Lady of Mercy

by Michelle Sagara

  Fire. The Night of Fires, the two nights, took the old master’s senses as he stared, unnoticed, at the priest. He had his answers at last.

  White-fire exploded on the table. Somebody screamed; Darin was not sure who, and didn’t take the time to look. His gate was open; the power willing.

  A second pillar of flame burst into being. It moved toward the first, a sluggish column of red. There was life in the room; life to burn, life to extinguish. To meet flame instead was not its goal.

  Beads of sweat formed on Darin’s forehead as he struggled to control what he had summoned forth.

  Fire touched fire, molding itself into one entity. Darin bit back a cry of shock as his arms began to tingle. The pillar moved toward him now, Renar forgotten. He tried to force it back, focusing the strength of his will upon it. It slowed perceptibly. It didn’t stop moving.

  Shaken, he took a step back toward the doorway. He tried again to control the fire. He tried to separate what he had called from what it had joined. The flames inched steadily closer.

  No! He bit his lip on the word, trying to force it to become reality.

  A whisper of laughter, distant and dry as the rustle of leaves, echoed clearly over the din of the noise in the room.

  Yes.

  He looked up then; his vision misted. He had never really tried to see out of power-touched eyes before this. He had always had eyes for the fire alone; the fire that glowed so brilliantly and warmly.

  Everything was blurred, the edges of forms, both living and inanimate, tinged in a faint haze. He could make out bodies, see faces and weapons, as if from a great distance. Only one thing other than the fire was completely clear: the priest seated at the end of the table closest to him. He was younger than Trethar. His hair was white with shocks of dark black in both beard and brows. And his eyes were silvered glowing orbs.

  Etched into the hard, cold lines of the man’s mouth was a frosty smile. “I don’t know where you learned this, boy.”

  The fire moved again, cutting inches away from the distance between Darin and death.

  “It appears I won’t have the chance to find out.”

  Again the fire slithered forward.

  It ended this way. Darin felt bitterness forming a knot at the base of his throat. We’ve lost.

  The city was already the domain of the Church. The people, killed or cowed, would offer less and less resistance. The men that had come at Renar’s behest would be slaughtered. And the last of the lines, Elliath and Culverne, would meet their end and give truth to the lie of the broken red circle that glittered in mockery along the front of the priest’s robes.

  No! Shutting his eyes, he threw his hands out in a gesture of denial and anger.

  The fire stopped.

  The priest stood, his unpleasant frown a relief from the darkness of his smile. The frown grew.

  Darin widened the gate in his mind, and the single column flared, its light intensifying as its height did. And then he began to push.

  The fire started to slide an inch above the stone floor toward the priest.

  The column burned more brightly again, if it was possible, and came to a lurching halt.

  The older man’s brow was now etched with the deep furrows of effort. He gestured, a grand, sweeping motion. The pillar of flame touched the high, arched ceiling. But even when it began to move toward Darin again, the priest showed no satisfaction. His face glistened with sweat.

  Darin had never seen a priest sweat before, certainly not like this. And he knew why the man did. He had never before seen so large a fire summoned forth—the cost of controlling it would be far too large a risk.

  He bit his lip, felt his teeth breach skin, and tasted the salty tang of his own blood.

  The fire crackled, looming larger before him. Larger and closer.

  What choice did he have?

  He caught the edges of his own gate in a wild mental grip and tore.

  CRACK.

  Power surged through him. Fire boiled along his veins, the warmth too sudden and too sharp.

  He could not see the face of the priest, the widening of eyes, or the way he scrambled up on the tabletop. And he was glad of it.

  “No!” A voice, thin and tinny, but loud. “He’s mine!”

  But fire surged forward, unstoppable now, unshakable.

  The priest had the time for one loud cry before the fire scorched the flesh from his throat.

  The resistance was gone. The fire belonged only to Darin. And he was very, very tired.

  “Darin!”

  Initiate!

  There was another scream, shorter this time. The smell of burned flesh clogged his nostrils.

  “They’ve gotten this far.” There was evident relief in both the voice and the face of General Lorrence. Sweat ran down the lines of a perpetual frown, and blood crusted his cheek where the line of his helmet had been struck, hard.

  Trethar took advantage of the momentary halt to examine the fallen bodies. Three men lay dead of sword wounds—efficient, single strokes. The fourth had been cut twice. The Lady’s work, then. He smiled softly.

  Two corpses had been charred and blackened.

  Darin had also survived this far.

  The men took a deep breath and began to move forward, more caution evident now than during the rest of their struggle.

  Close to the bend of the large hall lay several more of the palace guards. They were dead, three apparently unmarked. Nowhere was there a sign of Renar or Tiras.

  “This is it,” Lorrence said softly, halting his men once again before they turned down the final hall. He surveyed the number that remained; the ferocity of the fight had taken its toll. Twenty—twenty, the prime of the royal guard were left. “Protect your king.”

  There were grim nods, silent ones. No need to give such a command here—for this purpose had they fought so viciously and fiercely. Perhaps, should any survive this, they would have time to consider just how ferociously they had fought—and how unfairly they had killed. But not now.

