Into the Dark Lands (4 page)

“Erin? Erin!”

To his great surprise, she stopped only ten feet in front of him. She fished around in the pockets of her student's browns, then sighed.

“Belf, do you have any coin?”

“We're going to be late for lessons, and it's Cartannis today.”

She thought on it for a moment; Cartannis was one of the few instructors who taught the lines without being born of the blood. It didn't, however, make him any more friendly or any less severe when it came to the “important” matters of history.

“After class?”

 

“Kerlinda.”

“Grandfather.” Kerlinda bowed and stepped out of the rectangular door to allow him to enter. She held the bow a moment longer than strictly necessary while she tried to gather her thoughts. Serdon's office and title kept him busy, and he rarely had time for visits that were merely social in nature. No one wondered why; as the Grandfather, Patriarch of Elliath, he was heir to the responsibility of leading and guiding all of the Lernari of his line. So had Helmi been in her time as the Grandmother before him.

“What brings you here?”

“Is Erin about?”

She shook her head, compressing her lips. “Out with one of her year-mates. Belfas, I think. She's managed the Greater Ward, you know. She's trying to make sure he learns it ‘properly.' ”
She shook her head, her voice completely free of any trace of parental pride.

The Grandfather looked at her carefully.

“Good; young Belfas seems to be the only one of her year-mates that she's easy around.” He rolled back the gray sleeve of the summer robe; it was a matter of habit with him when he had something unpleasant to say. “I've come to speak to you about Erin.”

“Is she causing difficulty?”

“No.” He sighed. “And it's a rare child that doesn't at one point or another. But that's what I've come to speak about.

“Over the last four years she's learned to control most of our blood-linked abilities. Light, direction, the Lesser Ward, and the Greater. She can also handle minor healing—”

Kerlinda's eyebrows went up.

“I hadn't heard that,” she said, frankly and softly.

“No, she probably isn't aware of it. You know as well as I that it isn't something we attempt to teach until perhaps the first year of adulthood. But she has it; I've seen her use it to calm physical—and emotional—pain.” He allowed himself a wry smile. “Mostly for Belfas; if she won't get into the difficulties we associate with childhood, he seems determined to make up for it. When she is adult and can walk in the hand of God, she will be a healer such as the lines have never seen. I think only the instant touch of Lady Death will be able to stop her.”

The smile vanished. “But it disturbs me. Your daughter is very powerful. She's aware of it, which is fine. And she takes pride in it, which is also understandable. But it's the type of pride that makes me uneasy, Kerlinda. It's too bitter, too angry.”

Kerlinda turned away, a shadow crossing her face.

“I, too, see what you speak of, Grandfather. But she shows no interest in anything other than her studies.

“I keep wondering if it's my fault. I didn't handle Cordan's death well; I'm not sure I handle it well now, and it's been six years. Maybe this grimness is something she's learned from me. But what can I do? I try to interest her in games—do you know that she doesn't even know the rules of squares?—but she's always too impatient. Too directed. She'll be adult soon, one way or the other.”

“I see.” He bowed his head. “And Telvar?”

With a slight compression of lips, Kerlinda wrapped her arms around her shoulders.

“That was not my idea, but Erin seems enthusiastic enough—God alone knows why. And Telvar drives her; not since Carla or Tedrin have I seen a student so pushed.”

“If it helps, Kerlinda, it was not my suggestion either. Nor would I have recommended it.” He sighed. “Continue to do what you can for her. Keep trying to involve her in activities that do not directly affect line training.”

“I—I think I will have to trust that to you.”

“Pardon?”

She faced him squarely. “I'm due out in the field in six weeks.”

“I haven't heard!” He took a seat in the simple wood chair that Cordan had made ten years previously. His shoulders began to sag, lending age to his carriage. It didn't often show, but Serdon was not a young man, not even by line standards.

