Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  "I still live! And while I live, Tale'sedrin lives!"

  "A Clan is more than a single individual, it is a living, growing thing," she replied, "You are Kal'enedral; you are barren seed by vow and by the Warrior's touch. How can Tale'sedrin be alive in you, when you cannot give it life?"

  "Kal'enedra, Tarma, we have no wish to take from you what is yours by right of inheritance," the Warleader of Liha'irden said placatingly. "The herds, the goods, they are still yours. But the Children of the Hawk are no more; you are vowed to the Shin'a'in, not to any single Clan. Let the banner be buried with the rest of the dead."

  "No!" Tarma's left hand closed convulsively on the hilt of her dagger, and her face was as white as marble. "Sooner than that I would die with them! Tale'sedrin lives!"

  "It lives in me." Kethry laid one restraining hand on Tarma's left and then stepped between her and the Council. "I am she'enedra to the Sworn One—does this not make me Shin'a'in also? I have taken no vows of celibacy; more, I am a White Winds sorceress, and by my arts I can prolong the period of my own fertility. Through me Tale'sedrin is a living, growing thing!"

  "How do we know the bond is a true one?" One of the group of five, a wizened old man, asked querulously.

  Kethry held up her right hand, palm out, and reached behind her to take Tarma's right by the wrist and display it as well. Both bore silvered, crescent-shaped scars.

  "By the fact that She blessed it with Her own fire, it can be nothing but a true bond—" Tarma began, finding her tongue again.

  "Sheka!" the old man spat, interrupting her. "She says openly she is a sorceress. She could have produced a seeming sign—could have tricked even you!"

  "For what purpose?"

  "To steal what outClan have always wanted; our battlesteeds!"

  Tarma pulled her hand away from Kethry's and drew her sword at that venomous accusation.

  "Kethry has saved my life; she has bled at my side to help me avenge Tale'sedrin," Tarma spat, holding her blade before her in both hands, taking a wide-legged, defensive stance. "How dare you doubt the word of Kal'enedral? She is my true she'enedra by a Goddess-blessed vow, and you will retract your damned lie or die on my blade!"

  Whatever tragedy might have happened next was forestalled by the battle scream of a hawk high in the sky above Kethry. For some reason—she never could afterward say why—she flung up her arm as Tarma had to receive the hawk in the forest.

  A second scream split the air, and a golden meteor plummeted down from the sun to land on Kethry's wrist. The vorcel-hawk was even larger than Moonsong's had been, and its talons bit into Kethry's arm as it flailed the air with its wings, mantling angrily at the Council. Pain raced up her arm and blood sprang out where the talons pierced her, for she had no vambrace such as Tarma wore. Blood was dying the sleeve of her robe a deep crimson, but Kethry had endured worse in her training as a sorceress. She bit her lip to keep from crying out and kept her wrist and arm steady.

  The members of the Council—with the exception of the Clan Chief, the Shaman and the Healer of Liha'irden—stepped back an involuntary pace or two, murmuring.

  Tarma held out her arm, still gripping her blade in her right hand; the hawk lifted itself to the proffered perch, allowing Kethry to lower her wounded arm and clutch it to her chest in a futile effort to ease the pain. Need would not heal wounds like these; they were painful, but hardly life-threatening. She would have to heal them herself when this confrontation was over; for now, she would have to endure the agony in silence, lest showing weakness spoil Tarma's bid for the attention of the Council.

  "Is this omen enough for you?" Tarma asked, in mingled triumph and anger. "The emblem of Tale'sedrin has come, the spirit of Tale'sedrin shows itself—and it comes to Kethry, whom you call outClan and deceiver! To me, she'enedra!"

  Again, without pausing for second or third thoughts, Kethry reached out her wounded right hand and caught Tarma's blade-hand; the hawk screamed once more, and mantled violently. It hopped along Tarma's arm until it came to their joined hands, hands that together held Tarma's blade outstretched, pointing at the members of the Council. There it settled for one moment, one foot on each wrist.

  Then it screamed a final time, the sound of its voice not of battle, but of triumph, and it launched itself upward to be lost in the sun.

