Tiras bent as if to check his boots. One. Two. Three.
The ram came through. He remained crouched, the lights of the oil lamp gleaming off his head and face. Four. Five. Ah, there.
Tiras had his first look at the bandits. Chain, of course, but this man carried no shield as he stepped through the breach.
“Clear!” he shouted, seeing only the man on the floor. He raised his sword, and the light flashed off it as he stepped forward. The smile he bore was singularly unpleasant.
No crossbows. Idiots.
Tiras rose in one fluid motion, and his hands flew out, a gesture more of greeting than denial. Sparks flew from them; two large blurring glints. They took the soldier in the throat and the eye.
He bent again, rose again, and another man fell.
A shout rose from beyond the door, and as the third man came barreling forward, Tiras stepped back. His face was calm, smooth; there was no hint of anger, fear, or triumph in it.
“Gentlemen,” he said softly as he backed between the twin doors that led to the kitchen and the dining hall. He crossed his arms, cursing Hildy quietly, for the linen shirt was not nearly so concealing as the clothing he normally chose. Then he stopped, and the soldier before him charged.
He had time to cross his arms before Luke leaped out of the kitchen, bellowing wordless nonsense. The sword caught the fool in the chest, and he toppled with a gasp of surprise.
Then the battle was truly upon them. Tiras had time now to pull the swords he seldom used, long in the right hand, short in the left. This style he had taught the king, but between the two, the older was still the master.
The first two men through the doors went reeling back before either Erin or Corfaire could reach them. They were not dead, but the bolts that Bretnor and Aeliah had fired had made their mark.
Two more crossed the threshold almost immediately, and Erin heard the cry for bowmen being raised behind them. That was bad, but she’d not the time to think of it now. She stepped forward.
Months had passed since she’d been called upon to use her skills so, but the things learned in youth were never forgotten. The Sarillorn of Elliath fought now as she had fought under Telvar’s guidance. Indeed, the pale walls of the manse seemed to melt into starlight and forest cover. The man before her, armored and helmed in unfamiliar colors, was still her enemy, trace of taint or no. He was tall, bearded, and deep of chest. He was also surprised to see her fighting. It cost him an instant. It cost him his life.
No matter, the man behind came forward, armored in like manner. She lost sight of his face, but battle did that—no one man was memorable as a person until some time after the fact.
Her sword flashed up to block, and down again to catch a clumsy feint. She heard movement behind her and to one side, and knew that Hamin had come to take her left, should she be forced to abandon the door. This vestibule, curse it, was at least four men wide.
Curse it she did, but quietly; her teeth were clenched in the silence of concentration. When she lunged forward, the weapon was part of her arm, and in no wise could the two be separated. It pierced a rent in the hauberk of the man just to the left, and for a moment, he too was inseparable from her intent and action. Then his blood spurted out, a thin red wall that became a barrier between them—the living and the newly dead.
She moved quickly, gracefully. The magic-carved runes that ran down Gallin’s blade glowed green beneath little runnels of red. No one noticed that she was female, not anymore. They saw the splay of thick, auburn braid as she moved back and forth, snapping herself out of the line to avoid the thrust of metal. They saw someone pale, even through the flush of exertion; someone small whose eyes glowed green and fey as if they saw every enemy move, every thought.
And then their line parted a moment, and Erin stepped forward to man the breach, stepped forward to see that the first of the bowmen had made his way through the soldiers.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but less than a gasp escaped; she was too close, and the range too sure. The bolt hit her, traveling above the center of her breastbone to lodge in her throat. A heavier man would have been thrown back; Erin near flew.
“Erin!”
If she could have answered, she would not have tried; her mind turned inward, to the Hand of God. The blackness closed swiftly around her, but it was here that she could reach Him—the darkness of the beginning or of the end.
Darin started as the shudder went through him; ghostly fingers prying at his heart.
Steady, Bethany said.
He shook himself and looked once again into the folds of the night. All grass was black and dark, even under the light of torches. On such a night, the day was forgotten, and no one would have been too surprised if someone had told them it would never come again.
The men were huddled below; he could see their helms where they caught the light and sent it scattering up to the sky above, could see their swords drawn and readied as they stood in wavering lines, awaiting their turn at the small front. He could not see their faces. He was glad of it. Faces lent them a semblance of humanity and life.
Why are you here? he thought, his hands clenching his staff until his fingers were whitened and cold.
They are here, Bethany answered, the words ice and steel, to kill you all.
But why do they serve the—
Now is not the time, Initiate. In this, life has its imperative. Think later, think long if you will.
He nodded, but the question lingered like a bad taste in his dry mouth. He knew that if he ever found an answer for it, it would come too late to make a difference.
The blackness felt thick and turgid; it clung to her ankles, but worse still, to her hands. No gesture, no matter how old or how strong, would easily tear away these webs. She was hurt, and she felt the throbbing at her throat as if some drummer played there—the last beat of a difficult song.
Lernan. The call was weak, and no Light sprang to answer it. Lernan!
