Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound

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by The Oathbound [lit]

interest you anymore. And you have the connec-

  tions you want without the burden of a real wife."

  "She's mine," Wethes said, and the expression in

  his eyes was cold and acquisitive. "What's mine, I

  keep. No one robs me or tricks me with impunity.

  I'll keep her in chains for the insult she's done

  me—chains of her own body. She'll do to breed a

  dozen heirs, and they tell me no pregnant mage can

  work her tricks while so burdened."

  Kavin raised a sardonic eyebrow, but made no

  further comment except to say, "I wouldn't believe

  that particular peasant's tale if I were you—I've

  had friends thought the same and didn't live to

  admit they were wrong. Now, I suspect your next

  question was going to be whether or not the Shin'a'in

  might be able to get a hearing with the Council. It

  might be possible—but who would believe a for-

  eigner's tale of abduction against the word of the

  wealthiest man in Mornedealth?"

  "Put that way, I see no risk of any kind to us,"

  Wethes put down the gold paper knife. "And cer-

  tainly I wish above all to have this accomplished at

  no risk of exposure. There are enough stories about

  why I mew my wife up in the country as it is. I'd

  rather no one ever discovered she's never been in

  my possession at all. But how do we get her away

  from her lover?"

  "Just leave that—" Kavin smiled, well aware that

  his slow smile was not particularly pleasant to look

  on, "—to me."

  Kethry woke with an aching head and a vile taste

  in her mouth; lying on her side, tied hand and foot,

  in total darkness. It hurt even to think, but she

  forced herself to attempt to discipline her thoughts

  and martial them into coherency, despite their ten-

  dency to shred like spiderwebs in a high wind.

  What had happened to her—where was she?

  Think—it was so hard to think—it was like swim-

  ming through treacle to put one thought after an-

  other. Everything was fogged, and her only real

  desire was to relax and pass back into oblivion.

  Which meant she'd been drugged.

  That made her angry; anger burned some of the

  befuddlement away. And the resulting temporary

  surge in control gave her enough to remember a

  cleansing ritual.

  Something like a candlemark later, she was still

  tied hand and foot and lying in total darkness. But

  the rest of the drug had been purged from her body

  and she was at last clearheaded and ready to think—

  and act. Now, what had happened?

  She thought back to her last clear memory—

  parting with her client for the day. It had been a

  particularly fruitless session, but he had voiced

  hopes for the morrow. There were supposed to be

  two horse tamers from the North arriving in time

  for beast-market day. Her client had been optimis-

  tic, particularly over the rumored forest-hunters

  they were said to be bringing. They had parted, she

  with her day's wages safely in the hidden pocket of

  her robe, he accompanied by his grooms.

  And she'd started back to the inn by the usual

  route.

  But—now she had it!—there'd been a tangle of

  carts blocking the Street of the Chandlers. The

  carters had been swearing and brawling, laughingly

  goaded on by a velvet-clad youth on his high-bred

  palfrey who'd probably been the cause of the acci-

  dent in the first place. She'd given up on seeing the

  street cleared before supper, and had ducked into

  an alley.

  Then had come the sound of running behind her.

  Before she could turn to see who it was, she was

  shoved face-first against the rough wood of the wall,

  and a sack was flung over her head. A dozen hands

  pinned her against the alley wall while a sickly-

  sweet smelling cloth was forced over her mouth

  and nose. She had no chance to glimpse the faces of

  her assailants, and oblivion had followed with the

  first breath of whatever-it-was that had saturated

  the cloth.

  But for who had done this to her—oh, that she

  knew without seeing their faces. It could only be

  Kavin and his gang of ennobled toughs—and to pay

  for it all, Wethes.

  As if her thought had conjured him, the door to

  her prison opened, and Wethes stood silhouetted

  against the glare of light from the torch on the wall

  of the hallway beyond him.

  Terror overwhelmed her, terror so strong as to

  take the place of the drug in befuddling her. She

  could no longer think, only feel, and all she felt was

  fear. He seemed to be five hundred feet tall, and

  even more menacing than her nightmares painted

  him.

  "So," he laughed, looking down at her as she

  tried to squirm farther away from him, "My little

  bride returns at last to her loving husband."

  "Damn, damn, damn!" Tarma cursed, and paced

  the icy street outside the door of the Broken Sword;

  exactly twenty paces east, then twenty west, then

  twenty east again. It was past sunset: Kethry wasn't

  back yet; she'd sent no word that she'd be late, and

  that wasn't like her. And—

  She suddenly went cold, then hot, then her head

  spun dizzily. She clutched the lintel for support

  while the street spun before her eyes. The door of

  the inn opened, but she dared not try and move.

