Lady of Mercy

by Michelle Sagara

  Darin jumped toward the door that led to the kitchen. He nearly collided with Astor, who was rushing inexplicably into the bar, a poker—the family’s weapon of choice—tightly in hand.

  “What are you doing?” Darin asked.

  “My father,” Astor replied, his eyes skimming the crowd. “He’ll need my help.”

  “He’s—he isn’t under attack.”

  “You don’t know my father.” The poker was stiff against the boy’s leg, a brace or a crutch to his courage, not his stride. Lips moving, he counted the number of Swords to himself; he paled, but he still took a step forward, away from the safety that the kitchen door represented.

  Darin almost told him that he’d miscounted. But he stopped, his hand flush against the swinging door, and looked back, ashamed.

  Erin still stood with her back pressed firmly against the wooden wall. Her hand gripped the pommel of her sheathed sword.

  “Erin!” The force of the whisper scratched the back of his throat.

  She didn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes, glassy and wide, saw only the Swords of the Church as they closed with Gerald. In the dim light of the bar, their weapons seemed dull—more like clubs than blades. There were five, with three forming up in a secondary line, but they approached Gerald with all the respect due his size. Lord Kellem was not a small man, and Gerald had thrown him, without apparent effort, halfway across the room.

  Still, the giant had no weapon and no shield.

  “Look here, Captain,” Verdor said. Darin couldn’t see him. “You’ve no cause to go assaulting my customers. They’ve broken no law.”

  “Shut up.”

  Verdor made no reply. It seemed that Astor’s fear was unfounded. But not for long; from the front of the tavern, the captain gave a surprised and angry shout. Darin knew the sound of a sword being drawn well; he didn’t have to see it. Straining for a glimpse anyway, he missed the first flurry of activity that signaled Gerald’s defense.

  The chairs were oak and heavy; they were no match for a sword, but they were enough of a surprise to knock one man off his feet and to disarm another. Gerald held it easily, unmindful of its weight or shape. His lips curled back in a snarl, and his eyes were wide—but whether he was truly maddened or very clever, Darin couldn’t tell.

  Bethany found her way into Darin’s hands, and he held her like a shield between himself and the chaos of battle. No one appeared to notice. Blades rose in the inn; blades fell. Blood speckled the floor.

  Astor screamed.

  And Erin, eyes suddenly flashing, drew her sword. It glowed, visible and brilliant, drawing for a moment all unwary eyes. “No!”

  She lunged forward, light on her feet, and suddenly silent; her eyes were dark but limned with unnatural light. Her blade sliced through air, cutting neatly through black chain link. Darin had hardly seen her move, so fast and sudden was her lunge. Her victim didn’t have time to realize that he was dead before she took another, separating a head quite neatly from a throat.

  A pretty, useless helmet clattered to the floor and careened to a stop beneath the table. The warm liquid that splashed Darin’s cheek brought him to life.

  chapter ten

  The blade that had once been Gallin’s now sang in the hand of a different master; Darin could hear its song, and the light along the edges of steel was cold, hard, and brilliant. The Swords could see it, too; the aura of the power of its maker was both a call to battle and a warning to the Dark Heart’s distant kin.

  Gerald, mute and towering, was left alone to two men as four of the Church-trained soldiers began to confront this unforeseen enemy—a slight, pale woman who had barely been worthy of dismissal.

  She reached the man on the right flank, moving low. He was surprised—seemed surprised—and then he was dead.

  Darin watched. He had warned her—and had thought to join her, somehow, in battle. He couldn’t; he had no idea, suddenly, who it was he wanted to defend. The light in the alley had been poor, except when she had summoned it; here, everything was clear. Repelled and fascinated, he could not look away, and he could not move forward.

  Erin struck out at the closest of the Swords, calling the light she used in battle to blind. The man screamed as her blade caught in his collarbone—and screamed again as she gave a vicious twist to free it.

  She opened her mouth. Her lips moved. Darin thought she might utter a battle cry. What she did say, he heard but didn’t understand.

