The Lord of the Empire had returned.
“... and we’re not to take any offerings to the Lady.”
Stev looked up from the railing of the main gallery, taking care first to deposit his cleaning rag in the appropriate bucket. He swept a quick glance across the floor a story below, but no one walked it.
“Aye,” he said, as the two maidservants walked past, “I’d heard it myself.”
“Oh, Stev, there you are.”
He rolled his eyes. “Why?”
“House mistress’s looking for you:”
He nodded, bent, and picked up the bucket, his lips forming a familiar circle as he began to whistle.
It was the Lady’s song.
“Sing it softly,” Tarael said.
Stev almost laughed. “What does it matter, now? The Dark Lord has returned, and you know he loved the Lady. Can her return be far from his?”
Tarael frowned. “Remember Lady Cynthia,” he answered grimly.
Stev nodded, breaking his tune a moment. “Aye, but his coming hasn’t harmed us—it’s just made the rest of them a little more familiar with what it’s like to slave.”
“Stev, he’s been killing our number as well.”
“I know,” Stev answered softly. “But remember your legends, Tar. He did that before she came. She’ll take those dead into her own fold now. And she’ll come to bring light to the Dark Lord, but this time, when it all changes, she won’t leave us.” He started to head down the hall and turned, his face still grave, although his eyes were shining.
“She promised.”
Tiras held up a weary hand, which did nothing to stop the flow of Hildy’s angry diatribe. He felt his age, here in this small village in the province of Landsfall. He had not felt his age since the Night of Fires had extinguished so much in Dagothrin.
What was most annoying was the fact that she was, in her own way, completely correct. By way of apology, he had gone to some length to defer to what could understatedly be called Hildy’s strong opinion; gone were the draping, black shirt and pants in which he both hid and announced his element. Now, beneath his chin, the ruffle of a complicated white shirt protruded; over and beneath it he wore blue velvet
Ah, good. It looked as if she were, for the moment, finished.
“Hildy,” he said quietly. “I have apologized to both you and Lord Coranth. I have agreed that I will no longer take such a cautious, or careful, stance when dealing with either of you. Is there more that you could ask?”
She snorted. “You could pay more attention when I’m speaking.”
He rolled his eyes, but forbore from pointing out that she had repeated herself some eight times in the course of this long half hour.
“Why did you even mention the area in the first place?”
“It is,” Tiras said, through a stiffening jaw, “on the map. I didn’t realize that the demarcation of that province was so strongly kept.” And, although he would never admit it to Hildy, he had been curious. Of Mordantari, very little information had crept back to Dagothrin.
“But did you have to pull the daggers when—”
“Hildy, I believe I have explained, or tried to, at least nine times.” He stood. “Are we not called to meeting now?”
“Not yet,” she answered, folding her ample arms together and standing in front of the door. She eyed Tiras the more suspiciously for his change of clothing, not the less—for the clothing itself was fine, and finery in the Empire always required caution. Her own dress was almost a tent of sturdy linen in a lovely shade of mauve that was completely unflattering to her coloring.
“Very well, if you must hear it again. The Lady Erin’s mission is of utmost import—and the goal that she seeks no other can accomplish.”
She did not look enlightened. “And?”
“Really, Hildy, I think—”
“And?”
In anger he spoke, but it was quiet, as much about him was when he did real business. “I do not myself understand all that the Lady Erin has been privy to. She has not troubled herself to explain it either to the king or his counselor.” He drew breath. “But I have chanced to hear her talk to the patriarch of Culverne. The connection between herself and the Lord of the Empire, the most powerful of the Enemy’s nightwalkers, is a strong one that has lasted a long time.
“In no wise, and in no place, not even Marantine, is it safe to have that revealed, and unfortunately, whatever else her skill may lie in, it does not lie in subterfuge.
“Were she to make more clear than she did, in my opinion foolishly, this day, I would be in the position of having to—”
Hildy waited, but Tiras did not continue. She was old and had been in the business for a very long time. Her voice carried none of her age and all of her experience when at length she replied.
“You will not kill Lord Coranth, regardless of what he finds out. The Lady’s business is for herself to decide.”
Tiras did not bother to nod; he had his own peculiar code of honor. But he knew that Hildy understood him well. Too well, perhaps.
Lord Coranth wore a simple gray tunic that was finely tailored, but not overtly fancy. No frills or lace for him; even the signet ring that a lord of his house would rightly bear was absent from his fingers.
At his right sat Bretnor, son and heir; at his left, a contemporary, a thin man with a long, straight nose and dark eyes that never seemed to blink.
Aeliah sat beside Bretnor, her fingers drumming idly against the surface of the long, rectangular table.
The table itself was not fine; it had seen many years, and most of them had been unkind to it. Chips and stains tarnished the wood, which was in need of some oiling, and it was obvious that much water had been spilled that none had thought to clean.
At least, so it looked to Darin.
He took a seat at the table, facing Lord Coranth; the chair beneath him had uneven legs and creaked against the floorboards. Erin nodded at Aeliah as she entered, performed a half bow in Lord Coranth’s direction, and also took a seat. She had removed her armor and the boots that had carried her down the road; her clothing, like Lord Coranth’s, was a pale gray. But around her hips, the sword still hung.
