“This is the warrior-gift. This is what all warriors must know.”
“Where on Earth did you get that bruise?”
Erin reached gingerly for the milk jug, “Lesson,” she murmured.
“Lesson?” Katalaan placed a large, covered dish on the center of the table. Her hands, callused and strong, apparently didn’t notice how hot it was. Erin wondered if she’d feel the scorching heat less as she got older. She doubted it.
She placed the jug on the table and went back to the kitchen for plates and cutlery.
“What kind of lesson?” Kat’s question followed her.
“Sword.” Erin smiled tentatively, although her jaw hurt. “I relaxed too much.”
“And that’s how they discipline relaxation? No wonder I’ve trouble tearing you away from your book!” This time Katalaan chuckled, although her eyes never left the purpled side of Erin’s face. “I’d have been happy if my own son had half your determination.”
Erin nodded. She’d heard this many times, but had discovered that Katalaan didn’t like to be asked about this son. Instead, she began to talk about history lessons, as Kat was happy with those. They sat and began to eat, after Kat had said a “proper” thanks.
It was nice to have her there. She wasn’t a mother, true, and she wasn’t of the lines, but she was a friend.
Not as good a friend as Belf, of course, but pretty close.
“Owl”
“Belfas, you let your guard down again!”
“Sorry.” He clearly wasn’t. He limped, with exaggeration, to one side of the grassy slope near the quiet market circle and sat down heavily, tossing the sword from one sweaty palm to the other.
“Belf, it’s important. Do you think the enemy is going to care—”
“We’ve got enough real enemies. We don’t need to pretend. Can’t we practice something else?”
“You said you wanted me to teach you what Telvar’s teaching us.” Erin sighed. At times Belfas was fast, and his parrying better than hers.
“I said no bruises.”
“All right.” She put the weapon down.
“It isn’t like I’m not already taking lessons.”
“Not from Telvar.”
He grimaced. And I used to want to. Thank the Bright Heart I wasn’t chosen. He put his sword down happily and sank into the grass.
“Belfas!”
“Erin!” He looked up, shading his eyes from the sun. “This is supposed to be a day of rest.”
“We agreed.”
He groaned and forced himself into a sitting position. “Erin, I can summon light. I can perform the Lesser Ward and the Greater Ward. I can find my way back home from anywhere blindfolded. What else do you want?”
“I—”
Half-maliciously, he added, “And I can also walk memory.”
“Your father’s blood.” But she frowned; she’d tried it secretly several times, but her memory wasn’t any better than one without the blood. In fact, if you asked most people, they often said it was worse.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that.” And he genuinely was sorry. Erin could be impossible, but she was still his best friend. He just couldn’t understand why she always had to be so perfect—and worse still, why she always tried to make him perfect.
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve got it, I don’t.” Her eyes became quite businesslike, and Belfas groaned. She’d thought of something else.
“Fire.”
This time he did sit up. “Fire? White-fire? Are you crazy? That’s war-skill, Erin. They don’t teach that until we become adult.”
“They don’t teach us enough until we become adult. But I’m sure we can learn it. I mean, you’ve started memory walking, and they don’t really teach that until we’re adult. Besides, I’m eleven summers, you’re twelve. We’re bound to be adult soon. We can just start early.”
He hated that phrase.
As he watched her brow pucker in concentration, he wondered briefly why he hadn’t found a more sensible best friend yet.
“Word from the front?” Serdon, Grandfather of Line Elliath, looked up from a desk littered with papers—each important, each urgent, and most unanswered as of yet. The windows of his study showed sundown was near, but years of discipline kept him at a pretense of work, even when his mind wasn’t on it.
Latham nodded quietly, walking into the study itself to take one of four vacant seats. He looked up at the flat, plain ceiling and stretched his neck, pushing his cowl aside. “Pallen’s just arrived, Grandfather. He’s taking a moment with his daughter; he’ll be in shortly.”
The Grandfather smiled and shuffled his chair around to face his visitor’s. “Not if I know his daughter. But come, what word?”
“As much as we may both have disagreed with Kerlinda, she seems to be doing her work well; our casualties on the front have lessened dramatically, although apparently she’s ridden three horses into ground. She’s been traveling with the companies, but she goes where she’s needed.”
“Worried?”
Latham nodded. “But I do that frequently.”
The Grandfather frowned.
We both worry, Latham, and we both have good reason. She drives herself harshly. I wonder if she sees the faces of the saved at all—or if she dwells only on the dead. But even that was not the greatest worry. He ran a gray-sleeved arm over his forehead and closed his eyes a moment.
“She isn’t warrior-trained. Not truly.”
Latham was grateful to the Grandfather for putting into words the fear that not even he would voice. But having said it, what else was left?
“The Lady will be pleased.”
Latham watched the Grandfather closely for a moment.
Will she? He wondered. Kerlinda is her youngest.
Telvar swung low, pulling his shield back.
Erin jumped up, feeling the wood of the blade skim the bottom of her boots. She landed to the side as his shield came forward, missing her.
