Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (4 page)

“Really?” Erliss said, but the acid edge of his sarcasm was lost upon the old priest.

“And now, we have the last wonderful task at hand. The Lady had a fortress unlike any you or I have ever seen. We have studied, have searched, have struggled to find its location—but we have always failed.”

“How surprising.”

That hit; Tarantas’ fingers stopped their steady stroke of beard. His eyes, rather dark, glanced off Erliss’, and his jaw squared.

“Do go on, Tarantas.”

“Very well.” The old man glanced off into the trees, his eyes darting from light bark to brown, casting about in the shadows as if for answers. “It was in Mordantari that the Lady’s fortress was hidden. And I believe that today, we might at last have our answers.”

“Our answers?”

“Come, come, Erliss. I know what you seek, and it does not concern me. But you do not have my knowledge of our ancient Enemy’s power. I know how to look for it and how to catch it sleeping. I know how to sense its use. Do you think to just track your quarry, she a fox and you the dogs? A greater discovery awaits us both.”

“Greater?”

Tarantas leaned forward and grabbed Erliss’ forearms. The Swords stiffened, but their Lord gave no word. “I can lead you to the woman, if she wields the power I think she does. You are young—you have always circled around Malakar. You know the game of the houses, but I know the war of the lines.” He looked up, eyes almost misted. “I fought them on the fields long ago.”

Erliss managed to keep the contempt off his face as he considered Tarantas’ words. He could not understand why his cousin had seen fit to force the scholar’s presence upon their mission-but he grudgingly admitted to himself that Vellen had never been a fool. He looked down at the dead, looked up at the priest, and made his choice.

“Very well. If you can find her, you will be well rewarded.”

“Oh, indeed,” Tarantas said, as his fingers slid off the sleeves of Erliss’ fine shirt. “Now let me concentrate. Do not interrupt me.” He swept his long, grand sleeves back and raised his bare hands high. His fingers danced across the stage of the empty air until his arms pulled them back into a wide, crossed arc.

Erliss recognized the Greater Ward. More than that, he recognized the dance of blood-magic that rippled around the old priest’s frame, a fire brought suddenly to life.

“Tarantas,” he hissed, “where did you get such power?” He already knew the answer, but asked in hope of receiving an intelligent reply.

“In the Vale,” the old man answered. “Now, silence!”

In the Vale.
Erliss’ face lost its ruddy, darkened anger. Tarantas had performed rites on a villager of the Vale. In Mordantari. The young priest wanted to scream in shock and outrage at the foolishness of his elder. He also wanted to flee. He did neither. “You,” he said quietly to the closest Sword present.

“Lord.”

“Find Tarantas’ residence and make sure that it is ... clean. Be prepared to move out, quickly. We will follow the old man’s lead for the present. When we have what we want, it would be expedient to offer him to the Lord of the Empire, should the villager’s death be reported. Understood?”

The Sword smiled. “Lord.”

“Good. Warn the watch.”

 

She dreamed.

She walked in a land of shadow and a darkness that was black to her only because her senses could not explain the color otherwise. Beneath her feet the ground curved in awkward, unnatural formation like a living thing. It shied away from the touch of her step, creating large holes that would half swallow her before spitting her out. Behind and ahead, the landscape never varied; it was, to her eyes, the essence of all that was ugly.

She walked alone, threading her way over the terrain, searching for something. She did not know what it was, but it was important—for no other reason would she walk these domains.

Her eyes could see no living thing, but the blackness was hard to penetrate, thicker than fog or shadow or starless night. She looked down to see that she was translucent, almost a ghost.

Perhaps she had finally earned her death—and her fate in the halls of Judgment. But even as she thought it, she shook her head, knowing it was wrong. She had to find something, but it was not Judgment.

And then, as she continued her endless walk, she heard it: a long, bitter wailing that seemed to come from all around her. Some voice, but it was altered perhaps by shadow to have no hint of humanity in it. She began to tingle as the cry passed through her, piercing the ghostly fabric of her otherworld flesh. She felt the call of her blood waken to a pain so large it could not be contained in the folds of rippling darkness that held her.

