Into the Dark Lands (25 page)

But she could not help but see the caved-in sides of the small homes that the elderly chose to live in; the peaked wooden fences that lay in pieces against the winding dirt road; the empty, silent streets. The tiny market circle of Colmen was just ahead. The Sword turned off abruptly before they reached it. But she could see the flagpoles—wood, these, not steel—as they lay splintered on the ground, and she could see the bodies beneath them.

With little ceremony she was thrown into a dark, crowded
hut. Meryman's home, close as it was to the market circle. She wondered if the old man was still alive.

The door slammed shut behind her, although there was no longer any lock to secure it with. She leaned against the wall, allowing her eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom. Slowly the outline of huddled bodies made itself visible. The stench didn't take nearly as long. Her throat was dry and tight; it caught as she gagged slightly.

I don't have the power for this.

But it wasn't quite true. What she didn't have was the power to deny pain. She stumbled forward, her hands already outstretched and shaking. Beneath her fingers she felt the wrinkled visage of an old man. He groaned.

The voice was not Meryman's; it was Gordan's. There was fear in it, but little strength.

“Shhh. It is the Sarillorn. I will try to help you.”

The man's tension eased as Erin sent a small part off herself outward to gather his pain. She cried out then, all of her body writhing with the sudden contact that swamped her—but her hand remained in place, unmoved by the other's agony.

From out of the darkness, another voice spoke up. It was hoarse. “Sarillorn. We thought you dead.”

“Not yet. ”

“It would have gone easier for you; you would have been spared much. There is a nightwalker here.”

“I know. But maybe it is better this way. I can ease your pain before the end.” Weakly she withdrew her hand from the old man's face. She did not allow herself to think on the extent of his injuries; instead she concentrated on sleep, and as the last tendril of his thought merged with hers, he drifted off.

She moved on, her hand cupping the cheek of a young girl. The child did not move when Erin touched her, although Erin knew her to be awake. Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself outward. The physical injuries the child had suffered were minimal. Erin calmed the pain of them easily, but the girl did not even react. Shuddering, Erin brought her other hand up.

No
, she thought.
I am already too tired.

Shaking the thought away, she steeled herself and merged with the girl's mind, praying for the strength she did not feel she had.

At first she felt only the darkness of oblivion. To one less experienced it might have passed for sleep. But Erin had been a healer for years, the brightest of her number. For her the black
she encountered was a hard, icy barrier, devoid of the nebulous currents of sleep patterns—catatonia.

She traveled along the seamless wall, looking for some crack, some chink of light, that held the identity of the child. The search yielded nothing; no part of the girl faced the real world.

“Sarillorn.”

Shaky hands touched her shoulder, pulling Erin momentarily out of her link. “Yes?”

“Leave her. It will do her no good to be awakened.”

“What do you mean? ”

“She's suffered much for a child of her age. If you bring her back to the world, she will only suffer that much more. I've seen the state before; in other circumstances yours might be a worthy endeavor. But not here, not now.”

“But—”

“There are others you may be able to help more.

“I can't just leave her like this, she's—”

“She's somewhere where pain doesn't touch her. Not all of us are so lucky. ”

Lucky?
Erin thought bitterly. Words rose, but she caught them in her throat and held them there. Dully she acknowledged that what she was doing might indeed be just another form of cruelty. “Maybe you're right.”

A rasping sigh answered her, and she reached toward it almost eagerly. Her hands fumbled blindly in the air before lighting on an arm.

Contact. Almost automatically she flowed outward, with less energy than before. Heat rose in her palms and traveled to her fingertips, where it rested between her skin and her patient's. It left her with a jolt, drunk in greedily by the demands of a body's pain. Twinning around broken ribs, it formed a cocoon that radiated gentle light, visible only to Erin's eyes. She let the contact fade and turned, already stumbling toward another person.

A small voice in her mind told her to lie down and acknowledge defeat. But she was too close to those surrounding her, and their pain jerked her to her feet and called her to their injuries.

In all there were thirty people in the hut, some ten of them minorly injured. Of the remaining twenty, fifteen had been hurt in ways that time and rest might heal, and five were already dead, but had not yet acknowledged the fact. Erin touched all of them, absorbing their pain and returning an unnatural calm in its place. She did not ask how they had come by their injuries,
and no one volunteered the information; they sheltered it the way one shelters a secret that words alone cannot describe.

When she had finished, she curled up in the corner of the hut farthest from the door, her body pressed against the many that lay on the packed dirt floor. Sleep took her then, and she welcomed the gray neutrality of its touch. She had done all that she possibly could.

 

She was not allowed to sleep for long, but the few hours she did rest refreshed her; she found she could stand and walk easily enough when she was forced to do so by the armed Swords that entered the hut. One by one the surviving villagers were paraded out; those that could not walk were dragged. Erin gritted her teeth at the sight of them, but said nothing. Flanked by two guards, she came out into the near-moonless night.

They were taken to what remained of the village circle. Once the center of judgment, joining, and artisans' displays, it was surrounded on all sides by gutted buildings and corpses left for carrion. Small torches ringed the square, held by people intent on the upcoming spectacle.

One thing stood out in the bleak landscape, a richly upholstered chair with an engraved back and thick arms. In that chair the Servant sat, watching the arrival. Erin could see the faint glow of wards surrounding him; she knew that none of Lernan's fire would touch him this night. Worse still, the power that it cost him to maintain those protections would be replenished by the people she had failed.

That failure weighed heavily on her. Any success she had won upon the field seemed to dissipate. She had failed, as she had always done when it was most important.

Two of the villagers died before they could be brought forward; their bodies were thrown to the side. The others were pressed together in front of the Servant. Erin came through to stand at their head.

The nightwalker smiled.

