Into the Dark Lands (13 page)

“No, never think that. Our God could never be so cruel.”

“Then
why,
Grandfather? Why can't I ward?”

He pressed her close.
How do I tell you?
Gently he said, “God is not of the living.”

“I know that.”

“Then you must know the story of Gallin Bright Sword.”

She nodded into his chest.

“And you know that our connection—unlike that of the Servants—to God is a very fragile thing, for we are of the living.

“Very well,” he added, as he felt her nod again, “there are two things that separate an adult from a child. We do not normally speak of them. They must come on their own.” Holding her, he understood the truth of his own words completely. “This knowledge is a sign of . . . of maturity.” He stopped, struggling with his better judgment. At length, he spoke again, choosing his awkward words with what care he could.

“This is something that each of us realized in time, and in private.

“Child, your blood is strong. It is true. I've seen you with the younger ones, and I see in you both the desire to help, to protect—and the desire for vengeance. The latter troubles me greatly, but I believe that your blood, and our teachings, will soothe the desire for revenge.”
Bright Heart, let it be so.
“So I will tell you what you should have come to on your own.”

“Three things brought Gallin close to God. His fear of death—which was very strong. His acceptance of death. And the fact that he was physically dying. Of these three, the third is strongest, but it is not necessary—else the lines would have perished at the beginning of our long war.

“Those of us who are initiates have realized the first two: That death is real, and that we fear it. For by it, we lose the life that we love—and it is that life that is all that we are, all that we know.” He looked down at her bowed head and shook his head slightly, knowing that the importance of the last sentence had made no impression. Sighing, he continued.

“Fear is one of the strongest emotions engendered in man, and we use that fear to become more open, or more vulnerable, to the hand of God. Only by rising above the fear—and the fear
must
exist—are we . . . purified enough to be almost beyond life.”

“I know that death is real, ” Erin said quietly. “My mother is dead.”

“You know that
loss
is real. But death?” His grip on her tightened. “Kandor of Lernan stopped you from effectively killing yourself when you tried to save Kerlinda. ”

Fear?
She thought on his words, trying for the first time to remember, rather than forget, the incident that had hurt her so much.
I was afraid.

The screams returned to her, echoing through her body until she shook.

The Grandfather tightened his grip, knowing what it was that she felt. She had been all of twelve years; one year, perhaps, from attaining adulthood; one year away from being able to put herself between her enemies and their victims—or so she thought.

She pulled back. Now she was sixteen, almost seventeen, and still no closer to the goal that was all that she lived for. The Grandfather's words, meant to calm or instruct her, had only put that goal at such a distance that she was certain she would never reach it. The despair that had taken root years ago bloomed strongly within her as she looked up for the first time.

“Grandfather.”

“Yes?”

“When we make a vow, we must keep it.”

He thought her words odd and looked long at her pale face, so calm that if it were not for his blood-sense he would have thought the storm over. She looked so impossibly grave that she reminded him briefly of her younger self.

“Yes.” He stroked her hair. “We ask you to break no vows.”

“Lernan's power does.” She drew a deep breath and pulled away from him so gently that he had no choice but to allow it. “I will not fear death. I'm sorry. I can accept mine. I can accept that if I join the border patrols I might die in combat. But I won't fear it.”

He sighed. “When you are older, you will.”

She gripped his bent hands in hers. “No.”

He heard the age in her voice, saw the surety and the bitterness of it in the green sheen of her eyes. Suddenly he knew what she would say next, and regretted it.

“But you spoke of another way. Not
fear
of dying, but dying itself. Physically.

“Grandfather, you've seen me in the training ground. Talk to Telvar. I can fight, and fight well. Let me join the patrols. Please?
If it must be, I'll earn my circle on the field, near death at the hands of our enemies.

“Please.”

“Erin, to call upon the power of God so close to the edge—it is . . . difficult. You must be able to concentrate, ignoring pain or—”

“I'm warrior-trained—unlike my mother.” She said the last three words, knowing that they would hurt him and unable to stop.

The quick breath he drew was sharp. “Erin, you'll make your ward in your own time and—”

“Then what use am I now?” She caught the note of hysteria in her voice and clamped down on it. “Please.”

“If you have not completed the True Ward once, you will almost certainly fail.”

“Then I'll die. But I might as well be dead now, for all the good any of you will let me do!” She wanted to turn and walk out but subdued the urge, willing the child in her to leave instead. She met his eyes squarely.

It was he, at last, who turned away.

“I will talk to the Lady.”

 

The Lady of Elliath stared into the waters of her marbled fountain. Although magical sunlight glimmered off the rippling water, her eyes saw clearly what moved beneath the surface: the image of the outside world.

The view in the wavelets was of Erin's brown-robed back. Her long hair was drawn back and bound with copper in an imitation of a warrior's braid. She sat beneath the shade of the trees at the periphery of the wood. No one interrupted her as she forced her hands into the fluid motion of the full circle that opened the True Ward.

The frustration that radiated from the young woman could be felt in the Lady's Woodhall; the Lady didn't have to use her power to touch outward.

Granddaughter
. She straightened as the water shimmered into playful rippling.

Footsteps echoed down the long hall. She had a visitor. She knew who it was.

“Serdon.”

Although he heard her call him, he waited until he could see her before he made his reply; he was dignified and old enough to feel no need to shout.

He approached her and, when he was a few feet away, bowed deeply. “Lady.”

“What brings you? Is there more trouble on the front?”

“As much as there has been these last few years since ... these last few years.” He sighed at the near slip of the tongue; even now Kerlinda's death was not spoken of in the presence of the Lady. “But no, it is not about the battle that I've come to speak.”

