Years? Centuries.
She wondered, briefly, if she would be up to the fight. There were four men, each taller and larger than she, and each was carrying a sword with a greater reach than hers. No doubt they were in practice with those weapons. At least they carried no bows. The Swords were an arrogant group of men, skilled at their arms and vicious in their service to the Church of the Dark Heart—but even they had standards. Ranged combat, the kill from a distance, was a measure of last resort. After all, what good was a kill if you couldn’t feel the death?
At twenty feet, they stopped. She held her place, aware of Darin’s presence—and Bethany’s power—at her back.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the foremost Sword said, pointing slightly with his weapon. “We’d like a few words with you, if it won’t take you out of your way.” He smiled congenially—which is to say that his teeth flashed in an even line between his parted lips. His was a square face, gentled by a long forehead, full cheeks, and short, soft hair. But his eyes never relaxed—and they never really left Sara’s weapon.
Damn. Damn it. Sara tightened her grip, both on sword and shield. She had hoped that the Swords might somehow take her presence at face value—a common woman in the Empire didn’t really know much of the use of weapons, and even if she had one, would probably not know how to use it. Stupidity was an advantage that she wasn’t going to be offered here.
“What,” she said evenly, “did you want to know?”
“You came from the castle.” He took another step forward, and the three behind him fanned out at his back in a half circle of glinting steel. “We just want to ask you about the events of two nights past.”
“Ask, then. But stay your ground.” She pulled her sword up until the flat rested very lightly against her shoulder.
He didn’t stop; she didn’t expect him to. He had all of the advantage that numbers, size, and, to his mind, rank provided. He had no reason at all to heed her quiet request.
“Here isn’t really the best place for such a discussion; it’s very open.” Another step, slow and carefully placed. His eyes were dark brown—she could see them very clearly now; they were as sharp to her eyes as his breathing, tense and short, was to her ears.
“You know that the Lord of Mordantari doesn’t always appreciate the importance of his Church or its agents.” His smile died suddenly; his voice lost even the patina of friendliness that had, after all, soothed no one. “You’ll both come with us to the village.”
“Mordantari?” Her reply was almost dreamy, so peculiar was the tone. “Is that what he calls it now? The peace of the dead?”
A frown rippled subtly down the Sword’s face, a sudden unease exposed to the light. He started forward, sword at ready, even as she raised and lowered her arms. Her free hand danced in the air more quickly than his feet against the ground; her lips moved soundlessly.
But her eyes, her eyes were the most terrible thing of all to the Sword who was several years her elder. He had never seen such an ugly, all-encompassing shade of green. And he had never, for all of his lessons and studies prior to attaining his rank, felt the Greater Ward.
Light seared the insides of his skin. The pain was great enough that he forgot, for full seconds, the use of the counterward. He heard the shouts to his left and right as he brought his own hands up in the gesture and the call.
The fire increased; the light grew brighter. He lost the words and the rhythm of the ward as Bethany joined her power to Sara’s.
But he saw, through the haze, the quick dart of his enemy’s lunge. He brought his sword up, as a reflex, and felt it clang against hers. She swore; he smiled grimly and struggled to gain his feet before realizing that he’d never lost them.
At his back, he heard footsteps retreating. He shut them out; they were not his concern. She was. He wanted her death, more than he’d wanted anything in his life. In this Sword, of the four, the blood was still very strong.
Sara felt his shields flare to life; she saw the faint pink glow of the two other Swords as they also drew close. She called upon her power as Sarillorn and moved quickly and concisely. Her physical shield she thrust to the side in a low block, but her light she held out before her at the strongest of the three. Her sword, the third of her weapons, moved in a perfect harmony to her two defenses.
She felt the blood call; her body tingled with its imperative. For the first time in years, she gave in to it, joining her skill to the dance of the red and the white, the Dark and the Light.
There was no longer any reason to hold back. Belfas was dead. The Lady was dead. The line had been consumed by history; what was there to hope for now?
Her anger was her direction and her commander. Bethany’s light flared white and warm, a pillar to her right. She heard a scream start—and ended it viciously and absolutely with an instinctive thrust to the side. In the midst of white light came crimson blood.
But it had been four years since she’d wielded a weapon, and Telvar’s words and warnings returned to her too late. Never let anger guide your tactics. Curt, short, true. Her blood flowed next as the point of a sword disappeared into her left thigh. And her blood, as it flowed, was also red.
There was hardly any pain at all, the call to battle was still so strong. But the wound was a heavy warning, and a cold one. She pulled her rage in and pushed it aside, seeing her two remaining enemies clearly. She called on her healing skill to block the wound; it answered, slowing the flow of the blood, but no more.
She was not foolish enough to take the time to tend it. Instead, she used her power to bolster the Greater Ward. She saw the square, fair face of the Sword, made mottled and ugly by his blood’s desire, and knew that she saw a mirror of her own expression.
Here, then, was her advantage. She was quit of the call for the moment; he was not. But his remaining ally was hesitant, almost distant. She took a slow step back, brought herself to a stop against Darin, and threw out the remainder of her power until it was almost a visible aurora.
