Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  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 between 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 companion—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, since he kept no great number of men-at-arms, and 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 windows 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, bending over Myria and placing the blade in the startled girl's hands. "—hold this for a bit."

  Myria took the blade, eyes wide, a puzzled expression 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 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 anything 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.

  "I may need to conserve my energies. You can detect what I'd need a spell for—see if there's magical residue on the bar 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 human-like 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 looked 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 marriage 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 taking the chance of 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 answer 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, and blistering the air with his oaths."

  Myria gave a tiny cry and buried her face in her hands; Katran moved to comfort her as her shoulders 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; it would do nothing to augment Kethry's 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 Swordsworn 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 preparations 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 spangled 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." Her voice was as melodious as Tarma's was harsh.
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  "Lady," Tarma bowed her head in homage.

  "You have questions, child? No requests?"

  "No requests, Star-Eyed. My fate—does not interest me. I will live or die by my own skills. But Kethry's—"

  "The future is not easy to map, child, not even for a goddess. 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 of your blade, child; hear, then. If you fall tomorrow, your she'enedra—who has fewer compunctions than you and would have done this already had you not bound yourself to the trial—will work a spell that lifts both herself and the Lady Myria to a place leagues distant from here. And as she does this, Warrl will release Hellsbane and Ironheart and drive them out the gates. 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 heartbeat 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 Corbie's; plain stone walls, three entrances, no windows.

  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 wooden floor, no hidden entrances there. She knew the blank wall held nothing either; the other side was the courtyard of the manor. Furnishings; one table, one chair, one ornate bedstead against the blank wall, one bookcase, half filled, four lamp. 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 down. 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 accept 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 residue 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; made sure of all the fastenings of her clothing, 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 magical aid?" Tarma asked wryly. "Hellfire, priest, you know what I am, even if these dirt-grubbers here don't!"

  "I know, Swordsworn—this is for your protection 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 hesitate 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 the 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, identical tent on that side. Spectators began gathering along the open side and the tops of the walls.

  "I fear I can tell you nothing, Swordsworn. 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.

  * * *

  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 perusing the ledgers. The seneschal had been siphoning 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 it?

  Or even more—what if Lady Myria was found guilty and executed? The estate would go to her infant son—and who would be the child's most likely guardian but his half-uncle, the seneschal?

  And children die so very easily.

  Now that she had a likely suspect, Kethry decided it was time to begin investigating him.

  The first place she checked was the barred door. And on the bar itself she found an odd little scratch, obvious in the paint. It looked new—her air-spirit confirmed that it was. She lifted the bar after examining it even more carefully, finding no other marks on it but those worn places where it rubbed against the brackets that held it.

  She opened the door, and began examining every inch of the door and frame. And found, near the top, a tiny piece of hemp that looked as if it might have come from a piece of twine, caught in the wood of the door itself.

  Further examination of the door yielded nothing, so she turned her attention to the room beyond.

  It looked a great deal like the lord's room, with more books and a less ostent
atious bedstead. She called Warrl in and sent him sniffing about for any trace of magic. That potion required a tiny bit of magicking to have full potency, and if there was another bottle of it anywhere about, Warrl would find it.

  She turned her own attention to the desk.

  Tarma's first opponent had been good, and an honest fighter. It was with a great deal of relief—especially after she'd seen an anxious-faced woman with three small children clinging to her skirt watching every move he made—that she was able to disarm him and knock him flat on his rump without seriously injuring him.

  The second had been a mere boy; he had no business being out here at all. Tarma had the shrewd notion he'd been talked into it just so she'd have one more live body to wear her out. Instead of exerting herself in any way, she lazed about, letting him wear himself into exhaustion, before giving him a little tap on the skull with the pommel of her knife that stretched him flat on his back, seeing stars.

  The third opponent was another creature altogether.

  He was slim and sleek, and Tarma smelled "assassin" on him as plainly as if she'd had Warrl's clever nose. When he closed with her, his first few moves confirmed her guess. His fighting style was all feint and rush, never getting in too close. This was a real problem. If she stood her ground, she'd open herself to the poisoned dart or whatever other tricks he had secreted on his person. If she let him drive her all over the bloody practice ground he'd wear her down. Either way, she lost.

  Of course, she might be able to outfox him—

  So far she'd played an entirely defensive game, both with him and her first two opponents. If she took the offense when he least expected it, she might be able to catch him off his guard.