Myria took the blade, eyes wide, a puzzled ex-
pression bringing a bit more life to her face. "But—"
"Women's magic, child. For all that blades are a
man's weapon, Need here is strong in the magic of
women. She serves women only—it was her power
that called me here to aid you—and given an hour
of your holding her, she'll Heal you. Now, go on.
You fell asleep."
Myria accepted the blade gingerly, then settled
the sword somewhat awkwardly across her knees
and took a deep breath. "Something woke me, a
sound of something falling, I think. You can see
that this room connects with my Lord's chamber,
that in fact the only way in or out is through his
chamber. I saw a candle burning, so I rose to see if
he needed anything. He—he was slumped over his
desk. I thought perhaps he had fallen asleep."
"You thought he was drunk, you mean," the older
woman said wryly.
"Does it matter what I thought? I didn't see any-
thing out of the ordinary, because he wore dark
colors always. I reached out my hand to shake him—
and it came away bloody!"
"And she screamed fit to rouse the household,"
Katran finished.
"And when we came, she had to unlock the door
for us," said the second woman, silent till now.
"Both doors into that chamber were locked—hallside
with the lord's key, seneschal's side barred from
within this room. And the bloody dagger that had
killed him was under her bed."
"Whose was it?"
"Mine, of course," Myria answered. "And before
you ask, there was only one key to the hallside
door; it could only be opened with the key, and the
key was under his hand. It's an ensorcelled lock;
even if you made a copy of the key the copy would
never unlock the door."
"Warrl?" The huge beast rose from the shadows
where he'd been lying and padded to Kethry's side.
Myria and her women shrank away a little at the
sight of him.
"You can detect what I'd need a spell for. See if
the bar was bespelled into place on the other door,
would you? Then see if the spell on the lock's been
tampered with."
The dark gray, nearly black beast trotted out of
the room on silent paws, and Myria shivered.
"I can see where the evidence against you is
overwhelming, even without misheard remarks."
"I had no choice in this wedding," Myria replied,
her chin rising defiantly, "but I have been a true
and loyal wife to my lord."
"Loyal past his deserts, if you ask me," Katran
grumbled. "Well, that's the problem, lady-mage. My
Lady came to this marriage reluctant, and it's well
known. It's well known that he didn't much value
her. And there's been more than a few heard to say
they thought Myria reckoned to set herself up as
Keep-ruler with the Lord gone."
Warrl padded back into the room, and flopped
down at Kethry's feet.
"Well, fur-brother?"
He shook his head negatively, and the women
stared at this evidence of like-human intelligence.
"Not the bar nor the lock, hmm? And how do you
get into a locked room without a key? Still ...
Lady, is all as it was in the other room?"
"Yes, the priest was one of the first in the door,
and would not let anyone change so much as a dust
mote. He only let them take the body away."
"Thank the Goddess!" Kethry gave the exclama-
tion something of a prayerful cast. She started to
rise herself, then stared curiously at the girl. "Lady,
why did you choose to prove yourself as you did?"
"Lady-mage—"
Kethry was surprised at the true expression of
guilt and sorrow the child wore.
"If I had guessed strangers would be caught in
this web I never would have. I—I thought that my
kin would come to my defense. I came to this mar-
riage of their will, I thought at. least one of them
might—at least try. I don't think anyone here would
dare the family's anger by killing one of the sons,
even if the daughter is thought worthless by most
of them." A slow tear slid down one cheek, and she
whispered her last words. "My youngest brother, I
thought at least was fond of me. ..."
The spell Kethry had set in motion was still
active; she whispered another question to the tiny
air-entity she had summoned. This time the an-
swer made her smile, albeit sadly.
"Your youngest brother, child, is making his way
here afoot, having ridden his horse into foundering
trying to reach you in time. He is swearing by every
god that if you have been harmed he will not leave
stone on stone here."
Myria gave a tiny cry and buried her face in her
hands; Katran moved to comfort her as her shoul-
ders shook with silent sobs. Kethry stood, and made
her way into the other room. Need's magic was
such that the girl would hold the blade until she no
longer required its power. While it gave Kethry an
expertise in swordwork a master would envy, it
would do nothing to augment her magical abilities,
so it was fine where it was. Right now there was a
mystery to solve, and two lives hung in the balance
until Kethry could puzzle it out.