For a moment the Swords stood, suspended. Then they gathered their own, lesser, powers around them like mantles and charged forward, like any inexperienced sixth might have done, bereft of leadership.
They were almost easy to kill, and she did so as quickly as possible. She couldn’t bear to feel the call of their pain as an aftereffect of her victory.
Darin was ash gray and silent as the last Sword died. His fingers were wrapped around Bethany, and he leaned against her for support, as if suddenly old enough to require it.
Initiate, she said, and her voice was cool, this is a war, not a fable.
I know.
He heard the ghost of her sigh; it was an impatient one. Tend your lady, then. She is injured, but alive, and may require your assistance.
Nodding, he swallowed, and stepped over the outstretched hand that curled, wet and thumbless, inches away from his feet. “Sara?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, as she turned. She had already run a tight strip of cotton across her thigh, but the blood had come clean through. “It’s been too long. I was careless.”
“Do you need any help?”
“Not yet. I can walk; I didn’t break any bones.”
“Bethany can—”
“I think you need her.” Her eyes, as they glanced briefly off his, were dark and tired. She looked very much like a warrior priest—an old one. He couldn’t argue with her, and Bethany didn’t insist on it.
“Come on, Initiate. One of the four went running somewhere, and we’d better be gone when he returns. He won’t come back alone.” She started down the road, her stride only slightly off—and not at all slowed.
“Where are we going?”
“To the Lady’s Woodhall.”
Erliss of Mordechai was not a comfortable priest. Nor was he particularly happy, and to make matters worse, he had no appropriate way to vent his spleen—not within the confines of the village of the Vale in the domains of Mordantari. Mordantari belonged to the near-mythical Lord of th
e Empire. Twice in the history of the Dark Heart’s Church, high priests had attempted to intervene in Mordantari affairs, seeking perhaps good lands and the influence owning them would bring. Neither of the two survived, and their deaths had been in no wise a private affair. Their bodies had been conveyed, by means magical and not well understood, to the center square of the High City in Malakar. Enough remained of their faces, and the fingers that bore their signatory rings, to identify them. And of course, the stories had spread.
Erliss of Mordechai had been far too young to see the last priest disposed of, but the lesson and the story had traveled down from Lord Mordechai to all of his clan: Do not interfere in the matters of Mordantari. It will bring ill fortune upon us all.
The words came back, sharp and clear, as he sat stiffly in a winged chair in the cramped little living area that passed as a room for travelers. It was wood-walled and mud-sealed, with windows that weren’t even glassed in—and were small, at that. The ceilings near the fireplace were low and ugly, and the decor—what there was of it—was laughable. In any other village, he and his attendant slaves would have merely requisitioned use of the reigning noble’s manor—usually some small officiant to the Church itself. There were none in the Vale.
Vellen, he thought, as he rose for the thirteenth time to walk in a circle over a rug made up of braided rags—rags!—there had best be worthwhile information here.
But of course there was, information and more, all of a highly valuable nature. Why else would Lord Vellen, first of the Karnari, holder of the high seat of the Greater Cabal, make his trek here in secrecy and silence? Why else would he travel with so small and unimpressive a party of Swords—without even slaves in attendance?
And where is Lord Vellen now? he asked himself darkly. Has he escaped cleanly and left us to the Lord of the Empire?
Erliss ran a hand through dark, perfect hair. A man who sought power was wise to counsel himself in the ways of patience; he had been told this many times as he struggled out of his youth. As always, it was a particularly painful trial to follow that advice.
But patience was willing to reward him, this one time. The knock came.
He forced himself to walk slowly to the door; he forced his hand to lift the latch and pull it open with a casual strength. He even forced himself to remain silent as the Sword fell to one knee beneath the door’s frame.
“Lord Erliss.”
“Rise,” the lord responded, “and give me your news. Have you sighted Lord Vellen?”
“No, Lord,” was the quiet response. But the tense, stretched look of the Sword’s mouth promised worthwhile information anyway. He rose at the priest’s command and entered the room as Erliss stepped back.
“What news, then?”
“Two people left the castle by the front gates. They came down the road toward the Vale. One was a woman, one a boy.”
“And?”
“We tried to stop them. To interrogate them.”
“Openly?”
The Sword cringed at the edge in the single word. “There was no observer, lord.” He bowed his head. “They—resisted.”
“Where are they now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pardon?”
“The woman—she—” he swallowed. “She had a sword.”
Lord Erliss’ eyes narrowed. “There were four of you.”
“Yes, lord. But she also—she had the Enemy’s magic.”
Lord Erliss was still a young man; at twenty and one years of age, he had not the wisdom or the controlled, silent power of his older cousin, Lord Vellen of Damion. His dark eyes widened in astonishment; the line of his brows rose and vanished beneath his hair. “What?”
“She—I think she cast the Greater Ward. Her eyes were of the Light. Captain Sanderston attacked.”
“Did he kill her?”
“I hope so.”
“Idiot!.” Erliss spun so quickly on his feet that the Sword jumped back and dropped into a defensive stance. “You had best hope he has not. This—this is what Lord Vellen bid us watch for.” Erliss breathed deeply and more regularly. Yes, even though no one had thought to mention a woman, this was obviously the reason that Lord Vellen had left him in the village.