  Kethry scarcely had time to notice that the pain of her arm was gone, before the young Healer of Liha'irden was at her side with a cry of triumph of his own.

  "You doubt—you dare to doubt still?" he cried, pulling back a sleeve that was so soaked with blood that beneath it the flesh was surely pierced to the bone. "Look here, all of you—look!"

  For beneath Kethry's sleeve her arm was smooth and unwounded, without so much as a scar.

  Five

  The gathering-tent was completely full; crowded with gaudily garbed Shin'a'in as it was, it would have been difficult to find space for even a small child. Tarma and Kethry had places of honor near the center and the firepit. Since the confrontation with the Council and their subsequent vindication, their credit had been very high with the Liha'irden.

  "Keth—" Tarma's elbow connected gently with Kethry's ribs.

  "Huh?" Kethry started; she'd been staring at the fire, more than half mesmerized by the hypnotic music three of her Liha'irden "cousins" had been playing. Except for her hair and eyes she looked as Shin'a'in as Tarma; weeks in the sun this summer had turned her skin almost the same golden color as her partner's, and she was dressed in the same costume of soft boots, breeches, vest and shirt, all brightly colored and heavily embroidered, that the Shin'a'in themselves wore. If anything, it was Tarma who stood out in her sober brown.

  It had been a good time, this past spring and summer; a peaceful time. And yet, Kethry was feeling a restlessness. Part of it had to be Need's fault; the sword wanted her about and doing. But part of it—part of it came from within her. And Tarma was often unhappy, too. She hadn't said anything, but Kethry could feel it.

  "It's your turn. What's it going to be; magic, or tale?"

  The children, who had been lulled by the music, woke completely at that. Their young voices rose above the murmuring of their elders, all of them trying to have some say in the choice of entertainment. Half of them were clamoring for magic, half for a story.

  These autumn gatherings were anticipated all year; in spring there were the young of the herds to guard at night, in summer night was the time of moving the herds, and in winter it was too cold and windy to put up the huge gathering-tent. Children were greatly prized among the Clans, but normally were not petted or indulged—except here. During the gatherings, they were allowed to be a little noisy; to beg shamelessly for a particular treat.

  This was the first time Tarma had included her she'enedra in the circle of entertainment, and the Liha'irden were as curious about her as young cats.

  "Does it have to be one or the other?" Kethry asked.

  "Well, no..."

  "All right then," Kethry said, raising her voice to include all of them. "In that case, I'll tell you and show you a tale I learned when I was an apprentice with Melania of the White Winds Adepts." She settled herself carefully and spun out some of her own internal energy into an illusion-form. She held out her hands, which began to glow, then the thin thread of the illusion-form spun up away from them like a wisp of rising smoke. The tendril rose until it was just above the heads of the watching Shin'a'in, then the end thickened and began to rotate, drawing the rest of the glow up into itself until it was a fat globe dancing weightlessly up near the centerpole.

  "This is the tale as it was told me," Kethry began, just as the Shin'a'in storytellers had begun, while the children oohed and whispered and the adults tried to pretend they weren't just as fascinated as the children. "Once in a hollow tree on the top of a hill, there lived a lizard."

  Within the globe the light faded and then brightened, and a scene came into focus; a stony, vetch-covered hill surmounted by a lightning-blasted tree of great girth, a tr
ee that glowed ever so faintly. As the Clansfolk watched, a green and brown scaled lizard poked his head cautiously out of a crevice at the base of it; the lizard looked around, and apparently saw nothing, for the rest of him followed. Now even the adults gasped, for this lizard walked erect, like a man, and had a head more manlike than lizard-like.

  "The lizard's name was Gervase, and he was one of the hertasi folk that live still in the Pelagir Hills. Hertasi once were tree-lizards long, long ago, until magic changed them. Like humans, they can be of any nature; good or bad, kind or cruel, giving or selfish. But they all have one thing in common. All are just as intelligent as we are, and all were made that way long ago by magic wars. Now this Gervase knew a great deal about magic; it was the cause of him being the way he was, after all, and there was so much of it in the place where he lived that his very tree-home glowed at night with it. So it isn't too surprising that he should daydream about it, now, is it?"

