I've got something to show her.” The young boy looked at his stomach. He had pale, gold hair that was already browning at the roots. His clothing, bright blue and red, marked him as the smith's son.

“What is that?” Without thinking, Erin lowered herself until their eyes were level. Talking with a child was better than thinking about her mother.

For a moment the boy looked suspicious. Then he nodded as if to himself and opened up his shirt. Curled against his ivory stomach was a small kitten, fast asleep.

“I got it off Kerris's mom,” the boy whispered. “She says it's part of old Mag's litter. Says there were five.” His brow puckered. “Don't know how five fit into old Mag's stomach.”

The little white ball of fur shifted suddenly and the boy gritted his teeth. Between them he hissed, “He does it all the time. These little ones got claws.”

Erin nodded slowly.

“You all right?”

“Yes.” Her lips hardly moved.

Very gingerly, he shifted the kitten between his hands and held it out. “You want to hold him?”

“Could I?”

He nodded. “You're okay. Jimmison's stupid; he almost strangled it. But you'll be fine.” There was a world of trust in those words.

Erin took the kitten. It was warm and soft; it moved as she began to scratch its ears. It had a little, rough tongue that darted hesitantly out.

“He's pretty, isn't he?”

Erin nodded.

“Hey!” The voice was high. “Are you all right?”

She nodded dumbly. Then she began to cry. She lifted the kitten, felt its claws scrape her cheeks, and felt its tongue take her tears.

She heard the boy's footsteps, heard him shouting for Kat, and heard Kat's low mumble—words that didn't mean anything to her. She didn't know why she was crying, but she held the kitten that much closer.

Hours later, Katalaan took her home. Erin leaned into her friend's shoulder in silence. She didn't speak about her mother's death, and Kat didn't ask, but they both felt better for the visit to the circle.

And very often, when Erin was tired or frightened or lonely, she returned to the circle, looking for the smith's son and his friends. And in time they came, to show her things and share with her their little secrets and complaints. And their trust grew to mean a lot to her, because she trusted herself so little.

“Erin! Erin!”

Erin rolled her eyes. Belfas was a full seventeen summers and a bit, but he still had not learned to keep his voice down in the cloisters. Her name, cushioned and hallowed by the ancient stone walls, rang loudly for a while. She glanced around quickly to make sure that he had disturbed no one before turning to look at him.

It's a good thing Kedry isn't here to see you, Belf.

She would have said it aloud, but he wasn't close enough to hear her. She watched him run—run!—down the long, open walkway. His hair was flying in fourteen different directions, but even at this distance she could see the sparkle in his eyes.

Before she could think of anything to say, he was upon her, arms stretched wide to catch her in a bear hug.

“I did it!” he shouted, as he nearly knocked them both over. She disentangled herself in some annoyance; even this close he was still shouting. “Belf, we're in the cloisters.”

“In the—oh.” He lowered his voice, but only a little. Given his state of excitement, Erin knew that was the best anyone could ask for. “I did it, Erin.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“I made my True Ward! I did it!” He looked down at his feet. “I'll have my robe in a ten-day.”

She stood almost stunned as the words sank in. Belfas had made his True Ward, had touched the hand of the Bright Heart. He had become adult.

Belfas's smile dimmed suddenly and he turned an awkward shade of red. He started to speak, then stopped himself before he could add to the damage.

Erin shook herself and forced her lips upward in a semblance of a smile. It wouldn't fool Belfas, but would have to do.

“I'm really happy for you, Belf.” She hugged him weakly. She meant it, though; attaining the rank of initiate was something that every child coveted and looked forward to. It was the one thing that separated the adult from the child in the eyes of the community. “I—have you told Taya yet?”

“No. I wanted—”
to tell you first.
He looked away and Erin could almost hear him thinking,
Idiot. Think about how she feels!

“Go and tell her. She'll be so happy for you.” Erin made her voice light, knowing that wouldn't fool Belfas either. At least it salved her pride somewhat.

“Erin, I—it doesn't really mean any—”

“Belfas—just, please . . .”

He knew she was deadly serious because she rarely used his full name. “I'm sorry, Erin.”

“Sorry? Why? You're an adult now, and you should be—be proud of it. Now, please . . .”

He nodded and turned quickly to leave her standing alone in the cloisters.

She watched his back, trying to control the horrible envy she felt and failing miserably.

I'm sorry, Belf,
she thought, knowing that she'd probably crushed any real enjoyment he would feel for the next few days. She knew she should go after him, but she just couldn't force herself to do it.
I know you'd have been happy for me.

Only when he was gone did she relax completely, even though she knew he wouldn't look back.