  Lorrence, being untrue to his rank, took the bend first.

  “Bright Heart!” he shouted.

  The rest of the men rushed forward, with Trethar very close to the lead. The doors to the governing council’s chambers had been flung open. This they expected.

  Nothing prepared them for the flaming pillar that seemed to stretch from the ground to the ceiling itself.

  Trethar sagged against a wall. Outlined by the ugly glare of heat and fire, he recognized the tight, still form of his pupil.

  “God curse you, boy,” he murmured almost dispassionately. “I am spent.” He was angry, but there was no point in showing his anger at having come so far in his plans, just to have them cut so surely from beneath him by one of his own!

  The leader took a deep breath and raised his sword. “Follow,” he said. His voice was shaky, but command was there nonetheless. And his followers, every last one of them, were—truly, if the prince was still alive—royal guards. They obeyed.

  “Darin!”

  He heard another scream.

  Erin’s hand gripped his shoulder tightly. He tried to shake her off, but found he had no strength for it. As they had once before, his knees locked—it was the only reason his legs still supported him.

  The fire, he thought nonsensically. The fire is mine.

  He watched it, mesmerized by the pulsating patterns that lurked just beneath its fluid surface. Why had he never seen the fire’s beauty before?

  Something stung his cheek, and he turned listlessly in the direction it came from. He could see the indistinct form that stood beside him. The lines of the face blurred, becoming more and more indistinguishable. Only the fire was real.

  Initiate.

  He raised his head almost blindly, eyes still chained to the summoned element.

  Darin. Darin—return.

  He recognized the voice. Darin opened his mouth as if to answer. No sound passed his lips; no sound could cut above the suddenly glorious sc
reams of the dying.

  Beth ... Bethany ...

  Darin, Initiate, Patriarch—you must stop this summoning or you will kill the people you have come to aid!

  Kill?

  Yessssss

  Killing is

  Fiiiiiiiire

  Killing is

  DARIN!

  The shout resounded through him. For a moment the indistinct grew more real; gray and colorless shapes took on familiar form.

  Renar leaped out of the way of the fire, rolling beneath the large table. The table vanished beneath the onslaught of flame. Another woman, black robed, dodged away as a chair was consumed, moving with such grace and surety that he knew she was no true priest.

  RENAR!

  Yessssssss

  The sibilant whisper echoed through him and set his arms and legs tingling. It was the only thing he could feel.

  He recognized it now: it was the voice of the fire.

  Never before had it been so clear—never before had it felt so ... welcome.

  “No!”

  He felt the harsh croak against the back of his throat. Remembered suddenly why he had come.

  Yesssssssss

  Oh God, Oh Light Heart, Lernan

  He forced the sagging strength of his will outward, trying to harness the fire that he had set in motion. It seemed to hesitate a moment.

  Fiiiiiiire

  Burrrrrrrn

  He struggled out of the chain of its thought, if something so primitive could be called thought.

  How—HOW?

  Slowly the fire inched forward. The scream that followed resonated through him like music.

  Shuddering, he tried to restrain it. He felt the cords of his will draw the fire in. And, miraculously, he held it.

  But Lernan, God, he was so tired ...

  There seemed to be no answer. He could not now open yet a larger gate to stop the flow of flame. He had done it once, and it had succeeded, only to bring him to this.

  No. Wait.

  Frantically he clutched at the thought.

  He had done it before. It had succeeded.

  The death of the priest ended the priest’s summoning; with no conduit, the part of the flame directed against him ceased to be. Death had closed the enemy gate. Death.

  But God, dear God, he had seen the death by flame too many times to want it for himself. The flame struggled against his will; he knew he would lose; it was only a matter of time. And the loss—the loss meant the death of everything he had come this far to achieve.

  He had no energy to scream or gibber; no energy to cry. He had only enough to make the choice he had been raised to make.

  With the last of his control, he brought the flame home.

  “Darin! Darin—stop the fire!” Erin shook him with a grip that should have been bruising. There was no response. She saw the sweat glisten on his forehead and saw the glazed look in his eyes. She slapped him once. He responded like a rigid china doll. Her raised hand stopped the automatic backswing; she thought that if she hit him again, she might break him.

  Renar was dodging the pillar of flame that moved so inexorably through everything in the room. She tightened her grip in despair. The council was scattered across the room among the Swords. She did not think that any were still alive. Moments ago, that might have been considered a victory.

  “No ...”

  Turning, she saw the faint motion of Darin’s lips. The word itself was barely audible, even to her ears.

  Dear God, Darin—Darin, please...

  He couldn’t hear her. She felt his body tremble beneath her hand. She threw her sword to the floor, hearing it clang against the stone without bothering to find out where it had fallen. It was useless now; against the fire it had no effect.

  She caught Darin with both hands and shook him again.

  There was no result.

  She heard Renar swear—his voice was the only one in the room that was both audible and free of hysteria.

  Releasing Darin, she whirled around in time to see the council table dissolve.

