Lady of Mercy

by Michelle Sagara

  “I found my first answer: the time and place of my death—and its manner. Perhaps if I had stopped then, you would not be here with such just cause against me. But I could not, or would not, stop. I chose the death, accepted it, and the lines of the future hardened around my choice. I looked beyond my death, to see our lands fall inevitably to the hands of the Enemy and his minions. And I looked beyond that still.

  “To see you, Sarillorn. To see you here.”

  Again silence. But the bitterness of it was Erin’s alone. She couldn’t understand why the Lady’s tone held sorrow, but no anger.

  “Much was not clear to me, and I retraced my steps, traversing present and future and past alike to find better answers. Forgive me,” the Lady said again.

  “Forgive you?” Erin said numbly again. “For what, Lady? It was my choice that has brought us here.”

  But the voice continued, unbroken by Erin’s tortured words.

  “I saw the death of your mother.”

  Erin went white.

  “I saw the vow that you would make should your mother’s death take place. I knew of the death in you that would make you Lernan’s Hope, and the hope of the future generations. I am sorry. Many years I searched for a way to avoid that death—for Kerlinda was my daughter, my youngest. But choice—and the luxury of it—was not mine.”

  Erin’s eyes clamped shut. She saw again her mother’s still, devastated body. I saw your mother’s death.... Understanding was far more painful than the question had been. Silence closed in upon her, constricting her throat; she struggled against it, destroying its fabric with a single word.

  “Sorry?” Her voice tore into the hall’s stillness. She struck out and hit the statue at the fountain’s center. It didn’t even give her the satisfaction of scraping her hand; it was smooth and cold. In a sudden fury she brought her fists down and sent water splashing chaotically out to the tiled ground. The voice of the Lady was silent a few moments, as if, three centuries ago, she had expected no less.

  When she spoke again, it was worse.

  “Child, there is much to forgive. Do you understand now why I spoke to you of cowardice? We all, high or low, have our fears—and you are the worst of mine.

  “For I saw more.

  “I saw your meeting with the First Servant of the Enemy. I saw what the outcome of that meeting would be. I could not speak of it to your comrades—but to Kandor, I did. Because I had seen that I would, and I had seen what his choice would be. He is most human of our number, although far from last, and he could not, for our sake, believe in the harsh path our hope had to take.

  “I saw your choice as well.

  “I would have told you—believe that—but in one of the reckonings, I did, and you left off your course. Now I tell you because I cannot see as clearly what happens after this. I do not know if it is because I have not the power, or because the First of the Enemy has begun his own Sight, or if my absence blurs the future.”

  She fell silent again. Erin shook, drawing her arms tightly around her chest, and sinking into the water.

  “I spoke of my vision to God. I can go where He cannot go, but I cannot understand all of His working. And Lernan said that in you, and in your choices, so hard and so painful, lay our only hope for an end to this ancient conflict—for an end to Malthan, and through that his church and his rule.”

  “An end? He rules the whole damned world!”

  “And so we chose.

  “But there is more, child. You slept for over three hundred years, bound by the First Servant to darkness. And you did not age or wither in this time. Erin—you will not age. Not while Stefanos lives. Your comrades—Belfas, Rein, Teya, and Carla—paid blood-price for your youth. And Kandor, unhuman, unchanging, cemented this. You are tied, through them, to the Lord of the dark plane. And they are tied to you until the moment of your death releases them. ”

  Erin looked up, her chin skimming the edge of the water. Her face was ashen. She realized then what she had avoided even suspecting: that her dream had been no figment of troubled subconscious. The friends that she had loved and betrayed in life continued to be betrayed by her life. They were trapped, without hope of waking, in the nightmare realm of darkness.

  For one wild moment she wanted to have an end to it. She searched around frantically for some weapon, some means of killing herself—and freeing those five she had trapped by the cruelty of her choice.

  “Why?”

  Sarillorn, you have-changed.

  His voice. Stefanos’ words. Here.

  She gave a choked scream and put her hands to her ears— shutting her eyes so that she would not have to see the expression on Stefanos’ face once more. His look of surprise, of fear, and of a slowly building, implacable determination. His work, the work of the darkness he served, the Enemy he was bound to.

  “No! Not for me!” She twisted in the water as if invisible hands had wrenched at her insides, going through the curtain of fragile flesh to do so.

  The Lady spoke again—bitter comfort.

  “Sarillorn. I am sorry.”

  “How could you? They trusted you! I trusted you! How could you use us this way?” She struggled to her feet, dripping wet, the knot in her throat too tight for tears.

  And once again, as if she had seen it—and she probably had, Erin thought bitterly-the Lady’s disembodied voice said, “For the only hope of a true end to our conflict. Do not think that I do not know how much our lands will suner—have sunered—from the only choice I have. But I must look beyond myself, and my kin—to the future of the rest of humanity.

  “You accepted, by your vows within the circle, the burden of responsibility—whatever the cost. Each of us, making that vow or hearing it, pray that the cost will be measured in our lives alone—that price, all of the line’s kin are willing to pay. You are not the strongest of your line, except in power. And you must pay the same price that I have paid—not the sacrifice of your life, which for you especially would have been easy, but the sacrifice of that which you have loved.

  “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 daughter
s.”

  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.

  For the Responsibility of Power.

  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!”

  chapter four

  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 im
possible; 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.