“Where is Darin?”
“Outside, Hildy. Waiting.”
“Good. We’ve a stop to make before we leave the city.”
“Burrows?”
“Well, him, too. I don’t suppose we’ll do much good without the wagons.”
“Where?”
“We usually pick up a few extra guards for the next leg of the journey.”
Erin nodded; it did make sense. She wondered that Hildy hadn’t hired more before they’d left Dagothrin.
“Don’t worry, Erin.” Verdor slid an arm around her shoulder. “I send her to a friend of mine just on the outskirts of the warrens. You can trust the people she offers for hire.”
Erin nodded quietly, and Verdor caught her with his other arm in a bear of a hug.
“Lady of Mercy,” he whispered into her hair, “have a little mercy for yourself.”
You can trust the people she offers for hire.
Erin looked dubiously at the six men that waited in a scraggly, not-so-patient line in front of Hildy. They each had papers, although some of those papers were almost tatters and were nearly illegible into the bargain.
If Erin looked dubious, Darin looked worse, but he kept it to himself by wandering around the “lobby” of the building. It was an old tenement, which had obviously seen some fire and some repair. A desk, thick, plain, and solid, sat a few feet away from the doors, behind two armed men who were obviously bored.
Candy sat behind the desk, drumming her fingers against an open ledger and cocking her head to one side to catch Hildy’s questions and comments. Her peppered hair was cropped very short, and a scar ran along the edge of her jaw, ending about two inches from the gray of small, round eyes.
From where Darin stood, he could see the hilt of a sword at Candy’s hip; he had no doubt that years ago she herself hired out to caravans. Why she was called Candy he couldn’t say, and he knew better than to ask.
Hildy said something to the last man in the line and then nodded. She walked over to the desk, gesturing Candy’s guards away.
“Well?” Candy said.
“Only six, dear?”
“Hildy.” Candy leaned forward. “I am nobody’s dear.”
“Yes, dear, I know,” the older woman replied. “I remember when you used to run my route with me.”
They both smiled then, the tall muscular woman behind the desk and the round, matronly one in front.
“Six.” Candy’s smile was wry. “You’re early this time.” She nodded to the men. “They’re good; they’ve all had experience. If you want to wait about three weeks, I can get another six, maybe eight.”
Hildy shook her head. “We’ve a tight schedule. We don’t want to wait. How have the roads been?”
The scar across Candy’s face twisted with her lips. “Not great.”
Hildy was silent a moment. Then she pursed her lips and glanced at Erin.
Erin said nothing.
Hildy sighed. “No, dear. We still can’t wait. Come, Erin, let me introduce you to the new boys. Darin? Darin, dear, do come here.”
Jeren, Corfaire, Ferdaris, Carcomack, Boris, and Sudenir joined Hildy’s caravan as it made its final preparations to leave the city. They had obviously been informed of their hire, for they took no time at all to get ready.
Not one of the men was younger than Erin; indeed Jeren and Carcomack were in her opinion on the old side. But all had seen battle of one form or another, much of it on the routes during merchant house wars. They came with their own armor and weapons, and these were in good repair, if little else about them was.
Erin looked at them all carefully, trying to remember the names that matched faces that would grow familiar over the weeks to come. She tried to remember Verdor’s assurances, but she felt uncomfortable nonetheless, probably because these were not men that had yet proved they could be counted upon.
But it didn’t help to know that the only other person who seemed to be uncomfortable with the newcomers was Darin. It didn’t help at all.
chapter eight
Corfaire watched Erin as if she were the danger that the mercenaries had been hired to prevent.
He was afraid of her. Not in an obvious way, but all the subtle signs were there; the way he spoke, or didn’t, around her, the way he drew slightly inward when she approached, the way he avoided even brushing against her when the road narrowed enough to merit a tighter formation. He wore his fear well, as well as any who has learned to live with it, and she might not have noticed it had she been anyone else. In fact, she didn’t notice it immediately, for she rode with Hildy for the better part of three days before Hildy deemed it “safe” enough for her to join the guard.
But she was Lernari and very sensitive. So she began to watch him.
His hair was dark and a little too long in the front; had Erin been in charge, she might have ordered him to cut it. But as no one else seemed to notice, she didn’t mention it. Besides, he wore the back of it long, in one loose but coherent braid. Much like hers, in fact—although she wasn’t aware that it was an Empire tradition.
His skin was rather pale but flaking around the tip of his nose where he’d managed to catch too much sun; his eyes were a dark, deep brown, which was disconcerting because it was hard to tell where his pupils were. His cheekbones were high and seemed a little too fine, but his nose had been broken at least once and had mended on an angle, so he didn’t look too out of place among the rest of the guards.
The sky was darkening but clear, and the stars, faint and pale, mapped its length and breadth completely. The moon shone at half-mast, its glow sharp and hard. A mosquito flitted lightly from arm to arm seeking purchase in exposed skin. Hildy slapped her hand down without looking up from her dinner.
“That’s the worst thing,” she said, raising her hand again, “about travel at this time of year.”
He sat between two of his city comrades, eating noisily for the most part, but talking little. The fire added color to his face, but it also added shadow, as well as a red glint to the surface of his eyes.
