No. No Light exists here. None that I do not control. Not even the taint in you.
Stefanos was still First Servant. He stood, grimly, if that had meaning here. “You could not, Lord. I am no mere mortal to be thus controlled—even by you.”
You are of the Darkness. Through you, my hand holds the gray world. There was silence then. There was ethereal darkness, blood older than life stirring. I could take the gray world from you, First of my Servants.
The landscape grew quiet, touched and twisted only by the anger of the First of the Sundered.
“Only try, Lord. Try, and there will be no half-breed priests left to grace your marble altars. Combined, they still cannot stand against me, and they have less power now than they did when they first tried to do so.”
Perhaps, Stefanos. To add interest to this, I will warn you of one thing: You are not the only one to whom Sargoth has shown his pathways.
Stefanos did not reply. A small part of his mind told him to render his Lord a very Pyrrhic victory; the Dark Heart’s was the greater power, and therefore the greater majesty. But none of his Servants accepted defeat easily, no matter that it was a given, and Stefanos had always been first among his number. For the sake of his hollow Empire, he had lost Sara. This, the Dark Heart knew well.
And if he had paid so dear a price for the Empire, he would keep it.
No one had ever seen the Dark Heart’s smile, but all of his Servants had felt its echo at one time or another in their long battle. Stefanos felt it now.
The Dark Heart could hear the unspoken determination that was fueled by the loveliest of griefs. Such a gift. Yet great as that gift had been, the Dark Heart had been shown a way to make it greater still.
The Second of his Servants had given him that path. He did not know if his First would survive it; nor did he care. Never in the time since his awakening had he played so large a part in the affairs of the outer world. He flexed one muscle and felt, for an instant, all of creation twisting and dying in his hand. Pleased, he continued to watch and to plan.
chapter thirteen
The city. It was an intricate man-made mountain, capped with the subtle colors of winter and the gray of a bleak sky.
What was its name? From the top of the graduated hill, Darin stopped to stare. It had always been just the city to any who mentioned it, the sound of the words crisp and clear in case any idle listener should wonder.
“Dagothrin,” Renar said, touching Darin’s shoulder lightly.
“Dagothrin.” The word sounded strange as it passed his lips. After a second, he realized why: It was empty, hollow. “The city.”
“Yes.”
Darin had never approached it from this gate before; he’d only traveled south twice. No, it had been three times. His throat went dry as he pushed the thought away.
“It—it looks the same.”
“From here, yes.” Renar’s lips curled. “Gerald looks the same as well.”
I don’t, Darin thought. But he said nothing, looking down at his right arm. The scar was hidden under layers of clothing that kept the winter chill at bay. “What are we going to do, Renar?”
“We?” Renar replied, trying to capture lightness. He failed. “I don’t know what you and the Lady must do.” His face grew still, remote. “I am going to kill a man.” Bethany shifted in Darin’s grip, but before Darin could speak, Renar said, “Don’t get religious on me. It won’t be the first time I’ve done it.”
Darin was silent.
“Never mind. We’ve got to get there first, and when we do, we’ve got to find a place to stay. We can’t stay with Hildy, and the equivalent of the Red Dog burned down in the fires years ago.”
Gerald, silent in movement as well as speech, placed a hand firmly on his monarch’s shoulder. Renar shrugged it off, glancing back in anger. “Enough, Gerald. Just let it be.”
But Gerald shook his head firmly, and after a moment, made it clear that his intent was not to lecture. He pointed to the caravan, tracing the road it followed to the city—and beyond. Then he touched his chest.
For a moment, Renar stared at his friend, his eyes narrowed. Then he sighed and nodded. “Take a horse, all right?”
Gerald nodded and left.
“Where is he going?”
“Not to Dagothrin,” was the moody response.
Initiate, Bethany added, just as Darin drew breath to speak again, there are some things it is better not to know. We are not safe, yet.
A sharp word cut the sleep away. Darin stirred uneasily and then shot upward; Erin’s roll lay empty. It was dark in the tent, but flickering orange told Darin that the fire was still alight. He shook his head, drawing his coat tightly around himself, before he emerged from the bedroll.
Very reluctantly, and no less cautiously, Darin pushed the flaps of the small tent aside.
“—no less suicidal than what you plan!”
“Lady, for your own sake, I—”
“And you can stop calling me that! I’m no child when it comes to the necessities of war!”
“I’ve never even implied—”
Darin pulled himself back into the tent. With an angry snort, he pulled his vacant boots from under the bedroll and stuffed his feet into them. Then, cursing, he removed them and put them on the correct feet.
At least, he thought, Trethar isn’t with them.
“—don’t just assassinate the governing ruler of an imperial province and blithely walk out!”
“No more than you assassinate a Lord of the Lesser Cabal and do the same!”
Erin met Renar’s shout—and it was a shout—with a blistering glare. Darin was afraid she was going to hit him; her fists were clenched tightly at her sides, and they were shaking.
“I’ve got a method of walking out again. Can you say the same?”
“What method could possibly dispose of the Swords of the damned Church?” He followed the direction of her clenched fist. Frowned. “Lady, you are not an army.”
