Into the Dark Lands (3 page)

With a child's directness, she looked up at Kandor again. The Servant had not moved.

“Is my daddy dead?”

He closed his eyes, shutting off for the moment the glow of emeralds. “Yes, Erin.”

“Oh.”

She was silent as her mother watched her closely.

“Does that mean he won't be coming home?”

 

They wouldn't let her see her father. Her mother was called by the Lady, as were most of the adult members of the line, but Erin was left behind; the ceremonies of departure were, in this case, not meant for children.

Everyone had always said that Erin was not an ordinary child. She was cunning, in the naïve way that children are, and direct as well.

“Please wait here for me, Erin. I'll return as soon as I can.”

And she had nodded without speaking, to make sure that she didn't give her word. But if her father was leaving, she wanted to give him one last thing: the gift of her newly discovered light.

Maybe, she thought, as she watched her mother disappear down the winding path,
maybe if he's happy, maybe if he's proud, he won't go away. He'll come home with Mommy and me.

She remembered clearly the look on his face the last time he had gone out to fight. He hadn't wanted to leave them.

As soon as her mother had disappeared, Erin put on her shoes, tying them painstakingly. The Lady of all Elliath would be there herself, and Erin didn't want to look bad. She waited for a few moments more, then timidly pushed the front door of her house open and took her first step onto the well-trodden path.

She knew the way to the Great Hall; she'd been there many times, with many different people. It felt strange to be going there alone. Everything seemed quiet, as if the trees, sky, and wind were watching her and listening.

What if the doors are closed?

She tried not to think about it. If they were, she would have to go home without seeing her father; they were too large and heavy for her to open.

She walked more quickly. What if he left before she got there? The Great Hall seemed suddenly too far away, and she ended up running the rest of the way.

The path curved gently beneath her racing feet, but her eyes sought the height of the Great Hall's large dome. It stood mute beneath the pale gray sky, a work of stone with hints of gold along its ribs. It was huge—easily ten times the size of the building
that she called home—and it towered above Elliath like a watchful guardian.

 

Lungs heaving, she reached the doors and froze. The wooden, peaked doors were open; people—adults—were entering quietly in ones and twos beneath the petaled arch of the inner hall. Like the breeze, they were silent.

She forgot about catching her breath because she was holding it. She stood very still, hoping not to be noticed. When the last of the people had entered, she slid between the large doors and into the hall itself. She had never felt so small as she looked up, and up, and up to the center point of the vaulted ceiling. At twelve points of the circle, the Twelve Servants of God, carved in marble, watched down upon her. She looked away then, to the crowd ahead.

All she could see were the backs of the line members that crowded into the hall. They were pressed together in the shape of a human wall. There were almost too many for the silver circle along the ground to contain.

After a minute, she began to sidle along the wall, traveling the arc of the chamber until she could see the front of the room more clearly. No one seemed to notice her; all eyes were upon the Lady of Elliath.

Erin found herself staring at the Lady as well. She had forgotten—she always forgot—just how beautiful the Lady was, all ringed in bright, soft light. The Lady was speaking, but Erin could not hear the words. She inched along the wall, coming closer to where the Lady stood.

In front of the Lady, in a half circle, stood several of the warrior-priests, those like her father, who fought the enemy with sword and blood. They wore their full uniforms, chain mail beneath silver-bordered gray surcoats that seemed to melt into gorges, and they held unsheathed blades rigidly forward. One of them, the youngest, was crying. The tears ran down his cheeks, but he kept his position. In the center of the half circle was Telvar. Anyone, child or adult, recognized him on sight—he was the finest warrior in the Line Elliath, perhaps in all of the rest of the lines as well.

Today he looked old, his face more dour and grim than ever. Erin stopped moving, afraid to attract his attention; he always noticed everything.

She relaxed as she realized that he, too, stood rigid and unmoving. She could not see what this half circle of warriors stood
guard over, but she could guess. Now she had no choice but to edge through the crowd as quickly as possible and hope that no one tried to stop her.

She plunged between two of the line members, brushing against the stiff gray of their robes without stopping to see who they were. Behind her, she heard a brief murmur of shock or surprise, and it made her move more quickly.

Daddy!

The commotion that she caused rippled outward through the crowd.

Now Telvar
will
see me.

But it didn't matter, as long as she made her way to the front of the room where the guards stood with their naked blades, where the Lady of Elliath watched.

Maybe it was because they were surprised. Maybe they were too wrapped in their sorrow to react quickly. Maybe they could not deny Cordan's child this last sight of her father. For whatever reason, none of the priests or priestesses of the line saw fit to stop or catch Erin as she frantically made her way to the front of the room.

“Daddy!” Erin broke through the last rank of the gathering and ran forward, arms outstretched.

“Erin!”

She turned automatically at the sound of her mother's voice. People moved out of the way as Kerlinda separated herself from the gathered mourners.

Erin took a step toward her mother as Kerlinda knelt to the ground and opened her arms.

“Erin, please,” she said, more softly. Her voice was shaking.

Erin almost went to her mother.

Then she turned around again, to face Telvar and his warriors. In front of them, on a table that was half Erin's height, rested a large, dark box. It was wood, dark wood, and well oiled; it gleamed in the torchlight like a marvelous new thing. Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion, and then she darted forward.

“Erin!”

She reached the table and, placing her hands on the edge of the box, pulled herself to her toes.

She stopped moving then. “Daddy?”

Her father lay in the box. His eyes were closed, but even Erin could not mistake this rest for sleep. A bloodless cut ran across half of his face. His jaw was slightly open, his face shrunk inward. His arms, always open to catch her or hug her, were
crossed over his motionless chest. Some of his fingers were just not there.

