The Oathbound

by Mercedes Lackey

  Kethry hadn’t much cared where she wandered; this was her time of journey, she wouldn’t settle in any one place until she reached the proficiency of an Adept. Then she would either found a school of her own, or find a place in an established White Winds enclave. So Tarma’s overwhelming need to return home had suited her as well as anything else.

  Until she had realized that the road they were on led directly to Mornedealth.

  It all comes back to that, doesn’t it? And until I face it, I’m stalemated. Dammit, Tarma’s right. I’m a full sorceress, I’m a full adult, and I have one damned fine swordswoman for a partner. What in Teslat’s name am I afraid of? There is nothing under the law that they can really do to me-I’ve been separated from Wethes for seven years, and three is enough to unmake the marriage, assuming there really was one. I’m not going in under my full name, and I’ve changed so much. How are they even going to recognize me?

  Across the shelter Tarma stirred, and curled herself into a tighter ball. Kethry smiled and shook her head, thinking about her partner’s words on the subject.

  “Do you want them sliced lengthwise or widthwise” —Windborn, she is such a bundle of contradictions. We have got to start talking; we hardly know anything about one anothes. Up until now, we’ve had our hands full of bandit-extermination, then there just wasn’t the privacy. But if I’d had all the world to choose a sister from, I would have picked her over any other. Goddess-oath and all, I would have chosen her. Though that Warrior of hers certainly took the decision right out of our hands.

  Kethry contemplated the sleeping face of her partner. In repose she lost a great deal of the cold harshness her expression carried when she was awake. She looked, in fact, a great deal younger than Kethry was.

  When she sleeps, she’s the child she was before she lost her Clan. When she’s awake—I’m not sure what she is. She eats, drinks and breathes the Warrior, that’s for certain, yet she hasn’t made any move to convert me. I know it would please her if I did, and it wouldn’t be any great change to do so; her Goddess just seems to me to be one more face of the Windborn Soulshaper. She seems like any other mercenary hire-sword—insisting on simple solutions to complicated problems, mostly involving the application of steel to offending party. Then she turns around and hits me with a sophisticated proverb, or some really esoteric knowledge—like knowing that mind-magic is used in Valdemar. And she’s hiding something from me; something to do with that Goddess of hers, I think. And not because she doesn’t trust me ... maybe because I don’t share her faith. Her people—nobody really knows too much about the Shin‘a’in; they keep pretty much to themselves. Of course that shouldn’t be too surprising; anyone who knew the Dhorisha Plains the way they do could dive into the grass and never be seen again, if that’s what he wanted to do. You could hide the armies of a dozen nations out there, and they’d likely never run into each other. Assuming the Shin‘a’in would let them past the Border. I suspect if Tale‘sedrin had been on the Plains instead of camped on the road to the Great Horse Fair the bandits would be dead and the Hawk’s Children still riding. And I would be out a sister.

  Kethry shook her head. Well, what happened, happened. Now I have to think about riding into Mornedealth tomorrow. Under a glamour?

  She considered the notion for a moment, then discarded it. No. I’ll go in wearing my own face, dammit! Besides, the first sorcerer who sees I’m wearing a glamour is likely to want to know why—and likely to try to find out. If I’m lucky, he’ll come to us with his hand out. If I’m not, he’ll go to Wethes or Kavin. No, a glamour would only cause trouble, not avoid it. I think Tarma’s right; we’ll go in as a mercenary team, no more, no less, and under her Clanname. We’ll stay quiet, draw no attention to ourselves, and maybe avoid trouble altogether. The more complicated a plan is, the more likely it is to go wrong....

  Kethry began formulating some simple story for her putative background, but the very act of having faced and made the decision to go in had freed her of the tension that was keeping her sleepless. She had hardly begun, when her weariness claimed her.

  The blizzard cleared by morning. Dawn brought cloudless skies, brilliant sun, and still, cold air that made everything look sharp-edged and brightly-painted. The cleared camp and rode off into a world that seemed completely new-made.

  Tarma was taken totally by surprise by the changeling forest; she forgot her homesickness, forgot her worry over Kethry, even temporarily forgot how cold she was.

