One isolated path, one frail possibility, offered hope. She had walked that road, over and over, looking for any other answer. The fifth year had passed, and another three months, before she finally returned to the waking world with one secret hope for the lines--and bereft of any for herself.
It chilled her, even now, for Latham’s presence here was a herald, the beginning of an end that was too clear.
She acknowledged him with a nod, but kept her back to him so he would not see her face.
He grimaced. Of the privy council, he could now boast to being the longest lived. His dark hair had paled to gray over the intervening years; a sign of wisdom. What wisdom now? Of all tasks assigned to him, this was always the worst, this bearing of ill news. But better to have it out.
“Lady, Cordan and his command were attacked twenty miles from our border. We arrived late.”
She turned slowly, her face almost expressionless.
Did you see this, Lady? Could you have prevented it? He never asked aloud the questions that burned at his scholar’s mind. She had spent five years, lost to them ...
“They grow bold,” the Lady murmured. “Twenty miles?”
“Inside our territory.”
“Did any survive?”
He looked away and therefore missed the subtle change of her expression. “No. But five at least called their own deaths. None were taken by the enemy.”
“Cordan?”
“One of the five, Lady. I’m sorry.”
She turned away, her movements still regal and controlled. “Has anyone informed Kerlinda?”
“Kandor has gone to speak with her.”
“I see.” She said no more, but turned again, knowing that even she could not hide the look that transformed her face. If she had the courage, she would inform her daughter of the death herself; but this she could not face. It had started, yes, but the beginning had been the easiest.
It was dark, but the storms of the day had finally passed. Stars glimmered through the open windows, their blinking light no longer obscured by dense clouds.
Erin crept out of her bed. She glanced quickly at the crack of muted light beneath the door to her square, plain room.
Mother’s still awake.
Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to move silently. Crady had been teaching her that; she still felt warm when she thought of how loudly—and long—he’d approved her progress.
But it wasn’t for silence that she practiced now.
She crossed her legs beneath her and raised her small arms. In the dark, she began to draw a large half circle in the air.
The creak of a door interrupted her concentration, and she dove for the bed, heart pounding audibly. She waited a moment, then relaxed. Her mother wasn’t coming; not yet anyway.
In a few minutes she found her way back to the floor and began to concentrate in earnest.
I almost did it yesterday.
Minutes passed while she tried to focus. It wasn’t easy; fear that her mother would find her awake kept drawing her mind to the sound of steps on the floor below. But her father was coming back soon, and she desperately wanted to have something real to show him.
Come on. Light.
Her hands traced their silent pattern across the air, and she found the courage to utter an audible syllable.
Nothing happened.
I know I almost had it yesterday.
She tried again, with no results. Frustration warred with determination, and determination won—but only barely. For all her seriousness, she was still a child.
Arms passed in front of her again, but this time she forced herself to relax. She could feel the shape of the night surrounding her, feel the tingling at the base of her spine. She just wasn’t sure how to use it.
Light. Light to cure darkness.
The words were comfortable because she’d heard them so often. She relaxed, starting yet again.
The room was lit by a gentle green glow that touched the outline of bed, chair, and windowsill. In confusion she looked outside and saw that night still claimed the land.
I did it!
She laughed—she couldn’t help it—but very quietly. Her mother was going to be pleased; her father proud. No one else her age had yet managed to bring the light up at command. Dannen was close, but it didn’t matter anymore—she’d done it first.
Remembering her mother’s stem admonition to sleep, she crawled back into bed, letting her feet dangle over the edge. She tried to lie down, but excitement made her bolt upward again. If she could show her mother what she could do, maybe she wouldn’t be angry.
I could wait till morning.
She pulled the covers up under her chin.
But I want to tell her now.
The covers fell away. Maybe her mother wouldn’t be happy at first—but surely once she saw the light, she’d forgive Erin.
That decided, she walked slowly to the door. Her hand trembled on the knob, but she opened it, allowing the firelight from the floor below to wash the room.
She headed down the familiar hallway to the stairs and, clinging to the banister—which was just above her shoulder—she made her way down, bare feet padding against worn wood.
She peered around the corner very carefully, then stopped, all caution forgotten.
Her mother’s back was toward the staircase. But beyond her mother stood the most gloriously beautiful man that Erin had ever seen, She knew him at once for the Lady’s kin—Servant to Lernan. He cast a light, obvious to her eyes, that put her achievement to shame, for it was white and pure, whereas hers was mere green. He was white as well, or as close to white as made no difference. Only his eyes, the deepest and clearest of green, had any strong color. These eyes looked beyond her mother to meet hers.
He looks like the Lady.
It was the first time that she had ever seen Kandor, Third Servant of Lernan, but it would not be the last.
Her mother turned.
Her mother’s face was white, as white as Kandor’s, but without Kandor’s immortal beauty behind it. Erin took a step back.
“Erin,” her mother said softly. “Did we wake you?”
Something was wrong. Erin shook her head mutely, and moved down the stairs.
