“Two years, and we might have some chance.”
“Marantine stood on its own for longer than that.” Tiras touched Renar’s shoulder. “Not even your great-grandfather would have held out much hope of success. Abandon the plan.”
“Great-grandfather didn’t have either Erin or Darin at the side of his army.”
“And if I am not mistaken,” Tiras replied softly, “neither will you.”
It amazed Lord Cosgrove that his grandson still had the energy to look so outraged.
“What on earth do you mean by that?” He swiveled and met the uncompromising stiffness of Tiras’ face. He turned to look at Darin, who looked almost as surprised as he, Renar, felt.
Last, his gaze fell on Erin. “Lady?”
“If you raised an army, he would come.”
“He? Who, he?” When she didn’t answer, he turned to Darin. “Do you know who she’s talking about?”
It didn’t help matters when Darin nodded, equally silent.
“Who is this he, Erin? Who’ll come? The high priest?”
“The Lord of the Empire.” She answered at last.
“Lord of the—” He stopped, thought a moment. “That’s a title I’ve only heard once or twice. In Malakar.”
“It is not a title the high priest holds.”
“It isn’t a title that’s used in any practical way as far as I can tell.” He shrugged. “And if it is, so what?”
“The Lord of the Empire is the First Servant of Malthan. Nightwalker. Stefanos ...”
The meeting had adjourned in uneasy silence and exhaustion. Lord Cosgrove and Lord Beaton had retired to their estates; Erin, Tiras, Darin, and Renar returned to the rooms they now kept in the castle.
They slept, deeply and fitfully and dreamlessly.
Erin woke short hours afterward and sat up in bed, her knees beneath her chin. In the last week, no dreams of darkness had touched her; she had not set foot in the dark plains. In the beginning this might have brought her peace, but now—
Stefanos had returned. She knew it. Somehow, he had become the bridge between her world and his God’s. The bridge was gone, and there was only one place for it to go. When she thought on it, she could still feel the lingering echoes of his pain call. And that pain no longer existed there. The five who were trapped could no longer be touched by what little light she could bring them.
They waited for freedom.
She rose, casting blankets aside.
They waited for the freedom she had promised them.
In the darkness she found her night robe and wrapped it around her body, belting it tightly. Starlight flickered through the window, distorted by the thick glass, frozen in the night as the five were frozen.
Her forehead pressed against the glass.
I don’t want to die. Even now, she could not say the words aloud. The uneasy anger that had grown over the months surfaced here, and she grimaced bitterly. Bright Heart, for the first time that I can remember, I don’t want to die.
Maybe it would have been better to remain a child. The road would be clearer, easier to follow. Her long fingers pressed tightly into her palms; both palms were cold.
The villages were free now; Marantine could stand without her. Isn’t that why she’d stayed? Hadn’t they needed her help? Might they not still need it in the years to come?
Yes.
But every day that she stayed—every day that she lived—Belfas was trapped in a darkness that ate away at his soul. He had no Bridge to walk across, no Beyond, no peace.
She saw the map almost clearly. She knew that the Gifting of God, polluted and vile as it had certainly become, waited for the blood that would cleanse it.
And around it, Malakar grew like a shell, waiting to be broken. If she could reach the Gifting, she could call the power of the Bright Heart more strongly than she had ever called it at the castle.
She could cleanse the city of the Dark Heart’s taint.
She shivered.
I will burn there, she thought. Only once before had she touched the Bright Heart, and that once would have killed her if not for Darin and Bethany’s voices.
I will burn there, as Gallin burned.
Death by fire; the white, not the red.
She saw the stars, saw the map, saw the road before her, and knew what she had to do.
Yet one week later, she still dwelled in Dagothrin.
Lord Stenton Cosgrove watched her in the eastern courtyard as she drilled her new recruits. He was not a man easily pleased by anything, but the sight of her, in the gray tunic and leggings that she wore only here, was enough to draw a smile from him. Her voice carried; it was hard to imagine that so small and delicate a woman could have such a cruel tongue, such a loud contempt. It reminded him of his own training; he must be getting old to find nostalgia in that.
“Yes, she’s good.”
“Tiras.” The smile fell into Lord Cosgrove’s usual mild frown. With meticulous care, he stood back from the iron-wrought railing and straightened out the pale green and blue of his jacket.
“Stenton.” Tiras still wore black. The only time he had given it up was during the abominable reign of the traitor, and this because of the insistence of the Church. He was a stubborn man, but not a stupid one.
Lord Cosgrove turned his attention back to the drill. It was odd; she had built a circle out of small stones, and the style of fighting she chose was her own; light and quick. Better for the time, though; the armorers had work enough for the next two years, and any who could wear leathers and gain advantage were to be prized.
He thought her also diplomatic, if perhaps too retiring, in the councils that had been called; her advice to Renar was solid, and the esteem the army held her in valuable. Indeed, she was an asset, this young woman.
“Put the thought aside, Stenton.”
Annoyed, Lord Cosgrove turned again and realized that he was leaning over the rail. “Tiras, is there something you wish to speak with me about, or are you just trying to be annoying?”
