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

she leaned over to pick it up. The handle and pommel of the sword were wrought in a pale silver color, and they gleamed in the light of the garden. All along the scabbard, in gold work and etching, were seven linked circles and some type of rune that she could not read. Nor did she take the time to try to. She knew what it said.
    For the Responsibility of Power.
    It was Gallin’s sword. Gallin, the greatest hero that the Lernari had ever known. And the being who had crafted it lay dead these three centuries.
    In one lightning move, she pulled the sword out of the scabbard, hearing the faint whisper of metal against metal. The blade seemed to leave a lingering trail across the air as she tested its balance and weight, a signature, in ink made of light.
    “What you made, Lady,” she said bitterly, “you made well.” Again she felt the urge to have an end to this horrible, endless game. The edge of the sword was sharp and unblooded. She brought it close, and closer still to her throat, until she could feel the edge of it against the skin of her neck.
    And then she put it down. She would take blood-vow to end the work of the Enemy and his First Servant. Death before that was not an option—not through suicide. She swung the sword about in a tight, sharp circle, her wrist flipping back with a surprising elasticity. Three times she circled the flashing blade about her body, and as the third arc ended, she opened her mouth on a silent syllable. At long last, and too late, the Sarillorn of Elliath was going to join the war again. But this time she did not intend to leave it—not alive.
    The sword went back into its scabbard, and she belted it around her waist. Even as she did so, she noted that the flowers in the garden were beginning to wither. The spell that had kept them safe from time had done its purpose. Erin of Elliath, last of her line, had received the Lady’s final message.
    She walked out of the garden and back toward the great hall. Ahead of her, she could see the glowing Tree grow larger with each step she took. She felt alone, sullied and scarred by what she had found. Even the gifts of the Lady couldn’t change that.
Grimly she walked up to the Tree, free from the awe that had always been inspired by it before. She held her arms out, to catch it in a final embrace—and to be free of it forever.
    Even as she did so, she heard the Lady’s voice one last time.
    “Erin, child, my love goes with you.”
    She couldn’t even raise the strength to express the bitter, dark laugh that lurked beneath her clenched throat. Without a backward glance, she walked out the door of the Lady’s Woodhall, never to return.
    The fact that she walked without limp, or any sign of injury, escaped her notice for the moment; only later would she remember the golden glow that had warmed her before the ice had truly set.
     
    The first person she saw was Darin. He stood, hands bound together in plain sight. His face was white, except where it was purpled by bruising and a trace of blood. His shirt was torn, and the dark soil of the Lady’s wood clung to his hair and clothing. But worst of all were his eyes; they were flat, almost lifeless—and when they met hers, although they flickered briefly, they did not change.
    The Swords, though, they had expressions. As did the priest—the two priests—that were visible in the clearing. Black robes, black armor, and the solid gray of steel formed a half circle of attendance before the Lady’s Woodhall. It encircled Darin, who stood, bound more by fear, Erin judged, than by the simple ropes that restrained him.
    “Well met,” the older priest said quietly. He even took pains to bow, and the gesture was not meant as an insult. It angered her anyway. “You must be of Elliath blood. We thought all of your line dead, centuries past.” He ran his fingers through his beard as he straightened. “This”—he raised one hand—“must be the famous Woodhall of the long-dead Lady. We’ve