  Birdcalls echoed for miles through the forest, as did the steady, muffled clop of their mounts’ hooves. The storm had brought a fine, powder like snow, snow that frosted every branch and coated the underbrush, so that the whole forest reflected the sunlight and glowed so that they were surrounded by a haze of pearly light. Best of all, at least to Tarma’s mind, the soft snow was easy for the beasts to move through, so they made good time. Just past midafternoon, glimpses of the buildings and walls of Mornedealth could be seen above and through the trees.

  It was a city made of the wood that was its staple in trade; weathered, silver-gray wooden palisades, wooden walls, wooden buildings; only the foundations of a building were ever made of stone. The outer wall that encircled it was a monument to man’s ingenuity and Mornedealth’s woodworkers; it was two stories tall, and as strong as any corresponding wall of stone. Granted, it would never survive being set afire, as would inevitably happen in a siege, but the wall had never been built with sieges in mind. It was intended to keep the beasts of the forest out of the city when the hardships of winter made their fear of man less than their hunger, and to keep the comings and goings of strangers limited to specific checkpoints. If an enemy penetrated this realm so far as to threaten Mornedealth, all was lost anyway, and there would be nothing for it but surrender.

  Since the only city Tarma had ever spent any length of time in was Brether’s Crossroads—less than half the size of Mornedealth—the Shin‘a’in confessed to Kethry that she was suitably impressed by it long before they ever entered the gates.

  “But you spent more than a year hunting down Gregoth and his band. Surely you—”

  “Don’t remember much of that, she‘enedra. It was a bit like being in a drug haze. I only really came awake when I was tr—” she suddenly recalled that Kethry knew nothing of her faceless trainers and what they were, and decided that discretion was in order. “When I had to. To question someone, or to read a trail. The rest of the time, I might just as well not have been there, and I surely wasn’t in any kind of mood for seeing sights.”

  “No—you wouldn’t be. I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking at all.”

  “Nothing to apologize for. Just tell me what I’m getting into here. You’re the native; where are we going?”

  Kethry reined in, a startled look on her face. “I—I’ve spent so much time thinking about Kavin and Wethes ...”

  “Li‘sa’eer!” Tarma exclaimed in exasperation, pulling Kessira up beside her. “Well, think about it now, dammit!” She kneed her mare slightly; Kessira obeyed the subtle signal and shouldered Rodi to one side until both of the beasts had gotten off onto the shoulder of the road, out of the way of traffic. There wasn’t anybody in sight, but Tarma had had yuihi‘so’coro—road-courtesy—hammered into her from the time she was old enough to sit a horse unaided. No Shin‘a’in omitted road-courtesy while journeying, not even when among deadly enemies. And road-courtesy dictated that if you were going to sit and chat, you didn’t block the progress of others while you were doing it.

  “We’ll have to use the Stranger’s Gate,” Kethry said after long thought, staring at the point where the walls of Mornedealth began paralleling the road. “That’s no hardship, it’s right on the Trade Road. But we’ll have to register with the Gate Guard, give him our names, where we’re from, where we’re going, and our business here.”

  “Warrior’s Oath! What do they want, to write a book about us?” Tarma replied with impatience.

  “Look, this is as much for our sakes as theirs
. Would you want total strangers loose in your Clan territory?”

  “Sa-hai. You’re right. Not that strangers ever get past the Border, but you’re right.”

  “The trouble is, I daren’t tell them what I really am, but I don’t want to get caught in a complicated falsehood.”

  “Now that’s no problem,” Tarma nodded. “We just tell him a careful mixture of the truth with enough lie in it to keep your enemies off the track. Then?”

  “There are specific inns for travelers; we’ll have to use one of them. They won’t ask us to pay straight off, we’ll have three days to find work and get our reckoning taken care of. After that, they confiscate everything we own except what we’re wearing.”

  Tarma snorted a little with contempt, which obviously surprised Kethry.

  “I thought you’d throw a fit over the notion of someone taking Kessira.”