“Who is that man?” Erin asked Hildy softly.
“Corfaire, dear. Why?” Hildy could ask why in the softest tone of voice, but it never removed the edge of the question.
“I’m just curious.”
“He’s traveled with the caravan before. Knows the route well enough. We’ve seen some raiding when he’s been around, and he’s always held fast.”
Erin nodded, only half-listening.
“He’s never caused us any trouble, dear.”
Erin nodded again and moved back to her place around the fire. She had eaten quickly but neatly, as habit dictated. Now she bent down and unlaced her boots, giving her feet a much-needed chance to breathe.
Darin wrinkled his nose and made a face.
“Don’t assume yours smell so much better,” she shot back. She reclined on her elbows and tilted her head forward. Her face was clean, but her hair had escaped the braid she wore and lay in wisps about her ears and cheeks. She looked least like the Lady of Mercy at the end of a long day and knew it well.
“I don’t. That’s why I’m leaving mine on.” He swatted ineffectively at an insect that was buzzing uncomfortably close to his face. For some reason, they seemed to like him best, and one of his eyelids was swollen from the previous night’s sleep, even though he’d made sure that the net was properly tied over the entrance of his tent.
Still, he felt relaxed. For a moment he could almost imagine that Erin and he were once again traveling the road alone. He started to lean backward, and his elbow banged into a rock. Why was it that everything always happened to him? With a grimace he tossed the offending lump aside and moved nearer to where Erin was.
“I hate the road,” he muttered.
She laughed quietly. “It isn’t easy on you, is it? How’s the eye?”
“Itchy.”
“Well don’t—Darin! If you keep scratching it, it’s only going to get worse.”
He mumbled somet
hing under his breath, and she laughed again.
This laugh was louder, and her laughter was rare enough that it brought the attention of those gathered round the twin fires. A dozen people cut their conversation to look back at her, some smiling, and some wearing expressions of barely veiled curiosity.
One of those men was Corfaire.
She met his eyes, and her smile froze the comers of her lips. Her fingers danced up in the Lesser Ward before she could still them.
He smiled then, an odd, quirky expression, and turned to murmur something to the man beside him.
The moment broken, Erin gazed down at her hands; they were shaking. She realized that he was not the only one who was uneasy. Tomorrow, though, that would have to change.
For perhaps the hundredth time, Erin wondered why her power could warm her in the winter, but did nothing to cool her in the sun’s heat. The armor that she wore was light, but she’d been walking for hours now, and little beads of sweat were rolling down her forehead.
She took a perverse comfort in knowing that all of the guards were also hot and a little irritable. Only Tiras seemed cool and refreshed, and that mostly because he managed to walk in the shade of the wagons; the guards were not quite so lucky.
“Can you use your sword?”
Erin turned her head slowly to the side, measuring her words carefully. She lost them when she realized it was Corfaire who had spoken. He was two feet away, but she’d last seen him at the rear of the caravan.
“Yes.”
“Well?” There was a hint of uneasiness in his eyes, and he kept his distance firmly.
“Well enough. And you?” She wondered if that’s what frightened him, and it bothered her, as did much of the Empire’s custom.
It was disconcerting when he flipped between seriousness and laughter without warning. He laughed now. “Well enough. I’ve been at it for years.”
An arch of auburn eyebrow greeted his answer. He wasn’t that much older than she herself at her best guess.
“As,” she answered curtly, “have I.”
He was silent a moment, taking in the heavy leaves of the overhanging trees and the muted twitter of birds. The path here twisted and turned often, much too often for the comfort of those that guarded. But it was the safest route to Hillsdale, the second largest town along the route through Senatare, and Hildy always chose it.
“You don’t live in Veriloth, do you?”
“I’m here.” Almost grudgingly, she added, “Why?”
“There aren’t many women who fight in Veriloth.”
“There’s Candy.”
“Candy, as she calls herself, didn’t originally hail from Veriloth. She was born and raised in Marantine—I believe that’s what you call it—and came south when she was older.” He shook his head. “I believe it. Besides, she’s at least a head taller than you and somewhat heavier.”
Erin said nothing. Instead of feeling uneasy, however, she now felt annoyed. Which of the two she would have preferred didn’t matter; she felt as she did.
“I don’t imagine that even in Marantine you got much training.”
She still said nothing, but her hand slipped to the hilt of the bright sword and held fast. For a moment she wanted to challenge him, but she bit her tongue and pushed the foolish impulse aside. She had been away from the war for a long time if a simple taunt could anger her so. If it weren’t so hot, she was certain that hairs at the nape of her neck would be standing at rigid attention.
“I had,” she replied, in clipped, even words, “better training than most.”
He shrugged, giving her words the attention he felt they merited. “As you say.”
“And were you raised in the Empire?”
“Oh yes,” he answered softly. “I was.” He looked past her for a moment, seeing God only knew what, and then shook himself. This time it was his turn to be silent.
“You were talking with Corfaire today.”
