Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound

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by The Oathbound [lit]


  was not.

  He was tall; like Tarma, golden-skinned and blue-

  eyed. Unlike Tarma, his hair was a pure silver-

  white; it hung to his waist, two braids framing his

  face, part of the rest formed into a topknot, the

  remainder streaming unconfined down his back.

  Feathers had been woven into it—a tiny owlet nes-

  tled at the base of the topknot, a nestling Kethry

  thought to be a clever carving, until it moved its

  head and blinked.

  His eyes were large and slightly slanted, his fea-

  tures sharp, with no trace of facial hair. His eye-

  brows had a slight, upward sweep to them, like

  wings. His clothing was green, all colors of green—

  Kethry thought it at first to be rags, until she saw

  how carefully those seeming rags were cut to re-

  semble foliage. In a tree, except for that hair, he'd

  be nearly invisible, even with a wind blowing. He

  wore delicate jewelry of woven and braided silver

  wire and crystals.

  He carried in his right hand a strange weapon; a

  spearlike thing with a wicked, curving point that

  seemed very like a hawk's talon at one end and a

  smooth, round hook at the other. In his left he

  carried Tarma's medallion.

  Tarma rose to her feet, gracefully. "Peace, Moon-

  song."

  "And upon you, Child of the Hawk." Both of

  them were speaking Shin'a'in—after months of tu-

  toring Kethry was following their words with rela-

  tive ease.

  "Tarma," the Shin'a'in replied, "and Kethry. My

  she'enedra. You will share hearth and meal? It is

  tree-hare, taken as is the law; rejected suitors, no

  mates, no young, and older than this season's

  birthing."

  "Then I share, and with thanks." He sank to the

  ground beside the fire with a smoothness, an ease,

  that Kethry envied; gracefully and soundlessly as a

  falling leaf. She saw then that besides the feathers

  he had also braided strings of tiny crystals into his

  hair, crystals that reflected back the firelight, as

  did the staring eyes of the tiny owlet. She remem-

  bered what Tarma had told her, and concluded

  they were being given high honor.

  He accepted the bowl of stewed meat and dried

  vegetables with a nod of thanks, and began to eat

  with his fingers and a strange, crystalline knife

  hardly longer than his hand. When Tarma calmly

  began her own portion, Kethry did the same, but

  couldn't help glancing at their visitor under cover

  of eating.

  He impressed her, that was certain. There was

  an air of great calm and patience about him, like

  that of an ancient tree, but she sensed he could be a

  formidable and implacable enemy if his anger was

  ever aroused. His silver hair had made her think of

  him as ancient, but now she wasn't so certain of his

  age. His face was smooth and unlined; he could

  have been almost any age at all, from stripling to

  oldster.

  Then she discovered something that truly fright-

  ened her; when she looked for him with mage-

  sight, he wasn't there.

  It wasn't a shielding, either—a shield either left

  an impression of a blank wall or of an absolute

  nothingness. No, it was as if there was no one

  across the fire from them at all, nothing but the

  plants and stones of the clearing, the woods beyond,

  and the owlet sitting in a young tree.

  The owlet sitting in a young tree!

  It was then she realized that he was somehow

  appearing to her mage-sight as a part of the forest,

  perfectly blended in with the rest. She switched

  back to normal vision and smiled to herself. And as

  if he had known all along that she had been scan-

  ning him—in fact, if he were practiced enough to

  pull off what he was doing, he probably did—he

  looked up from his dinner and nodded at her.

  "The banner of the Hawk's Children has not

  been seen for seasons," he said breaking the si-

  lence. "We heard ill tales. Tales of ambush on the

  road to the Horse Fair; tales of death come to their

  very tents."

  "True tales," Tarma replied, the pain in her voice

  audible to Kethry ... and probably to Moonsong. "I

  am the last."

  "Ah. Then the blood-price—"

  "Has been paid. I go to raise the banner again;

  this, my she'enedra, goes with me."

  "Who holds herds for Tale'sedrin?"

  "Liha'irden. You have knowledge of the camps

  this spring?

  "Liha'irden ..." he brooded a moment. "At

  Ka'tesik on the border of their territory and yours.

  So you go to them. And after?"

  "I have given no thought to it." Tarma smiled

  suddenly, but it was with a wry twist to her mouth.

  "Indeed, the returning has been sufficient to hold

  my attention."

  "You may find," he said slowly, "that the Plains

  are no longer the home to you that they were."

  Tarma looked startled. "Has aught changed?"