  “I’d rather like to see them try. You’ve never seen her with a stranger. She’s not a battle-steed, but nobody lays a finger on her without my permission. Let a stranger put one hand on her rein and he’ll come away with a bloody stump. And while he’s opening his mouth to yell about it, she’ll be off down the street, headed for the nearest gate. If I were hurt and gave her the command to run for it, she’d carry me to the closest exit she could remember without any direction from me. And if she couldn’t find one, she might well make one. No, I’ve no fear of anyone confiscating her. One touch, and they wouldn’t want her. Besides, I have something I can leave in pledge—I’d rather not lose it, but it’s better than causing a scene.”

  Tarma took off her leather glove, reached into the bottom of her saddlebag and felt for a knobby, silk-wrapped bundle. She brought the palm-sized package out and unwrapped it carefully, uncovering to the brilliant sunlight an amber necklace. It was made of round beads alternating with carved claws or teeth; it glowed on the brown silk draped over her hand like an ornament of hardened sun-beams.

  “Osberg wore that!”

  “He stole it from me. I took it back off his dead body. It was the last thing Dharin gave me. Our pledge-gift. I never found the knife I gave him.”

  Kethry said nothing; Tarma regarded the necklace with a stony-cold expression that belied the ache in her heart, then rewrapped it and stowed it away. “As I said, I’d rather not lose it, but losing it’s better than causing a riot. Now how do we find work?”

  “We’d be safest going to a Hiring Hall. They charge employers a fee to find people with special talents.”

  “Well, that’s us.”

  “Of course, that’s money we won’t see. We could get better fees if we went out looking on our own, but it would probably take longer.”

  “Hiring Hall; better the safe course.”

  “I agree, but they’re sure to notice at the gate that my accent is native. Would you mind doing the talking?”

  Tarma managed a quirk of the lips that approximated a half-smile. “All right, I’ll do all the talking at the gate. Look stupid and sweet, and let them think you’re my lover. Unless that could get us in trouble.”

  Kethry shook her head. “No, there’s enough of that in Mornedealth. Virtually anything is allowed provided you’re ready to pay for it.”

  “And they call this civilization! Vai datha; let’s get on with it.”

  They turned their beasts once more onto the road, and within a candlemark were under scrutiny of the sentries on the walls. Tarma allowed a lazy, sardonic smile to cross her face. One thing she had to give them; these guards were well disciplined. No catcalls, no hails, no propositions to Kethry—just a steady, measuring regard that weighed them and judged them unthreatening for the moment. These “soft, city-bred” guards were quite impressive.

  The Stranger’s Gate was wide enough for three wagons to pass within, side by side, and had an ironwork portcullis as well as a pair of massive bleached-wood doors, all three now standing open. They clattered under the wall, through a wooden-walled tunnel about three horse-lengths deep. When they reached the other entrance, they found themselves stopped by a chain stretched across the inner side of the gate. One of the men standing sentry approached them and asked them (with short words, but courteous) to follow him to a tiny office built right into the wall. There was always a Gate Guard on duty here; the man behind the desk was, by the insignia pinned to his brown leather tunic, a captain. Kethry had told her partner as they approached the walls that those posted as Gate Guards tended to be high-ranking, and above the general cut of mercenary, because they had to be able to read and write. Their escort squeezed them inside the door, and returned to his own post. The Gate Guard was a middle-aged, lean, saturnine man who glanced up at them from behind his tiny desk, and without a word, pulled a ledger, quill and ink from underneath it.

  The Gate Guard was of the same cut as the men on the walls; Tarma wondered if Kethry would be able to pass his careful scrutiny. It didn’t look like he missed much. Certainly Kethry looked nothing like a Shin‘a’in, so she’d have to be one damn convincing actress to get away with claiming a Shin‘a’in Clanname.

  Tarma stole a glance sideways at her partner and had to refrain from a hoarse chuckle. Kethry wore a bright, vapid smile, and was continuously fussing with the way her cloak draped and smoothing down her hair. She looked like a complete featherhead. No problem. The Guard would have very little doubt why the partner of a rather mannish swordswoman was claiming her Clanname!

