“Do you think I’m paying for this?”
Which was certainly answer enough.
She shook her head and looked down the avenue. From any major road in the inner city, one could always see the spires. They towered above everything else, and careful planning had made sure that nothing was built to block any view of them.
She moved more quickly, as if dawn would suddenly come rushing in to steal these quiet hours. Hildy might barely understand, but Tiras and Hamin would certainly not. She had to go there for however brief a glance she was allowed of what had once been home.
The gates were closed, but no one stood ready to open them, nor to guard them from any who knew them well. Erin took a deep breath and then reached deftly between the bars. There was a click as her fingers found their hold, and then, arms still entwined with cold metal, she began to push them inward. They made no creak or noise of any kind, but she failed to notice this.
She took a step forward and closed the gates behind her. The path rolled out, like a rugged carpet, to the doors that allowed entrance into the great hall. The west hall. With a breath that was almost a sigh, she started forward.
And then she felt it; magic. Blood-magic. She looked carefully. She twisted her fingers in the still air. What normal vision could not see was now made clear to her. A soft, red glow touched every blade of grass, every tree, every stone.
Yet it did not hurt her; it did not cause her any pain.
Why?
She looked down at the path and then caught sight of herself; of the plain, unadorned tunic that had too many creases. Like the grounds and the palace, it too was glowing gently, surrounded by a halo that floated an inch away from her skin.
It did not surprise her after the initial shock. In his own way, and with his own understanding, he had tried not to hurt her. This was something she might have forgotten to consider, but not Stefanos. Later, later she would wonder how he had accomplished this blood-magic.
She was very glad then that she had not asked Darin to accompany her. He was of the lines, after all. And this place was death to the lines. The thought coiled; memory made a subtle spring.
But I am not of the lines. Not here.
Stone curled in intricate crevices; water glimmered in shallow pools like trapped crystal. She knelt briefly, her hand skipping the surface of one pond. The water was cool.
She had never known the palace to be so still or so silent. Even in darkness, slaves had marked the hours, and the guards had patrolled the ground in their crisp, even step. She listened for word or voice, and caught an echo. Memory again. Any real sound would not have escaped her hearing.
She stood, wiping her hands against her tunic. It was time, now, to dare the palace proper. Like a ghost she drifted toward the main doors. Her feet crushed the grass as she was certain no other step had done in years, but they made very little noise.
The doors slid open before she could touch them. More magic. She smiled a little sadly as they rolled backward. They would have been difficult for her to open; they were heavy and sat stiffly on their great hinges. He would have known; must have known.
As she stepped across the threshold, she tensed. Her left foot was forward, her right back, and between them the thin line of past and present was taut and fine. With a deep breath, she brought her right foot forward. There. She had decided.
Shadow opened up beneath the high, peaked ceilings. No beams cut the eye here, but the stone above was perfectly carved and molded. There were frescoes on the ceiling, but the darkness hid them—and she had no Servant’s memory to call them up in detail. It was better this way; she had never liked them.
Her mouth was dry, her throat tight. She took a step, and then another, but both were slow and measured. She did not look behind her, but she knew that the doors were rolling shut in the preternatural silence.
She was alone. He was not here. Not even here.
There were no words to describe the way her thoughts and emotions twisted inward, and if there had been, she would not have had the strength to voice them. Nothing was ever simple.
What did you expect?
But even to this she had no answer. Something was odd about it; familiar in a way that was different. She couldn’t place it.
She made her way to her rooms, calling light to ease the passage. The stairs were clean, and the thick, cool rails betrayed no hint of dust or age. Insects at least must have made a home of this, but she could see nothing—no webs, no little movements. She had often felt isolated in Rennath, and knew now that it had been illusion; truly, she was alone here, as she had never been.
Her step quickened and faltered only once.
In the halls that led to her rooms, the tapestries that she had asked so quietly for still hung. She passed the woven scene of Gallin’s death easily enough, flitted past the Gifting of God to his Servants and their kin, and walked by the investiture of the seven lines. These images were her history, but they held no pain for her, and no pleasure—not here.
There was only the Lady.
Flat and lifeless in the weave of a master, she sat at the head of delicately woven line history. Her legs were crossed and her hands open, as if in supplication or offering. But her eyes saw other futures, other possibilities. The Seeing.
“Lady,” she said quietly.
There was no answer.
But as she turned, she understood why this ghostly walk felt oddly familiar. It reminded her of the times she had been in the Woodhall; it too had been trapped in time.
Do you come here, Stefanos? Is that why you preserved it?
Again there was no answer. She walked into her rooms, listening to the hollow silence. The fireplace was empty and cold, although the grate was immaculately clean. The two chairs sat by it, equally empty. The low table held a vase; there were no flowers in it.
She passed through quickly and opened the door that led to her bedchamber. Everything here was also preserved; the bed was neat, the curtains stiff and unwrinkled. She thought it had never looked so perfect. Even her closets were full. Dresses that she had worn centuries past stood in neat, seemingly endless rows.
