*Rise, Chosen; it is not in Me to be pleased with subservience,* She said to the Herald, who obeyed Her at once, rising to stand silently and worshipfully at Tarma's shoulder. *Vai datha—so, young princeling, your land forges white Swords that fit the same sheath as My black, eh?* She laughed, soundlessly, looking from Roald to Tarma and back again. *Such a pretty pair you make, like moon and cloud, day and night, bright and dark. How an artist would die for such a sight! Two such opposites—and yet so much the same!*
It was only then that Tarma saw that the white clothing she had been wearing had been transmuted to the Warrior's own ebony, as was proper for Kal'enedral.
*And you. My gentle Child—* She continued, caressing the white horse's shining neck, *—are leshya'e Kal'enedral of another sort, hmm? Like My Hands, and unlike. Perhaps to complete the set I should see if any of My Children would become as you. What think you, should there be sable Companions to match the silver?* The look the horse—no, Companion—bent upon Her was one of reproach. She laughed again. *Not? Well, it was but a thought. But this is well met, and well met again! This is a good land, yours. It deserves good servants, strong defenders—vigilant champions to guard it and hold it safe as My Hands hold Mine. Do we not all serve to drive back the Dark, each in his own fashion? So I cry—well met. Children of My Other Self!*
She turned that steady regard back to Tarma. *Are you answered. My cautious one?*
Tarma bowed her head briefly, filled with such relief that she was nearly dizzy with it. And filled as suddenly with an understanding of exactly what and who this Herald and his Companion were. "I am answered, Bright Star."
*Then let white Sword and black serve as they are meant—to cleave the True Darkness, and not each other, as you each feared might befall.*
There was another breath of hot wind, a surging of power that left Tarma's eyes dazzled, and She was gone.
The Herald closed his eyes briefly, and let out the breath he had been holding in a great sigh. As the horse returned to stand beside him, he opened his eyes again, and turned to face Tarma.
"Forgive me for doubting you, even a little," he said, his voice and the hand he extended to her trembling slightly. "But I followed you out here because—"
"For the same reason I would have followed you had our positions been reversed," Tarma interrupted, clasping the hand he stretched out. "I wasn't expecting Her when I called, but I think I know now why She came. Both of us have had our doubts settled, haven't we—brother?"
His hold on her hand was warm and steady, and his smile was unwavering and equally warm. "I think, more than settled, sister."
She caught his other hand; they stood facing each other with hands clasped in hands for a very long time, savoring the moment. There was nothing even remotely sexual about what they shared in that timeless space; just the contentment and love of soul-sib meeting soul-sib, something akin to what Tarma had for Kethry—
—and, she realized, with all the knowledge that passed to her from her Goddess in her moment of enlightenment, what this Herald shared with his Companion. For it was no horse that stood beside Roald, and she wondered now how she could have ever thought that it was. Another soul-sib. And—how odd—even the Heralds don't know exactly what their Companions are—
It was Roald who finally sighed, and let the moment pass. "I fear," he said, dropping her hands reluctantly, "that if we don't get back to the others soon, they'll think we've either frozen to death, or gotten lost."
"Or," Tarma laughed, giving his shoulders a quick embrace before pulling her cloak back around herself, "murdered each other out here! By the way—" She stretched out her arm, showing him that the tunic she wore was still the black of a starless night. "—I wonder how we're going to explain what happened to the clothing I borrowed?"
He laughed, long and heartily. "Be damned if I know. Maybe they won't notice? Right—not likely. Oh well, I'll think of something. But you owe me, Swordlady; that was my second-best set of Whites before you witched it!"
Tarma joined his laughter, as snow crunched under their boots. "Come to the Dhorisha Plains when this is over, and I'll pay you in Shin'a'in horses and Shin'a'in gear! It will break their artistic hearts, but I think I can persuade some of my folk to make you a set of unadorned Kal'enedral white silks."