You haven’t seen her fight, Renar. But looking at her, her fingers furiously tapping her sword hilt, he wondered. There was no madness behind the honest anger she showed, and he couldn’t guess at how much of her battle prowess had been skill and how much insanity.
He bit his lip, glad that they had chosen to camp at the furthest remove from the Bordaril escort. He didn’t understand why they were both being so loud.
“Lady.”
“Robert.”
“There’s something you aren’t telling me, isn’t there?”
Erin laughed. Of all sounds, it was the one that Darin expected least. “Something I’m not telling you?”
“I believe that was what I said.”
She laughed again. “When we first met, what were you running from?”
“I might ask you the same if you’d do me the grace of taking me seriously.”
“After all the work you do to make sure I—or anyone, for that matter—don’t?”
He was silent a moment, deciding. “From the Church.” He shrugged fluidly, his chest beginning to jut forward in his normal speaking posture. His face took on the mold of long-suffering arrogance so familiar to Erin.
Darin believed him anyway.
So did Erin.
“Why?”
“Pardon?”
“Why were you running from the Church?”
His mouth formed a pout of distaste. “If you must know, Lady, certain members of the Church hierarchy and I had something of a misunderstanding. I thought it best to flee the capital for more southerly climes until the dust had settled. ” He paused, raised an eyebrow, and struck a pose that was at once indolent and arrogant.
Erin said nothing, but she met his eyes squarely as he opened his mouth. He shut it again and shook his head with a bitter smile. In a completely even voice, he said, “It is the truth, you know.”
She did not reply, and after a moment, he turned away and continued. His voice changed, as did his posture; he slid his hands under his arms and did
not look back. “I assassinated two of the Greater Cabal.”
“Two?” Her eyes wide, Erin shook her head softly.
“Two of his faction; they war, even among themselves. Especially among themselves. I would have killed him, but he’s heavily guarded. I did what damage I could.” He spun around suddenly, eyes swallowing darkness.
“Renar?”
“Yes, Lady?” His voice alone asked for the silence and peace that his words would not.
Erin ignored it. “How were you discovered?”
“Discovered?”
“How did they know it was you?”
“Lady.” His face, bare of any pretense, was a stranger’s to her. He seemed a winter thing; chill and frozen and pale. “I told you: I wanted to make him acknowledge me. To cause him harm and to make him realize who had done it, and why. I made no attempt to hide my identity.” His face was stark and impenetrable, a wall of stone. “If not for the vaunted, publicized, and undeniable truth of Vellen’s cursed magical abilities, I would have killed him long ago.”
“Renar, who are you?” Her voice was muted, even gentle.
Renar did not answer the question that she asked. But he did answer. “Who am I? Renar of Dagothrin. Prince Renar of Maran, and of Marantine. Youngest brother to Gregory, the man who would have been king in these lands. Did you see the height of our walls? Centuries ago, they were built for us by the strongest of the Servants—the Lady of Elliath—that they might stand against the malice of the Dark Heart and his Servants. I don’t know why. I don’t care. They were my home.”
“They fell.”
“Yes.” He turned again, restlessly pacing the confines of the cage that night made—night, and Erin’s watchful eyes. “But from within. Had the Servants of the Enemy themselves been present, they couldn’t have breached those walls—or so we were taught.
“Why else did Marantine stand when all other kingdoms had fallen? For years—years!—we defied the Church. Slaves escaped to our lands, and those of the Empire who had the mind to fight it and the cunning to pass through enemy territory. The enemy waited, and in vain.
“Or so we thought.” He put his hands behind his back and locked them, trembling, perhaps due to cold. Bitterly, he began again.
“I was always a trial to him. My mother, perhaps, understood me better—we, she and I, were trained by the same hand, and if she was my superior, she had less chance to practice.”
It was moments before Erin realized that he spoke of his father and his family.
“I was the youngest of four—far from the throne, a peace offering to my grandfather. I went everywhere, throughout all of our lands into Veriloth itself. I never practiced my craft in my own country. Why should I have? We had enemies in plenty. I was brash. Arrogant. I let my name be known. Why do a deed if not to receive credit for it?” He laughed. The sound cut Darin deeply. “And they credited much to me. Bards—the few that still survive—storytellers, common people.
“My—the king eventually heard of this. I believe that at first, it amused him. But then our nobility began to suffer unexplained and expert thefts. That amused him not at all. We traded many harsh words over it, but there was no proof that it was I, so it remained an embarrassment to the crown. I often found myself with duties that kept me well out of Dagothrin.
“Do you wish to hear more?”
Erin stepped forward, all anger drained out of her by the flow of too many honest words from a man who rarely gave voice to them. She reached out to touch his shoulder; he pulled away.
“Outside of Dagothrin, a man can learn many things. And perhaps, in another country, that many might even be of use. I drifted south, to Verdann. I met Verdor and his sweetheart there and spent some months watching her pin him down. Then, I went south again. I found myself in Malakar.
“It’s not much changed; grand, glorious buildings, statues depicting any number of Church victories, a marketplace that puts anything else to shame—and the Church complex, a huge set of buildings that dwarf anything else in the city. The priests plan their agendas from within its walls.
