Into the Dark Lands (8 page)

“But—” She stopped, cupped a handful of Lernan's blood, and swallowed it thoughtfully. “But that means that we'll always be fighting. I mean, because there's Light and Dark in all of us.”

“Maybe. Dannen asked Kedry about it. Kedry said, ‘Yes and no.' ”

Erin nodded; it sounded like Kedry.

“She says the important thing is choice. Either of us could choose to be like the Malanthi. And we don't. So Lernan touches us and wins a little more of the Light. If all our battles, Light or Dark, were so easy . . .”

“But they aren't.” She looked up at the pink sky. “We'd better be getting back.”

But she was disappointed. If the Light and the Dark were so absolute, why couldn't they give her absolute answers? Why did everything have to be so confused?

 

Why? She stretched her face into the hushed velvet of moonlight and stars; the breeze of a gentle night wind; the hint of trees that stood, like Earth's fingers, unmoving. None of these held her answers.

“Lady?”

She turned, all flowing regal light, knowing who she would see. Of all her line, Latham was the one who came closest to offering her comfort. Still, she had thought that this far from her hall, this far from the line, she might have the peace of privacy.

But any could find her who had the motive and the blood, both. Even here, where the outermost edge of Elliath met her forest.

In the darkness, she saw that his chin, smooth and rounded, was edged toward his chest. And she knew why, but let him speak his piece.

The night made his robes, silver and gray, take on the likeness of black.

“I've come with news. A rider just arrived from the meadow. Trist and Hayworth have fallen.”

She was silent, absorbing the news that was no news to her.
The possibilities had now become fixed; she had raised no hand to change their outcome.

“The villages were razed; the fields burned down. Much of our supplies have been lost. The Grandfather is sending supply wagons into Hillrock.”

“Hillrock?” She knew the word, knew the small, isolated village well. “Ah. Yes.”

Latham watched her near-expressionless face, seeing for a moment the majesty of mountains, of tall, endless rock, white-peaked even this far south. He wondered then, as he had often wondered in the last few years, how much she knew from her dangerous vision quest. She could not be moved to speak of it. But it troubled her more as time passed; the shadows evident in her face never left.

“It is not often, Lady, that you walk so openly among us.”
Not often that you walk in darkness.
For she was as true to blood as any could be, and the dark diminished her.

She looked up at flickering starlight and moved her face to catch the hint of gentle breeze.

“No,” she answered. “Not often.”

He stood a few feet away, his distance respectful as always. She studied his shadowed countenance carefully.

“But at times, Latham, the dark has its comfort.”

She stretched her arms out, as if to touch the brightest star that glistened so impossibly far away. “Once, once I might have wandered there. Once I might have touched the fire and felt cleansed.”

She was weary. She knew she would never do so again.

“Lady.” Latham took a step forward and raised an arm. He lowered it without touching her, and she moved away.

“But the dark. Sometimes the dark can give me a hint of what mortality feels like.”

Latham was concerned. For the last two months, the Lady of Elliath had been somber. Watching her, he saw she looked almost translucent; as if the light could cut right through her and leave nothing behind—no shadow, no outline. He had never seen her so.

If she felt his worry—and she must have—she did not let it trouble her.

“I walked the skies before you were born.”

He knew she spoke not of him alone, but of the mortal race.

“Centuries passed, with the touch of nothing beneath my feet. All was Light, Dark, or the Servants that followed their
closest parent. And we fought, Latham. Many of the Sundered fell in ways that you cannot conceive of. But then we felt no sorrow. Can you imagine that? No sorrow, no pain. There was Light; there was Dark. And each, unalloyed, can blind.

“And then you were born, the world was born. The Twin Hearts awoke by the touch of Gallin Bright Sword. And I have walked this world since, following Lernan.

“Lernan is not the Light. Malthan is not the Dark. Not as they were.”

She was silent a moment. More than at any other time, she wanted to tell Latham all: the loss of the lines; the destruction of her child; and the fate of her grandchild—the darkest and direst of all paths of the possible that she had walked.

It is the way of Lernan to share all, she thought.
But she did not tell him. Instead she yearned for the past in a way that she could not explain. All had been simple, clean, elegant. There had been only one Enemy—the Dark—and only one way to fight Him. But then came the world and the mortal creatures. She remembered how much she had pitied them, despising their taint, their grayness. She had forced herself, at the beginning, to find Light in them.

How,
she thought, as she turned to Latham in silence,
how did you come to mean so much to me? Your lives are so short—without the wars, we would lose you all, should we wander again. How is it that your loss grieves me, who felt no loss at the fall of my brethren?

She kept the thought to herself, but she could not contain all of the emotion. Of a sudden, she thrust her thin, long arms outward. Fire flared, white and hot, brilliant even in the darkness. Thus had she fought her ancient enemies; thus had darkness been consumed and forgotten.

The fire flickered and dimmed. Not so easily now could the light prevail.

“I am sorry,” she said to a quietly startled Latham. “It is . . . dark tonight. Come, let us return to the hall.”

But it was hard, this night, to turn her back on memory. The Dark that so many had fallen to had never been able to hurt her so.

It was the only time in her long existence that she had ever yearned for the Dark, and that troubled her.

 

“Lady?”

“Latham.”

He walked down the length of the conservatory, his steps measured and slow.

“What news brings you?”

“No news, Lady. But I have been asked to deliver this to you personally.” His lips lifted a little; something amused him. She liked to see him smile. It happened rarely these days.

“Who uses you as a messenger?”

“The Lady's granddaughter.”

It was a measure of her strength that she did not freeze. Instead, she held out one graceful hand for the letter that he carried.