Lord Coranth did not fail to notice it; although he had allowed his daughter to enter his old friend’s tutelage, he was still not accustomed to the sight of women bearing weapons of war. Even so, he nodded and smiled pleasantly.
“Are the others to come?”
Erin started to answer, and the doors at the end of the mess hall flew open.
Oh no.
Hildy looked thunderous, which was underlined by her silence; Tiras looked bored. Tiras seldom looked bored; it wasn’t a good sign. Still they both took their seats—Hildy waiting until Tiras had seated himself before she chose.
Given the expression she turned on the older man, it was surprising to all that she sat squarely, and firmly, beside him. Hamin made way for her.
“Ah, good.” Lord Coranth ignored the tension between these two guests, ever the gracious host. If his gaze lingered a little over Tiras, that was to be excused. “Will either of you take anything?”
“No.”
“Tea.”
Lord Coranth smiled. “Tea then. Aeliah?”
Aeliah nodded and left the table. Lord Coranth sat in silence until she returned.
“Good,” he said softly. “I believe we have matters of concern to discuss; they affect us all, and I would appreciate any aid that you might offer. Ah, but first, let me introduce Dervallen to those of you who haven’t met him before. He is my arms master.”
Tiras raised an eyebrow, and the man called Dervallen favored him with a measured and cold look in return.
“Well then,” Hildy said, lifting a delicate silver spoon and trailing sugar along the table to her cup, “what is this news? Something to do with the way we were greeted?”
Bretnor was reddening.
“Yes,” Lord Coranth said softly. “We have had some trouble in the village rece
ntly. An odd trouble; farming accidents, and a fire at the mill.”
“Oh, no.” Hildy’s voice was almost hushed.
“We got the fire out in good time.”
“And you don’t think these are accidents.”
“No. You see, they come on the trail of a message from Sivari.”
Hildy set her cup down; the steam rose from the liquid like a thin, weak cloud in front of her face. “Sivari.”
Darin whispered something, and Hildy looked at him. “The capital of the province of Erentil, dear.”
He nodded and she turned to look at Lord Coranth once more. “I suppose it’s House Vanelon?”
“How did you know that?” Bretnor broke in.
Lord Coranth looked slightly pained.
“Vanelon is the only house with a large mine, and mining interests, in the Empire. A few other houses dabble, but Vanelon keeps them in line.” She smiled almost grimly. “We had some trouble with them recently—just prior to the liberation of Marantine.” Her expression made clear what that had cost. “The mining interest that comes through Boradil strengthens the west; Vanelon would be as happy to see it entirely destroyed.”
“They intend you some harm now,” Lord Coranth said, equally quiet.
“How serious is it?”
“Lord Erantos of Vanelon arrived personally.”
“Erantos isn’t the heir?”
“Second in line.”
Hildy was quiet again; so much silence from the large woman was rare, and not to be treasured.
“Erantos offered my house a return to its former glory for my aid.” He smiled, and that brought a similar expression from Hildy. “A return to the capital; a return to power; escape from the confines of this—” He waved a hand around the room. “All for the simple service of assassinating one merchant who has traitorous connections in Marantine.”
“And the accidents followed your reply.”
Bennarion nodded. “Still running your monopoly on the resources north of Dagothrin?”
“More so than ever. But there’s more?”
At this he seemed to sag. “Two caravans coming from the east have failed their passage. A few escaped from bandits on the road.”
“Bad. How many bandits?”
“Hundreds, if you listen to them talk; I would say forty, but that may be conservative.” He was silent for a little while longer, then leaned forward. “You are a creature of habit, Hildy. I believe they expect your arrival in the village three weeks from now.”
“Very bad.” It was Tiras who spoke; Tiras who rose quickly and quietly. “Do you have a map of the village?”
“The only question is when.” Tiras looked up from the map that he had marked. There were four hundred villagers, but many of those were too old, too young, or lamentably too untrained to be of use; these did not merit individual pins. All others stood as slim, straight poles that cast tiny shadows against the parchment.
The map was an older one; Lord Coranth had been quick to point out additions to his village, and Tiras had already etched in the newer buildings that had been put up along the one cobbled thoroughfare the village possessed.
“Forty?”
Lord Coranth nodded tersely, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Forty is my guess, but it could be off by half again.” His face had been made unusually gaunt by lack of sleep and worry. In his mind’s eye he had been confronting the situation for almost two months, but the terse, sharp immediacy that Tiras showed brought home the reality of it in a way that imagination couldn’t capture.
“Lady?”
“I don’t know.” Her fingers traced the underside of her jaw. “Lord Coranth has a total of six people who can fight, but it means that both he and his heir must front on the line—if the attackers feel they need to have a real line of battle.
“And we’ve got fourteen. Not including you, Darin, or myself.”