"Havens, lady, you tempt my wandering feet far too much to be denied! You have a bargain," he grinned, taking the porch steps two at a time and flinging open the door for her with a flourish. "I'll be at your tent flap someday when you least expect it, waiting to collect."
And, unlikely as it seemed, she somehow had the feeling that he would one day manage to do just that.
Nine
It was difficult, but by no means impossible, to pull energies from the sleeping earth in midwinter. All it took was the skill—and time and patience, and Kethry had those in abundance. And further, she had serious need of any mote of mage-energy she could harbor against the future, as well as any and all favors she could bank with the other-planar allies she had acquired in her years as a White Winds sorceress. She had not had much chance to stockpile either after the end of the Sunhawks' last commission, and the journey here had left her depleted down to her lowest ebb since she and Tarma had first met.
So she was not in the least averse to spending as much time in the hidden lodge with Stefansen and Mertis as the winter weather made necessary; she had a fair notion of the magnitude of the task awaiting them. She and Jadrek and Tarma might well be unequal to it—
In fact, she had come to the conclusion that they would need resources she did not have—yet.
On a lighter note, she was not at all displeased about being "forced" to spend so much time in Jadrek's company. Not in the least.
She was sitting cross-legged on the polished wooden floor next to the fireplace, slowly waking her body up after being in trance for most of the day. Jadrek was conversing earnestly with Roald, both of them in chairs placed where the fire could warm him, and she could study him through half-slitted eyes at her leisure.
Jadrek seemed so much happier these days—well, small wonder. Stefansen respected him, Mertis admired him, Tarma allowed him to carry her off to interrogate in private at almost any hour. She was willing to answer most of his questions about the "mysterious" (at least to the folk of Rethwellan) nomad Shin'a'in. Roald did him like courtesy about the equally "mysterious" Heralds of Valdemar. Both of them accorded him the deference due a serious scholar. Warrl practically worshiped at his feet (Jadrek's ability to "hear" the beast being in no wise abated), and he seemed to share Tarma's feeling of comradeship with the kyree. Being given the respect he was (in all sober truth) due had done wonders for his state of mind. As the days passed, the lines of bitterness around his mouth were easing into something more pleasant. He smiled, and often, and there was no shadow of cynicism in it; he laughed, and there was no hint of mockery.
Physically he was probably in less pain than he had been for years—which Kethry was quite sure was due to Need's Healing abilities. Need was exerting her magic for a man because he was important to Kethry. For Kethry had no doubt as to how she felt about the Archivist. If there was ever going to be one man for her, Jadrek was that man.
All the men I've known, she thought with a touch of wry humor, and all the men I've been courted by—it boggles the mind. Mages, fighters—some of them damned good looking. Good lord, if you were to count Thalhkarsh, I've even been propositioned by a godling! And who is it that attracts me like no one else ever has? A scholar half again my age, who I could probably break in half if I put my mind to it, with no recourse to Need required.
"…Like all those weirdling things out of the Pelagirs," Roald finished, "Except that this thing seems impossible to kill."
"The Pelagirs?" Jadrek exclaimed, perplexed. "But I thought you said this thing was seen north of Lake Evendim?"
"It was—right in the heart of the Pelagir Hills."
"Wait a moment," Jadrek said, rummaging in the pile of clutter u
nder his chair, and hunting up a piece of scraped vellum and a bit of charcoal. "All right—here's the lake—your Pelagirs are where?"
"Up here." The Herald took the charcoal from him and sketched.
"Huh." Jadrek studied the sketch thoughtfully. "We have a range of hills we call the Pelagirs, too—here."
"Well! I will be dipped for a sheep—"
"Fairly obvious, now that we have the information, isn't it?" Jadrek said with a grin. "Your Pelagirs and ours are the same; except that your inland sea cuts off the tail of the range, leaving it isolated from the rest up in your northwest corner. And now that I know that's true, I think I know what your 'man-beast' is, assuming I've got the description right. Four arms, twice man-height, face like a boar and taloned hands? No sign of genitals, nipples or navel, and the color of clay?"