“She is much like her mother. Little consideration for age or authority, but no knowledge whatsoever that she's flouting it.”

“Thank you, Latham.” She nodded without breaking the uneven seal.

He was surprised, but he knew a dismissal when it was given. Bowing, he left her standing amid the exotic plants that lived in perpetual summer.

Only then did she lift the letter in trembling hands, gripping it as if it were a viper.

So soon?

With Latham gone, the need to appear completely strong deserted her. Her strongest desire was to destroy the letter, innocuous and innocent, in flame. Instead, she opened it.

 

“Grandfather.” Telvar substituted a nod for the more formal bow he might have given in other circumstances—any other circumstance, in fact, than lessons in the drill circle.

The Grandfather smiled quietly. It still unsettled him, at times, to receive such a gesture from Telvar; Telvar was by a good many years the elder of the two—and in his youth, the Grandfather had been one of his students.

He felt a little like one now, as he stood by the weaponsmaster's side and watched his line-children in the drill circle.

“Erin,” Telvar said, before the Grandfather could ask. “And Dannen. The two best in my class. You chose a good moment to come.” He frowned. “Dannen is more solidly grounded than Erin, but Erin's fast. Light.”

The Grandfather nodded.

“And it's strange, Grandfather,” Telvar continued, folding his arms behind his back, “Erin is Kerlinda's child in more ways than one.”

“Yes,” the younger man replied quietly. “She has the
strongest healing blood the line has seen—or will see, if I guess correctly.”

“Healers aren't usually sent to me.”

“No.”

Telvar heard more in the one word than the Grandfather cared to speak. He nodded brusquely, which was the way he did everything. “You wish to speak with her?”

“If I'm not interrupting anything.”

“Erin!”

The smaller figure in the circle dodged, leaped, and rolled in one smooth motion that brought her outside of the drill range. Dannen's blade skittered off the periphery.

“Telvar,” the Grandfather said, before Erin reached them, “is she good?”

“Very. But she isn't adult yet, Serdon.”

“I know.” The lines of his face etched themselves into a smile.

“Grandfather?” Erin gave a sweaty bow. Telvar held out a hand, and she gave him her sword almost thankfully.

“Erin. I see you've taken well to lessons with the weaponsmaster.”

She glanced around quickly to see if Telvar was still listening. Apparently not; he had already started his long stride to where Dannen stood panting.

“As well as anyone who hasn't had an arm or leg broken here can.” She grimaced.

The smile on his face became genuine; it was a sentiment that any of Telvar's students, no matter how long ago they graduated, could appreciate.

“Good. I want to speak with you.”

Her face paled. “Is it—is it my mother?”

“She is well, but yes, it's about your mother.” He watched her relax. “I'm not sure how much you know about the action on our borders.”

“A bit,” she replied cautiously.

“Two of our villages have fallen, and with them much of the supplies for our companies. Two separate wagons are to be sent out, under guard, to Hillrock.”

“That's in our borders.”

He nodded. “A good forty miles.”

“And?”

“Your mother is in Hillrock; she's due to return for a few weeka.” He slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his robes
and pulled out a folded piece of paper. When she didn't react, he unfolded it.

She had the grace to blush.

“You know ‛a bit'?” He smiled. “I imagine Telvar has been talking, but no harm done, The Lady has approved your request, Erin; you may ride with the caravan to Hillrock.”

The smile that spread across her face was a delight to behold.

“But child, the next time you have such an unusual request, please forward it through
me.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” she replied demurely. But they both knew she was lying.

 

“I don't believe it. You had the cheek to go 'round the Grandfather's back and you still get to go with the wagons.” Belfas was hopping from one foot to the other, partly because he was angry, and partly to keep himself awake. It was early enough that the trek to Erin's house hadn't managed to drive all the sleep from his eyes.

Erin folded down the flap of her small pack and tied it with jubilant authority.

“The rest of us try to be polite and proper about it, and we're told we have to stay here.”

She picked her weapon up off the bed. It was a short sword of less than perfect craftsmanship, but she loved it nonetheless; it was Telvar's gift to her.

Not
, he had added severely as he'd dropped it in her hands,
that I expect you to have any use of it. Understood?

“Erin!”

“Hmmm?”

“I'm talking to you!”

“At me.” She looped the sword around her hips and fastened the belt. “To me is when I answer.”

“Very funny. It isn't fair, that's all.” He shoved his hands roughly into his pockets.

“It isn't like I'm going to war or anything.”

“Then why're you taking the sword?”

“In case.”

“I just don't understand it. You aren't even adult yet!”

“I will be soon enough.”

He sighed. He knew she was right. She'd become adult probably years before he did; and she'd be out fighting battles and becoming a hero long before he'd manage to shed lifeblood and
call God in True Ward. He could barely manage the Greater Ward even now.

She threw on her jacket and lifted the backpack. He automatically caught it and held it out, waiting for her to slip her arms into its straps.

“It's because you're one of Telvar's students, isn't it?”

“No, Belf, it isn't.”

“Then why?”

“Because I asked the right person first.” She walked toward the door. “Are you coming to see me off?”

“I didn't wake at four in the morning just to talk.”

“You wouldn't know it.”

In the fading darkness, she could still see the flush that took his face. “Sorry,” she murmured, letting her hand fall away from the door. “I didn't mean that.”

He shrugged. “Yes, you did. But I guess I deserve it. I just want—I want to be able to go with you. I mean, we do almost everything together. That's what year-mates are for.”

She nodded. “I asked the Grandfather. He said no.”

“You could have asked the Lady.”