The Oathbound

by Mercedes Lackey

  And by such a betrayal she would probably die, for surely Thalhkarsh had warded his creature against magics. Or Need would blast her into death or mindlessness. Should she die, she could damn herself forever to Thalhkarsh’s particular corner of the Abyssal Plane, putting herself eternally in his power. It was a good bet he had planned that she must slay the bandit by magic, since Need would not serve against a woman—and certainly he had woven a spell that would backlash all her unleashed power on the caster. Kethry would be worse than dead—for she would be his for the rest of time, to wreak revenge on until even he should grow weary of it.

  Unless Tarma could stop her before she committed such self-damnation. And with time running out, there was only one way to save her.

  With an aching heart she cried out in her mind to Warrl, and Warrl responded with the lightning-fast reactions of the kyree kind, born in magic and bred of it.

  He leapt upon the unsuspecting Kethry from the rear, and with one crunch of his jaws, broke her neck and collapsed her windpipe.

  Both Kethry and the bandit collapsed—

  Tarma scrambled after the discarded mage-blade, conscious now only of a dim urge to keep Kethry’s treasured weapon out of profane hands, and to use the thing against the creature that had forced her to kill the only human she cared for. Need had hurt the demon before—

  But she had forgotten one thing.

  She wasn’t a mage, so Need’s other gift came into play; the gift that protected a woman warrior from magic, no matter how powerful. No magic not cast with the consent of the bearer could survive Need entering its field.

  The spell binding Tarma was broken, and she found herself in a body that had regained its normal proportions.

  This was just such a moment that the priest had been praying for. The spell-energy binding Kethry into Lastel’s body was released explosively with the death-blow. The priest took full control of that energy, and snatched her spirit before death had truly occurred. Using the potent energies released, he sent Lastel’s spirit and Kethry’s back to their proper containers.

  There were still other energies being released; those binding Lastel’s form into a woman’s shape, and those altering Tarma. Quicker than thought the priest gained hold of those as well. With half of his attention he erected a shield over the swordswoman and her partner; with the other he sent those demon-born magics hurtling back to their caster.

  Kethry had been stunned by Warrl’s apparent treachery; had actually felt herself dying—

  —and now suddenly found herself very much alive, and back in her proper body. She sat up, blinking in surprise.

  Beside her on the marble floor was a dead man, wearing the garments she herself had worn as Lastel. Warrl stood over him, growling, every hair on end. But her mage-sense for energy told her that the tale had not yet seen its end. As if to confirm this, a howl of anguish rose behind her “Noooooooooooo....”

  The voice began a brazen bass, and spiraled up to a fragile soprano.

  Kethry twisted around, staring in astonishment. Behind her was Thalhkarsh—

  A demon no longer. A male no longer. Instead, from out of the amethystine eyes of the delicate mortal creature he had mockingly called his toy stared Thalhkarsh’s hellspawn spirit—dumbfounded, glassy-eyed with shock, hardly able to comprehend what had happened to him. Powerless now—and as female and fragile as either of the two he had thought to take revenge upon—and a great deal more helpless.

  “This—cannot—be—” she whispered, staring at her thin hands. “I cannot have failed—”

  “My poor friend.”

  The little priest, whom Kethry had overlooked in the fight, having eyes only for the demon, his servants, and Lastel, reached for one of the demon’s hands with true and courageous sympathy.

  “I fear you have worked to wreak only your own downfall—as I warned you would happen.”

  “No—”

  “And you have wrought far too well, I fear—for if I read this spell correctly, it was meant to be permanent unto death. And as a demon, except that you be slain by a specific blade, you cannot die. Am I not correct?”

  The demon’s only response was a whimper, as she sank into a heap of loose limbs among the cushions of what once had been her throne, her eyes fogging as she retreated from the reality she herself had unwittingly created.

  Tarma let her long legs fold under her and sat where she had stood, trembling from head to toe, saying nothing at all, a look of glazed pain in her eyes.

  Kethry dragged herself to Tarma’s side, and sat down with a thump.

  “Now what?” Tarma asked in a voice dulled by emotional and physical exhaustion, rubbing her eyes with one hand. “Now what are we going to do with him?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “I shall take charge of her,” the priest said, “She is in no state to be a threat to us, and we can easily keep her in a place from which she shall find escape impossible until she has a true change of heart. My child,” he addressed himself to Tarma, concern in his eyes, “what is amiss?”