  “Father!”

  For a moment she stood frozen, eyebrows and mouth curved into lines of pain and fear. It was a perfect opportunity. The Sword on the right took it, bringing his blade in to catch her ribs.

  She screamed; they stopped at the sound. There was nothing human about it. There was nothing human about the tears that ran down her cheeks as she raised her face. And there was nothing natural about the slender sword arm that flashed outward, inexorably finding flesh targets.

  Her lips curled, lending her face a grim, feral smile. Blood spattered upward, coloring her cheeks and brow. Darin took a step back, shielding his eyes. He no longer felt fear for Erin, but of her. He could hear her murmur, unbroken and soft, but couldn’t make out the words. When he looked again, she was a moving blur, a pale shadow. At her feet, at her feet ...

  Gagging, he looked away, had to look away. She didn‘t—she couldn’t—need his help.

  But Gerald did. The giant was bleeding, and the two men left to face him were whole. The chair proved a good shield in Gerald’s hands, but without a weapon to complement it, his fight was almost at an end.

  The hands that held the staff of Culverne raised it high. Without a spoken word, Darin called forth Bethany’s fire and sent it like a bolt at the foremost of the Swords.

  The Sword shifted and cursed, but that was all.

  In confusion, Darin called white-fire again, and it came and left, traversing the room to halo the other combatant. Nothing happened.

  Bethany! What’s wrong? Why isn’t it working?

  They are human, Darin, or of blood too weak to be burned by our fires. Their choices are gray and not dark.

  No. He brought the staff down in trembling hands. No ...

  He saw the point of a sword bite deeply into Gerald’s thigh. He heard Erin’s unnatural cry and looked up without hope. She was advancing quickly to the front of the bar.

  Initiate, Bethany said quietly, she cannot be reached by you. Wreathed through her words, like a hint of smoke, was fear.

  I—Gerald’s going to die, Bethany. I have to be able to do something ...

  And he knew, suddenly, what he must do. His hands almost numb, he returned Bethany to the strap at his back. No one seemed to notice him, or to consider him worthy of note. He was grateful for it. He was grateful that he had the opportunity to prove himself worthy of more.

  He took a deep breath, blocking out the sounds of the shouts and screams that surrounded him. He made himself an island of calm and dark tranquility, as Trethar had taught him to do.

  Fire is best, Darin. That is the gate easiest to reach and to open. Find your path to that door.

  He began to bend his mind into the shape necessary to touch fire, to call it forth, and to hold it. The inn receded further and further until he was only conscious of the myriad shades of gray that danced behind his eyelids. Twice he felt the gate within his grasp, and twice it slipped away.

  I’m not ready for this, he thought. But he had to be. Sweat beaded his forehead, as it had done many times during his exercises with his elderly mentor. But this time it was not due to exertion alone. His heartbeat felt like the steady drone of drums in his chest. He took another, deeper breath, fighting off his fear.

  The third time he touched the gate, he held it.

  Slowly, and as carefully as he could, he pulled it open, allowing the rush of warmth and unworldly flame to fill his mind. He retreated before it, keeping the core of his thoughts away from its red touch. It coiled within him like a snake that was only barely contained.

>   Light and image filled his mind as he opened his eyes.

  Gerald still stood, but bore two new gashes across the breadth of his chest. They did not look deep, but a part of Darin knew that Gerald could not continue to suffer even minor wounds; the blood loss would kill him even if the Swords could not.

  He raised his hands, focusing the power he held within. His lips opened and fumbled along the sharp edges of the words that Trethar had taught him—the words that honed his focus and control.

  And what will your will shape, Darin?

  Fire, Trethar.

  And fire there was, a sudden blazing blossom that opened around the feet of a Sword—the one closest to Gerald—and snapped ruthlessly shut. The man’s screams accompanied the crackle of unnatural flame before he blackened and withered.

  Darin did not watch—even distanced as he was, he could not. Instead, with grim determination, he brought his power to bear upon another armored man.

