And Renar?
Oh, it was sunny. The sky was the deep blue that only happens when all clouds are refused and cast aside.
What of Renar?
This time she closed her eyes and let her chin tilt forward. If things were different ...
She heard music then, the soft, gentle whistling of her first dance lesson. At any other time of the day, the noise in the courtyard would have drowned it out. Turning, she saw the doors to the main hall had opened, and she had missed their sound.
Darin stood in front of two men. Renar and Tiras, both wearing the black shirts and sashes of their earlier years as master and student. And Renar’s lips were trembling on a smile and a tune as he walked out from behind Darin’s back.
“Erin,” he whispered as he approached.
She smiled hesitantly, and he bowed with a flourish. This man, she remembered. She had thought to leave without seeing him again.
“I’m hurt, Lady, that you think to leave without at least saying good-bye, but never fear, I am not so easily sidestepped.” He smiled, but they both heard the edge in the words. “And now, we have no time for dancing. The Empire waits.”
“Renar . . .”
“I would go with you.” He held up a hand, inches away from the no that was forming on her lips. “But Tiras forbids it, thwarting royal whim. He has earned his royal punishment.” His arms opened wide, and a breeze ruffled both sleeves. Beneath his shirt, she felt the cooling of his skin as she stepped into his hug. They were of a height, and it was awkward, but it was more of a good-bye than Erin had thought she could have.
He said nothing, sparing her further words, and sparing himself the effort of making them light.
“I’ll miss you.”
“And I you.” He turned almost brusquely. “Tiras.”
The old man nodded and bent to lift a pack. “Ready.”
Erin looked at him in some confusion.
“Where the student will not do,” Tiras said with a dry smile, “I am sure the master will. I accompany you, Lady. With your permission.”
“Or without it,” Renar added darkly. “He is not to bother returning if either you or Darin do not accompany him.”
“Renar, don’t say that.” Her voice was urgent, her eyes darker than usual.
“Are you afraid of this?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll never understand why people plot and kill for my rank.”
“Would you kill to defend it?”
There was silence and the hint of a subdued smile. He caught her by the shoulders, his eyes darker than her own. “Come home, Erin.”
“I—”
His lips brushed hers lightly before stopping to rest against the lines of her forehead. Then he withdrew, bowing deeply, once again the misfit king.
Erin was more than thankful to reach the closed and barred door of Hildy’s dwelling. She nearly leaped to knock at it, and the noise relieved the heavy silence that had dogged her since she left the castle. Tiras was not a man for flowery speech when not adopting the persona of colorful buffoon. Unlike his pupil, he saw no need to chatter to pass the time.
Darin, cheeks reddened by the snap of morning chill, was likewise silent, and Erin marked the subtle frown across his lips as concentration. She didn’t want to disturb him either.
The door swung open a crack. The servant’s frown melted into an almost happy smile.
“Lady Erin! You’re here. Good. Hildy can’t stand tardiness.” He stepped aside and allowed the three to enter.
“Jorrel.” Erin smiled as she passed him. “Good to see you.”
“And you, Lady. I’d best warn you though, that Hildy’s in one of her more sour moods this morn. Waking early doesn’t usually agree with her—and never within the confines of a ‘civilized city.’ ”
“Thanks.”
“Mind,” he added to her retreating back, “she’s also excited—she’s got her haven back, and I imagine she’ll be smuggling human cargo.”
Erin stopped, and Darin bumped into her chin as she turned. She caught his shoulders, although her eyes were on Jorrel. “Someday soon, Bright Heart willing, there won’t be any reason to.”
His smile showed his age—and his past, which lay beneath the right sleeve of the black and white uniform that Hildy insisted upon. “The Bright Heart,” he whispered softly, “and the Lady of Mercy.”
Erin might have spoken then, but a loud shout interrupted her, and she wheeled in time to catch Hildy’s heavily coated girth.