They had been fighting for fifteen minutes—each one, like this, strenuous and exhausting. He was pleased; she could tell this because he drew the energy—from where, she didn’t know—to step up his attack. He’d not yet managed to connect.
She parried well, but dodging was more effective; twice the sheer strength of his blow had almost unbalanced her. Unfortunately, dodging required more energy. She bit her lower lip. She was going to lose this one. Then again, she always did against Telvar.
He feinted low; she began to jump to the side when he shifted the direction of his sword in midswing.
The sound of wood against bone was unmistakable.
Against any other opponent, she would have cried out in pain. This was Telvar. She bit her tongue, tasting the tang of salt in her mouth.
She kept fighting, but less smoothly now, and much more defensively. The pain was bad.
She tried to concentrate around it, adjusting her movement to favor her injured side. Just as she would have to do if she fought a real enemy.
Real enemy? The strength of Telvar’s continued attack made her wonder. But not for long; just as she favored her side, he did, striking or feinting for her injuries.
It wasn’t fair; they both knew it—but they both knew that their enemies would not be fair in battle.
She concentrated, defending against his attack. His sword hit her side again, less easily and less viciously than before, but no less painfully.
For a second she wanted to call it—but only for a second. Then she clamped her jaw shut.
No. Let him call it when he’s finished. She pushed the pain back with the force of her will, raw and angry.
The pain diminished. Not immediately, but quickly enough that she noticed it. She had no time to wonder; instead she took advantage of her renewed freedom of motion.
And for the first time, she managed to land a blow. A feeble one, but it didn’t matter.
Telvar raised his right hand.
“Hold.”
He was smiling.
; Erin couldn’t recall a time when she had seen him smile before, not even outside of the circle.
She began to back away to the edge of the green.
Still smiling, he saluted her. “Congratulations, Erin. You’ve managed to achieve power-use and continue to fight.” He frowned as he met her confused stare. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
Did what? She shook her head. It was the only time that she had ever done well enough to receive Telvar’s praise—and she had no idea what he was talking about.
“Bright Heart, girl. You’ve a power, then.” His frown deepened. He’d seen the pale green glow that had briefly touched her—the signature of Lernari magic. And he could guess at its use. But if she’d summoned it unknowing ... She must be very much her mother’s child. Healing blood; Lernan’s truest legacy. Why do they train her in warrior arts? He paused a moment. Kerlinda is at the front.
“Erin!”
Both the master and his student turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Surprise kept Telvar’s customary—legendary—reaction to interruption of his lessons at bay. He even managed not to frown as Erin threw down her weapon and leaped out of the drill circle.
“Mother!”
Kerlinda was already kneeling, arms spread wide to catch her daughter in midflight. She was dirt-stained, the edge of her cloak as muddy as her booted feet. Her hair, once long and glorious, was now cropped closely about her ears for practicality’s sake. Even so, there was no mistaking who she was. She felt her daughter’s thin arms close tightly around her neck and smiled breathlessly over Erin’s shoulder at any who cared to watch their reunion.
Telvar was one. He knew well what Kerlinda was feeling, and the fact that she was still alive to feel it almost brought a smile to his lips. Almost—he was, after all, still in the middle of a lesson.
“Kredan.”
The entire class turned back to the drill circle at the clipped word.
“I see that you’ve learned enough to be able to ignore what’s being done. Come. Enter the circle.”
Kredan groaned wordlessly. If he could ever manage to school his facial expression, he’d be set.
Only Telvar watched Kerlinda and Erin depart. Arm in arm, heads bent together in quiet whispering that even his ears could not catch all of, they made their way home.
But it was different; having her mother’s quiet presence instead of Katalaan’s noisy one. Kerlinda had invited Katalaan to stay, but the older woman had demurred, wanting Erin to have the chance to be alone with her mother.
And that’s how Erin felt—alone.
The moment they entered their house together her mother had gone strange and silent, as if the walls were too small, too tight.
“Mother?”
“Hmmm? Oh, Erin.” Kerlinda smiled dimly. She turned away, running her hands along the rail of the stairs. “Have you changed the house around?”
“No!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to criticize.” She brushed her fingers through her short hair and began to pull her boots off. “I just wondered.”
Erin said nothing.
After a moment, Kerlinda looked up. “Erin, I didn’t mean anything by it.” She was pale, and the rings under her eyes were dark. “I’m fine; it’s good to be home.”
Erin wanted it to be true, but her mother looked so different. Thinner. Harsher.
“Can I—can I get you something?”
“No. Not for the moment. I’ll take care of it myself.” Her mother paused. “Is everything in the same place?”
Katalaan had rearranged much of the kitchen with Erin’s help, but Erin still nodded. She wanted her mother to feel at home.
But although her mother stayed for two weeks, she never seemed as if she truly belonged there. And Erin didn’t know how to ask her why.
chapter three
“Belf, why were they made?”
