Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound

by The Oathbound [lit]

  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