“So this is your daughter, Kerlinda.”
Her mother nodded quietly. “Come, Erin. Have you met Kandor before?”
“No, we have not met.” Kandor looked at her then, his unblinking eyes taking in every detail of her strained silent face.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?”
Her mother smiled and gathered Erin into her arms. Erin had never seen a smile like the one her mother gave her. It was too tight, as if it didn’t fit her face anymore.
"I--"
“Kerlinda. Kera, let me.”
Wordless, her mother nodded into Erin’s hair.
“Erin, do you understand what the Line Elliath—and all the rest of the blooded lines—must fight for?”
“Yes.” Why was her mother trembling?
“Do you understand how we must fight, and why we must train so long and so hard?”
“Yes.” Why was he asking her these questions? Why was her mother shaking?
“Erin, your father, Cordan of Elliath, has been gone for two months, fighting the Enemy and those who serve Him.”
Erin nodded, frowning. She knew this. Why was he telling her this?
“He was adult, as you are not. He fought well for our cause and aided it to the best of his ability.”
“Mommy?” Her mother hugged her so tightly she could hardly breathe.
“Cordan of Elliath has finished his fight with honor.”
The words were formal; Erin had heard them before many times. Without thinking, she said, “He rests in the peace beyond.” It was what she had been taught.
“Yes, child. He rests now. We Servants of Lernan believe that in the beyond there is no war, no pain, no fighting.”
Why was he saying this? “Mommy?”
Her mother p
ulled away, her face still wearing that awful smile. Erin was suddenly afraid to ask her mother any questions; something lay beyond that smile that she didn’t want to know.
With a child’s directness, she looked up at Kandor again. The Servant had not moved.
“Is my daddy dead?”
He closed his eyes, shutting off for the moment the glow of emeralds. “Yes, Erin.”
“Oh.”
She was silent as her mother watched her closely.
“Does that mean he won’t be coming home?”
They wouldn’t let her see her father. Her mother was called by the Lady, as were most of the adult members of the line, but Erin was left behind; the ceremonies of departure were, in this case, not meant for children.
Everyone had always said that Erin was not an ordinary child. She was cunning, in the naïve way that children are, and direct as well.
“Please wait here for me, Erin. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
And she had nodded without speaking, to make sure that she didn’t give her word. But if her father was leaving, she wanted to give him one last thing: the gift of her newly discovered light.
Maybe, she thought, as she watched her mother disappear down the winding path, maybe if he’s happy, maybe if he’s proud, he won’t go away. He’ll come home with Mommy and me.
She remembered clearly the look on his face the last time he had gone out to fight. He hadn’t wanted to leave them.
As soon as her mother had disappeared, Erin put on her shoes, tying them painstakingly. The Lady of all Elliath would be there herself, and Erin didn’t want to look bad. She waited for a few moments more, then timidly pushed the front door of her house open and took her first step onto the well-trodden path.
She knew the way to the Great Hall; she’d been there many times, with many different people. It felt strange to be going there alone. Everything seemed quiet, as if the trees, sky, and wind were watching her and listening.
What if the doors are closed?
She tried not to think about it. If they were, she would have to go home without seeing her father; they were too large and heavy for her to open.
She walked more quickly. What if he left before she got there? The Great Hall seemed suddenly too far away, and she ended up running the rest of the way.
The path curved gently beneath her racing feet, but her eyes sought the height of the Great Hall’s large dome. It stood mute beneath the pale gray sky, a work of stone with hints of gold along its ribs. It was huge—easily ten times the size of the building that she called home—and it towered above Elliath like a watchful guardian.
Lungs heaving, she reached the doors and froze. The wooden, peaked doors were open; people—adults—were entering quietly in ones and twos beneath the petaled arch of the inner hall. Like the breeze, they were silent.
She forgot about catching her breath because she was holding it. She stood very still, hoping not to be noticed. When the last of the people had entered, she slid between the large doors and into the hall itself. She had never felt so small as she looked up, and up, and up to the center point of the vaulted ceiling. At twelve points of the circle, the Twelve Servants of God, carved in marble, watched down upon her. She looked away then, to the crowd ahead.
All she could see were the backs of the line members that crowded into the hall. They were pressed together in the shape of a human wall. There were almost too many for the silver circle along the ground to contain.
After a minute, she began to sidle along the wall, traveling the arc of the chamber until she could see the front of the room more clearly. No one seemed to notice her; all eyes were upon the Lady of Elliath.
Erin found herself staring at the Lady as well. She had forgotten—she always forgot—just how beautiful the Lady was, all ringed in bright, soft light. The Lady was speaking, but Erin could not hear the words. She inched along the wall, coming closer to where the Lady stood.