Memories hung like curtains over a window into an uncertain landscape. She heard Tanya’s quiet voice; Ewie’s loud ordinances; Marcus’ gruff, deep words. She saw where dinner had been laid in the late hours of the evening when she had chosen to forsake the dining hall, and saw further the place that Stefanos had often taken beside her.
And she knew, as she stood in silence, that these were not the reason she had come. Hesitantly, she pushed them aside, and they fell like layers of soft cloth around her, too fine to be completely forgotten, until at last only one image remained.
The last time she had woken here.
Light stirred in her, clear and sharp and hard. For a moment she felt the red around her as a weapon wielded by an expert foe; it hurt, and though no wound could be seen, it cut her deeply. She bit her lip and drew blood.
She knew why he had done it, but the question would not stay away; it haunted her like the strains of a blood-spell, catching her in the strands of a deep red web that her Light was powerless to break.
Oh, yes. She knew why she had come.
Derlak of Valens shifted before her, beckoning in a tense, heavy silence. She didn’t want to believe him, but she followed where he led, out of her room and into the tall, shadowed hallways. The memory of that night was etched deeply enough that she lost her way only twice before finding it again, a hound to the trail.
She left windows and moonlight behind as she descended, at last, into the vault that Stefanos had called home. In every sense, the dead dwelled here, but sleeplessly.
Two doors she passed; they were small and tightly shut. She counted a third and wondered if she had once again lost her way. In frustration she stopped, and her teeth found the groove they were wearing in her lower lip.
This is so stupid. Her fist found a wall and scraped it, more to her detriment than its. What am I going to do? Last r
ites?
And then she saw it, a crack of light in the black hall, a light not cast by her blood—it was too far away and too precise for that.
She began to walk more quickly and more cautiously, wondering if someone else kept a vigil here. But she heard nothing; no words, and no movement that was not hers.
The door was open; light filtered around edges and hinges both. She reached out to touch it and drew back as she found sharp splinters. Violence had left its mark here, as it had on so many things. With only a hint of prayer on trembling lip, she swung the door wide.
For a moment she thought she must have the wrong room, and her legs bent at the knees. There was no altar here, no black marble slab, no touch of reddened shadow. The floors were clean and dustless, and here and there inlay caught torchlight that had been frozen between flickers. There were no pews, no chairs, nothing at all to break the line of a level floor.
Maybe that’s why she didn’t see it at first. But she walked in in silence and moved listlessly to the center of the room.
And there, in white marble and gold letters, was the answer to the question she had not even dared to ask.
Here lies Kandor, Third of Leman, and four of the Line Elliath, who died this night that they might, unknowing, change the world. They died well, and they will not be forgotten.
Knees that were weak gave out completely; they fell to rest just beneath the edge of the plaque. Gold gleamed and twisted the reflection of the last of Elliath as she bent down.
Here.
It was real. All of it. She had known it, and yet ... It had always been important to see a body, or at least to know where it rested. Stefanos, she felt, had never understood that. Nor, she was certain, would he ever.
Yet he had done this, had transformed a place of killing to a place where those killed might rest. They were here, with only stone and dirt as the wall that separated her from them. The marble was cold against her cheek, but she warmed it with her tears.
And although she knew it could not help them, she began to whisper the last rites. All that she knew did not deprive the words of meaning; they were not hollow or empty.
“I’m sorry. But I’m almost in Malakar now, and if you can hear me at all, you know that the Bridge is finally in sight for you.” Her voice broke, and she touched the letters as if to draw strength from them.
“Belf—wait for me. Promise. We—we do everything together.”
“Who is ‘Belt’?”
Erin froze, but only for a second. She recognized the voice. The chill in the air was balmy compared to that contained in her next words. Even the tears seemed to turn to crystal, so suddenly did they stop their fall. “What-are-you-doing-here?”
“I might ask the same question.” Corfaire raised an eyebrow, but he remained in the door, framed by it.
“How did you get in?”
“I followed you, Lady.”
Impossible. I’d have heard you.
But she wasn’t completely sure. She rose. Embarrassment struggled with anger, but it wasn’t much of a contest; her hand strayed to her sword hilt and froze there, as if made of stone or white marble.
He crossed his arms casually, but Erin saw his fingers twitch as they rested inches above his sword. In a quieter tone of voice, he said, “Captain Hamin saw you leave. There was some small argument about it, but Darin held sway. He believed that you would return unharmed, and that you didn’t wish company.” He shrugged. “Darin is young, and perhaps naive. I took it upon myself to follow.”
“And that was the only reason?”
Wary, white smile. “No.” He bowed. “Lady.”
There was no insult in the offered word. Not even a hint of it. If it had come from any other man, Erin might have thought she heard a hint of awe or hope there.
Her eyes lingered a moment over shining words and pale marble. Then she straightened herself and began to walk toward her unwanted guest. This, she would not share with him.