Tiras raised an eyebrow, deliberating. There was no jester’s face here; no pompous exclamation or appearance of wounded vanity. They knew each other too well. He folded his hands behind his back, a sure sign that he expected an argument.
“It is on the matter of two evenings past that I wish to speak.”
“Two evenings ago?” Lord Cosgrove’s thick brows drew down in genuine confusion. “The victory celebration?” At Tiras’ nod, he said, “Why?”
“The dress she wore, was it Lady Verena’s?”
“It was Verena’s choice, yes. Why?”
“And the dances chosen, oddly, were Maran.”
“The king knows them. Why?”
“The Lady Erin danced with him; you seemed pleased by it.”
“Yes. I fail to understand the line of questioning, Tiras. Did it displease you?”
Again, the old man nodded, the movement economical.
“Why should she not dance? It takes the years off her face. She’s a young woman, too caught in the ways of war. Were it not for her, we might still be conquered. We owe her this.” He could still see clearly the clean, fresh blush on her face, the way her steps, so hesitant to begin with, had grown under Renar’s guidance and encouragement. Her eyes had sparkled, but oddest of all was her laugh. It could barely be heard over the din of music and the susurrus of muted conversation, but he remembered it because it was the first time—the only time—that he had yet heard it.
It brought back the dead.
“Ah,” Tiras said softly, “and this is the only reason you now watch her at drill?”
Canny, that man. Lord Cosgrove drew himself up. “No.”
“Forget about it, Stenton.”
“Renar needs a queen,” Lord Cosgrove shot back. “Marantine needs his heirs, and quickly.”
“I do not argue this point.”
“Then you will not argue that Renar is always difficult, headstrong, and apt to be poor at judgment in these matters. We
cannot just choose a likely candidate between ourselves for the boy; he would certainly veto it on principle if nothing else. He likes this young woman, this Erin. She likes him; that’s obvious to anyone with eyes. He needs a queen that will give him the respect of his armies and his people.”
“She is poor in her understanding of statecraft.”
“She will learn that.”
“Not here.”
“And who would you suggest? Tiber’s granddaughter? Lilya of Tannisset? There are not many who begin to be as suitable as the lady.” He smiled, but it was not a genial one. “I believe if we put this forward to Renar, he would not be too intransigent.”
Tiras was silent a moment, and then he bowed his head. “I like her, too,” he said quietly.
“We are both becoming old men,” Stenton replied. “I see the shadows growing in her eyes, on her face. I think not of Cosgrove in this, and not, in the end, of Renar.”
That surprised Tiras, the more so because it was the truth. He reached out and gripped the railing firmly in both of his weathered hands.
“Even if Renar would accept the suggestion, I fear the Lady Erin would not. The shadows you see are there, Stenton, and aimed toward Malakar. She has not spoken of all that she knows. I fear that the Lord of the Empire is not so distant a figure to her.”
“Yes,” Stenton replied, surprising Tiras again. “I also feel this to be true. But here—”
“She would find no safety, not of the type that you hope. She is not your child, Stenton, not like the former queen, except in this: She will choose her own path, and she will face the consequence of it.”
“I see. Have you spoken to Renar of this?”
“He is part Cosgrove,” Tiras answered wryly. “He sees much.”
“Erin.”
Erin looked up from the desk she was working at. Her eyes were ringed with shadow; lack of sleep had taken its toll. The shadows of the flickering oil-lamp highlighted the gauntness of her cheeks as she worked, quill in hand.
Renar stood in the doorway, holding a similar lamp aloft. He wore the raiment of the kings of Marantine; even the circlet glimmered between strands of his dark hair.
“No, you are not the only one to be caught working late.” He smiled, but the smile itself was weary. “Haven’t we done this before, Lady? No, I forget myself. It was you who came to me, and not I who came to you.”
She seemed to shrink inward, her elbows pressing themselves into the leather padding of the large, rectangular desk. The robe of the lines looked awkwardly oversized as it gathered in wrinkles that spoke of its age.
He never quite knew how to feel around her; whether older and wiser, younger and less experienced, protective or in need of the protection she offered.
To acknowledge this, he lifted a hand and removed the circlet from his forehead.
“It’s too damned confining anyway,” he added, although he knew she asked no explanation. He took a few quick steps across the red, bordered carpet, his feet still light; the training that Tiras had given would never be lost.
Over her shoulders he could see the names that she’d written in her delicate, spidery hand. Road names, city names. He knew them well; had traveled them often in the years past. At the end of that list was Malakar.
She smiled up weakly, and he knew that tonight she was in need of protection; that was the mantle he would wear. It was the most difficult.
“Erin.”
“I was just—I’ve been studying—this is the road that seems . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she set the quill aside carefully. There were no curled up sheets of parchment, no blotches on the desk, no signs of the frustrations that his own servants had become familiar with. But he knew that hers was the greater diffculty. Her hands came up to her lips, and she pressed her head against them.
She was waiting for words. He was always the better with them.