As she surveyed the outer room, she wondered
how Tarma was faring.
Tarma sat quietly beneath the window of a tiny,
bare, rock-walled cell. In a few moments the light of
the rising moon would penetrate it, first through
the eastern window, then the skylight overhead.
For now, the only light in the room was that of the
oil-fed flame burning on the low table before her.
There was something else on that table—the long,
coarse braids of Tarma's hair.
She had shorn those braids off herself at shoulder-
length, then tied a silky black headband around her
forehead to confine what remained. That had been
the final touch to the costume she'd donned with
an air of robing herself for some ceremony—clothing
that had long stayed untouched, carefully folded in
the bottom of her pack. Black clothing; from low,
soft boots to chainmail shirt, from headband to
hose—the stark, unrelieved black of a Shin'a'in
Sword Sworn about to engage in ritual combat or on
the trail of blood-feud.
Now she waited, patiently, seated cross-legged
before the makeshift altar, to see if her prepara-
tions received an answer.
The moon rose behind her, the square of dim
white light creeping slowly down the blank stone
wall opposite her, until, at last, it touched the flame
on the altar.
And without warning, without fanfare, She was
there, standing between Tarma and the altar-place.
Shin'a'in by Her golden skin and sharp features,
clad identically to Tarma, only Her eyes revealed
; Her as something not human. Those eyes—the span-
gled darkness of the sky at midnight, without white,
iris or pupil—could belong to only one being; the
Shin'a'in Goddess of the South Wind, known only
as the Star-Eyed, or the Warrior.
"Child, I answer." Her voice was melodious.
"Lady." Tarma bowed her head in homage.
"You have questions, child? No requests?"
"No requests, Star-Eyed. My fate—does not inter-
est me. I will live or die by my own skills. But
Kethry's fate—that I would know."
"The future is not easy to map, child, not even
for a goddess. I must tell you that tomorrow might
bring your life or your death; both are equally likely."
Tarma sighed. "Then what of my she'enedra should
it be the second path?"
The Warrior smiled, Tarma felt the smile like a
caress. "You are worthy, child; hear, then. If you
fall tomorrow, your she'enedra, who is perhaps a bit
more pragmatic than you, will work a spell that
lifts both herself and the Lady Myria to a place
leagues distant from here, while Warrl releases
Hellsbane and Ironheart and drives them out the
gates. I fear she allows you this combat only be-
cause she knows you regard it as touching your
honor to hold by these outClan customs. If the
choice were in her hands, you would all be far from
here by now; you, she, the lady and her child and
all—well; she will abide by your choices. For the
rest, when Kethry recovers from that spell they
shall go to our people, to the Liha'irden; Lady Myria
will find a mate to her liking there. Then, with
some orphans of other Clans, they shall go forth
and Tale'sedrin will ride the plains again, as Kethry
promised you. The blade will release her, and pass
to another's hands."
Tarma sighed, and nodded. "Then, Lady, I am
content, whatever my fate tomorrow. I thank you."
The Warrior smiled again; then between one heart-
beat and the next, was gone.
Tarma left the flame to burn itself out, lay down
upon the pallet that was the room's only other
furnishing, and slept.
Sleep was the last thing on Kethry's mind.
She surveyed the room that had been Lord Cor-
bie's; plain stone walls, three entrances, no win-
dows. One of the entrances still had the bar across
the door, the other two led to Myria's bower and to
the hall outside. Plain stone floor, no hidden en-
trances there. She knew the blank wall held noth-
ing either; the other side was the courtyard of the
manor. Furnishings; one table, one chair, one or-
nate bedstead against the blank wall, one bookcase,
half filled, four lamps. A few bright rugs. Her mind
felt as blank as the walls.
Start at the beginning—she told herself. Follow
what happened. The girl came in here alone, the man
followed after she was asleep, then what?
He was found at his desk, said a voice in her mind,
startling her. He probably walked straight in and sat
dawn. What's on the desk that he might have been
doing?
Every time Warrl spoke to her mind-to-mind it
surprised her. She still couldn't imagine how he
managed to make himself heard when she hadn't a
scrap of that particular Gift. Tarma seemed to ac-
cept it unquestioningly; how she'd ever gotten used
to it, the sorceress couldn't imagine.