“Another matter of concern? Come, Serdon.”

She turned and he followed her, leaving the garden for an alcove in which there were two chairs. He took one, but the Lady remained standing; she rarely felt any need to be seated.

“Speak, then. Tell me what troubles you.”

“Erin.”

“Ah.”

Their silence acknowledged the truth of what they both knew. The Lady turned away, staring for a moment into the green of the large trees that grew in her eternal and isolated world.

“You've spoken with her?”

He nodded. “Again. But today—today she was more open. I think that if you were willing, you might be able to touch the anger and guilt that she feels. Might be able to soothe it enough to—”

“I cannot, Serdon. Were I to try this, she would resist even my power,” It was true, but it was not all of the truth. She was doomed to keep all of the truth in silence to herself.

The Grandfather sagged a little into his chair. If not the Lady, then no one. Erin had been to the three remaining healers of the Line Elliath—and five others from the various lines whose holdings were closest. Each time she had forced their power away. And without healing the bitterness that had so deeply scarred her, he knew that she would not—as she had vowed—be able to touch the Hand of God.

As if reading his thoughts, the Lady said, “Serdon, she will not touch the Bright Heart, not in the way that the lines are accustomed to. I have seen it once or twice before, but never so strongly. She has much of the blood.”

“Then what are we to do with her, Lady? She obeys our commands to stay here, but she will not do so forever.” He touched his forehead wearily, brushing back silvered strands of black.

The Lady turned again to face him.

“Send her, then. Send her to the front. Let her try to walk the path of Gallin.”

The Grandfather rose to his feet; the chair could not contain the sudden surprise that he felt.

“The front?” he said incredulously. “But she is not yet adult.”

The Lady's green eyes glowed brilliantly a moment. Slowly, the Grandfather resumed his seat.

“She is adult by the standards of the mortal world—and that is the world we have fought so long to protect. If we cannot have her power as healer, let her exercise her skill as warrior. It is great.”

He heard what lay behind the Lady's words. Even so, he had his own determination. The anger in his voice reflected it. “Lady, Line Elliath does not send children into battle.”

“By mortal standards, Serdon, we have done exactly that. Kredan joined the front when he reached his thirteenth year.”

“Kredan was not a child. He touched the Hand of God. He proved that he understood what death is, what it means. Erin has not done that.”

“No.” Her eyes never wavered. “But it was the battlefield that wounded her, not the lines. It may be that on the fields of battle, she will learn to heal herself.”

The Grandfather knew, from the feelings that the Lady projected so strongly, that Erin would be sent to war. But he stayed an hour to argue against it. He was the patriarch of the line, and upon him fell the duty of protecting his line-children.

 

“Erin, don't fuss so.” Kat's words came from around the pins in her mouth. She looked up at Erin, who was doing her best to stand straight on the stool as Kat pinned the hem into place.

“I just want to make sure I look all right.”

Katalaan rolled her eyes. “This is the first time you've ever done any such thing.”

“Kat—”

“I know, I know. It's Belfas's celebration.”

Erin nodded.

“Don't jump about like that, I'm almost finished. ” Kat drove the last pin into the green velvet skirt and stepped back to admire her work. “Looks a sight better on you than on me, at least at my age.” It was a joke; Katalaan hadn't worn this dress in over thirty years.

“I just want to look good, that's all. I—I want to make it up to him.”

“Make up what, dear?”

“Haven't you been listening?”

“Hmmm. Step down now, and you can look at yourself in the glass. But be careful, or you'll prick yourself.”

Erin jumped down lightly, strode across the room to the oval mirror, looked at herself, and frowned. “It doesn't look much like me, does it?”

She saw Katalaan's reflection come to stand behind hers and fiddle with the laces at the bodice.

“It looks fine. You look like a regular lady.”

 

“You mean that people in the cities do this all the time?”

Kat sighed as she tried to fasten Erin's hair with an old jade comb. “More than once in a lifetime at any rate. Hold still. I never realized how fidgety you could be!”

Erin tried to hide her nerves and failed utterly.

“Erin, dear, you look lovely. Don't be so nervous. There, that's done it. Now look at yourself.” Kat smiled broadly. It was obvious that she was very happy to see her charge in the dress that she herself had worn for her marriage years ago.

Erin was speechless. She put up her hand to touch her hair and Katalaan caught it gently. “No, dear, don't touch it.”

“I can't go like this.”

“Why on Earth not?”

“I look like—I don't look like me.”

“Well, I think you do. Come on, you'll be late.” She hustled Erin down the stairs. “Remember what I've told you about table manners, all right?”

“Right.”

Katalaan laughed, kissed Erin on the forehead, and opened the front door. “Go on, dear.”

 

Erin felt stupid. The skirt was all right, but the bodice—how did anyone breathe in something like this? She would have loosened it, but was afraid of unlacing it completely. The sun was setting on the path to the Great Hall, and she stopped fretfully. Maybe she just should have worn her student's browns.

But then she'd be the only one who wore them.

She lifted her chin slightly. At least if she was going to stand out, she'd do it right. Or so she hoped.

She reached the Great Hall and headed for the west wing,
where long tables had already been set up for the celebration. Belfas was not the only one to become an initiate of the circle in the last three months, but he was the only one that she really cared about.

Maybe she should have worn the browns. She knew she'd already hurt his feelings once and she didn't want him to feel like an idiot—he'd already gone out on a limb by insisting that she be allowed to attend.

People bustled by as the halls grew more crowded. That they stopped to stare at her didn't help at all; she wasn't used to being stared at. The ceilings, already vaulted archways double her height, seemed to loom taller as she walked.