“Jorrel!” Looking more like a mismatched clothing horse than a person, Hildy stopped. “Oh, there you are, dear. Are we all ready?”
Erin nodded.
“Good. If I can only find my—”
“Here, Hildy.” Jorrel stepped past Tiras, his hand holding a small sack.
“You have it!” She sighed as Jorrel tactfully refrained from comment at his mistress’ wear. The green coat he didn’t mind much, but the pale red boots, the purple scarf, and the black undercoat that hung beneath it, made him shake his head.
“Don’t do that,” she said curtly as she grabbed her pack. “You know I hate the cold.”
She stopped for a minute to look both Erin and Tiras up and down. “Dear, it gets cold on the trail. Do you think you’re wearing enough?” Without pausing for an answer, she added to Tiras, “And you sir, should know better—at your age, you’ve no excuse.”
He raised a pale eyebrow, but forebore comment.
“Well, luckily I also travel prepared. Come, come, we must be off.”
“Papers, Hildy?”
“Of course I have them, Jorrel.”
She swept out of the house.
With a sigh, Tiras followed.
“Now, dear, I’d best introduce you to the—Darin, are you paying attention?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” She patted him on the head, then frowned. “You’re getting taller, dear.”
“Yes, Hildy.”
“Right. Boys?”
There were one or two murmurs, and eight men stepped forward.
“Where are the rest of you?”
“With the wagons, Hildy.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Be a dear, Marek. Come here.”
“Dear” Marek stepped forward and nodded. His head cleared Erin’s by almost a foot, and his face was both lean and scarred. His uniform was in good repair, with a gray crispness that Erin knew was Hildy’s dictate. The weapons he carried—two swords—were in better shape; his own choice.
“Marek, this is Erin, Darin, and Tiras. They’ll be traveling with us.”
He looked down at Erin.
“She’ll be part of the caravan guard, dear, so mind that smile.”
“Ma’am.”
Corman, Luke, Trent, Sanfalis, Eric, and Amahl followed, each with a varying degree of respect. Amahl, the youngest, was positively bridling at Hildy’s use of the word “boy,” probably because he most lived up to it. His face was half-covered in a red-gold beard that did nothing to add to his age. Erin shook his hand and found the grip just a little too tight.
“I think you know the last guard, dear.”
And Hamin stepped forward. He’d added two small scars to the broad line of his face and a small beard that was darker than the rest of his hair. His teeth showed white as he smiled; through some miracle, he still had all of his front ones.
“Hamin!”
“At your service, Lady. It’ll be a pleasure to travel with you again.”
“But I thought you’d rejoined the royal guards.”
He laughed, the deep-throated laugh that came with a chest his size. “I did.” The laugh faded to a chuckle.
“But—”
“I’ve been given leave to rejoin Hildy’s ranks for a time. To be specific, the time you’ll be traveling with her.”
“Renar?”
“Aye, the king.” His smile faded. “He was in quite the mood when he gave his orders, too. I don’t think he likes being here overmuch?
??not when the three of you are traveling. I’m to report at the end of it.”
On impulse, she hugged him, not minding the chain links that cut into her cheek. “Thanks,” she said softly.
He blushed and pulled back.
“I know, I know.” She laughed as he tried to find words. “Battle is easier to face.”
But she felt good for the first time in days. Darin was with her, but she hadn’t thought that Tiras and Hamin would be coming, too. Less to leave behind; less to say good-bye to.
They traveled out toward the south gate of the city. Already the roads unfolded in a semblance of life, and they were among it, their quiet group one of many. The colorful clothing of the market vendors was a little splash of vibrancy among the grays and browns of the city buildings; Erin could see the flags were already at full mast.
Some nodded at Hildy, and a few stopped to wave in a cheery fashion. At least Erin thought it was at Hildy; with her gaudy winter clothing she was easily the most visible member of the caravan.
