Into the Dark Lands by Michelle Sagara West

existed before the birth of the world. What words were necessary?
    Erin walked in a daze through her first battlefield. If any saw her at all, they didn’t seem to pay her much attention, and she was hardly aware of them in her turn. One foot followed another in a seemingly endless path to the deserted corpse of her mother. Only once before had she seen such a corpse—and then she had turned away into the comfort of shoulders that would never catch her tears again. This time she did not balk at the sight. She had to see and to memorize the exact price paid for her fear.
    She had to swear, though no one would hear the blood-oath, that she would never, never pay that price again.
    Tears would not come, but she didn’t deserve them. Let the sounds of renewed battle be her mother’s farewell; Erin knew she didn’t have the right to speak.
    But she could not stop herself from caressing the still, torn face, or trying to embrace what was left.
    She felt, rather than saw, Kandor’s approach. She heard his words, Servant-sure and calm, echo in the emptiness that was left her. He had led them to victory.
    â€œCome, child. This is no place for you. You are safe now.”
    She turned to him, eyes glinting like steel, knowing—hoping—that she would never be safe again.
    â€œShe’s dead.”
    He watched her still, pale face, his eyes darkening. “Yes,” he said, bowing to the inevitable. He reached out for her with one hand. “Come, little one. There is nothing to fear, not any longer. You are safe.”
    â€œI’m not afraid of dying,” she replied, limply following where he led. “And I never will be again.”
    Kandor’s arm encircled her shoulders; she felt the faint pulse of his power ebbing into her and yanked herself away to continue walking with him at more of a distance.
    â€œChild . . .”
    She turned only once, to look again upon the body of the
woman who had given so much to the warriors on the fields of battles such as this one.
    â€œIt should have been me.” Her voice was ash.
    Kandor said nothing, and once again she felt his power come into her to try to soothe the loss she felt.
    But it was all she had left and she would not release it.
    Â 
    The trunk of the Lady’s tree shimmered as Latham walked into it. The disorientation that he normally felt upon entering the Woodhall meant little to him now; it paled to insignificance beside the weight he carried.
    The long hall was completely still; no hint of fragrant breeze showed evidence of the Lady’s power. His steps, quiet as they were, echoed down the length of marble corridor.
    He could see, as he approached the conservatory, that even the plants looked wilted.
    Bright Heart, he thought as he walked past them, is all the news I bear to be bad? He ran a tired hand over his face. Only then did he realize that he was crying. Only a Servant of the Enemy could have done this to you, Kera. The best of the Malanthi would not have had the power. Only a nightwalker. He wiped his cheeks clean.
    Almost no healer died such a terrible death; the very act of injuring them allowed them to reach their power more fully. The Malanthi—the half-human, half-Servant priests of the Enemy—hadn’t the power to stop a healer from touching the Bright Heart’s blood. But a true Servant’s power would be enough.
    Ah Kera, Kera—you must have helped the war more than we knew to draw such attention to yourself. Rest in the peace of the beyond.
    The sound of his footsteps stopped completely as he struggled to compose himself. Later, much later, he would allow himself the luxury of feeling this loss.
    But now . . .
    He began to walk again, taking slow, deep breaths. He had his duty to perform. At least he was not the one to bear the news to the Grandfather, or to Telvar.
    â€œLady?” He called her name once before he turned the last corner. His voice was quiet but