Belfas looked up to see Erin as she paced across the lawn. This was the second time in his life that Erin had allowed him to just relax; he should have known that it was too good to be true. He pulled at a piece of grass, inspected its end, and inserted it between his lips.
“They?”
“The Light and the Dark.”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Why not ask Kedry?”
“Kedry doesn’t know either.”
“Well, if she’s adult, and a teacher, and she doesn’t know, how should I?”
Erin sighed.
“But someone—something—must have made them. I mean, everything has a beginning.”
“Erin—” He cut back the sentence and picked another piece of grass. “No one knows that, not even the Lady herself.” He propped himself up on one elbow, shielding his eyes from the sun. He watched her for a moment, then frowned.
“You’re thinking about the dead again.” It wasn’t a question.
She nodded, biting her lower lip gingerly between her teeth. Her mother had been at the front for nine months—no, ten now. And the attacks along the front had shifted the line of defense; the Enemy and his cursed Servants had once again gained ground.
We believe that the spirit goes beyond, into peace and a different life—one free of our eternal conflict.
Believe. She snorted. Why didn’t anyone know?
She walked over to the edge of the lawn, where a small row of flowers had been planted by Belfas’s mother. She stared at their brightly colored faces without really seeing them—she often didn’t notice the outside world when she was thinking.
If someone or something had created this Light and this Dark—this endless conflict—why had they bothered? Why not just create something peaceful and whole to begin with?
Then her father would be alive. Her mother would be happy. And they wouldn’t have to say so many good-byes to so many of their line-mates. She ground her teeth.
“C’mon, Belf. Let’s go down to the Gifting.”
“What, now?”
“Yes, now. I’m not going to use it; I’d never be that stupid.”
“I didn’t think you—”
“Then stop being so lazy.”
“Lazy? Erin, it’s five miles. We might miss dinner.”
She brushed her robe clean. “Well, I’m going.”
Belfas grumbled. He stood, looked at the plain front of his house, and thought about what his mother would say if he told her where they were going. It wasn’t good. But he followed Erin; he almost always did.
Erin kicked at a dry branch. Birds fluttered away at the noise. Thoughts about the histories still held her fast; she could hear the din of battle and the cries of the dying more clearly than the twittering of the birds.
She kicked another branch, noticing the shadow it cast as it flew. Belfas was right; they would definitely miss dinner. Never mind; they were almost there. The dense forest had opened up slightly around the gentle depression of the footpath that arrowed into the Gifting. The Gifting of God; the wound from which the blood of the Bright Heart flowed freely, to aid His followers in their battle against the Servants of the Dark Heart, grim nightwalkers who cast a shadow of death wherever they chose to walk.
They hated life. Erin remembered that most clearly when she thought of her father. Their hate for life was their power, for in destroying it they grew stronger.
And God, they were so strong right now . . .
She shook her head; beyond the last uneven row of trees, she could see the Gifting of Lernan . Even Belfas stopped grumbling as they entered the well-kept clearing. No eyes had ever seen the keeper of it, but no eyes could doubt that he or she existed; the flowers and grass, the wild weeds and stones, seemed placed perfectly to highlight the nature and strength of the well.
It didn’t look like much to human eyes. A large, stone well, surrounded by pretty white flowers—flowers that remained in bloom no matter what the season. The water was clear; it glinted with sunlight and reflected the green of leaves.
But both Belfas and Erin were of the blood. And they saw, in the water, a
green that radiated so strongly they would have seen it in the darkest of nights. This was the blood of God; his gift of succor to those who fought their uneven battle against the Enemy.
Very quietly, as was their right, they approached the sparkling font of water, passing around the stand of the Lady’s trees, where small golden petals flittered to the ground. Erin dipped her hands into soothing cool liquid. She lifted hands to face; felt a familiar refreshing tingle along her cheeks. This little gesture cost the Bright Heart nothing, but it comforted his descendants.
Belfas did the same, content to rest for a moment in the warmth of the Gifting of God. This well, this clear pure water—this was the very blood of the Bright Heart. It could lend its healing to any who came for His aid; could comfort the weary or broken.
For as time passed, Lernan realized that too many of His followers fell, sacrificing their lives to touch His power. Many times He tried to reach them, but their very life was alien; only by blood, lifeblood, could He be reached at all. Long He thought, and hard, and then one day He summoned His Servants to Him. And with their aid, He returned sacrifice for sacrifice, blood for blood. He opened up His own body in two places and offered it to his children.
And thus the Gifting.
Erin sighed, letting rivulets of water run down the contours of her face. The Gift of God. Even without mingling her blood with His, she could feel a hint of His comfort.
She had often wondered what it would feel like to let her blood run freely with God’s—but anyone of the lines knew better than to satisfy that curiosity, for the mingling of the blood brought the power of God to mortal man. It diminished God in small measure for a time, and it was never a thing used lightly.
Even now, with the battle constantly raging, Erin could not recall the last time that an initiate had come to the well to draw upon God’s power so fully. Most of the adults chose to rely instead on the smaller amount of power the True Ward could bring them.