  "Only yourself, Lone Hawk. Only yourself. The

  hatched chick cannot go back to the shell, the fal-

  con who has found the sky does not willingly sit

  the nest. When a task is completed, it is meet to

  find another task—and you may well serve the Lady

  by serving outlanders."

  Tarma looked startled and pale, but nodded.

  "OutClan Shin'a'in—" He turned his attention

  abruptly to Kethry. "You bear a sword—"

  "Aye, Elder."

  He chuckled. "Not so old as you think me, nor so

  young either. Three winters is age to a polekit, but

  fifty is youth to a tree. You bear a sword, yet you

  touched me with mage-sight. Strange to see a mage

  with steel. Stranger still to see steel with a soul."

  "What?" Kethry was too startled to respond

  politely.

  "Hear me, mate of steel and magic," he said,

  leaning forward so that he and the owlet transfixed

  her with unblinking stares. "What you bear will

  bind you to herself, more and more tightly with

  each hour you carry her. It is writ that Need is her

  name—you shall come to need her, as she needs

  you, as both of you answer need. This is the price

  of bearing her, and some of this you knew already. I

  tell you that you have not yet reached the limit to

  which she can—and will—bind you to herself, to

  her goals. It is a heavy price, yet the price is worth

  her service; you know she can fight for you, you

  know she can heal you. I tell you now that her

  powers will extend to aid those you love, so long as

  they return your care. Remember this in future

  times—"

  His blue eyes bored into hers with an intensity

  that would have been frightening had he not held

  her beyond fear with the power he now showed

  himself to possess. She knew then that she was

  face-to-face with a true Adept, though of a disci-

  pline alien to hers; that he was one such as she

&n
bsp; hardly dared dream of becoming. Finally he leaned

  back, and Kethry shook off the near-trance he had

  laid on her, coming to herself with a start.

  "How did you—"

  He silenced her with a wave of his hand.

  "I read what is written for me to see, nothing

  more," he replied, rising with the same swift grace

  he had shown before. "Remember what I have read,

  both of you. As you are two-made-one, so your task

  will be one. First the binding, then the finding. For

  the hearth, for the meal, my thanks. For the future,

  my blessing. Lady light thy road—"

  And as abruptly as he had appeared, he was

  gone.

  Kethry started to say something, but the odd look

  of puzzlement on Tarma's face stopped her.

  "Well," she said at last, "I have only one thing to

  say. I've passed through this forest twenty times, at

  least. In all that time, I must have met Hawkbrothers

  ten out of the twenty, and that was extraordinary.

  But this—" she shook her head. "That's more words

  at once from one of them than any of my people has

  ever reported before. Either we much impressed

  him—"

  "Or?"

  "Or," she smiled crookedly, "We are in deep

  trouble."

  Kethry wasn't quite sure what it was that woke

  her; the cry of a bird, perhaps; or one of the riding

  beasts waking out of a dream with a snort, and so

  waking her in turn.

  The air was full of gray mist that hung at waist

  height above the needle-strewn forest floor. It glowed

  in the dim blue light that signaled dawn, and the

  treetops were lost beyond thought within it. It was

  chill and thick in the back of her throat; she felt

  almost as if she were drinking it rather than breath-

  ing it.

  The fire was carefully banked coals; it was

  Tarma's watch. Kethry sighed and prepared to go

  back to another hour of sleep—then stiffened. There

  were no sounds beyond what she and the two saddle-

  beasts were making. Tarma was gone.

  Then, muffled by the fog, came the sound of

  blade on blade; unmistakable if heard once. And

  Kethry had heard that peculiar shing more times

  than she cared to think.

  Kethry had lain down fully-clothed against the

  damp; now she sprang to her feet, seizing her blade

  as she rose. Barefooted, she followed the sound

  through the echoing trunks, doing her own best to

  make no sound.

  For why, if this had been an attack, had Tarma

  not awakened her? An ambush then? But why hadn't

  Tarma called out to her? Why wasn't she calling

  for help now ? What of the Hawkbrothers that were

  supposed to be watching out for them?

  She slipped around tree trunks, the thick carpet

  of needles soft beneath her feet, following the noise

  of metal scissoring and clashing. Away from the

  little cup where they had camped the fog began to

  wisp and rise, winding around the trunks in woolly

  festoons, though still thick as a storm cloud an arm's

  length above her head. The sounds of blades came

  clearer now, and she began using the tree trunks to

  hide behind as she crept up upon the scene of

  conflict.

  She rounded yet another tree, and shrank again

  behind it; the fog had deceived her, and she had

  almost stumbled into the midst of combat.

