Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) Read Free

“I can’t.”
    “Then maybe we should get off the road?” His eyes darted to trees, but even the suggestion was made doubtfully; the Swords were close. As if his words were beacons, they began to move forward—not running, not precisely, but walking at a very quick pace.
    Sara stopped, planting her feet slightly apart in the flat dirt road. Her pack hit the ground and rocked to a stop. She reached for the shield that rested atop it and shrugged her forearm through its leather straps. The handgrip was caught and held in whitening fingers. The shield’s rounded contours fell just below her hips. It had been years since she had held either sword or shield; there had been little call for either in Rennath.
    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