“It was true.”
“Pardon?”
“That you lived in Rennath.”
She could hardly lie now. Instead she nodded.
“What is this room?”
“Corfaire, enough. Please.”
To her surprise he nodded and followed the gesture with a bow. But his eyes found the room’s center and lingered there over words that he could not read.
His eyes sought the heights of the spires with a quiet wonder. His face was pale and free from the subtle twist of lips that so often marred his expression. His hand never once pulled sword from sheath, nor did it dally near hilt after the initial meeting. He knew, without knowing why, that there was no threat here that could harm him. Is this what comfort and safety felt like, that it could resonate so deeply?
He did not speak until the palace gates were shut behind them. And when he did, he was almost surprised at the tone of his words.
“Lady.”
She seemed suddenly small and fragile as her fingers curled around the bars of the gate just beneath the simple crest. Her profile was pale and still, her eyes wide and unblinking in the mask of her face. She nodded, but gave no other sign that she had heard him.
“When you travel to Malakar, I would be honored if you would accept my aid as your guide.” His sword came out of his scabbard, and he held it out, hilt forward. It was not as awkward as it had been the only other time he had done it. In the dim light of the street, it hardly looked like steel at all.
Her face turned, but her hands still gripped the bars as if they were a window to a world she could not join.
He wondered what she would do. Would she take the sword? Would she ask that he blood it? Did she even understand what he offered? To make it more clear, he angled the blade up until the point of it was less than an inch from the throat that the proud tilt of his chin exposed.
“Put it away,” she said softly at last. “Put it away or the guards in the street will come. We must get back.”
His tongue stiffened, but it made no difference. He had no clever words to offer this rejection. He held the stance for a moment longer, and then his face hardened. Why should she accept an oath that the Empire had created? Only one other man had ever taken this from him, and in the end it had almost cost him his life. He had been foolish even to think that the Lady of Mercy could consider it worthy.
What did it matter, after all? He had planned his course of action in Coranth the eve after the battle. He would follow the Lady into the heart of Veriloth, whether she accepted his pledge or no.
It didn’t matter. It made no difference.
He almost believed it as he lowered the sword and stood before her. He jumped when her hand caught his. He flinched at the expression on her face and the width of her eyes. It was too close to pity.
“Corfaire.”
“Lady,” he said stiffly.
Her other hand came up, leaving the refuge of bars at last. Very gently, she uncurled his fingers and took the sword hilt from him. It shook.
Humiliation washed over his face as the blade slowly fell. He couldn’t keep it at bay. “Lady, I can place the sword in the scabbard on my own.”
“You have offered me your life,” she answered. The words were cold and oddly accented.
He fell to one knee and wondered then if this is how the ceremony had come to be, for his legs would not support him. “Yes.”
“I do not choose to take it now.”
He lifted his face, and she lowered hers, until they were on a level. Her eyes were bright green. The wrong color, the wrong shape.
“But that choice is now mine.”
He could not even breathe.
She leaned forward slightly, and the tip of the blade pressed against his exposed throat. It was cool as it trembled there. Absurdly, he thought it bad that her hands were unsteady.
“And this is proof of it.” Steel pierced skin.
There was no finesse in the way she drew the blade back. There was little control in her nervous expression as her eyes
sought the damage in the darkness. It did not matter at all.
He lifted a hand to the tiny wound and caught his blood with his fingers. “This is the mark of it, Lady.” He answered, his voice much stronger and surer than hers. “I wear it. I will not forget what I have pledged. My life, and my death, are in your service.”
“Then take back your sword and carry it thus.”
He held out one hand, and she placed the hilt into it. Their fingers touched again, briefly. She drew back and began to walk down the street.
“Lady? Erin?”
“Yes?” Too quiet.
“Your permission to rise?”
“My—Corfaire, can’t you hear the patrol? Get up!”
He did, but his feet, as they joined hers in running, were light.
chapter fourteen
“Erin, dear, why don’t you let one of the boys carry that?” Hildy stood, hands on hips, a frown wreathed across her cheeks. That frown increased as someone pushed past her in the market compound, and she made a little comment about rudeness under her breath. It wasn’t very quiet.
Erin smiled and shook her head. “You’re taking most of the boys with you. Tiras deserves a little rest, and Darin’s shoulders aren’t any broader than mine.”
“Well what about Corfaire, dear?”
Erin looked over her left shoulder to see Corfaire. He was standing almost at attention, although no ceremony called for it. Neither of them had gotten much sleep the night before; she had spent much more time wandering the halls of the palace than she’d realized. But neither he nor she was willing to wait the day that rest demanded.
“I don’t see how he could carry more,” she said at last. “I think he’s already more weighted than the horses.”
It wasn’t true, and Hildy clucked loudly before subsiding into another teary smile. “Are you sure you don’t want any of the other boys?”
Hamin coughed. “Hildy ...”