  The fog ringed this place, moving as if alive, a

  thick tendril of it winding out, now and again, to

  interpose itself between Tarma and her foe. It

  glowed—it glowed with more than the predawn

  light. To mage-sight it glowed with power, power

  bright and pure, power strong, true, and—strange.

  It was out of her experience—and it barred her

  from the charmed circle where the combatants

  fenced.

  Tarma's eyes were bright with utter concentra-

  tion, her face expressionless as a sheet of polished

  marble. Kethry had never seen her quite like this,

  except when in the half-trance she induced when

  practicing or meditating. She was using both sword

  and dagger to defend herself—

  Against another Shin'a'in.

  This man was unmistakably of Tarma's race. The

  tawny gold skin of hands and what little Kethry

  could see of his face showed his kinship to her. So

  did the strands of raven hair that had been bound

  out of his face by an equally black headband, and

  ice-blue eyes that glinted above his veil.

  For he was veiled; this was something Tarma

  never had worn for as long as Kethry had known

  her. Kethry hadn't even known till this moment

  that a veil could be part of a Shin'a'in costume, but

  the man's face was obscured by one, and it did not

  have the feeling of a makeshift. He was veiled and

  garbed entirely in black, the black Tarma had worn

  when on the trail of those who had slaughtered her

  Clan. Black was for blood-feud—but Tarma had

  sworn that there was never blood-feud between

  Shin'a'in and Shin'a'in. And black was for Kal'ene-

  dral—three times barred from internecine strife.

  There was less in their measured counter and

  riposte of battle than of dance. Kethry held her

  breath, transfixed by more than the power of the

  mist. She was caught by the deadly beauty of the

  weaving blades, caught and held entranced, drawn

  out of her hiding place to stand in the open.

  Tarma did not even notice she was there—but

  the other did.

  He stepped back, breaking the pattern, and mo-

  tioned slightly with his left hand. Tarma instantly

  broke off her advance, and seemed to wake just as

  instantly from her trance, staring at Kethry with

  the startled eyes of a wild thing broken from hiding.

  The other turned, for his back had been to Kethry.

  He saluted the sorceress in slow, deliberate cere-

  mony with his own blade. Then he winked slowly

  and gravely over his veil, and—vanished, taking the

  power in the magic fog with him.

  Released from her entrancement, Kethry stared

  at her partner, not certain whether to be fright-

  ened, angry or both.

  "What—was—that—" she managed at last.

  "My trainer; my guide," Tarma replied sheep-

  ishly. "One of them, anyway." She sheathed her

  sword and stood, to all appearances feeling awk-

  ward and at a curious loss for words. "I ... never

  told you about them before, because I wasn't sure it

  was permitted. They train me every night we aren't

  within walls . .. one of them takes my watch to see

  you safe. I... I guess they decided I was taking too

  long to tell you about them; I suppose they figured it

  was time you knew about them."

  "You said your people didn't use magic—but

  he—he was alive with it! Only your Goddess—"

  "He's Hers. In life, was Kal'enedral; and now—"

  she lifted up her hand, "—as you saw. His magic is

  Hers—"


  "What do you mean, 'in life'?" Kethry asked, an

  edge of hysteria in her voice.

  "You mean—you couldn't tell?"

  "Tell what?"

  "He's a spirit. He's been dead at least a hundred

  years, like all the rest of my teachers."

  It took Tarma the better part of an hour to calm

  her partner down.

  They broke out of the trees, as Tarma had prom-

  ised, just past midafternoon.

  Kethry stared; Tarma sat easily in Kessira's sad-

  dle, and grinned happily. "Well?" she asked, finally.

  Kethry sought for words, and failed to find them.

  They had come out on the edge of a sheer drop-

  off; the mighty trees grew to the very edge of it,

  save for the narrow path on which they stood. Be-

  low them, furlongs, it seemed, lay the Dhorisha

  Plains.

  Kethry had pictured acres of grassland, a sea of

  green, as featureless as the sea itself, and as flat.

  Instead she saw beneath her a rolling country of

  gentle, swelling rises; like waves. Green grass there

  was in plenty—as many shades of green as Kethry

  had ever seen, and more—and golden grass, and a

  faint heathered purple. And flowers—it must have

  been flowers that splashed the green with irregular

  pools of bright blue and red, white and sunny yel-

  low, orange and pink. Kethry took an experimental

  sniff and yes, the breeze rising up the cliff carried

  with it the commingled scents of growing grass and

  a hundred thousand spring blossoms.

 

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