"That's it."
"It's a krashak, a mage-made construct. Virtually immortal and indestructible."
"You can name it; can you tell us how to get rid of it?" Roald pleaded.
"Oddly enough, yes; it's a funny thing, but High Magick seems curiously vulnerable to Earth Magick, and with all the mages hanging about Char I took to looking for spell-breakers. It will take courage, but if you can get in close to the thing without it seizing you, and throw a mixture of salt, moly and Lady's Star into its eyes and mouth, it will literally fall apart." He coughed, coloring a little with embarrassment. "I know it sounds like a peasant superstition, but it does work. I found a mage I could trust, and asked him. Now I—I always carry some with me...."
Roald only looked impressed. "Havens, how long did you have to look before you found that out?"
Jadrek flushed, this time with pleasure. "Well, I got the first hint of it from a translation of Grindel's Discourses on Unnatural History."
"The Orwind translation, or the Quenta?"
"The Orwind...." Their voices sank again and Kethry lost the thread of their conversation. It didn't much matter; she was more interested in watching Jadrek in an unguarded mood. Oh, that mind! I don't think anything ever escapes him. And, for all that he's been treated badly, he so enjoys people—such a vital spirit in that flawed body. He's so alive. And damn it, I—Windborn, he makes me so shameless that I feel like a cat in heat around him. I want to purr and cuddle up against him—gods, I am bloody well infatuated. If he so much as raised an eyebrow in invitation at me, I'd warm his bed in a minute!
Unfortunately, he seemed blissfully unaware of that fact, so far as she could tell. Oh well....
As for Tarma, from the moment she had reentered the hall arm in arm with Roald, Stefansen and Mertis accepted her without reservation. And that meant that Mertis was only too happy to let her play nursemaid to little Megrarthon whenever she wished. Which was most of the time.
And which was precisely what she was doing at this very moment.
She's as happy as Jadrek, Kethry mused. For that matter, so is the babe. Just look at her—
Tarma was cuddling the happily cooing child in her black-clad arms, her expression a soft and warm one that few besides Kethry had ever seen. The hands that had killed so often, and without remorse, were holding the little one as gently as if he were made of down and spun glass. The harsh voice that had frightened many an errant fighter into instant obedience was crooning a monotonous lullabye.
She'd be happiest surrounded by a dozen small ones, or two or three dozen. And they know it; children know it, somehow. I've never seen one run from her, not even in the midst of a house-to-house battle. More often than not, they run to her. And rightly; she'd die to protect a child. When this is over—when this is over, I swear we'll give this up. Win or lose, we'll refound her Clan for her, and to the nether hells with my school if that's what it takes. I'll spend the rest of my life as a hedgewizard and Shin'a'in horsebreeder if I have to.
While she watched, Tarma put the now-slumbering child back in his cradle; rose, stretching like a cat, then began heading for the fire. The two men at hearthside turned at the soft sound of her footstep, and smiled as one. She saw the smiles, and returned their grins with a good-natured shake of her head.
"And what are you two smirking about?" she asked, clasping her hands behind her and detouring slightly to stroll over to them, her lithe, thin body seeming almost to move fluidly, bonelessly.
The rest has done her good, too. She's in better shape than she's been in months—years—
"Trying to imagine you as a man, Darksib," Roald teased, using the pet name he'd invented for her. "Put a youngling around you, and you'd give yourself away in a breath."
"Hah. I'm a better actor than that. But as to that," she paused before them, crossed her arms, and frowned a little, "you know, we really ought to be getting on with it. Raschar isn't sitting back, not likely. He's consolidating his power, you can bet on it. We had better be safely in place before he gets himself so ensconced on the throne that there'll be no dislodging him without an army."
Kethry felt the last of her muscles emerge into wakefulness, and began uncoiling from her position in the hearth-corner.
"The sleeper awakes," Roald noted.
"Not sleeper," she corrected, imitating Tarma's long stretch. "I've been listening while I was coming out of trance. And, loath though I am to leave, in agreement with Tarma. I'm at full power now; Tarma and Jadrek have recovered. It's time to go."