Still there was no response. She felt the blood trickle down the sides of her throat and pool in the hollow above her chest; it was warm and wet, but it held no power and told no story.
Not so the blood that flowed through her veins. This brought her the tale of twilight, the state between the living and the dead. She knew the gape and tear of flesh, knew the shattered pipe that drew no breath, and knew the exodus of blood from her prone body.
It frightened her.
Many times before had she used the thrust of enemy sword, spear, or bow upon the field of battle to call her to the Hand of God. Not once had she fallen from the fight; not once had she hesitated for more than an eye blink before God was with her.
Lernan! Bright Heart, please, please...
She had no eyes that could touch the twilight. Thus had she been taught, and she knew it well. Yet she thought she saw a faint, pale glow in the distance; not white, nor red either. Not even green, although why she could not say. It was blue, a pale nimbus of sparkling mist.
Twinkling, it grew larger, and in the distance she heard the soft murmur of water on the rocks.
Now, he thought. He called on the gate, and it came, pressing in at him, a force of its own with its own will. He opened the gate—that took no strength—and felt the rush of a heady, familiar tingle sear his veins. If anything it was stronger, no matter the care he had taken. The music of the fire was a silken whisper; it caressed him, twining around his stiff, upright body. No other sound had ever been this strong.
He opened his mouth, and the song began.
Fire leaped to life among the helmets below—tongues of flame, multifoliate rush of heat and bitter salvation.
Was any red ever so deep and perfect as this?
Darin looked down upon the press of men. For a moment they stopped, as if the fire were cold enough to chill the marrow and freeze the blood. And then two of their number, caught in the maw of flame, were devoured. Helms fell to the untouched grass, rolling beneath the heat.
There was screaming
then, a cacophonous harmony to the fire’s music. The door was abandoned—no mortal foe could hold them in the face of this strange and deadly apparition.
Darin watched on, pale and still; his eyes misted, and all color was leeched away by the very real, very detailed beauty of another plane. In his eyes alone was the fire reflected, and they shone a deep red, should any look up for long enough to see him standing, unguarded now, in the window.
Initiate.
Bethany. He did not think he could speak; Bethany’s voice was the only one that could have reached him so clearly here. It was calm and wise and pale compared to the murmur of brilliant flame. So soon?
Yes. Yes, Darin. Two are dead.
Dead. The chill that rose up his spine found a place in his heart and held fast there against the warmth. He sought the gate and sought the fire both. With pained skill he drew them together.
The fire, as ever, did not want to retreat.
But this time, Darin was the master of it.
The last refrain of fire echoed into the night, leaving a trace of chill longing.
Is all power like this?
Is ours? Bethany asked quietly.
He remembered the very first time he had held her and nodded quietly.
It was time now to see to the back.
Lernan?
There was nothing, no sound but the splash of water, a tinkle of nature’s music. She drew closer still, and only a small part of her mind was left to wonder how she moved, or whether indeed it was not the light that reached for her.
And then she saw it, and she stopped, her eyes wide in wonder. Fear she felt, but that was mortal, and even it began to slip away.
What living being could know fear here, on these banks?
She took a step forward and felt something cool and soft at her feet. Looking down, she could see nothing but simple wooden steps.
Why? Her brow furrowed, but that felt wrong here, and the question slipped from her before she could answer it. She would ask someone later. There was time, she was certain, for all the questions in the world.
“Well met, daughter.”
That voice—her heart lurched and fell in her chest, and there was nothing to stop it. Tears pricked her eyes, and she looked up wildly.
No.
Fear touched her then; something was coming suddenly upon her; she could feel its breath on the back of her neck. She squinted her eyes, searching the sudden mist that surrounded her face like a halo.
Great-granddaughter.
A darkness began to close over the bridge, eating away at its edges. The voice, that hidden glimpse of something too peaceful to be memory, was destroyed.
Child, I have come. I am sorry; the way here was hard, and it grows harder.
No ...
My power is not what it once was even mortal months ago. A darkness has entered my wound, and an evil blood festers there, of a strength I have not felt for a very long time. I fear I will not be of help to you ere the end, but I will do as I can. Great-grandchild, return to the living.
Erin curled up in the Hand of God and wept bitter, bitter tears.
They coursed down the sweat-lined grime of her cheeks to mingle with blood that was already drying. The hall of the Coranth House loomed above her in blank, austere white.
“Lady?” Hamin’s ash-gray face was at her side.
Erin reached down and yanked the bolt out of her throat, throwing it far. God’s green light cocooned her and warmed her.
Hamin’s eyes were wide, but he nodded and rose.
“The battle?”
“Over, for now. At least here. There is fighting at the back of the house, but it won’t last long.”
She nodded. This was what they had planned.
“Lady, you came close to death. I thought—”
“I know.” She reached out and gripped his mailed hand in a gloved hand of her own. The tears fell, but she ignored them. In minutes, she could not be certain why they fell. It was not from fear, although fear underlay them, and not with pain—for physical pain alone had long since ceased to bring tears; Telvar had seen to that.