  “Fire!”

  The fear of the Swords that had tethered the crowd snapped at the presence of a greater threat. As one man, the gathered crowd began to rush for the closed door of the bar. Glass crashed and scattered, and a small stream of bodies pressed through what was left of Verdor’s last window. Not even the Swords were immune to the frenzy that gripped the Red Dog’s patrons. Although some held their ground, waiting tensely for orders to follow, many left through the now-open doors, cutting a place through the line with the authority of weapons.

  Darin watched them go, although it barely registered. All of his concentration was consumed in fire, in holding fire. Never before had he held it for so long; never before had he given it leave to burn and destroy as it desired.

  And it did desire only this; he could feel it, trembling through the gate in his mind, with its increasing urgency and unwelcome demand. It had no voice, no words to express the desire—but this close to Darin, words were not required.

  Darin had thought that all of his energy and will would be sapped in the opening and closing of the gate. This had been his experience over the past weeks, and he’d felt a growing pride at the measure of power he was able to summon and send back.

  Now he was humbled; his pride at children’s tricks deserted him completely. Something trickled down the side of his face and round the corner of his mouth.

  The flame began to drift away from the unrecognizable corpse of a man. Inch by inch, it hovered in the air, seeking something else to caress. Only one man remained close to it.

  Gerald.

  If Darin could have, he would have screamed. His lips locked around a jaw that was trembling with tension. He gestured, his fingers wobbling in the air. The fire continued to move.

  No. No!

  Panic blurred his concentration, and the fire lapped out as Gerald backed away. Darin knew that if the flame touched Gerald at all, nothing could quench it. He tried to drag the fire back. If Gerald died by flame, it would be a far worse death than the Swords had offered.

  Gerald’s hands flew up to cover his face. He couldn’t know how futile the gesture was.

  No!

  The flame moved forward again.

  Frantically, Darin searched for the thread that bound the flame to the gate he had opened. He caught it, a wisp at the corner of his conscious thought, but could not hold it. It danced away from him with a will of its own. Will.

  It’s will, Darin. All will. Remember that. You’ve only your will between you and the fire once you’ve opened the gate.

  Will. Will.

  Darin stopped trying to speak. He forced his body to relax, and then, with a shudder, closed his eyes. Gerald’s fate was in his hands—but only if he could forget his fear and anxiety could he control the outcome. Darkness descended as he imagined himself taking a great step back from the world. There was no Gerald. There was no bar. There were no frantic, screaming people.

  Darin was alone, with only fire; the hunger of flame.

  No.

  But it was more now than just word or thought—it was physical, a totality. He caught the flame in it and felt its struggle as an outward pressure that sought to disrupt his concentration. Slowly, if time had any meaning here, he began to draw it inward. He did not open his eyes; for a moment, in perfect struggle, he forgot that he had them. There was just the fire that fought him, and his desire to contain it. Black and white.

  White and red.

  Warmth suffused him; he ignored it. The gate stood open before his inner eye, and he continued to gather the fire, hoarding it, refusing to share its touch with the distant, pale world.

  The gate did not resist him. It accepted a return of its fire with a greater ease than Darin could have hoped for had he spare thought for hope. Slowly and surely the flame dwindled inward; the tingle fell away from his arms and legs.

  He felt queasy and tired.

  The world around him felt as if it were rumbling.

  Never mind. There was no fire—of this he was certain. He shook with relief. No, wait. Something was shaking him. He forced his eyes open and forced them to focus.

  I’ve killed a man. Two men.

  The thought swirled around the unclean ache of his body. Images of the burned corpses, combined with their very real smell, became a flame of a different kind.

  It is not Lernan’s way.

  It has been,. Initiate. To those trained in the warrior way, it has been.

  But I killed them ...

  He felt the shaking again. Gerald held him.

  Yes, Bethany said, her voice curiously soft, and this is why: Gerald, bloodstained and pale—but whole.

  Darin smiled up at the giant and surrendered his eyelids to gravity. Or he tried to; Gerald’s grip tightened and the shaking grew worse.