  The scene changed; the children giggled, for the lizard Gervase was playing at being a wizard, just as they had often done, with a hat of rolled-up birch bark and a "wand" of a twisted branch.

  "He wanted very badly to be a wizard; he used to dream about how he would help those in trouble, how he would heal the sick and the wounded, how he would be so powerful he could stop wars with a single wave of his wand. You see, he had a very kind heart, and all he ever really wanted to do was to make the world a little better. But of course, he knew he couldn't; after all, he was nothing but a lizard."

  The lizard grew sad-looking (odd how body language could convey dejection when the creature's facial expressions were nil), put aside his hat and wand, and crawled up onto a branch to sit in the sun and sigh.

  "Then one day while he was sunning himself, he heard a noise of hound and horse in the distance."

  Now the lizard jumped to his feet, balancing himself on the branch with his tail while he craned his neck to see as far as he could.

  "While he was trying to see what all the fuss was about, a man stumbled into his clearing."

  A tattered and bloody human of early middle age fell through the bushes, catching himself barely in time to keep from cracking his head open on the rocks. There was a gasp from the assembled Clansfolk, for the man had plainly been tortured. Kethry had not toned the illusion-narrative down much from the one she'd been shown; firstly, the children of the Clans were used to bloodshed, secondly, it brought the fact home to all of them that this was a true tale.

  The man in the illusion was dark-haired and bearded; bruised and beaten-looking. And if one looked very carefully, it was possible to see that the rags he wore had once been a wizard's robe.

  "Gervase didn't stop to wonder about who the man was or why he was being chased; he only knew that no thinking creature should hunt another down like a rabbit with dogs and horses. He ran to the man—"

  The lizard slid down the tree trunk and scampered to the fallen wizard. Now it was possible to see, as he helped the man to his feet, that he was very close to being man-sized himself, certainly the size of a young adolescent. At first the man was plainly too dazed to realize what it was that was helping him, then he came to himself and did a double take. The shock and startlement on his face made the children giggle again—and not just the children.

  "'Come, human,' Gervase said. 'You must hide in my tree, it's the only place where you can be safe. I will keep the dogs away from you.' The wizard—for that was what he was—did not waste any breath in arguing with him, for he could clearly hear the dogs baying on his track."

  The lizard half-carried the man to the crevice in the tree; the man crawled inside. Gervase then ran over to a rock in the sun and arranged himself on it, for all the world like an ordinary (if overly-large) lizard basking himself.

  "When the dogs came over the hill, with the hunters close behind them, Gervase was ready."

  As the dogs and the horses burst through the underbrush, Gervase jumped high in the air, as if startled out of his wits. He dashed back and forth on all fours for a moment, then shot into the crack in the tree. There he remained, with his head sticking out, obviously hissing at the dogs that came to bark and snap at him and the man he was protecting. When one or two got too close, Gervase bit their noses. The dogs yelped and scuttled to the rear of the pack, tails between their legs, while the entire tent roared with laughter.

  "Then the man who had been hunting the wizard arrived, and he was not pleased. He had wanted the wizard to serve him; he had waited until the wizard's magics were either exhausted or nullified by his own magicians, then he had taken him prisoner and tortured him. But our wizard had pretended to be unconscious and had escaped into the Pelagirs. The lord was so angry he had escaped that he had taken every hunter and dog he had and pursued him—but thanks to Gervase, he thought now that he had lost the trail."

  The plump and oily man who rode up on a sweating horse bore no small resemblance to Wethes. Tarma smiled at that, as the "lord" whipped off his hounds and laid the crop across the shoulders of his fearful huntsman, all the while turning purple with rage. At length he wrenched his horse's head around, spurring it savagely, and led the lot out of the clearing. Gervase came out of hiding; so did the wizard.