As if pulled, she began to run across the landscape, leaping over trenches that opened malevolently in midstride.

Twice more the scream rang through the air, drawn across the silence like a serrated knife. This, this is what she was seeking; she could feel the certainty push away all doubt. This pain, so in need of easing, had brought her across the barrier between the mortal plane and this dark world. It was real, and it made her feel more substantial, more solid.

But still, when she looked at herself, she was a ghostly shadow of light, ringed with the faintest hint of green—the heritage of troubled peace that came with her blood.

The thought was in earnest; she knew that her blood had somehow brought her here in its search for pain, but she wondered what she could do in her present form, should she find what she was seeking.

What agony could so distort a voice? What circumstance could strip it bare of anything human but pain itself?

She moved quickly, more surely, and this time the ground that she walked on proved less treacherous. And that worried her. The whole landscape was alive, and its intent was anything but beneficial; of this she was certain.

“You can never be certain of anything, Erin.”

That voice ... She turned around, slowly, the feel of hair rising along her neck.

“We were certain of you, but you betrayed us.”

Her eyes could make out only darkness, shades of it leavened by something that was not quite light. But memory was no stranger to her; although the voice was distorted and strangely distant, she knew it well.

“Belfas?”

The ground buckled soundlessly beneath her; the voice was gone, an echo too weak to remain.

“Belfas—if you are here—show yourself. Please.”

“There’s nothing to show, Erin.”

But even as the disembodied voice spoke, a light began to grow in front of her; white, muddied by the currents of darkness that seemed to pass for air. It stopped its progress before it claimed a distinct shape, but to Erin’s otherworld eyes it looked vaguely human.

“Belfas—are you truly here?”

Laughter, then. Bitter, ancient laughter. It was so cold, she barely recognized it.

She didn’t want to. “You can’t be here. It’s just a ... a—” “—figment of your imagination? I wish it were. But indeed, Erin, I’m here. We all are. Bound.” Again, there was the bitter, cold laughter—something Befas would not have been capable of when she had known him.

“Wouldn’t I? You didn’t find us in time to know, Erin. If I’d seen you before I died, you might have heard worse.”

“Why are you here now?” She took a step back from the light, raising her arms to shield her eyes. It made no difference; she could see through them into the gray and the darkness.

“To listen to the laughter of the Twin Hearts, Erin. To listen to the tears of—”

Once again the wailing cut the air, obliterating the last of Belfas’ bitter words.

“No. No. I won’t believe that of you. I won’t—”

“And what did you leave us to believe, Erin? You doomed Kandor and the rest of your line, with your choice. You doomed us—”

“Peace, Belfas. Or truth.”

The first voice fell silent beneath the pale music of the second. And Erin began to weep, ghost tears along an insubstantial cheek. If the ground had been solid, she would have knelt, but her knees locked her into a standing position.

“Little one. It has been long, although this place knows no time. I would have spared you this.” Kandor of Lernan, the Third Servant of the Bright Heart, also called the darkness home.

And as he spoke, another light grew in the darkness, but it was bright, shining palely against the colorless cold. Only as she stared did Erin notice the trace of gray along its forming limbs. The Third of Lernan had survived through the millennia of a war that had started before the body of the world had formed—to come to this place, this moment, this taint.

“Yes, Sarillorn. This place will affect even one such as I. And the children of the Lady are not so strong. Do not weep for us, not while there is hope.”

“Hope?” The tears fell, and Erin let them. “What hope? You are all dead; you’re gone. The Lady is dead. The lines lost.” And Belfas ... the change in him, the anger—he was not the same person she had once risked the fires to save. The fires might have been a better death than this.

More than words carried thought here; Belfas spoke to her as
if all her fears were on display. “I would rather have died there, consumed by red-fire, than exist in this darkness. Erin—
why?”

And in the bitterness of those last two words, Erin found a type of peace. Belfas had allowed the pain to show through his anger; something of him remained, and it called her quietly and wordlessly. She reached out and was surprised when her hands touched something that seemed solid.