Erin nodded. Once again it was dark, and once again, outside of the light of day, she found herself relaxing. Darin’s face looked somewhat better; he’d made an effort not to notice how itchy his eye was and the swelling had gone down.
“What did you say?”
“That I knew how to use the sword I carry.”
Darin looked confused for a moment, then his eyes widened.
“Don’t bother. I’d forgotten, too. The Empire’s a different place.” She brought her chin forward until it was touching the edge of her shirt. The fire crackled and lapped at the air inches away from her feet. She wiggled her toes and watched the shadows, remembering other roads that she had traveled. Other roads, and other companions.
Like the dead, he returned to haunt her.
His face was a twinned one. The lines of his lips curled around a human smile and a human pain. But his skin was gray, and the teeth that glittered in the red light were sharp and feral.
Stefanos.
She shook her head, and the image retreated for the moment. “Sorry, Darin. What were you saying?”
His eyes flickered over her face, then he too shook his head. “I was saying that I’d talked to some of the others. Candy’s people. They all think Corfaire is, well, fine.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t really stand out—except in a fight.”
“Meaning?”
“He isn’t really quiet, he isn’t really loud, he isn’t really funny, he isn’t really big or small—he’s just one of them.” He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his knees. “But when they’ve been in trouble, he’s supposed to be good with a sword. And he’s never afraid; he doesn’t panic at all. At least that’s what they say.”
Erin nodded. “I could believe it. But I wonder ...”
“You might ask.”
Erin looked at Darin, and he at her, before they both turned to look over their shoulders.
Corfaire stood less than three feet away, the shadows gathering at the feet that were planted firmly in the ground. His left hand was on his hip, his right on his sword hilt. One comer of his mouth was turned up slightly, but it was hard to tell in this light whether it was in a smile or a grimace.
Darin heard the echo of the Grandmother’s voice. That, it said, is what you get for idle gossip. His cheeks flared in a blush, as did his ears. It had been months since he’d heard it, and he had begun to hope that he’d outgrown it forever.
Then he looked at Erin, and even that hope died, for her face was colored with almost the identical blush, and he had no doubt that in spite of her experience and age, she, too, heard the voices of the past.
“Have I interrupted something?”
“Uh, no.” Darin stood up. “Can we, uh, help?”
This time it was obvious that Corfaire was smiling. He shook his head in mock regret and stared down at Erin, who had not moved. “No. But I thought, perhaps, the lady had some questions I might help her with.”
Erin was certain that he was thinking no such thing. Her lips became a tight, white line.
“No,” Corfaire whispered intently, “I don’t suppose that you do need my help. Or anyone’s.”
She raised her head at that and finally took to her feet, uncurling slowly before the blazing fire. Her shadows, stiff and silent, were thrown back over the man who waited in attendance.
“What do you mean?” she asked softly, turning at last to face him. Her hand mirrored his as it rested against the pommel of her too-bright sword, and the breeze seemed to eddy in the few loose strands of her hair.
Darin was the third point of the awkward triangle that had formed. He held Bethany in both of his hands, but his stance, unlike either Erin’s or Corfaire’s, was uncertain as he glanced from side to side.
“Oh Lady,” Corfaire answered, the inflection in the word unmistakable now, “do you so poorly recognize one of your own?”
She was silent, but her eyes widened.
“Yes.” That smile still tinged his lips. “Lady of Mercy. My mother would have been ... disappointed. She took such care to teach
me all of your prayers and your songlets.” There was contempt in the last word.
“What would you know about her?” Darin asked, as uncertainty gave way to anger.
“What would you?” Corfaire countered, his eyes never leaving Erin. But his words hung in the air like a sword or a bitter challenge.
Only Darin could answer them. “I have no name in the Empire,” he said softly. He lowered his staff in one hand, surprised at how easily the words came. The last few weeks had been hard, and the steadily increasing heat of the evenings had done nothing to stem the rising chill of the death this land held for him. But he was no longer the child in chains—and the last link fell away as the truth, perversely, freed him.
“Isn’t that interesting?” Corfaire turned to meet Darin’s eyes. “Neither do I.”
They stared at each other, seeing so little that was similar in the past they both claimed obliquely.
“What house?”
“Damion.”
At this, Corfaire raised an eyebrow. “And you’re here? That’s almost remarkable” The lines of his face altered subtly. “Or did you have help? Did someone make a sacrifice to free you?”
Darin froze for an instant as memory snapped shut around him. The years melted away, dwindling into the sounds of screaming that had never quite died and would never do so while he lived. There was too much to say, too much to explain, and not enough words to contain it. So he said, quietly, “Yes.” That was all.
It was enough. Corfaire nodded, his eyes half-lidded with some shadow of his own. “And you follow this woman?”
“Yes.” Stronger, that word, and older; he was back in the present.
“Why?” It was a rhetorical question; he didn’t expect an answer, as was obvious when he turned to Erin. Even so, some of the fire in his eyes was banked. “Make me a miracle, Lady.” His voice was a fine twist of muted anger and bitterness.
“What miracle would do?”
He laughed; it wasn’t pleasant. “Call back the dead.”
He didn’t wait for her answer; instead he turned and let the night take him back to where he had come from.