Kerlinda saw the creases in his forehead deepen, and she swallowed. Unconsciously she began to knead the folds of her robe. “It hasn't been approved yet. I'm sure it will be.”

“You've spoken with the Lady, then.”

She nodded.

“I see.” Now he had two worries instead of the one he had come with. “Kera,” he said, a name that he had used only rarely since her childhood had ended, “you aren't warrior-trained.”

“Not with Telvar, no. But Kaymar taught me use of sword and crossbow. And I'm healer-trained. At that, I'm the best the line has. You know it.”

It was true, but irrelevant. “You agreed to—”

“That was three years ago!” She stopped, forcing her voice down. “Three years, Grandfather. Three years, and more deaths than we've suffered in the ten previous to it. I cannot stay here; every time the bodies come back I think of how I could have done something had I been there.”

“Daughter.” His stern voice stemmed the angry flow of her words. “You take too much upon yourself.”

“Maybe.” The word was a concession that the voice held no hint of at all. “But the Lady herself has granted my request.”

And I will speak to the Lady about it. It's patently ridiculous, daughter. In only one thing have you been right: You do not, even now, handle the loss of Cordan well.

He stood slowly.

She watched him, willing his departure. The gentleness in his eyes was an accusation she could not bear for much longer.
Yes, she knew that Erin was too serious, too bent on revenge. But how could she fault the child? Was it not a desire that festered in her even now?

As if he could read her thoughts, he stepped forward, resting one hand on her shoulder. The hand was large and steady; for a moment she wanted to sink back into childhood and be comforted.

Instead she retreated, tossing the hand away in anger.

“Damn you!
I saw his wounds!
I know what killed him.”

He saw the flush of her cheeks, the angry glint of gray-flecked green eyes.
Ah, daughter ...

“Do you know what it's like? I could have
saved
his life! I could have—” She broke off; there were no tears. She felt shame at her outburst and struggled to control herself.

“I'm sorry, Grandfather. You do know what it's like.” She shut her eyes too tightly. “But I'm not as strong as you are. I don't have to be.” She took a deep breath. “I just know that if I don't go out to the front, I'll wither here. I should have gone years ago.”

“And what of your daughter?”

“She's safe here.” But she cringed. The soft-spoken question had found its mark.

He knew her well enough to know that she would not reconsider the decision, so he left his questions unasked.

 

Erin was at the Lady's pavilion to see her mother off. A large troop of armed Lernari waited in the southern fields beyond Elliath, in full view of the circular platform that had been raised so the Lady might speak to her warrior line-children. Surcoats, gray and silver, matched the hue of the sky. Soon they would not look so fine or so clean, but at least here, in the processional before the Lady, the warriors would stand at their best. They were grim and silent as they readied their equipment and mounts, but no more grim and silent than Erin herself.

A warrior must be prepared to leave all behind in defense of his or her land.

Erin nodded at the echo of Telvar's words. These were no teaching homilies, uttered in the safety of the Great Hall. They were real. Telvar's scar-worn face attested to it.

What else had he said? That all of the line's warriors were adult. When—if—she attained this, she would understand better what war was about.

She looked for him; saw him standing in his position beside
the Lady of Elliath. He, too, wore the dress uniform of the warriors, but on his shoulder glinted three concentric circles. He was once unit leader and he still looked every inch of it.

The Lady stood robed in white to see her line-children off. It was her custom to do so. Erin continued to watch the crowd, searching for sight of her mother. She felt worried and knew it showed, so she kept out of sight of Telvar as much as possible. He never approved of any obvious display of emotion.

The warrior-priests began to fall in behind their various commanders. Their swords, sheathed, hung slack at their armored sides.

Telvar glanced at the Lady, who nodded. He faced the crowd, nodding in turn, and one by one the warriors began to approach. Each unsheathed his or her sword and laid it, briefly, at the Lady's feet. The Lady gestured over each in turn, speaking low, formal words that were not meant for Erin's ears.