It moved—he moved—away from her, and she followed, but slowly.

“Enough. It doesn’t matter why.”

“Ah, Bellas”—she reached out, this time making her grip a sure one—“you could never lie well and never at all to me.”

“Once, Erin. Once that was true. Until you proved how loyal you were to the line.”

The words stung almost physically, but she held tight to the formless shape. In the miasma of mottled dark, she began to test the use of her power, sending it out through translucent hands. It came, albeit slowly; she could see it trembling down her arms to her fingertips; she could almost watch it as it raced, like a stream, through the fine veins beneath her skin.

The formless light before her began to take shape; as true a shape as Erin’s own. A face coalesced, growing stronger as the light of Elliath fueled it. And the face was familiar, if the expression was not. The pointed, slightly hooked nose; the pale, half-kempt hair; the high, wide cheekbones; and the firmness of jaw—these things Erin remembered well.

“Belfas.”

Almost unaware of her, he looked down, dead eyes taking in the stretch of firm arms and legs, the light that flared outward from a bare chest.

“How?” He turned, not to Erin, but to the image of Kandor of Lernan.

“Truly, Initiate, I do not know.”

“Belfas?”

This time he turned, and she could see the pale echo of his once-bright eyes search hers thoroughly. His face was hard, unforgiving.

“Why, Erin? Why?”

A loud, bitter cr
^y
returned to fill the air. Erin willed herself to disregard it. Out of habit, she drew a deep breath, although her lungs did not require it.

“I lived with him for four years.” She knew it was not enough. He waited. “I—I watched him change, Belfas. Until that night he never broke his word.”

“How can you know that?”

She couldn’t. Nor could she answer the accusation in his eyes; she turned her face away. “You didn’t see him. You couldn’t know. He stopped walking, Belfas. He let me do as much as I could to help the people of Rennath—”

“It would have helped them more if he had died there, Erin. You know that!”

“Maybe.” But if Belfas had never been able to lie to Erin, she, too, had been unable to lie to him. And a lie would have been a comfort to her. “I don’t know! I don’t know anymore. Just at the time—at that one time—I couldn’t just watch him be destroyed ... not even by you. I—Belfas, we were rited.”

“Lord of Light, Erin.”

Belfas stepped forward, and the ground that opened beneath him had no effect. He reached out, catching her face between his trembling hands. The anger drained out of him, leaving only a pale shock.

“You loved him.”

She wondered if he could feel the tears as they left her eyes and traveled over his fingers.

“Kandor.”

“Belfas.”

“It’s not possible, is it?” His voice was raw with something akin to hope; here, after so long, was the truth—the explanation that would drive away all the pain and the anger. “It must have been some sort of spell—he must have cast it over her when she was too weak to resist! We know she was his captive. She couldn’t have loved him on her own!”

Kandor was silent while Belfas spoke; silent when the lingering question began to lose its trace of hope.

“Erin,” Belfas said quietly, “are you still alive?”

She thought the question odd until she remembered the very last time she had seen him. She nodded.

“Then how can you be here?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t come here to find you.”

It was the wrong answer. “Then why?”

Another cry wracked the landscape. Question and answer
flickered through Belfas’ eyes, one after another, until at last he turned to Kandor, who remained silent throughout.

“I understand.” He drew away from Sara. “Though you would not, or could not, explain, I understand it. Erin ...”

“Yes?”

“Do you know where you are?”

She shook her head. As did Kandor, but for different reasons. The Servant stepped forward.

“Little one, Sarillorn, you must go on; if not now, then soon.”

“And what of you? What of the others?”

He paused, perplexed at the question she did not ask aloud. Sighing, he nodded, and one by one, dim shapes took form, pale, slightly glowing, and voiceless in the shadow. Wordless, Sara went to each and lent them the strength of her Light, like a sculptor drawing form out of shapeless rock. And when she finished, tired and drawn, she stood surrounded again by those who had once been her companions on the field.