  “Renar!” she shouted, but he had already rolled out from beneath the table. The fire continued its pursuit. Renar was flagging. He could not keep up this frantic pace for much longer—minutes perhaps. It was not his endurance that impressed her. It was the way he stayed a foot from the fire’s reach. He held the fire’s attention by choice; of all the people trapped here, his training gave him the edge and experience necessary to flee to safety.

  And then the fire hesitated. It inched forward before coming to a complete halt. Quivering, it stood in the center of the room, the table forming a black mantle of ash around it.

  A sigh of relief passed her lips, and she let go of Darin’s shoulders before it died.

  Her mouth froze. Relief disappeared as the flame began to move once again. There was no mistaking the direction it traveled in.

  Frantic, she grabbed Darin and dragged him backward, out of the long hall. His arms lashed outward feebly, thudding gently against her shoulders.

  “Me ...” he whispered. His face was etched with strain and fear.

  Erin looked over his head; felt the strands of matted hair beneath her chin. The fire was still coming. She pulled him back another few feet.

  A hand caught her back.

  “Let him be, Lady!”

  She turned her head, arms still locked tightly around Darin. Trethar stood directly behind her.

  “The fire—”

  “The fire will burn forever if he cannot send it back—and he can’t.”

  “What—what do you mean?”

  “Lady.” Trethar’s voice was softer but no less urgent. “He has called the flame into being. He serves as a conduit for it. If he survives, the flame will destroy us all before moving out into the city. Do you not think the boy understands this? The choice he makes is the only one he can make if we are to survive. You must let him continue—he will not be able to hold the flame for much longer.”

  “Hold the—” If it were possible, Erin’s face grew paler. Almost gently she set Darin down against one wall.

  Bright Heart. Her fingers curled into tight fists. He intends—he means—

  The fire gave her no space to think clearly. It moved, pulled by Darin’s will, across the stone floor.

  She scrambled at her belt a moment before pulling out a dagger.

  Trethar nodded grimly. “Yes, Lady. The death will be kinder.” But he turned away from her then, eyes upon the floor. This loss he had not intended, and failure was bitter to him.

  Without hesitation, she drew the edge of the dagger across her hand. It cut more deeply than she meant. With a soft curse, she threw it forward, where it passed harmlessly into flame-and was consumed.

  She had no time to almost kill herself. Not if she was to save Darin’s life. The flame’s caress brought death too quickly and too suddenly.

  But she had never, never been able to call upon God at will. She had never been adult.

  Panic gripped her even as she brought her arms up in full circle. She lost the ability to breathe.

  If God denied her now—if she could not reach His hand, Darin would perish.

  And so, standing behind her young friend, would she.

  Before she could think, she retreated backward a step.

  I’ll die. Images of blackened corpses filled her inner vision. Her feet, with a will of their own, pulled her further back from the moving column.

  I’ll die, too.

  For an instant the stone walls melted into canvas, darkened by night. She felt supplies all around her; she heard the clashing of swords and the screams of her people.

  She was terrified. She didn’t want to die.

  Please, please, God, don’t let them find me. Don’t let them-

  She had been so desperately afraid of death—of pain—of the power of the Enemy’s Servant. She had wanted to run, but her legs would not carry her—would not even unfurl. She had dreamed of the large, stone hall of her ancestors, of running
through the cloisters, of her friends and their plans and goals.

  She hadn’t wanted it to end there by the Dark Ceremonies.

  Oh God, I don’t want to die

  I don’t want to die. Like ice it touched her.

  But I—I deserve—I—

  I deserve to die.

  She took a deep breath, steadying herself, as the fear sent adrenaline through her veins.

  She took another breath, deeper, fuller. The child met the woman then, each bearing twin fears. Those fears were evenly matched, and she, suspended between them.

  The fire drew closer.

  Of all the strange things that could come to her then, she heard music, a hum of breath against her cheek. There was a sweep of velvet, of warm arms and movement.

  Life. The life she had never had. Given in a few moments as a tantalizing hint of possible futures.

  I don’t want to die.

  Renar. Darin. Tiras. Trethar. Verdor. Lord Cosgrove. Ruth. Kaarel. Their faces surrounded her in the cold silence. They had their plans, each of them—as she had hers. And she wanted to live. To live to see them grow to fruition. To live to see each of them fulfilled and at peace.

  To be at peace herself.

  Peace.

  The canvas faded. The stone hall surrounded her. The fire was less than a foot away.

  Her arms swept down, one elegant, trembling motion. She felt the fear twist at her mind as she forced her feet forward—and she accepted it. She accepted Erin at twelve. She accepted the death, the pain, and the war that she was only another soldier in. Finally, she accepted herself.

  Her hand found Darin’s shoulder as the fire engulfed them both. She screamed once—a shattering cry that the crackle around her swallowed.

  I’m burning—I’m burning God I’m—

  Burning.

  White, brilliant, warm.

  The Hand of God held her. She held Darin.

  Great-granddaughter. I am with you, at last, by your call.

  God’s blood flowed through her; she could not contain it, nor did she try. His healing held the fire at bay, surrounding Darin with a nimbus of light that only she could see. Her head flew back, and she let out a single, wordless cry that held all joy, all triumph.