“Sarillorn. I see your captivity agrees with you. Do come a little closer,”

“You can see well enough where you are.”

The Servant's smile grew broader.

“As you will. Swords, kill one of them.”

“Any particular one?”

“Any but the Sarillorn.”

“No!” Erin started forward and a guard cut her short with a
shield block. She staggered back as one of the villagers was pulled from the crowd by four men. In the scant light, Erin could see the taut face of a young woman. Her lips were set against her mouth almost ferociously; no pleas for mercy would escape them if her will held out. Each of her limbs was secured by one of the guards; she struggled futilely, still maintaining her silence.

“A good choice.” A new voice entered the square as a man in dark robes stepped between the guards that ringed it. He nodded at someone—Erin could not tell whom—and a Sword entered the square holding a gold-leafed box. With consummate care the box was opened, and the man in dark robes lifted something out of it. He held it high, and his eyes found Erin's. She saw the glint of red in them and paled.

With a very formal bow he said, “I am Talon, Karnar of Malthan. You've troubled us, Sarillorn; you've gathered debts that must be paid.”

Erin tried to push forward and again ran into a shield.

“Attend to this, if it will not be too much trouble.” He brought a hand up and slid it gracefully along the jagged edge of the knife that Erin now knew he carried. She could not see it clearly, but memory supplied detail—it was perhaps seven inches of toothed steel, with an irregularly shaped obsidian handle.

Talon turned toward his intended sacrifice, paused, and pivoted neatly on one foot.

“Oh, and Sarillorn?”

Erin met his eyes.

“Something for you to think on in case the entertainment is not enough for you.” Deftly, and with surprising speed, he raised his arm and pointed. Erin managed to dodge in time to catch a flare of red with only her shoulder. She bit back a cry as she brought her hands up, too late to ward.

“Talon, you go too far. ” The Servant leaned slightly forward in his chair, his hands clenching the armrests.

“Really, Stefanos? A pity. I'd forgotten your claim.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned back to the business of his God. He nodded to the Swords.

“I think you may start by breaking her legs.”

In a very short time the silence was shattered by the low, hoarse sound of sustained screams. The high priest watched as his men worked, his red eyes a gleam of his God's love of pain.

Erin tensed visibly when the screaming began. For a moment she was shrouded by darkness, her legs folded beneath her shaking
body under the cover of bedrolls, the smell of horses in her nostrils. The cries that rent the air were familiar ones. This death was familiar. Her throat closed, she felt an old fear begin to paralyze her.

No. I am
adult
now. I am not what I was!

The ache of tension was solid; she let it bind her to the present. She watched the man set to guard her as he, in turn, observed Malthan's ceremony. A sheen of sweat touched his face, and it grew pale. He was not Malanthi, then; against him her weakened white-fire would have no effect. It was not easy to bide her time. Her fingernails cut small crescents into the palms of her hands. But the waiting had its effect; the guard blanched at last and looked away. Erin caught one glimpse of his face as he turned, enough to wonder at the profession he had chosen and the God that he served. Then her hand lashed out, followed quickly by a sharp strike from her leg. The man toppled with a surprised grunt. She did not wait for reprisals; instead she lunged for the group of Swords that surrounded the Karnar and his chosen victim. Both of her hands shot out, connecting with the unhelmed heads of two Malanthi; they fell back, reeling at the unexpected strength of her blow. The priest whirled to face her; his knife glistened wet and black in the poor light like a little tendril of the shadow.

She did not stop to think; she raised her hands and called on the white-fire. It exploded outward over what remained of the girl, detailing her ravaged features in an incandescent flash. The priest and his Swords cried out, their voices an eerie harmony as they fell away, cringing.

Without pausing, Erin knelt, her hands gently touching the girl's chest. She could feel the ragged rise and fall of it; somehow this young woman had survived. A wave of nausea almost overwhelmed Erin as the cost of the white-fire made itself clear. She ignored it and pushed herself out into the roiling agony of a fragmented mind. Erin had never seen a victim of Malthan's ceremony; nothing in her experience prepared her for it. To soothe such injury would take hours, if it could be calmed at all. She had seconds.

Lernan, guide me. I cannot save your child's life—but I can save her from being Malthan's tool.

Her power bent outward, radiating a forced calm, a forced peace. Like a drug it spread into the woman's mind, seeking out the core of her identity. Amid the pain and terror that twisted everything into ugly chaos, a small spark flickered. Erin arrowed
toward it, disregarding all else. As she touched that single spark, it skittered away, the need for escape from torment fueling it. Erin followed and gently, carefully, pulled it in.

Hush, little one.

Only a whimper returned to her. She wanted more; permission for what she had chosen to do. But though she pulled and coaxed, the mind yielded nothing. There was nothing left to give. Nevertheless, she had to try.

Little one, I can send you to where there is no pain, no fear. Would you like that?

Another whimper.

She closed her eyes.
Then sleep. Sleep the last sleep and wake in the peace of the beyond.

Erin's power shuddered, snapped, and flowed back into her, severely depleted. The chest beneath her hand rattled once and then stilled. It was done.

Looking up, Erin could see three of the Swords struggling to their feet; the fourth lay where he had fallen, his face a twisted husk of agony. A movement at her back alerted her; she twisted around, bringing her hands up. There was a flash in the dark as a knife was raised. Erin rolled awkwardly to one side of the body as the blade plunged downward with a piercing whistle.

“Talon. That is enough.” The Servant's eyes glowed, and the knife stopped in midair. The hand that still held it was shaking with the effort to bring it down.

The priest whirled toward the nightwalker. Erin could not see his face, but his words painted a clear picture of what his expression must be.

“You saw what she did and you allowed it! Let her pay in blood for the blood she's denied to God!” His face, fine-boned and sharp, was twisted into a snarl.