"More than a chance, nomad—I'd lay money on
it. I'm sure enough that I haven't even tried luring
your lovely little partner into my bed—I don't make
love to prospective employers."
"Well!" Tarma was plainly startled. "I will be
damned ..."
"I hope not," Justin chuckled, "or I'll have to
find another set of prospects!"
They got a commission with another caravan to
act as guards—courtesy of their friends. On their
way they detoured briefly when Need called them
to rid a town of a monster, a singularly fruitless
effort, for the monster was slain by a would-be
"hero" the very day they arrived.
After that they skirmished with banditti and a
half-trained magician's ex-apprentice who thought
robbing caravans was an easier task than memoriz-
ing spells. Kethry "slapped his hands," as she put
it, and left him with a geas to build walls for the
temple of Sun-Lord Resoden until he should learn
better.
When the caravan was safely gotten home, they
found an elderly mage of the Blue Mountains school
who wanted some physical protection as he returned
to his patron, and was delighted with the bonus of
having a sorceress of a different discipline to con-
verse with.
During these journeys Tarma and Warrl were
learning to integrate themselves as a fighting team;
somewhat to Tarma's amazement, her other-worldly
teachers were inclined to include him whenever he
chose. After her initial shock—and, to some extent,
dismay—she had discovered that they did have a
great deal in common, especially in attitudes. He
was, perhaps, a bit more cynical than she was, but
he was also older. He never would admit exactly
how old he was; when Tarma persisted, he seized
one of her hands in his powerful jaws and mind-
sent, My years are enough, mindmate, to suffice. She
never asked again.
But now they had fallen on dry times; they had
wound up on the estate of Viscount Hathkel, with
no one needing their particular talents and no cit-
ies nearby. The money they had earned must now
be at least partially spent in provisioning them to
someplace where they were likelier to find work.
That was the plan, anyway—until Need woke
from her apparent slumbers with a vengeance.
Tarma goaded her gray Shin'a'in warsteed into
another burst of speed, urging her on with hand
and voice (though not spur—never spur; that would
have been an insult the battlesteed would not toler-
ate) as if she were pursued by the Jackels of Dark-
ness. It had been more than long enough since she
had first become Kal'enedral for her hair to have
regrown—now her long, ebony braids streamed be-
hind her; close enough to catch one of them rode
Kethry. Kethry's own mare was a scant half a length
after her herd-sister.
Need had left Kethry almost completely alone
save for that one prod almost from the time they'd
left the Liha'irden camp. Both of them had nearly
forgotten just what bearing her could mean. They
had been reminded this morning, when Need had
woken Kethry almost before the sun rose, and had
been driving the sorceress (and so her blood-oath
sister as well) in this direction all day. At first it
had been a simple pull, as she had often felt before.
Tarma had teased, and Kethry had grumbled; then
they had packed up their camp and headed for the
source. Kethry had even had time enough to sum-
mon a creature of the Ethereal Plane to scout and
serve as a set of clairvoyant "eyes" for them. But
the call had grown more urgent as the hours passed,
not less so—increasing to the point where by mid-
afternoon it was actually causing Kethry severe
mental pain, pain that even Tarma was subject to,
through the oath-bond. That was when they got
Warrl up onto the special carry-pad they'd rigged
for him behind Tarma's saddle, and prepared to
make some speed. They urged their horses first
into a fast walk, then a trot, then as sunset neared,
into a full gallop. By then Kethry was near-blind
with mental anguish, and no longer capable of even
directing their Ethereal ally, much less questioning
it.
Need would not be denied in this; Moonsong
k'Vala, the Hawkbrother Adept they had met, had
told them nothing less than the truth. Kethry was
soul-bonded to the sword, just as surely as Tarma
was bonded to her Goddess or Warrl to Tarma.
Kethry was recalling now with some misgiving that
Moonsong had also said that she had not yet found
the limit to which it would bind itself to her—and
if this experience was any indication of the future,
she wasn't sure she wanted to.
All that was of any importance at the moment
was that there was a woman within Need's sensing
range in grave peril—peril of her life, by the way
the blade was driving Kethry. And they had no
choice but to answer the call.