  “What?” Darin opened his eyes fully, remembering that Gerald couldn’t speak. Gerald stared at him for long enough to assure himself that Darin was indeed aware before lifting him and turning him slowly toward the front doors. If any expression graced the giant’s face, Darin could not discern it. That worried him.

  Worry was transformed as Darin’s gaze lingered over the trail of injured and dead men that seemed to lead straight to the door—a poorly made, dearly bought road. Blood colored the path, not ash, and silence and stillness reigned there. He did not want to look.

  And then he heard weeping, soft and muted, and thought he understood. “Gerald, put me down.”

  The large man complied, but caught him swiftly as his knees buckled.

  “Can you—do you think you can carry me there?”

  Gerald was already in motion. He grimaced slightly and Darin reddened; he had barely returned to the world, and in the distance of fading concentration, he’d completely forgotten the large man’s injuries.

  But he let himself be carried. Astor would need him—or need Bethany’s touch. He couldn’t see clearly beyond the bar counter until they were almost at its edge. Then, Astor’s back came into view. It was still, stiff. The poker that had been so tightly clutched moments before now lay on the floor. Bloodless.

  “Astor.”

  Astor turned at the sound of his name. Tears blurred his eyes, but he contained them, struggling with water almost as intensely as Darin had struggled with fire moments before.

  Confused, Darin looked beyond Astor. There, on the floor, curled tightly around Verdor’s body, sat Erin. Her sword lay across his thighs; his apron was wet and sticky.

  “Put me down,” he told Gerald. This time, he was prepared for the weakness of his legs—enough so that he didn’t give in to them.

  “She won’t—” Astor said, through clenched teeth, “she won’t let me near him.”

  “She’s trying to help,” Darin answered. But even as the words died he knew that it was a lie. What’s wrong with her?

  Bethany did not answer, but her silence was heavy with knowledge. If he’d had the time, Darin would have argued. Instead, as Bethany was to be no use in one way, he put her to work in another. He set her tip firmly down on the hardwood planks
and leaned against her, absorbing support from the contact. Slowly, he made his way toward Erin.

  The sword that had been set aside came swinging around, its point to Darin’s chest. He had not even seen her touch it.

  “Get back!” she snarled, in a voice low and trembling. “Get back! You can’t have him!” Her face was white, with a hint of red running down her cheeks. Her eyes, wild, showed no sign of recognition.

  Darin stopped, and the sword came slowly down. Without thinking, he brought his staff around as if to challenge her. Light leaped from its rounded tip, a column of white-fire that sped unerring to its target.

  It eddied around Erin and Verdor, finding purchase only in her hunched body. Her eyes widened in shock and horror, and she threw up her arms to cover her face. One loud scream touched the air, to fade slowly into sobs.

  This time, when Darin started forward, the sword remained where it lay. “Erin?”

  She looked up at him, one arm still thrown across Verdor’s chest. The fact that she seemed to know him now gave little comfort.

  “It’s no good,” she whispered, fighting for breath. “It’s no good. Don’t you see? I can’t—I can’t—” Her fingers curled into small, shaking fists. The rest of the sentence was lost.

  Astor came forward and knelt for a moment beside Verdor, his small hands seeking something at his father’s throat. He bowed his head a moment, and then bellowed.

  “Mother!”

  Darin jumped back as Astor swung around to face him. Tears ran freely down the boy’s face.

  “Thank the Hearts,” he whispered, looking at Darin. “He’s—I think he’s still alive. Father. Father.”

  “Still alive?” She shook her head. “No.” The light in her eyes was intense; green, but strange and growing wild. “No. I tried to find him.” She choked as Darin brought the staff of Culverne around once more. “I dug up his grave. He was dead, Darin.”

  “No,” he replied softly. “It was—a dream, Erin. A bad dream. Come away.” The words sounded strange to his ears, and it was a moment before he understood why: Bethany underlay every syllable with the surety and warmth of her experience, her strength—and her voice.