Lord Coranth marveled at her composure. None of the strain that she must feel showed in either her face or the way she carried herself; indeed it seemed to him that she was more relaxed now than she had been before he’d relieved himself of the burden of his news. He had not thought it in her and wondered where she had come from. His glance strayed to Tiras, and he decided abruptly against the asking of questions in the older man’s presence.
“Twenty-three trained men against forty. Not auspicious; there are too many noncombatants in the path.”
Hildy raised her head from the map. “Count on sixty,” she said softly, no hint of lilt or jovial humor in her voice.
Erin looked at Tiras.
Tiras closed his eyes.
“Maybe they haven’t noticed you yet—maybe you can leave.” Aeliah’s face was white and tense, but her eyes were sparkling.
Did I look like that? Erin wondered. Did I, before my first real battle? “No.” She said aloud. “If they’ve been causing your accidents, they’ll already know we’re here. We made no secret of our arrival.”
“If we leave down the east road,” Hamin said quietly to Hildy, “perhaps they’ll contain their attack. There are quite a few good places along this road to plan an ambush.”
Hildy weighed his words very carefully. Then she turned to look at Lord Coranth. The knowledge that she was the cause of his trouble was written clearly in the lines of her face; she looked her age, or older. “How did they react to your refusal?”
Lord Coranth gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders. “You mean besides the deaths and the burning of the mill? Not well, but certainly not as poorly as might be expected.”
“Father,” Bretnor said tightly.
“Bretnor.” There was a caution in the words.
His heir ignored it. “I think the only reason they haven’t razed the village is that someone might escape up the west road to give you warning.”
“Then we stay,” Erin said softly. “And we plan.”
“I think Erin’s right, dear.”
Lord Coranth’s shoulders sagged suddenly, whether in relief or surrender, it was hard to tell. “Thank you,” he said. He reached over and placed a hand on Dervallen’s shoulder.
Erin spoke: “Aeliah’s right: You aren’t a normal Empire house. If you had given what was asked of you, your village would be safe. You didn’t. That alone means more than I could ever tell you.”
“But we’re still twenty-three against sixty.” Lord Coranth laid his free hand, palm up, against the table.
No one spoke.
And then Darin, patriarch of Culverne, set his staff lengthwise across the table and took to his feet. He hadn’t Bretnor’s height, although he had gained a few inches since he had first been chosen to serve his Lady Sara in a different world, a different time. His shoulders were still slim, and it was obvious that he would never have the breadth or depth of chest that most warriors claimed. But true strength is measured by more than stature, and there was a dignity in his stance that, though newly found, already served him well.
He cupped his hands together; they were smooth and still, and betrayed none of the nervousness that he felt. He closed his eyes, then forced them open; the gate that he sought, he would have to seek later in awareness of his environment.
Very slowly, and in dead silence, the staff of the Line Culverne began to rise. No hand touched it, and no visible line chained it to him.
When it topped the tallest standing member of the impromptu council, it stopped, hovering in the air as if freed from gravity.
Sorry, Bethany, Darin sent to her.
I understand, her voice said, a comforting and comfortable presence. But proceed cautiously, Initiate.
Now he spread his hands in a fan, more for show than strict necessity. And Darin called fire in earnest. Fire came, in a heady, sweet rush, tingling along his arms and spine, whispering a deadly, pervasive music in his inner ear. This time, this time he held it all, hoarded it like a secret. A hint, an echo of its words, escaped him at his desire, and the staff of Culverne was suddenly haloed by a deep, red light. r />
“Twenty-three.” He formed each syllable with deliberate care. Each one cost him much. The fire died out as he forced it back through the gate he had formed. The staff fell lifeless, to clatter against the wood. His might not have been the path of the warrior-priest had another way been open to him. But circumstance had issued this single challenge, and he accepted it.
Erin dropped lightly to one knee, her hand touching, but not drawing, the sword that she wore. “Patriarch,” she whispered, bowing her head. Her eyes were dark but sparkling when she raised them, and for a moment she could not see the child that he had been, only the adult that he had chosen to become.
Even the taciturn Tiras bowed his head. “Against sixty,” he offered, but those two words had lost a little of their patina of menace and death.
“Lady of Mercy,” Aeliah whispered. Then the comers of her lips turned up in a fierce, heady smile.
It was many minutes before they returned to the map that curled along the table.
chapter ten
“So how come you carry a sword?”
Erin looked down into the impossibly round face of the child who had succeeded in accomplishing the difficult conquest of her lap.
“I guard Hildy’s caravan against bandits,” she answered; it was easier than explaining the whole of a life. She looked up to see that her compatriots were still absorbed in the details of dining. Lord Coranth had no formal conference room; at the dinner hour, people had come in, dragging either chairs or trays, and the map had been hastily rerolled and put aside.
There were servers here, as there had been in the great hall of Elliath, but there were no slaves in the truest sense of the word; the brand counted for nothing, although many bore it.
The child in her lap, already outgrowing the little coveralls that she wore, was the daughter of one so branded. Her mother had disappeared for a few minutes on one errand or another, or Erin was certain the child would not have been so bold.
“But you’re a girl.”
“Well, yes.” She met the eyes of her inquisitioner with a friendly, patient smile. “But so are you.”