The children would be out later; Erin was sorry to have to miss them. She sighed. The lines had taught her better than this; warriors were always saying their farewells.
Yet it was Darin’s feet that dragged the most, sliding over cobbled stone with a growing reluctance.
This day, he held his staff firmly in one hand. Bethany’s voice was silent, as it was when there was no crisis or danger to contend with, yet he felt her all the same. He looked at the slightly knotted wood and smiled; either Bethany had grown shorter, or he taller, in the time here.
Buildings grew more squat and less dense as they neared the gate; the walls cut into blue sky with their white, impenetrable face. Before they reached those gates, those walls, Darin knew he would have one last chance to see the gently sloping hills that had once belonged to Culverne. They were Marantine lands now, although Renar had said he would hold them in trust for Culverne when the time came to rebuild.
Rebuild? The grass was new, and drops of dew, like cold sweat, glinted in the sunlight. What could be rebuilt? Huts, houses, perhaps a small church. But they’d be empty of the voices and faces that had made them home.
He turned slightly to the east and stopped for a moment. He didn’t notice Hildy call a quiet halt to the caravan progress, although he should have—she had been quite anxious to leave.
Later, he would thank her. But now, his back to his companions, his eyes sought and found the single structure that graced Culverne lands.
It was stone—pale, thin, and tall as it stretched toward the endless sky above. A closed circle, with a tall unadorned spire. It stood as a testament to the fallen, above the clean earth. He hadn’t designed it, but he had requested that something be built in place of the graves that didn’t exist for him to find some peace at.
Very slowly, he lowered himself to one knee.
“Lernan.” He touched his forehead.
“Culverne.”
“Darin.”
He placed Bethany on the ground a moment and touched his forehead for a third time. It was all the blessing he had to give; all the promise.
Someone knelt beside him then, and he turned his head to catch a glimpse of Erin, who had also assumed his stance. She stared at the spire in silence, then bowed her forehead. Her long warrior’s braid looped gently over her shoulder, as countless warriors’ braids had done in the past. Only now, there was no Lady to give the blessing.
She had not sworn the warrior’s oath for over four centuries and had almost vowed never to swear it again. But the Lady’s betrayal—if, in that most revered Servant’s mind, it was betrayal—was distant now; a thing of the past. Only three things remained of that past: Erin, her trapped line-mates, and the Lord of the Empire. All of the others that she had known were dead; dust at the whim of time.
But the reason that they had fought still remained. She closed her eyes, and her lips began to tremble.
“Lernan. Elliath. Erin.” On the last, she drew her sword; it glowed dimly even in this light. Then she touched Darin on the shoulder and their eyes met.
They faced each other, the last two descendants of the Bright Heart. Their eyes went, as one, to the south and east. In silence they made their own pledges, and in silence they rose to join the caravan.
The wagons rolled out of Dagothrin, and only Darin remembered the last time he had left, on foot, behind wagons. He looked at the right sleeve of his jacket, seeing beneath sheepskin and linen to the white network of House Damion’s crest.
It sunk in then, fully and finally. He was going back to Malakar.
Lady Amalayna stepped down from the carriage that was only used for the most important dignitaries of House Tentaris. The coachman, Pentar, held out one gloved hand, and she gripped it firmly as her feet gracefully found the ground. She stared at him a moment, taking in the crisp, clean velvets of the red and the gold that blended into the sunrise of the crest of House Tentaris. Then her eyes moved, above the folded collar, to catch a glimpse of his face.
It was round; old now, she realized with a start, but his brown eyes were steady.
She saw her distorted image in them; her delicate nose suddenly severe; the beaded length of her dark hair melting almost exactly into his pupils. Half-embarrassed, she let her hand fall into the folds of black silk skirts. Bordering the black was a ribbon of white; these two were the colors of post-ceremonial mourning. She wasn’t sure why, but it had always been so for those who cared to wear it.