  "The wizard was very grateful. 'There is a great deal of magical energy stored in your home,' he said. 'I can grant you nearly anything you want, little friend, if you'll let me use it. What way can I reward you?' Gervase didn't even have to think about it. 'Make me a man like you!' he said, 'I want to be a man like you!' Think carefully on what you're asking,' the mage said. 'Do you want to be human, or do you want to be a magician? You have the potential within you to be a great mage, but it will take all the magic of your tree to unlock it, and even then it will take years of study before you can make use of your abilities. Or would you rather have the form of a human? That, too, will take all the magic of your tree. So think carefully, and choose.'"

  The little lizard was plainly in a quandary; he twitched and paced, and looked up at the sky and down at the ground for help.

  "Gervase had a terrible decision, you see? If he became a human, people would listen to him, but he wouldn't have the magic to do what he wanted to do. But if he chose to have his Gifts unlocked, where would he find someone who would teach the use of them to a lizard? But finally, he chose. 'I will be a mage,' he said, 'and somewhere I will find someone willing to teach me, someone who believes that good inside is more important than the way I look on the outside.'"

  The wizard in the vision smiled and raised his hands over Gervase. The tree began to glow brightly; then the glow flowed off the tree and over the little lizard, enveloping him and sinking into him.

  "'You need look no further, little friend,' said the mage, when he'd done. For I myself will teach you, if you wish to be my apprentice.'"

  Gervase plainly went half-mad with joy; he danced comically about for a good several minutes, then dashed into the now-dark tree and emerged again with a few belongings tied into a cloth. Together he and the mage trudged down the path and disappeared into the forest. The glowing globe went dark then, and vanished slowly, dissolving like smoke.

  "And that is the tale of how Gervase became an apprentice to Cinsley of White Winds. What happened to him after that—is another tale."

  The applause Kethry received was as hearty as ever Tarma had gotten back in the days when her voice was the pride of the Clans.

  "Well done," Tarma whispered, when the attentions of those gathered had turned to the next to entertain.

  "I was wondering if my doing magic would offend anyone—" Kethry began, then looked up, suddenly apprehensive, seeing one of the Clansfolk approaching them.

  And not just any Shin'a'in, but the Shaman.

  The grave and imposing woman was dressed in earthy yellows this evening; she smiled as she approached them, as if she sensed Kethry's apprehension. "Peace, jel'enedra," she said quietly, voice barely audible to the pair of them over the noise of the musicians behind her. "That was well done."
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br />   She seated herself on the carpeted floor beside them. "Then—you didn't mind my working magic?" Kethry replied, tension leaving her.

  "Mind? Li'sa'eer! Anything but! Our people seldom see outClan magic. It's well to remind them that it can be benign—"

  "As well as being used to aid the slaughter of an entire Clan?" Tarma finished. "It's well to remind them that it exists, period. It was that forgetfulness that lost Tale'sedrin."

  "Hai, you have the right of it. Jel'enedra. I sense a restlessness in you. More, I sense an unhappiness in both you and your oathkin."

  "Is it that obvious?" Kethry asked wryly. "I'm sorry if it is."

  "Do not apologize; as I said, I sense it in your she'enedra as well."

  "Tarma?" Kethry's eyebrows rose in surprise.

  "Look, I don't think this is where we should be discussing this," Tarma said uncomfortably.

  "Will you come to my tent, then, Kal'enedra; you and your oathsister?" The request was more than half command, and they felt almost compelled to follow her out of the tent, picking their way carefully among the crowded Clansfolk.

  Tarma was curious to see what the Shaman's dome-shaped tent looked like within; she was vaguely disappointed to see that it differed very little from her own inside. There was the usual sleeping pad of sheepskins and closely-woven woolen blankets, the mule-boxes containing personal belongings and clothing, two oil-lamps, and bright rugs and hangings in profusion. It was only when Tarma took a closer look at the hangings that she realized that they were something out of the ordinary. They seemed to be figured in random patterns, yet there was a sense of rhythm in the pattern-like writing.

  The Shaman seemed uncannily aware of what Tarma was thinking. "Hai, they are a written history of our people; written in a language all their own. It is a language so concise that one hundred years of history can be contained in a single hanging."

  Tarma looked around the tent, and realized that there must be close to fifty of these hangings, layered one upon the other. But—that meant five thousand years!