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

seared the insides of his skin. The pain was great enough that he forgot, for full seconds, the use of the counterward. He heard the shouts to his left and right as he brought his own hands up in the gesture and the call.
    The fire increased; the light grew brighter. He lost the words and the rhythm of the ward as Bethany joined her power to Sara’s.
    But he saw, through the haze, the quick dart of his enemy’s lunge. He brought his sword up, as a reflex, and felt it clang against hers. She swore; he smiled grimly and struggled to gain his feet before realizing that he’d never lost them.
    At his back, he heard footsteps retreating. He shut them out; they were not his concern. She was. He wanted her death, more than he’d wanted anything in his life. In this Sword, of the four, the blood was still very strong.
     
    Sara felt his shields flare to life; she saw the faint pink glow of the two other Swords as they also drew close. She called upon her power as Sarillorn and moved quickly and concisely. Her physical shield she thrust to the side in a low block, but her light she held out before her at the strongest of the three. Her sword, the third of her weapons, moved in a perfect harmony to her two defenses.
    She felt the blood call; her body tingled with its imperative. For the first time in years, she gave in to it, joining her skill to the dance of the red and the white, the Dark and the Light.
    There was no longer any reason to hold back. Belfas was dead. The Lady was dead. The line had been consumed by history; what was there to hope for now?
    Her anger was her direction and her commander. Bethany’s light flared white and warm, a pillar to her right. She heard a scream start—and ended it viciously and absolutely with an instinctive thrust to the side. In the midst of white light came crimson blood.
    But it had been four years since she’d wielded a weapon, and Telvar’s words and warnings returned to her too late. Never let anger guide your tactics. Curt, short, true. Her blood flowed next as the point of a sword disappeared into her left thigh. And her blood, as it flowed, was also red.

    There was hardly any pain at all, the call to battle was still so strong. But the wound was a heavy warning, and a cold one. She pulled her rage in and pushed it aside, seeing her two remaining enemies clearly. She called on her healing skill to block the wound; it answered, slowing the flow of the blood, but no more.
     
    She was not foolish enough to take the time to tend it. Instead, she used her power to bolster the Greater Ward. She saw the square, fair face of the Sword, made mottled and ugly by his blood’s desire, and knew that she saw a mirror of her own expression.
    Here, then, was her advantage. She was quit of the call for the moment; he was not. But his remaining ally was hesitant, almost distant. She took a slow step back, brought herself to a stop against Darin, and threw out the remainder of her power until it was almost a visible aurora.
    For a moment the Swords stood, suspended. Then they gathered their own, lesser, powers around them like mantles and charged forward, like any inexperienced sixth might have done, bereft of leadership.
    They were almost easy to kill, and she did so as quickly as possible. She couldn’t bear to feel the call of their pain as an aftereffect of her victory.
     
    Darin was ash gray and silent as the last Sword died. His fingers were wrapped around Bethany, and he leaned against her for support, as if suddenly old enough to require it.
    Initiate , she said, and her voice was cool, this is a war, not a fable.
    I know.
    He heard the ghost of her sigh; it was an impatient one. Tend your lady, then. She is injured, but alive, and may require your assistance.
    Nodding, he swallowed, and stepped over the outstretched hand that curled, wet and thumbless, inches away from his feet. “Sara?”
    “I’m sorry,” she said, as she turned. She had already run a tight strip of cotton across