Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) by Michelle Sagara West Page B

handed down. The power was locked within her blood, and when she died, it would die with her—lost forever to the mortal world. Not that it mattered. Who was left to pass it down to? Silent, she cursed the Lady’s choice. But not so dearly or deeply as she did her own.
    The hall ended, gradually opening out into the garden that Erin remembered. She stepped onto the narrow path, assailed by the fragrance of a hundred different blossoms. Taking a deep breath, she allowed her wonder to show—for this was indeed the garden of her memory. The centuries that had passed had wrought no changes here. More than at any other time, she felt awe at the power of the Servants of Lernan. That the hall had remained untouched by tracery of dust or cobweb did not surprise her; the hall was a dead, solid thing. But these flowers, these plants and smallish trees—they were of the living, and what lived, changed. That was a maxim of all the lines.
    On impulse, she bent down to touch a petal of a large violet flower. It was cool but not cold. She snapped it in two and a thin trickle of sap beaded unevenly across the tear. The flowers were indeed alive. Half-ashamed, she tucked the half petal into a pocket and continued to walk toward the garden’s center.
    She became aware that she approached it when she heard the musical tinkle of water striking water—the fountain of the Lady’s garden. The flowers gave way before her as she stepped onto a patterned patch of stone and marble-work-one that interlocked seamlessly beneath her booted foot. And in front of her, the fountain flowed. Clear, small streams of water fell from either hand of the statue in its center.
    Erin lost control of her knees for a moment, and they folded beneath her.
    In the middle of the fountain, the piece of sculpture that she had once seen as vague and unformed was now a precise, alabaster cast. She knew the lines of the face, with its narrow nose and squared chin. She knew the shape of its rounded eyes, and the way the white, stone hair flowed around its high cheekbones. The only thing that she did not recognize was its expression; a
thing halfway between peace and pain—caught and frozen by the hands of the master sculptor that had designed this hall.
    The Lady of Elliath.
    She rose again, and stumbled toward it, until she stood at the edge of the water looking into a mirror that bleached all color from her.
    Erin of Elliath, the last Sarillorn of the line, looked back at her, face unreadable, expression the only thing that was not exact. Even the details of what she wore now were correct.
    Wordlessly she removed her boots and socks. Placing them in a haphazard pile beside the fountain she rolled up her pant legs and took one firm step in. She wasn’t sure why, but she wanted to actually touch the statue—to wring some sort of answer out of it.
    And as her foot hit the water, a brilliant glow engulfed her. It was warm and light, but not blinding. She heard the voice that she most and least wanted to hear, but the words, at first, made no sense.
    “Forgive me, Erin. Forgive God.”
    “Forgive you ?” She wheeled around, searching for a glimpse of the figure that had always accompanied the voice, wondering if Stefanos—First of the Sundered—had been too confident of his victory and his work. Her heart quickened with hope.
    “Forgive me if you can.” The voice continued as if it had not been interrupted. “Our time is short, although the essence of my garden will preserve yours for a while.”
    “Lady, please—”
    “I am no longer here. If I had had the chance, or the courage to risk it, I would have conversed with you in times past—but I made my choice, whether fairly or not, and it is only an echo that you hear now, caught and trapped as my garden is, by the power of Lernan. I can only ask again that you forgive me. When I have finished speaking thus, I will take the field against the First of the Enemy—and, child, I shall not survive it. By my choice,