Tarma—time was wasting.
On the desk stood a wineglass with a sticky resi-
due in the bottom, an inkwell and quill, and several
stacked ledgers. The top two looked disturbed.
Kethry picked them up, and began leafing through
the last few pages, whispering a command to the
invisible presence at her shoulder. The answer was
prompt. The ink on the last three pages of both
ledgers was fresh enough to still be giving off fumes
detectable only by a creature of the air. The figures
were written no more than two days ago.
She leafed back several pages worth, noting that
the handwriting changed from time to time.
"Who else kept the accounts besides your lord?"
she called into the next room.
"The seneschal; that was why his room has an
entrance on this one," the woman Katran replied,
entering the lord's room herself. "I can't imagine
why the door was barred. Lord Corbie almost never
left it that way."
"That's a lot of trust to place in a hireling."
"Oh, the seneschal isn't a hireling, he's Lord
Corbie's bastard brother. He's been the lord's right
hand since he inherited the lordship of Felwether."
The sun rose; Tarma was awake long before.
If the priest was surprised to see her change of
outfit, he didn't show it. He had brought a simple
meal of bread and cheese, and watered wine; he
waited patiently while she ate and drank, then
indicated she should follow him.
Tarma checked all her weapons. She secured all
the fastenings of her clothing (how many had died
because they had forgotten to tie something tightly
enough?), and stepped into place behind him, as
silent as his shadow.
He conducted her to a small tent that had been
erected in one corner of the keep's practice ground,
against the keep walls. The walls of the keep formed
two sides, the outer wall the third; the fourth side
was open. The practice ground was of hard-packed
clay, and relatively free of dust. A groundskeeper
was sprinkling water over the dirt to settle it,
Once they were in front of the little pavilion, the
priest finally spoke.
"The first challenger will be here within a few
minutes; between fights you may retire here to rest
for as long as it takes for the next to ready himself,
or one candlemark, whichever is longer. You will
be brought food at noon and again at sunset." His
expression plainly said that he did not think she
would be needing the latter, "and there will be
fresh water within the tent at all times. I will be
staying with you."
Now his expression was apologetic.
"To keep my partner from slipping me any magi-
cal aid?" Tarma asked wryly. "Hellfire, priest, you
know what I am, even if these dirt-grubbers here
don't!"
"I know, Sword Sworn. This is for your protec-
tion as well. There are those here who would not
hesitate to tip the hand of the gods somewhat."
Tarma's eyes hardened. "Priest, I'll spare who I
can, but it's only fair to tell you that if I catch
anyone trying an underhanded trick, I won't hesi-
tate to kill him."
"I would not ask you to do otherwise."
She looked at him askance. "There's more going
on here than meets the eye, isn't there?"
He shook his head, and indicated that she should
take her seat in the champion's chair beside the
tent-flap. There was a bustling on th
e opposite side
of the practice ground, and a dark, heavily bearded
man followed by several boys carrying arms and
armor appeared only to vanish within another, iden-
tical tent on that side. Spectators began gathering
along the open side and the tops of the walls.
"I fear I can tell you nothing, Sword Sworn. I
have only speculations, nothing more. But I pray
your little partner is wiser than I."
"Or I'm going to be cold meat by nightfall," Tarma
finished for him, watching as her first opponent
emerged from the challenger's pavilion.
The priest winced at her choice of words, but did
not contradict her.
Circles within circles. ...
Kethry had not been idle.
The sticky residue in the wineglass had been
more than just the dregs of drink; there had been a
powerful narcotic in it. Unfortunately, this just
pointed back to Myria; she'd been using just such a
potion to help her sleep since the birth of her son.
Still, it wouldn't have been all that difficult to
obtain, and Kethry had a trick up her sleeve, one
the average mage wouldn't have known; one she
would use if they could find the other bottle of
potion.
More encouraging was what she had found pe-
rusing the ledgers. The seneschal had been siphon-
ing off revenues; never much at a time, but steadily.
By now it must amount to a tidy sum. What if he
suspected Lord Corbie was likely to catch him at
Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound Page 18