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

her thigh, but the blood had come clean through. “It’s been too long. I was careless.”
    “Do you need any help?”
    “Not yet. I can walk; I didn’t break any bones.”

    “Bethany can—”
    “I think you need her.” Her eyes, as they glanced briefly off his, were dark and tired. She looked very much like a warrior priest—an old one. He couldn’t argue with her, and Bethany didn’t insist on it.
    “Come on, Initiate. One of the four went running somewhere, and we’d better be gone when he returns. He won’t come back alone.” She started down the road, her stride only slightly off—and not at all slowed.
    “Where are we going?”
    “To the Lady’s Woodhall.”
     
    Erliss of Mordechai was not a comfortable priest. Nor was he particularly happy, and to make matters worse, he had no appropriate way to vent his spleen—not within the confines of the village of the Vale in the domains of Mordantari. Mordantari belonged to the near-mythical Lord of the Empire. Twice in the history of the Dark Heart’s Church, high priests had attempted to intervene in Mordantari affairs, seeking perhaps good lands and the influence owning them would bring. Neither of the two survived, and their deaths had been in no wise a private affair. Their bodies had been conveyed, by means magical and not well understood, to the center square of the High City in Malakar. Enough remained of their faces, and the fingers that bore their signatory rings, to identify them. And of course, the stories had spread.
    Erliss of Mordechai had been far too young to see the last priest disposed of, but the lesson and the story had traveled down from Lord Mordechai to all of his clan: Do not interfere in the matters of Mordantari. It will bring ill fortune upon us all.
    The words came back, sharp and clear, as he sat stiffly in a winged chair in the cramped little living area that passed as a room for travelers. It was wood-walled and mud-sealed, with windows that weren’t even glassed in—and were small, at that. The ceilings near the fireplace were low and ugly, and the decor—what there was of it—was laughable. In any other village, he and his attendant slaves would have merely requisitioned use of the reigning noble’s manor—usually some small officiant to the Church itself. There were none in the Vale.
    Vellen, he thought, as he rose for the thirteenth time to walk
in a circle over a rug made up of braided rags—rags!— there had best be worthwhile information here.
    But of course there was, information and more, all of a highly valuable nature. Why else would Lord Vellen, first of the Karnari, holder of the high seat of the Greater Cabal, make his trek here in secrecy and silence? Why else would he travel with so small and unimpressive a party of Swords—without even slaves in attendance?
    And where is Lord Vellen now ? he asked himself darkly. Has he escaped cleanly and left us to the Lord of the Empire?
    Erliss ran a hand through dark, perfect hair. A man who sought power was wise to counsel himself in the ways of patience; he had been told this many times as he struggled out of his youth. As always, it was a particularly painful trial to follow that advice.
    But patience was willing to reward him, this one time. The knock came.
    He forced himself to walk slowly to the door; he forced his hand to lift the latch and pull it open with a casual strength. He even forced himself to remain silent as the Sword fell to one knee beneath the door’s frame.
    “Lord Erliss.”
    “Rise,” the lord responded, “and give me your news. Have you sighted Lord Vellen?”
    “No, Lord,” was the quiet response. But the tense, stretched look of the Sword’s mouth promised worthwhile information anyway. He rose at the priest’s command and entered the room as Erliss stepped back.
    “What news, then?”
    “Two people left the castle by the front gates. They came down the road toward the Vale. One was a woman, one a boy.”
    “And?”
    “We