She half expected Jadrek to protest, but he, too, nodded. "If we don't go now," he opined, gravely, "Stefan won't have a kingdom to come back to. But I do have one excellent question—this plan of ours calls for Tarma to replace the champion, and you can bet that Char won't let a Shin'a'in within a spear's cast of him now. So to truly ensure her safety, that means a full magical disguise. With all the mages in the Court, how are you going to hide the fact that Tarma's bespelled? They won't let anyone with a smell of magic on him compete with the King's champion, you know."
Tarma raised an interrogative eyebrow at her. "The thought had occurred to me, too," she said. "Every trial-by-combat that I've ever seen has specifically forbidden any kind of magic taint, even lucky amulets."
"Well, I'll answer that in an hour," Kethry replied.
"Why in an hour?"
"Because that's how long it will take me to try a full Adept manifestation, and see if it succeeds or fails."
Kethry didn't want an audience, not for this. Not even Tarma. So she took one of the fur cloaks and went out into the snow-laden scrub forest until she found a little clearing that was far enough from the lodge that she couldn't see or sense the building or the people within it. The weather was beautiful; the air was utterly still, the sky a deepening blue, the sun beginning its downward journey into the west. There would be no better time than now.
A mage of the White Winds school was tested by no one except himself, with a series of spells marking the rise in ability from Apprentice to Journeyman, from Journeyman to Master, and from Master to Adept. A mage could attempt these spells whenever he chose, and as many times as he chose. They would only work when he was truly ready. The series was constructed so that the power granted by each was used to fuel the spell for the next.
A little like priming a pump, I suppose; and if you don't nave faith that you're ready, you can't bear to waste the power. I feel ready, Kethry decided. Well—
She initiated the Journeyman spell, gathering her own, strictly personal power about her like a cloak, and calling the Lesser Wind of Fire and Earth, the Stable Elements. It chose to come out of the south, always a good omen, and whirled about her three times, leaving more power than it took to call it. She fairly glowed with energy now, even to normal eyes.
Next—the Master Spell, and the Greater Wind of Air and Water, the Mutable Elements—the Mutables were much harder to control than the Stable Elements.
She raised her hands high over her head, and whispered the words of the spell as she formed the energy left by the first with her will into the mageshapes called the Cup and the Mill—concentrating with all her soul—calling, but not coercing.
This time the wind came from all four directions and melded into a gentle whirlwind around her, a wind that sang and sparkled with unformed power. When it, too, had circled her three times, she was surrounded by a shell of light and force that shifted and changed moment by moment, opalescing with every color that the mind could conceive.
She drew a deep breath and launched herself fearlessly into the Spell of Adept Manifestation—calling the White Wind itself—the Wind of the Five Elements.
It required the uttermost of any mage that dared it; she must take the power granted her by the first two spells and all of her own, and weave it into an intricate new shape with her will—and the power fought back, resisting the change to itself, twisting and twining in her mental "hands." Simultaneously, she must sing the words of the spell, controlling tone, tempo, and cadence to within a hairsbreadth of perfection. And she must keep her mind utterly empty of all other thought but the image of the form she strove to build. She dared not even allow a moment to contemplate failure, or fail she would. One mistake, and the power would vanish, escaping with the agility of a live thing.
She finished. She held her breath. There was one moment of utter quietude, as time and all time governed ceased—and she wondered.
Had she failed?
And then the White Wind came.
It fountained up out of the ground at her feet as she spread her arms wide, growing into a geyser of power and light and music that surrounded her and permeated her until all she could see and hear and feel was the light and the force. She felt the power fill her mind and give her soul great wings of fire—
It was sundown when she stepped back through the door; Tarma had plainly expected her to be exhausted, and was openly astonished to see that she wasn't.
"It worked," she said with quiet rapture, still held by the lingering exaltation—and just a little giddy with the intoxication of all that power flowing through her.
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