“You’re going to Malakar.”
“What other choice do I have?”
She hadn’t precisely answered his question; this didn’t escape his notice. He set the lamp aside and watched it spray shadows across the room, thinking of the last time they had talked this way, with this light, in a different room.
Her eyes seemed brown in the dim light. They searched his, wanting an answer, any answer, any other choice.
She was afraid, in the peculiar way that only she could be. Those who fought with her never saw it; those who were healed by her hand never dreamed of it; those who argued with her in council didn’t think of it—but it was there.
No man, no woman, lived without fear. And if the fear did not come out in the ordinary things, it must come out somewhere. In the darkness, in nights like these ones.
“You don’t want to go to Malakar.” It was not a question.
“No.” She shook her head, bitterness mingling with a smile that came out wrong. “So much for nobility. So much for selflessness.”
“What do you mean?”
She didn’t even raise her head to meet his eyes. Bad sign, that.
I don’t want to face him, Renar. And I don’t want to die. Both answers would require explanations that she didn’t have the energy or the desire to give.
He sighed and bent over her as if to protect her from the past that paled her face.
“Then stay, Erin. Darin needs your guidance here; he’s learning to cope with his magery, but not with the politics of his position.
“The army needs the advice you give; General Lorrence speaks highly of you, and his words are outdone by any who serve in a unit you’ve led.
“And I, Lady, even I might need you a little. Who else would I dance with?”
She looked up then. He had never seen her look so small. Her hands were trembling.
“Do you know,” he said lightly, as if to amuse her, “that there’s even been talk of making you queen?”
Slapping her would have been better. Her hands curled into fists; her eyelashes trembled against her cheek.
“Erin—it isn’t serious.”
She shook her head.
“I’m sorry, Lady. I said it because I thought it would amuse you.”
She turned away, showing him the dark glint of warrior braid.
Realization came to him then as if it were new, although he had thought it many times. There was very little that he knew about Erin’s past.
Her distance invoked the laws of strangers meeting as if for the second or third time: There were questions one could not ask, no matter how tactfully put or how well meant.
He had no mask to give her.
Very carefully he laid one hand against her shoulder. She stiffened, but did not turn.
“Erin.” Knowing it was inadequate, he slid his arms around her and held her bent back awkwardly against his chest. She was cold. “Don’t be afraid.”
The streets were busy, alive with the hint of spring. Carts moved along the main street, pulled by large horses whose ankles were only starting to shed their overlong fur. People bustled from place to place, stopping occasionally to unfasten buttons on their coats. It was warm, and a brisk walk did much to add to it.
Erin moved through the changing crowd as if she were invisible. She too wore a thick, padded coat, this of wool. It was dark, to catch the sun, and not remarkable; she had borrowed it from one of the castle servants.
The rest of her clothing, gray pants and a white bloused shirt, she had pillaged from Renar’s less-ostentatious drawers. The boots were all that remained of her usual city wear.
Even her hair was different; it hung loosely about her shoulders and brushed against her down-turned face.
She didn’t want to be recognized.
Two months, nearer three now, had made the city less alien and frightening; the buildings that towered over her in the narrow streets seemed stone trees and hedges; they were no longer remarkable and did not pull her attention from her destination.
The people did.
Out of the comer of her eye, she saw a child slip on t
he ice, heard his little yelp, and saw the way two others, man and woman, rushed to lift him. An old man, hair white and coarse, roamed by with a thunderous scowl, followed closely by an equally elderly woman whose face bore angry resignation. There, across the walk, a young couple strolled, hand in hand. They paused for a moment, and she heard the low sound of his laughter as clearly as if the crowd had hushed to catch it. He put his arms around the young woman’s shoulders, and her laughter echoed his.
She wondered if they were rited, and marveled that the war hadn’t scarred what they felt.
But it was spring in the city, the first spring that had touched it in over five years. Everywhere, life went on; normal life, touched by a hope that had been realized.
She could not remember Rennath ever being so. But then, in Rennath she had never walked the city streets so openly; Stefanos had always forbidden it.
Stefanos ...
She looked around at the buildings; they were not so fine or so clean as those in Rennath; some were still scarred by the fires. But there were colorful curtains in some and plants along the shuttered edges of windows.
In two months, Dagothrin had become home, as much home as Elliath had once been—maybe more so, although she couldn’t say why. Maybe it was because she could dance with Renar.
There’s even been talk of making you queen.
Queen. That would mean riting.
Her unadorned hands were an accusation. Stefanos must have taken the ring. As he had taken everything else.
Everything? No. Only what she had given.
Stefanos ...
She shook her head, allowing her gaze to be drawn outward again by the life that moved like a river along the streets. She felt herself moving against that current and wanted to be a part of it; to follow it from beginning to end.
I could never be queen. I can’t even rule myself.
And yet, for a while, she had chosen to be empress. For her people. The slaves of the Empire. They would never walk the streets like this; never have a life of their own.
Air filled her lungs, cold and crisp. She was almost upon the merchant quarters.