It doesn't matter
, she told herself firmly as she turned and made her way toward the Great Hall.
When I—when I finally make my ward, I'll be the best initiate here
. The thought was hollow, and she knew it, so she walked more quickly, entering the rounded double doors of the north hall.

But what of now?
Nearly all of my year-mates—and even some a year below—are adult. Am I going to be a child forever?

It seemed so unfair. She knew her blood was strong—out of all of the line's adults, there were maybe five who could claim a more powerful lineage—and of those five, not one was less than sixty.

So why had everyone else passed the testing?

A hint of guilt and fear welled up, and she swamped it with anger.

Knowing that she was being childish, she walked briskly to the Great Hall. It would be empty now, and she could find solace there, through prayer—although that had stopped being even remotely useful six months ago, when Rein had become initiate.

The hall was quiet, almost soothing. She walked over to the altar and bowed her head.

Lernan, why, why, why?

She started to cry and was instantly ashamed of herself.

Tears are for children
. She drew a deep breath and straightened out. Then she let herself curl up again, resting her head against the cold stone in front of her.
So what? I am a child
.

She sat alone for a while, easing her frustration and her sense of humiliation. And then, to make matters worse, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Her tears stopped immediately.

“Child, why are you crying?”

She turned around to face the Grandfather. She started to set her face, saw the gentle concern in his, and closed her eyes. One could never lie to the Grandfather, and it had been four years since she'd been naïve enough to try.

“Belfas made his True Ward.” She began to speak in a rush. “It isn't that I'm not happy for him—I am. It's just that I've tried, Grandfather; I've tried with the priests, I've tried when the circle doesn't watch me, I've tried in my sleep—and I can't call His power.”

Very gently he lifted her into his arms.

“When you are ready, you will be able to do so. Why are you trying to rush so quickly out of your childhood?” He closed his eyes a moment, knowing the sentiment to be misplaced, but unable to put a voice to his concern. In any way but this, Erin had ceased to be a child four years past. And try as he might, he would never be able to quite forget this.

Erin hated his question. She'd heard it often; each of the eighteen times she had appeared before a gathering of the elders and failed, yet again, to draw the power of God in the True Ward.

“Youth,
”
“childhood, ”treasure it while you can
. She felt a loathing for these sentiments that went beyond words.
What good did that do for my—
She cut off the thought, suddenly too raw and hurt.

“What good is youth? Can it go out and fight the enemies of our people? Can it stand against the—the priests of the Enemy? Can it save the lives of the villagers who die every day on the blooded altars?”

He looked down at her, his face creased, hearing the words that she did not speak, would never willingly speak. And once again, he tried to address them. “Erin, your mother—”

Erin yanked herself away from him and ran down the hall, only to stop as the large doors swung shut. Spinning around,
her face white and pale, she shouted, “Don't talk about my mother! You weren't there! You didn't see what happened!” The vaulted ceiling caught her words, spinning them about the room in a weblike echo. She turned again, unwilling to face him in her anger and guilt, and began to pull ineffectively at the handles of the large doors.

He came up behind her and took her into his arms, but this time to keep her there for a while. Of all the things he had expected, this was not one—he had never seen her so openly expose her pain, and he was unwilling to allow her to mask it again.

She screamed at him, all of her precious control gone.

He held her until she had quieted, more from exhaustion than from any sense of peace. “Erin,” he said in a gentle voices, “your mother was an adult. An adult fears death but accepts it.”

She wanted to shout, but her voice came out weakly. “She didn't. She wasn't warrior-trained. I could hear her—” She brought her hands up automatically to cover her ears as she had done for so many sleepless nights. She could still hear the screams echoing down the years. “She—it was—she wanted to die.”

The Grandfather tensed slightly, knowing the truth of her words. It was his greatest guilt—to let one not warrior-trained go to the fields of battle and to the hands of a Servant of the Enemy unprepared. Slowly he forced his hands to resume stroking the back of her head.

He did not tell her that there was nothing she could have done, but only because he knew she had heard it many, many times, and that she could not, would not, believe it.

As if she heard his thought, she said, “And if I'd been adult, if I'd had my full power, I could have stopped them. I would have—”

“You would have died.”

“It doesn't matter!” She balled her hands into fists. “She was stronger of blood than me! She was important!” Her voice petered away into sobs, but he caught the words that came between them. “And—and He didn't come to her either. He didn't listen.”

“He couldn't.” How could he explain clearly enough for her to understand? “The Enemy's Servant bound her power too closely to her.”

She didn't seem to hear him, lost—as she had been for so many years—in her own silence. Then, unexpectedly, and in a tone of voice that tore into the Grandfather, she asked, “Is it because I didn't save her? Is it because I didn't help? Is that why
He won't let me touch His power?” She tried to pull back and failed.