In front of the Lady, in a half circle, stood several of the warrior-priests, those like her father, who fought the enemy with sword and blood. They wore their full uniforms, chain mail beneath silver-bordered gray surcoats that seemed to melt into gorges, and they held unsheathed blades rigidly forward. One of them, the youngest, was crying. The tears ran down his cheeks, but he kept his position. In the center of the half circle was Telvar. Anyone, child or adult, recognized him on sight—he was the finest warrior in the Line Elliath, perhaps in all of the rest of the lines as well.
Today he looked old, his face more dour and grim than ever. Erin stopped moving, afraid to attract his attention; he always noticed everything.
She relaxed as she realized that he, too, stood rigid and unmoving. She could not see what this half circle of warriors stood guard over, but she could guess. Now she had no choice but to edge through the crowd as quickly as possible and hope that no one tried to stop her.
She plunged between two of the line members, brushing against the stiff gray of their robes without stopping to see who they were. Behind her, she heard a brief murmur of shock or surprise, and it made her move more quickly.
Daddy!
The commotion that she caused rippled outward through the crowd.
Now Telvar will see me.
But it didn’t matter, as long as she made her way to the front of the room where the guards stood with their naked blades, where the Lady of Elliath watched.
Maybe it was because they were surprised. Maybe they were too wrapped in their sorrow to react quickly. Maybe they could not deny Cordan’s child this last sight of her father. For whatever reason, none of the priests or priestesses of the line saw fit to stop or catch Erin as she frantically made her way to the front of the room.
“Daddy!” Erin broke through the last rank of the gathering and ran forward, arms outstretched.
“Erin!”
She turned automatically at the sound of her mother’s voice. People moved out of the way as Kerlinda separated herself from the gathered mourners.
Erin took a step toward her mother as Kerlinda knelt to the ground and opened her arms.
“Erin, please,” she said, more softly. Her voice was shaking.
Erin almost went to her mother.
Then she turned around again, to face Telvar and his warriors. In front of them, on a table that was half Erin’s height, rested a large, dark box. It was wood, dark wood, and well oiled; it gleamed in the torchlight like a marvelous new thing. Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion, and then she darted forward.
“Erin!”
She reached the table and, placing her hands on the edge of the box, pulled herself to her toes.
She stopped moving then. “Daddy?”
Her father lay in the box. His eyes were closed, but even Erin could not mistake this rest for sleep. A bloodless cut ran across half of his face. His jaw was slightly open, his face shrunk inward. His arms, always open to catch her or hug her, were crossed over his motionless chest. Some of his fingers were just not there.
“Daddy?” She reached out to touch one of his hands, and felt it, slack and cold beneath her small fingers.
No. No no no.
“Daddy? See—I have something to show you.”
She shook him a little.
“Watch, Daddy. Watch what I learned to do. I’m—I’m the first.”
He still wouldn’t move.
In a panic, she let go of his hand and raised her arms in a small circle. She had to show him this, had to make him see it.
With ferocious determination, she concentrated, and the syllables fell trembling out of her young mouth. If she could show him this—if he really saw it—everything would be all right. Everything would have to be all right.
Light, pale and green, encircled her father’s still face.
“See? See, Daddy?” He was blurry now, and she struggled to stay on her toes. It was very important not to lose sight of him. “See what I can do?”
She felt arms around her waist, drawing her away. Angry and a
fraid, she kicked outward.
“No! No, he has to see! He has to!”
“Erin.”
The voice stopped her. It was the Lady’s.
“Hush, child.”
She turned around, struggling against the strength of immortal arms and losing. She was lifted off her feet. The Lady’s sober eyes met hers.
“He cannot hear you, although he would be proud of what you have shown.”
“He has to—”
The Lady’s arms drew tight. Over her shoulder, Erin could see her mother’s pale face.
“He can’t, Erin. He’s dead.”
Dead.
For the first time, the word had a meaning.
Wordlessly, the Lady set her down, and she walked silently to her mother. Kerlinda gathered her into stiff arms.
“Come, child and grandchild. This is the ceremony of departure. The spirit of husband and father has not been trapped by the malice of the Enemy; it has gone beyond. The circle has opened to free it.”
Kerlinda had hoped to spare her daughter sight of her husband’s diminished body. Now she must do what she could to soften the blow.
“Erin,” she said softly, as she made her way to the coffin and its honor guard. “We wear clothing. The body, yours and mine, is just a larger, deeper layer. But the spirit—you remember the spirit? That goes on to freedom and peace.”
Her daughter was weeping now, her face buried into Kerlinda’s strong shoulder. Erin would not look at the corpse again, nor would Kerlinda force her to.
But Kerlinda was an adult. A widow, one of too many. She looked at the lifeless body, her eyes glassy and hard.
Does the spirit go on, Cordan?
Bitterly she placed the fingers of her right hand against the cold lips of the corpse.
Is there truly peace beyond?
The Lady of Elliath watched her, torn between different pains. Daughter, she thought, your child is our hope. She can be spared nothing. I pray that she learns your strength and mine, for it is on her shoulders that everything will rest.
She raised her arms, calling for the light that signaled the midpoint of the ceremonies.