“Daddy?” She reached out to touch one of his hands, and felt it, slack and cold beneath her small fingers.

No. No no no.

“Daddy? See—I have something to show you.”

She shook him a little.

“Watch, Daddy. Watch what I learned to do. I'm—I'm the first.”

He still wouldn't move.

In a panic, she let go of his hand and raised her arms in a small circle. She had to show him this, had to make him
see
it.

With ferocious determination, she concentrated, and the syllables fell trembling out of her young mouth. If she could show him this—if he really saw it—everything would be all right. Everything would have to be all right.

Light, pale and green, encircled her father's still face.

“See? See, Daddy?” He was blurry now, and she struggled to stay on her toes. It was very important not to lose sight of him. “See what I can do?”

She felt arms around her waist, drawing her away. Angry and afraid, she kicked outward.

“No! No, he has to see! He has to!”

“Erin.”

The voice stopped her. It was the Lady's.

“Hush, child.”

She turned around, struggling against the strength of immortal arms and losing. She was lifted off her feet. The Lady's sober eyes met hers.

“He cannot hear you, although he would be proud of what you have shown.”

“He has to—”

The Lady's arms drew tight. Over her shoulder, Erin could see her mother's pale face.

“He can't, Erin. He's dead.”

Dead.

For the first time, the word had a meaning.

Wordlessly, the Lady set her down, and she walked silently to her mother. Kerlinda gathered her into stiff arms.

“Come, child and grandchild. This is the ceremony of departure. The spirit of husband and father has not been trapped by the malice of the Enemy; it has gone beyond. The circle has opened to free it.”

Kerlinda had hoped to spare her daughter sight of her husband's diminished body. Now she must do what she could to soften the blow.

“Erin,” she said softly, as she made her way to the coffin and its honor guard. “We wear clothing. The body, yours and mine, is just a larger, deeper layer. But the spirit—you remember the spirit? That goes on to freedom and peace.”

Her daughter was weeping now, her face buried into Kerlinda's strong shoulder. Erin would not look at the corpse again, nor would Kerlinda force her to.

But Kerlinda was an adult. A widow, one of too many. She looked at the lifeless body, her eyes glassy and hard.

Does the spirit go on, Cordan?

Bitterly she placed the fingers of her right hand against the cold lips of the corpse.

Is there truly peace beyond?

The Lady of Elliath watched her, torn between different pains.
Daughter
, she thought,
your child is our hope. She can be spared nothing. I pray that she learns your strength and mine, for it is on her shoulders that everything will rest.

She raised her arms, calling for the light that signaled the midpoint of the ceremonies.

And you, my youngest—you will be with your husband soon.

These thoughts, these pains, she kept to herself. But it was hard; it had never been the way of Elliath to stand alone among its brethren.

 

It was many months before Kerlinda's strength broke enough to allow for tears. Erin heard them as she lay awake in the darkness of night. She stayed in her bed, unable to comfort her mother's pain; she knew how hard her mother tried to keep it hidden from her.

But Erin cried freely. Every time the door of the house opened, she would hold her breath and turn, half expecting to see her father's smile. She spoke to him every night at first, but when he didn't answer, she slowly stopped. Now she left him to Lady Death.

Nothing came to fill the hollowness that his death left. But she swore two things: She would become a warrior-priest, like her father, and make the Enemy pay. And she would protect her mother from the death that had stolen the father she loved.

“I don't see why you get to train with Telvar.”
The boy who
was speaking appeared to be concentrating intensely upon the fascinations of the market path, although he knew every twist and turn it took quite well.

His companion's gaze was firmly fixed on him. “I don't know either. Besides, it isn't like it's that special.” She ducked her head, nearly knocking the brim of her sunhat askew in an attempt to get a clearer look at his face.

“Come on, you know he's the best.” Belfas gave her shoulder a little shove. “And it's not like you're better than any of the rest of us.” He kicked at a stone with his foot.

“Belfas—” Erin closed her eyes as Belfas yelped in pain. “Belf, you're wearing sandals.” Sometimes it was hard to believe that he'd been born nearly a whole year before she had. She'd seen ten summers, he eleven. She shook her head as he bent down to examine his toenails. Not hard—it was impossible.

“Besides,” she said, to soothe the red from his face, “Telvar isn't easy. He's the best, but he thinks all his students should be better. You remember Carla?” She lowered her voice.

Belfas nodded quietly, foot momentarily forgotten. Carla was ten years adult, and Erin's cousin besides. She was one of Telvar's prize pupils, and she looked it—her face all grim and hard, her cheek scarred from “carelessness” in her first battle.

“He still drills her, you know. I can tell when she's been with him—her arms and legs are always black.” She gave a shudder that was only part theatrical. “And you want to train with him?”

Belfas's eyes were wide. “I didn't know about that.” He frowned for a moment. “But I'd train with him. I mean, if you have to.”

“That's 'cause you're stupid.” She started to walk again.

“We're supposed to do things together—we're year-mates, remember?”

She smiled. “How could I forget?” One hand touched his shoulder. “We promised.”

He smiled in return.

“Besides, I'll teach you everything he teaches me, all right?”

He thought about it for a minute. “Except the bruises.”

“Well, maybe.” She looked down the road to the sloping hill. The market flags were flying full mast in their triangular greens and blues and golds.

Belfas knew her well enough to know what she was thinking. “Erin, we can't. We've got our lessons.”

“Not for a quarter hour at least.”

He looked to the Great Hall. Five minutes to walk there from the market, if they were quick. He shook his head.