Erin recognized some of the warriors, There, Carla, the only student that Telvar had ever spoken of with anything other than disparagement. Two behind her, Keldani, the quirky, likable man that everyone younger knew as “Uncle,” and everyone older knew as trouble. He smiled broadly, ignoring Telvar's ferocious expression, as he laid his sword down with a flourish. The Lady even touched his face.

Then, at the back of the third unit, Erin caught sight of Kerlinda. Robed in gray, a short sword at her side, she waited in silence, her crossed arms indicating either annoyance or worry. She had no mail, no gorge, no helm, but her hair was drawn back in a warrior's braid, her lips in a warrior's silence. Erin began to move toward her.

The Lady was aware of her daughter as well. But she continued to give her blessing to these too-young warriors of the line that she had mothered. She could count the faces that she would never see alive again; could count on one hand the number that her blessing might save. It was hard. Not for the first time did she wish that she had never sought the path the future would take.

But the worst—the worst—

“Kerlinda.”

“Lady.” Kerlinda bowed stiffly. Her sword she placed at the feet of the line's blood. It was small but finely crafted, and she'd been practicing with it to try to achieve a better level of competence. Never mind; it was not for the use of the sword that
she traveled to the front. Her weapon against the enemy was the blood that carried her ability to heal.

“So formal, daughter?”

Kerlinda smiled stiffly. “Mother,” she said at last. “I give you the warrior's pledge—it is not as daughter that I've come.”

“No. But warrior or healer, you are still my child. My youngest. Come.” She held out her arms, and, after a moment of hesitation, Kerlinda. embraced her mother.

“What's wrong?”

“Wrong? Child, are you still determined to walk this road you have chosen?”

Kerlinda stiffened again, and the Lady released her with great reluctance. She studied her daughter's face as if memorizing every detail: the hard set of her mouth, the dark rings beneath her eyes, the way her chin tilted slightly up in defiance. The Lady's emerald eyes snapped shut.

“I cannot do this.”

“What?”

“I cannot do this. Kerlinda—”

“Mother!” They both turned as the young voice rang out, turned in time to catch Erin's hurtling body. Kerlinda kneeled to lift her only child and hold her tightly.

“Erin,” she said softly, but with no anger, “we said our good-byes. This is not—Never mind.” She breathed in the fragrance of soap and sweat, thinking,
Will I see you again?

Perhaps this was what her mother felt. She turned. “Mother?”

But the Lady's gaze was now upon Erin. “It is nothing.” Her voice was faint. “Come, warrior child. Take the meager blessing that the Lady of Elliath offers. Fight well.” But she made no move as Kerlinda put an arm around her shoulder, catching her in the same embrace that held her child.

They stood there for a few minutes, grandmother, mother, and child.

Then the moment was lost as Telvar gestured.

Keriinda kissed her daughter a last time, setting her down. She bowed normally and joined the ranks of the army.

Erin watched her go. Determined to be brave—to be the sort of warrior that Telvar. often spoke of—she swallowed her tears. But her mother was going to the front, as her father had gone so many years ago. She bit her lip, her resolve weakening. A hand touched her shoulder, and she started guiltily, thinking it to be Telvar's.

It was the Lady's.

“Erin, stay with me. Help me give the line's blessing.”

Erin, tears forming in her eyes, nodded at the Lady's request. She bent at shaking knees and touched her forehead once.

“Elliath.” Line name; the name that warrior, healer, and teacher alike called their own.

She bowed and touched her forehead for the second time, unintentionally scraping the silvered carpet that rested beneath the Lady's feet.

“Lernan.” The name of God, the brighter of the Twin Hearts locked in eternal conflict.

Only on the third did she falter, although she knew the benediction well. Her eyes saw the world through a film of water.

“Erin.” Her own name, so small, so insignificant compared to the value and worth of the two previous. But one day that would be different. One day, Erin of Elliath would serve Lernan in a way that all would note. She swore it silently, as she had done for so many years.