  At the Guard’s brusque inquiry as to their names and business, Tarma replied as shortly, “We’re Shin‘a’in mercenaries. Tarma shena Tale‘sedrin, Kethry shena Tale’sedrin. We’re on our way back to the Dhorisha Plains; I’ve got inheritance coming from my Clan I need to claim. But we’ve run out of provisions; we’re going to have to take some temporary work to restock.”

  “Not much call for your kind on a temporary basis, Swordlady,” he replied with a certain gruff respect. “Year contract or more, sure; Shin‘a’in have a helluva reputation. You’d be able to get top wage as any kind of guard, guard-captain or trainer; but not temporary. Your pretty friend’s in mage-robes; that just for show, or can she light a candle?”

  “Ah, Keth’s all right. Good enough to earn us some coin, just no horse-sense, he shala? She’s worth the trouble taking care of, and for more reasons than one, bless her.”

  “Eyah, and without you to keep the wolves away, a pretty bit like that’d get eaten alive in a week,” the Guard answered with a certain gleam of sympathy in his eyes. “Had a shieldmate like that in my younger days, fancied himself a poet; didn’t have sense enough to come in out of a storm. Caught himself a fever standing out in a blizzard, admiring it; died of it eventually—well, that’s the way of things. You being short of coin; tell you what, one professional to another—you go find the Broken Sword, tell ‘em Jervac sent you. And I hear tell the Hiring Hall over by the animal market was on the lookout for a mage on temp.”

  “Will do—luck on your blade, captain.”

  “And on yours. Ah—don’t mount up; lead your beasts, that’s the law inside the gates.”

  As they led their mounts in the direction the Gate Guard had indicated, Kethry whispered, “How much of that was good advice?”

  “We’ll find out when we find this inn; chances are he’s getting some kickback, but he could be doing us a good turn at the same time. Thanks for the help with the ruse of being your protector; that should warn off anybody that might be thinking your services other than magery are for hire. We couldn’t have done better for a sympathizer if we’d planned this, you know, that’s why I played it a bit thick. He had the feeling of a she‘chorne; that bit about a ’shieldmate’ clinched it. If you’re not lovers, you call your partner ‘shieldbrother,’ not ‘shieldmate.’ How are you doing?”

  Kethry looked a bit strained, but it was something likely only someone who knew her would have noticed. “Holding up; I’ll manage. The more time I spend with nobody jumping me out of the shadows, the easier it’ll get. I can handle it.”

  �
�Vai datha.” If Kethry said she’d be able to handle her understandable strain, Tarma was willing to believe her. Tarma took the chance to look around, and was impressed in spite of herself. “Damn, Greeneyes, you never told me this place was so big!”

  “I’m used to it,” Kethry shrugged.

  “Well, I’m not,” Tarma shook her head in amazement. The street they led their beasts on was fully wide enough for two carts with plenty of space for them to pass. It was actually paved with bricks, something Tarma didn’t ever remember seeing before, and had a channel down the middle and a gutter on either side for garbage and animal droppings. There were more people than she ever recalled seeing in one place in her life; she and Kethry were elbow to elbow in the crush. Kessira snorted, not liking so many strangers so close. “Why isn’t anyone riding? Why’d the Guard say riding was counter the law?” Tarma asked, noticing that while there were beasts and carts in plenty, all were being led, like theirs—just as the guard had told them.

  “No one but a member of one of the Fifty is allowed to ride within the walls, and for good reason. Think what would happen if somebody lost control of his beast in this crush!”

  “Reasonable. Look, there’s our inn—”

  The sign was plain enough—the pieces of an actual blade nailed up to a shingle suspended above the road. They turned their mounts’ heads into a narrow passage that led into a square courtyard. The inn itself was built entirely around this yard. It was two-storied, of the ubiquitous wood stained a dark brown; old, but in excellent repair. The courtyard itself was newly swept. The stabling was to the rear of the square, the rest of the inn forming the other three sides.

  “Stay here, I want to have a look at the stabling. That will tell me everything I need to know.” Tarma handed over her mare’s reins to Kethry, and strode purposefully toward the stable door. She was intercepted by a gray-haired, scar-faced man in a leather apron.