“I made friends among the merchants there—very, very few, but friends nonetheless. And through those connections, in a roundabout way, I found that the members of the Greater Cabal had started to refer to themselves as the Lords of the Broken Circle. I thought it hubristic, but I was younger. My curiosity forced me to find out exactly what they were planning.”
His hands swung around, forming two fists. “I learned. I went home directly and discovered that those thefts credited to me had had their price. I told them all—my mother, the king, my brothers. My mother, I think, might have been swayed to believe me.” He gave another laugh, another bark of pain and oscillated breath. “But she was in the grip of an unusual illness. She died two weeks after I arrived.”
“Renar—”
“I did the foolish thing. I accused the Duke of Melgrant of duplicity in a public forum. He was my uncle, Lady. Family in Marantine is important—you must understand that.” His breath came out in mist and wreathed his face. “I accused him of selling Marantine to the Empire in exchange for the rulership of her. He was damnably clever; he’d seen it coming all along, and he’d made his own provisions. The thefts, the whispers, the ear of the king—even the death of my mother—all these things to force my hand. I was younger, then. I lost all control.”
She did not ask him what he had attempted to do; she knew.
“The king disowned me, publicly. He had no choice; there were a half-dozen witnesses who were willing to condemn me for assaulting the duke with an intent to injure. I couldn’t stay. I didn’t want to.”
Darin thought for a minute that Renar might cry; his face was frozen in a balance between rage and tears. But gradually the wrinkles thinned into a mask again. Only the voice showed emotion.
“And now Duke Jordan of Melgrant serves Veriloth by sitting upon the throne of the governor. The lap that held us as children holds the scepter of Marantine.”
He turned away. “I wish I could say that I always hated him. I wish I could tell you that I never trusted him. I can’t.
“But I will kill him.”
Erin spoke softly, then. “Understood, Renar. But afterward, what will you do?”
He shrugged. “Afterward? If there is one, I shall wait and see.”
“And the throne?”
“What of it?”
She shook her head, letting the matter drop. “We each have our allotted tasks, you and I. Go to the governor. I will go to the priest—to the Lord of the Lesser Cabal. And I will show him that the Circle has not yet been broken.” She drew her sword suddenly, and the night’s darkness was broken by harsh light.
“Lady—” Renar stopped speaking. His eyes met hers, and he found in them a hardness that equaled his own. Lady Erin of Elliath had chosen for herself the path of the warrior and walked it yet.
“Who are you?” he asked softly.
“Erin,” she replied. Her lips closed in a firm line as she watched him. “Two lines stand allied with you, the rightful monarch of Marantine. Darin is the patriarch of Culveme, although I suspect you know this well.”
“And you, Lady?”
“The Sarillom of Elliath.”
He did not even blink an eye. “Not the matriarch?”
“No. I am the last of my line.”
“And not more?”
She met his eyes and slowly brought her sword down. A great wariness seemed to take her, and with obvious effort, she put it aside. “You are braver than I, Renar. Yes, there is more, but I choose not to speak of it. I cannot.”
He stared at her a moment, and then spoke again. “Lady, if you enter the temple, do you think, in truth, that you will leave it again?”
She made no answer, absorbed in the sheathing of her weapon.
“Erin?”
“I don’t know.”
Without a word, Darin retreated to the safety of his tent. He didn’t know how either of his friends intended to accom
plish their goals—but at least they had them.
What was he going to do in the city?
When the Lord of the Lesser Cabal received news of a visitor from Malakar, his feelings were mixed. Born of House Cossandara, he was the second son of the reigning lord and had entered the Church’s service at a tender age. He had lived most of his life within the confines of the capital, forging a political alliance with a high priest that had endured until that high priest had become the Lord of the Greater Cabal.
And three short years after the completion of that goal, Lord Vellen of Damion had exiled him to Illan. Illan, the only province of the Empire that was not fully civilized and that had these cursed, cold winters without the full amenities that a man of Marak’s station had grown accustomed to.
The slave—one brought with him from his bouse—waited patiently in posture against the carpeted floor. If she had positioned herself rather too close to the fire, Marak was not predisposed to notice; had he, he would have been forced to discipline her in some way, and the slaves that might be called upon to replace her were notoriously ill-disciplined and poorly trained.
That had changed somewhat since he had first arrived and would no doubt change again over time. He had almost learned to be patient.
“Very well,” he said quietly. “Send him in.”
“Lord.” She rose quickly and silently, and he watched her leave the room, all grace and all proper deportment.
When the messenger entered the study, Marak’s eyes widened a fraction before he schooled his face. The man was obviously a Sword by his armor, but the fact that he was disheveled and obviously breathing hard lent urgency to his presence. Marak gestured carelessly at a chair, but the Sword shook his head firmly. He dropped to one knee on the carpet and bowed his head.
“High Priest,” he said softly, his breath harsh. “I have a message to deliver to you.”
“From who?”
The Sword did not answer with words; instead, he reached into the folds of his surcoat and brought out a flattened parchment roll. Red wax, heated and molded into a seal, was all the identification Lord Marak could have asked for.
Lady of Mercy Page 23