Tarma continued to urge Hellsbane on; they were
coming to a cultivated area, and surely their goal
couldn't be far. Ahead of them on the road they
were following loomed a walled village; part and
parcel of a manor-keep, a common arrangement in
these parts. The gates were open; the fields around
empty of workers. That was odd—very odd. It was
high summer, and there should have been folk out
in the fields, weeding and tending the irrigation
ditches. There was no immediate sign of trouble,
but as they neared the gates, it was plain just who
the woman they sought was—
Bound to a scaffold high enough to be visible
through the open gates, they could see a young,
dark-haired woman dressed in white, almost like a
sacrificial victim. The last rays of the setting sun
touched her with color—touched also the heaped
wood beneath the platform on which she stood,
making it seem as if her pyre already blazed up.
Lining the mud-plastered walls of the keep and
crowding the square inside the gate were scores of
folk of every class and station, all silent, all waiting.
Tarma really didn't give a fat damn about what
they were waiting for, though it was a good bet that
they were there for the show of the burning. She
coaxed a final burst of speed out of her tired mount,
sending her shooting ahead of Kethry's as they
passed the gates, and bringing her close in to the
platform. Once there, she swung Hellsbane around
in a tight circle and drew her sword, placing her-
self between the woman on the scaffold and the
men with the torches to set it alight.
She knew she was an imposing sight, even cov-
ered with sweat and the dust of the road; hawk-
faced, intimidating, ice-blue eyes glaring. Her
clothing alone should tell them she was nothing to
fool with—it was obviously that of a fighting mer-
cenary; plain brown leathers and brigandine armor.
Her sword reflected the dying sunlight so that she
might have been holding a living flame in her hand.
She said nothing; her pose said it all for her.
Nevertheless, one of the men started forward,
torch in hand.
"I wouldn't," Kethry was framed in the arch of
the gate, silhouetted against the fiery sky; her mount
rock-still, her hands glowing with sorcerous energy.
"If Tarma doesn't get you, I will."
"Peace," a tired, gray-haired man in plain, dusty-
black robes stepped forward from the crowd, hold-
ing his arms out placatingly, and motioned the
torch-bearer to give way. "Istan, go back to your
place. Strangers, what brings you here at this time
of all times?"
Kethry pointed—a thin strand of glow shot from
her finger and touched the ropes binding the cap-
tive on the platform. The bindings loosed and fell
from her, sliding down her body to lie in a heap at
her feet. The woman swayed and nearly fell, catch-
ing herself at the last moment with one hand on the
stake she had been bound to. A small segment of
the crowd—mostly women—stepped forward as if
to help, but fell back again as Tarma swiveled to
face them.
"I know not what crime you accuse this woman
of, but she is innocent of it," Kethry said to him,
ignoring the presence of anyone else. "That is what
brings us here."
A collective sigh rose from the crowd at her words.
Tarma watched warily to either side, but it ap-
peared to be a sigh of relief rather than a gasp of
arousal. She relaxed the white-knuckled grip she
had on her sword-hilt by the merest trifle.
"The Lady Myria is accused of the slaying of her
lord," the robed man said quietly. "She called upon
her ancient right to summon a champion to her
defense when the evidence against her became over-
whelming. I, who am priest of Felwether, do ask
you—strangers, will you champion the Lady and
defend her in trial-by-combat?"
Kethry began to answer in the affirmative, but
the priest shook his head negatively. "No, lady-
mage, by ancient law you are bound from the field;
neither sorcery nor sorcerous weapons such as I see
you bear may be permitted in trial-by-combat."
"Then—"
"He wants to know if I'll do it, she'enedra," Tarma
croaked, taking a fiendish pleasure in the start the
priest gave at the sound of her harsh voice. "I know
your laws, priest, I've passed this way before. I ask
you in my turn—if my partner, by her skills, can
prove to you the lady's innocence, will you set her
free and call off the combat, no matter how far it
has gotten?"
"I so pledge, by the Names and the Powers," the
priest nodded—almost eagerly.
"Then I will champion this lady."
About half the spectators cheered and rushed
forward. Three older women edged past Tarma to
bear the fainting woman back into the keep. The
rest, except for the priest, moved off slowly and
reluctantly, casting thoughtful and measuring looks
back at Tarma. Some of them seemed friendly;
most did not.
"What—"
"Was that all about?" That was as far as Tarma
got before the priest interposed himself between
the partners.
"Your pardon, mage-lady, but you may not speak
with the champion from this moment forward. Any
message you may have must pass through me."