The Sword fell again to one knee, in a silence that was not the product of fear alone. For he had seen the green light in this woman’s eyes, and had felt the sting and call of the Enemy. Lord Erliss had not.
“Quickly—get the others. All of them. Meet me on the northernmost edge of the village and be prepared to lead us to her.”
The Sword nodded grimly. His feet barely touched the ground as he leaped up to do his Lord’s bidding. His Lord smiled openly as the door swung back on its hinges.
Lord Vellen had lied, both to the nobility, which was a minor crime, and to the Greater Cabal, which was not. He had stated, for the record of the Church and the Karnari, that all of the lines were destroyed. Erliss wanted to shout with inappropriate glee. This woman, this single enemy, was quite possibly worth the high seat of the Greater Cabal to the man who could both capture and play her properly.
Oh yes, Erliss well understood why Vellen had come in swiftness and secrecy, daring the anger of the Lord of the Empire. She was a sign of his failure. And if Erliss could, without intervention, bring her back to Malakar, she would serve as the sign of his success. What, with this knowledge and proof of it at hand, could he not receive from Lord Vellen? Perhaps he would ask for a place in the Greater Cabal—at the youngest age in history. Perhaps he would be forced to ... disagree with his cousin, and take his acquired possession to Benataan, Lord Torvallen—Lord Vellen’s greatest rival for the high seat, and second of the Karnari.
The plans were pleasant and had such a ring of authority to them that Erliss of Mordechai was happy for the first time in almost a month.
Darin was afraid now. All of the glory and glow of victory had been burned away by the weak red light, the cold, straight steel, and the final, sudden deaths of the Swords. He knew who the Swords must have served. He knew that the priests would follow. And he knew that Sara was tired, nearly exhausted—she didn’t have any power left for another battle; she hadn’t even used the power she did have to heal her wound. Surely, surely they would be caught, and he would once again serve as slave in House Damion. Maybe this time, he’d be forced to watch Sara’s death on the altars at the quarters and carry her blood in the silver pail only to spill it carefully along the grooves of the Damion crest.
But it wasn’t just the Church, the priests, or Lord Vellen that frightened him. It was the look, burned into memory, that had twisted Sara’s face as she’d killed the Swords.
The sun was up—how could it be so high already? He felt its bite on the back of his neck. He felt naked and completely helpless as he followed the bends the road took. His neck developed a kink because he was constantly looking over his shoulder, even though Bethany told him—and sharply—that it only slowed them down.
But at least Sara walked with quiet strength and purpose. He paced her well and tried not to notice the ugly red blotch at her thigh. At least the wound had closed somewhat; the blood no longer left a visible trail upon the ground.
She stopped after walking for an endless amount of time and squinted into the darkness of forested land to their right. The undergrowth was meager here, although weeds sprang up at any crack of sunlight that showed through open branches.
“Here,” she said softly. She turned back and touched his shoulder. Even through his tunic he could feel her fingers: they were icy; they shook. “It isn’t going to be an easy passage—but it won’t be much longer, either. Come on.” Her hair had slipped out of her back-knot; strands of it ran across her pale cheeks like dried blood.
“Sara?”
“Yes?”
“What is the Lady’s Woodhall?”
“It is,” she replied, as she turned and began to navigate between the trees, “the hall that the Lady of Elliath dwelled in. She created it with her blood and L
ernan’s magic. It was her castle, her private retreat.”
He scrambled to keep up with her as the shadows fell upon his upturned face, darkening his hair and his eyes. And he listened as she told the tale of the Woodhall and its creation; listened in a way that he would never have done as a student of Line Culverne, in the teaching halls of the Grandmother. Her words, soft and distant, flowed in the cadence of a teacher’s voice. For a moment he felt safe as he pulled images from her words: the great, white height of the Lady’s arches, the towering walls, the plain, majestic hallways. Sara said they would reach it soon, and perhaps, in that magical, unearthly realm, they might be safe.
He was not to find out that evening. An hour’s march into the forest, Lady Sara stopped walking. Her brow rippled, and her eyes narrowed; she teetered on knees as she gazed out into a sea of great trunks. “I think,” she said quietly, “that I must call a rest.”
Darin had just enough time to catch her before her eyes rolled up and her legs collapsed beneath her.
chapter two
Erliss of Mordechai was quiet; among the Mordechai clan this was considered a bad sign. The Swords that served him had been handpicked by Lord Vellen—he didn’t trust them to follow all of his orders, but that was not his concern.
Adorning the wide, rough road that led from the village toward the borders of Mordantari were three bodies. Where blood had pooled into the dirt, the ground was wet and heavy. He walked, taking no care to avoid them; death was a part of his province, and the bringing of death, his duty; he would have made a poor priest if such painless deaths as these gave him any feeling of discomfort. Still, his thick face was dark, and his forehead gathered in lines that would, through the years, become etched there. If he survived that long.
“You said,” he murmured, to the Sword who had brought them here, “that there were only two. A woman and a child.”