  Her ears told her of booted feet approaching, yet

  she was too giddy to even turn to see who it was.

  "I'd ask if you had too much wine, except that I

  didn't see you drink more than a mouthful or two

  before you left the room," Justin spoke quietly, for

  her ears alone, as he added his support to that of

  the lintel. "Something's wrong?"

  "Keth—something's happened to Keth—" Tarma

  gasped for air.

  "I know she's late, but—"

  "The—bond, the she'enedran-oath we swore to each

  other—it was Goddess-blessed. So if anything hap-

  pens to one of us—"

  "Ah—the other knows. Ikan and I have some-

  thing of the kind, but we're spell-bound and we

  had it done a-purpose; useful when scouting. Sit.

  Put your head between your knees. I'll get Ikan. He

  knows a bit more about leechcraft and magery than

  I."

  Tarma let him ease her down to the ice-covered

  doorstep, and did as she was told. The frosted stone

  was very cold beneath her rump, but the cold seemed

  to shake some of the dizziness away, getting her

  head down did a bit more. Just as her head began to

  clear, there were returning footsteps, and two pairs

  of booted feet appeared beside her.

  "Drink this—" Ikan hunched on his heels beside

  her as she cautiously raised her head; he was hold-

  ing out a small wooden bottle, and his whole pos-

  ture showed concern. "Just a swallow; it's only for

  emergencies."

  She took a gingerly mouthful, and w
as glad she'd

  been cautious. The stuff burned all the way down

  her gullet, but left a clear head and renewed energy

  behind it.

  "Goddess—oh, Goddess, I have to—" she started

  to rise, but Justin's hands on her shoulders pre-

  vented her.

  "You have to stay right where you are. You want

  to get yourself killed?" Ikan asked soberly. "You're

  a professional, Shin'a'in—act like one."

  "All right;" Justin said calmly, as she sank back

  to the stone. "Something's happened to your oath-

  sister. Any clue as to what—"

  "—or who?" Ikan finished. "Or why? You're not

  rich enough to ransom, and too new in Mornedealth

  to have acquired enemies."

  "Why and who—I've got a damn good idea," Tarma

  replied grimly, and told them, in brief, Kethry's

  history.

  "Gods, how am I to get her away from them? I

  don't know where to look, and even if I did, what's

  one sword against what Wethes can hire?" she fin-

  ished in despair. "Why, oh why didn't I listen to

  her?"

  "Kavin—Kavinestral—hmm," Justin mused. "Now

  that sounds familiar."

  "It bloody well should," Ikan replied, stoppering

  his precious bottle tightly and tucking it inside his

  tunic. "He heads the Blue faction."

  "The—what?" Tarma blinked at him in bewilder-

  ment.

  "There are five factions among the wilder off-

  spring of the Fifty; Blue, Green, Red, Yellow, and

  Black. They started out as racing clubs, but it's

  gotten down to a nastier level than that within the

  last few years," Ikan told her. "Duels in plenty, one

  or two deaths. Right now only two factions are

  strong enough to matter; Blue and Green. Kavin

  heads the Blues; a fellow called Helansevrith heads

  Green. They've been eyeblinks away from each oth-

  er's throats for years, and the only thing that has

  kept them from taking each other on, is that Kavin

  is essentially a coward. He'd rather get his follow-

  ers to do his dirty work for him. He makes a big

  pose of being a tough, but he's never personally

  taken anyone out. Mostly that doesn't matter, since

  he's got his followers convinced."

  He stood up, offering his hand to Tarma. "I can

  give you a quick guess who could find out where

  Kethry is, because I know where Wethes won't take

  her. He won't dare take her to his home, his ser-

  vants would see and gossip. He won't risk that,

  because the tale he's given out all these years is

  that Kethry is very shy and has been staying in

  seclusion on his country estate. No, he'll take her to

  his private brothel; I know he has one, I just don't

  know where. But Justin's got a friend who could

  tell us."

  "That she could—and be happy to. Any harm she

  could bring that man would make her right glad."

  Even in the dim light from the torch over the door

  Tarma could see that Justin looked grim.

  "How do you know all this about Wethes and

  Kavin?" Tarma looked from one to the other of

  them.

  "Because, Swordlady," Ikan's mouth stretched in

  something that bore very little resemblance to a

  smile, "my name wasn't always Dryvale."