"Oh, no, not yet, priest." Tarma urged Hellsbane
forward and passed his outstretched hand. "I told
you I know your laws—and the ban starts at sun-
down—Greeneyes, pay attention, I have to talk fast.
You're going to have to figure out just who the real
culprit is, the best I can possibly do is buy you
time. This business is combat to the death for the
champion. I can choose just to defeat my challeng-
ers, but they have to kill me. And the longer you
take, the more likely that is."
"Tarma, you're better than anybody here!"
"But not better than any twenty—or thirty."
Tarma smiled crookedly. "The rules of the game,
she'enedra, are that I keep fighting until nobody is
willing to challenge me. Sooner or later they'll wear
me out and I'll go down."
"What?"
"Shush, I knew what I was getting into. You're as
good at your craft as I am at mine—I've just given
you a bit of incentive. Take Warrl." The tall, lupine
creature jumped to the ground from behind Tarma
where he'd been clinging to the special pad with
his retractile claws. "He might well be of some use.
Do your best, veshta'cha; there're two lives depend-
ing on you."
The priest interposed himself again. "Sunset,
champion," he said firmly, putting his hand on her
reins.
Tarma bowed her head, and allowed him to lead
her and her horse away, Kethry staring dumb-
founded after them.
"All right, let's take this from the very beginning."
Kethry was in the Lady Myria's bower, a soft and
colorful little corner of an otherwise drab fortress.
There were no windows—no drafts stirred the bright,
tapestries on the walls, or caused the flames of the
beeswax candles to flicker. The walls were thick
stone covered with plaster, warm by winter, cool
by summer. The furnishings were of light yellow
wood, padded with plump feather cushions. In one
corner stood a cradle, watched over broodingly by
the lady herself. The air was pleasantly scented
with herbs and flowers. Kethry wondered how so
pampered a creature could have gotten herself into
such a pass.
"It was two days ago. I came here to lie down in
the afternoon. I—was tired; I tire easily since Syrtin
was born. I fell asleep."
Close up, the Lady proved to be several years
Kethry's junior; scarcely past her midteens. Her
dark hair was lank and without luster, her skin
pale. Kethry frowned at that, and wove a tiny spell
with a gesture and two whispered words while
Myria was speaking. The creature of the Ethereal
Plane who'd agreed to serve as their scout was still
with her—it would have taken a far wilder ride
than they had made to lose it. And now that they
were doing something about the lady's plight, Need
was quiescent; leaving Kethry able to think and
work again.
The answer to her question came quickly as a
thin voice breathed whispered words into her ear.
Kethry grimaced angrily. "Lady's eyes, child, I
shouldn't wonder that you tire—you're still torn up
from the birthing! What kind of a miserable excuse
for a Healer have you got here, anyway?"
"We have no Healer, lady," one of the three older
women who had borne Myria back into the keep
rose from her seat behind Kethry and stood be-
tween them, challenge written in her stance. She
had a kind, but careworn face; her gray and buff
gown was of good stuff, but old-fashioned in cut.
Kethry guessed that she must be Myria's compan-
ion, an older relative, perhaps. "The Healer died
before my dove came to childbed and her lord did
not see fit to replace him. We had no use for a
Healer, or so he claimed. After all, he kept no great
number of men-at-arms; he warred with no one. He
felt that birthing was a perfectly normal procedure
and surely didn't require the expensive services of
a Healer."
"Now, Katran—"
"It is no more than the truth! He cared more for
his horses than for you! He replaced the farrier
quickly enough when he left!"
"His horses were of more use to him," the girl
said bitterly, then bit her lip. "There, you see, that
is what brought me to this pass—one too many
careless remarks let fall among the wrong ears."
Kethry nodded, liking the girl; the child was not
the pampered pretty she had first thought. No win-
dows to this chamber, only the one entrance; a good
bit more like a cell than a bower, it occurred to her.
A comfortable cell, but a cell still. She stood,
smoothed her buff-colored robe with an unconscious
gesture, and unsheathed the sword that seldom left
her side.
"Lady, what—" Katran stood, startled by the
gesture.
"Peace; I mean no ill. Here," Kethry said, bend-
ing over Myria and placing the blade in the startled
girl's hands, "hold this for a bit."
Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound Page 17