She so chose, on this morning a week after the death of her bond-mate. She felt, at this time, that she would never choose any other colors. Let their presence be a testament to Laranth and the gift that they had achieved together.
Still, she was nervous. She lifted her head and saw the vast stretch of the two-story mansion that held the House she had left when Laranth had accepted her. At the center of the building, one large, square tower rose to dominate the mansion and its grounds; the shadow it cast was long and solemn. At its peak, burgundy and gray flew in the wind. This was House Valens.
She wondered, as she walked unescorted to the peaked double doors, why her father had summoned her here. Perhaps he had news on the whereabouts of Laranth’s killer. It was a possibility; her own sources had yielded nothing but frustration. Still, she doubted it. The tone of his carefully worded message denied the hope.
Her fingers folded into a steeple as she walked; her steps grew smaller and came less frequently. It was not only Lady Amalayna who had received word from the lord of Valens; the lord of Tentaris had also taken a sealed message into his study. He would not divulge the contents, and as he was preoccupied with the search for his heir’s assassins, Amalayna had not seen fit to press him beyond a few simple questions.
She regretted that now.
Either the house guards had grown lax, or had been previously instructed. They bowed, as if she were still of Valens, and stepped quickly to either side to let her pass in silence. She paused with one foot above the threshold and then looked back to see the Tentaris carriage pull away along the drive. She almost retreated before she could be cut by the sharp edge between the door and the open courtyard. But no; she was Lady Amalayna; such cowardice, such timidity, did no one proud.
The house master greeted her at the door beyond the courtyard, the tower’s great base. He, too, looked older. If possible, the white wisps of hair that formed a semicircle around his head had retreated farther, and his cheeks looked gaunt as the circles beneath his eyes.
“Lady Amalayna.” He stood stiffly. “Lord Valens requests your presence in his tower chambers.”
“The tower?” she asked, her voice deceptively soft.
The house master nodded quietly.
“Lead, then.” She waved quietly. “I will follow.”
As he had always done in her life here, he obeyed her command, turning his back upon her before he could see the trembling of her jaw. She looked at his upgraded slave’s clothing as if it could anchor her and followed lightly behind, taking
care to lift her skirts above the clean stone.
She was wary and weary both as she climbed the stairs without aid of the brass banisters that lined them on either side. She did not pause to stare out of the windows that vaulted precisely toward the ceiling—she might once have, but then she had been a child. It was not as child that she had been summoned, and not as child that she had returned.
The house master reached the fifth floor landing and paused, clearly out of breath. Had she been feeling cruel, she might have pointed this out, but she kept her silence; he was a slave of House Valens, not of House Tentaris, and his condition was not her concern.
“The lord awaits within; you are to continue on your own.”
“Thank you.” She took a deep breath, then opened the maple doors into the short, thin hall. Alone, she paused to steady herself before continuing the length of the hall to the grander double doors that waited, bearing the crest of Lord Valens himself.
Once she reached them, she paused again, wringing her hands behind her back. Then she nodded, and without knocking pushed them aside and entered into the quiet, carpeted room.
Lord Valens was waiting. She expected that he would be seated in his customary chair behind the desk and in front of the fire, his hands folded neatly before him, his expression impenetrable. But this was to be an unusual interview, for he stood, his face to the rounded window, his hands clasped behind his back.
Nor did he turn as she entered.
“Amalayna.”
“Father.” She waited.
“Be seated, child.”
She wasn’t certain whether he gave the order for her comfort or his own, but in either case she obeyed it, folding her skirts neatly beneath her legs and placing her hands in her lap.
Only when the rustling of silk stopped did he at last turn to face her. He did not speak, but his eyes traveled over her, taking in the white beads nestled so carefully in near black hair, the severe white collar that framed her chin, and the long, black gown. For a moment he frowned, his brows drawing together as if in pain. Then, the lines of his face stilled and smoothed themselves into his unreadable and undeniable expression. He shook his head.