No, beneath the tears, she felt a longing, a yearning, something elusive and yet very, very strong. That longing would not leave her, not now, and not ever again while she lived. But she did live, and as that life returned to heart and body, so did duty and the vows she had sworn.
She had almost died. She had summoned the True Ward, and God had reached her faintly, and only just in time. If God’s Light was so weak, what chance had she of accomplishing her mission?
Tomorrow she would think on that, long and hard. Tomorrow she would take the time to plan, to think of planning. Tonight ... ah, God’s Power had come. Let her see now to the injured here, and to the wounded.
chapter eleven
“Hey, Erin?” Amahl said, wincing as a damp cloth was applied to his forehead. “Let’s not do this again.” He was the youngest of Hildy’s guards, and it showed in ways other than his injuries; more skilled men lay here, in the cots rigged up in the dining hall, than he—and all more calmly.
“Amahl, didn’t I tell you all of your clothing?”
He blushed, and his pale face looked healthy for a moment.
Erin was too tired to think it very amusing, although later she might. She turned her head to glance down the row of cots; there were four more beds to tend to here; four more men. Sanfalis and Sudenir were already beyond her; Hamin had said he would see to their bodies.
Darin had offered his services in that regard, which left her free to work at the postbattle healing. She frowned, and Amahl removed the last of his underclothing, revealing the jagged welt across his chest.
She touched it carefully, killing the infection that had already started there.
“Bad?” he asked.
“Not so bad. You’re still alive,” she answered, rising. “I’ll come back.” She had to husband her power carefully; little enough of it remained, and she wasn’t certain how badly injured these last four were.
She stretched, trying to smooth out the kink that had developed between her shoulders. The ceiling, well over ten feet in height, seemed low and uneven; too much time had been spent in this one room over the last day. Still, she wondered how they were going to bring the dining table back in.
Never mind. Why was she thinking about trivial things now? She walked over to the next cot and knelt beside it.
“Hello, Luke,” she said quietly, touching his face.
He had no answer to give her, and even his chest rose and fell in an irregular, shallow manner.
“I hear you saved Tiras’ life.”
His lips curled up in a smile as she sent her power out, tracing a net the length of his body with its strands. He had been twice hit with crossbow bolts, and once with a sword, but each wound had been clean. Only the sword wound had bled much.
Big ox, she thought, as she felt the power leave. It’s a wonder you’re still alive.
“How is he?”
Erin started at the sound of the voice, even though it was familiar. She withdrew hastily and looked up to see Hamin’s drawn face. Luke was one of his men.
“Nearly dead,” she answered pertly.
“Erin—”
“He’s lost a lot of blood.”
Hamin raised an eyebrow, but the grimness of the question was already dissipating. Erin never made jokes when a life was truly in question.
“How are things outside?”
“We didn’t have enough men to catch the ones that ran.”
“The leader?”
“Long gone.”
“Damn.” She rose and staggered slightly. Hamin caught her arms. Her voice was weaker than her smile. “Maybe we’ll talk about it later.”
He nodded and helped her to the next bed. He nearly had to catch her again as she gazed down at the pale, slim figure beneath the thin coverlet.
“Corfaire.”
The last time she had seen him, he had been fighting like a man poss
essed. If he had had any injuries, he had given no indication of them—perhaps they served as a goad rather than a hindrance.
“Ah, Lady.” His eyes blinked open, and he struggled to rise, casting the coverlet half-aside to reveal the white, scarred chest and the three new wounds that marred it. Nothing came of the effort, but it was not in his nature to resign himself quietly to helplessness.
Any other patient would have been forced back into the pillows, but not this one. Erin felt hesitant looking at him so disarmed. She did not want to touch him yet.
Hamin was not so reluctant. He caught Corfaire by the shoulders and pushed him down. “Enough movement, man. You’ll open them further.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s an order, Corfaire. And here, you answer to me, not Hildy.”
“Hamin.”
“Erin?”
“It’s all right. I’ll be fine from here.” Her cheeks were slightly pink. She knew her duty; she had no business letting it rest, for however short a time, on Hamin’s shoulders.
“Well, Lady?” Corfaire said softly as soon as Hamin had moved away. “Have you a miracle for me?” Even here, in a sickbed, that sardonic, bitter smile matched his face perfectly.
Erin was heartily sick of it. “Yes,” she said, through clenched teeth, “I do.” She spread her shaking hands, noticing that they had become fists only by uncurling them, and leaned forward to spread them against his chest. It was cool and slightly clammy. There was no sign or feel of infection here.
Corfaire’s smile vanished at the pressure, and he gritted his teeth. “Then do so. I wait.”
Still she rested thus a moment, fighting with herself. She did not want to heal this man, and she didn’t know why. Certainly he was abrasive, even rude, yet he had fought no less surely than she, and with no less dedication. He was a comrade-at-arms, and if he was not one she would have chosen, that changed the fact not at all.
Her power curled above her fingers, and she caught it, weaving her net. Very slowly it spread out to envelop him.
I’ll give you a miracle, she thought grimly.