  Kethry had wedged herself back into a corner of

  her barren, stone-floored cell. Wethes stood over

  her, candle-lantern in one hand, gloating. It was the

  very worst of her nightmares come true.

  "What's mine remains mine, dear wife," he

  crowed. "You won't be given a second chance to

  escape me. I bought you, and I intend to keep you."

  He was enjoying every moment, was taking plea-

  sure in her fright, just as he had taken pleasure in

  her pain when he'd raped her.

  Kethry was paralyzed with fear, her skin crawl-

  ing at the bare presence of him in the same room

  with her. What would she do if he touched her?

  Her heart was pounding as if she'd been running

  for miles. And she thought wildly that if he did

  touch her, perhaps her heart would give out.

  He bent and darted his hand forward suddenly,

  as if intending to catch one of her arms, and she

  gave a little mew of terror and involuntarily kicked

  out at him with her bound feet.

  His startled reaction took her completely by

  surprise.

  He jumped backward, eyes widening, hands shak-

  ing so that the candle flame wavered. Fear was a

  mask over his features—absolute and utter fear of

  her. For one long moment he stared at her, and she

  at him, hardly able to believe what her own eyes

  were telling her.

  He was afraid of her. For all his puffing and

  threatening, he was afraid of her!

  And in that moment she saw him for what he

  was—an aging, paunchy, greedy coward. Any sign

  of resistance in an adult woman obviously terrified

  him.

  She kicked out again, experimentally, and he

  jumped back another pace.

  Probably the only females he could dominate were

  helpless children; probably that was why he chose

  them for his pleasures. At this moment he was as

  terrified of her as she had been of him.

  And the nightmare-monster of her childhood re-

  vealed itself to be a thing of old clothes stuffed

  with straw.

  Her fear of him evaporated, like a thing spun of

  mist. Anger quickly replaced the fear; and while

  fear paralyzed her magecraft, anger fed her pow-

  ers. That she had been held in thrall for seven long

  years by fear of this!

  He saw the change from terror to rage on her

  face; she could see his realization that she was no

  longer cowed mirrored on his. He bit his lip and

  stepped backward another three or four paces.

  With three barked words she burned through the

  ropes on her hands and feet. She rose swiftly to her

  feet, shaking the bits off her wrists as she did so,

  her eyes never once leaving his face.

  "Kidnap me, will you?" she hissed at him, eyes

  narrowed. "Drug me and leave me tied up, and

  think you can use me as you did before—well, I've

  grown up, even if you haven't. I've learned how to

  deal with slime like you."

  Wethes gulped, and backed up again.

  "I'll teach you to mend your ways, you fat, slob-

  bering bastard! I'll show you what it feels like to be

  a victim!"

  She pointed a finger at him, and miniature light-

  ning leapt from it to his feet.

  Wethes yelped, hopping from one foot to the other.

  Kethry aimed her finger a bit higher.

  "Let's see how you like being hurt."

  He screeched, turned, and fled, slamming the

  door behind him. Kethry was at it in an eyeblink,

  clawing at it in frustration, for there was no handle

  on this side. She screamed curses at him; in her

  own tongue, then in Shin'a'in when that failed her,

  pounding on the obdurate portal with both fists.
/>   "Come back here, you half-breed son of a pig and

  an ape! I'll wither your manhood like a fifty-year-

  old sausage! Coward! Baby-raper! If I ever get my

  hands on your neck, I'll wrap a rope around it and

  spin you like a top! I'll peel your skull like a chest-

  nut! Come back here!"

  Finally her bruised fists recalled her to her senses.

  She stopped beating senselessly on the thick wood

  of the door, and rested for a moment, eyes closed as

  she reined in her temper. Anger did feed her power,

  but uncontrolled anger kept her from using it. She

  considered the door, considered her options, then

  acted.

  A half-dozen spells later, her magic energies were

  becoming exhausted; the wood of the door was black-

  ened and splintered, and the floor before it warped,

  but the door remained closed. It had been warded,

  and by a mage who was her equal at the very least.

  She used the last of her power to fuel a feeble

  mage-light; it hovered over her head, illuminating

  the barren cell in a soft blue radiance. She leaned

  her back against the far wall and allowed herself to

  slide down it, wearily. Wrapping her arms around

  her tucked-up knees, she regarded the warded door

  and planned her next move.

  If Wethes could have seen the expression on her

  face, he'd have died of fright on the spot.

  Tarma had been expecting Justin's "friend" to be

  a whore. Certainly she lived on a street where

  every other door housed one or more who practiced

  that trade—and the other doors led to shops that

  catered to their needs or those of their customers.

 

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