  “My bond—it’s gone—” she looked up at the priest’s round, anxious face, and the look in her eyes was of one completely lost.

  “Would you fetch my fellows from the temple?” he asked Kethry. “That one is locked within herself, but I may have need of them.”

  “Gladly,” Kethry replied, “but can you help her?”

  “I will know better when you return.”

  She ran—or tried to—to fetch the little priest’s fellow devotees. She all but forced herself past a skeptical novice left to guard the door by night; the noise she made when she finally was driven to lose her temper and shout at him brought the High Prelate of Anathei to the door himself. He was more than half asleep, wrapped in a blanket, but he came awake soon enough when she’d begun to relate the night’s adventures. He snapped out a series of orders that were obeyed with such prompt alacrity that Kethry’s suspicions as to their friend’s true rankings were confirmed long before three novices brought her his robes—those of an arch-priest—and half the members of the order, new-roused from their beds.

  Though simple, hardly more ornate than what he had worn to the inn, the robes radiated power that Kethry could feel even without invoking mage-senses.

  A half-dozen other members of his order scurried away from the convocation at the cloister door and came back wearing ceremonial garments and carrying various arcane implements. Kethry led the procession of cowled, laden priest-mages through the predawn streets at a fast trot. The night-watch took one look at the parade and respectfully stepped aside, not even bothering with hailing them.

  When she got them as far as the open door of the temple, her own strength gave out, and she stopped to rest, half-collapsed against the smiling image of the rain-god. By the time she reached the inner sanctum, they had the situation well in hand. The bodies had been carried off somewhere, the obscene carvings shrouded, a good deal of the blood cleaned up, and—most importantly—Thalhkarsh placed under such tight arcane bindings that not even a demi-god could have escaped.

  “I believe I can restore what was lost to your friend,” the priest said when Kethry finally gathered up enough courage to approach him. “But I shall need the assistance of both yourself and the kyree.”

  “Certainly, anything—but why? It will help if I know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  “You are familiar with her goddess, and as Shin‘a’in adopted, She shall hear you where she might not hear me. You might think of yourself as the arrow, and myself as the bow. I can lend your wish the power to reach the Star-Eyed, but only you of all of us know Her well enough to pick Her aspect from all the other aspects of the Lady.”

  “Logical—what do I do? Warrl says—‘whatever you want he’ll do’—”

  “Just try to tell her Warrior that the bond has been broken and needs to be restored—or Tarma may well—”

  “Die. Or go mad, which is the same thing for a Shin‘a’in.”

 
Kethry knelt at the priest’s feet on the cold marble of the desecrated temple floor, Warrl at her side. Tarma remained where she was, sunk in misery and loss so deep that she was as lost to the world around her as Thalhkarsh was.

  Kethry concentrated with all her soul as the priest murmured three words and placed his hand on her head and Tarma’s in blessing.

  Please Lady—please hear me, she thought in despair, watching Tarma’s dead eyes. I‘ve—I’ve been less understanding than I could have been. I forgot—because I wanted to—that I’m all the Clan she has left. I only thought of the freedom I thought I was losing. I don’t know You, but maybe You know me—

  There was no answer, and Kethry shut her eyes in mental agony. Please, hear us! Even if You don’t give a damn about us, she pledged herself to You—

  Foolish child.

  The voice in her mind startled her; it was more like music than a voice.

  I am nothing but another face of your own Lady Windborn—how could I not know you? Both of you have been wrong—but you have wrought your own punishment. Now forgive yourselves as you forgive each other—and truly be the two-made-one-

  Kethry nearly fainted at the rush of pure power that passed through her; when it ebbed, she steadied herself and glanced up in surprise.

  The little priest was just removing his hand from Tarma’s bowed head; his brow was damp with sweat, but relief showed in the smiling line of his mouth. As Tarma looked up, Kethry saw her expression change from one of pathetic bereavement to the utter relief of one who has regained something thought gone forevermore.

  A heavy burden of fear passed from Kethry’s heart at the change. She closed her eyes and breathed her own prayer of thanks.

  So profound was her relief that it was several moments before she realized Tarma was speaking to the priest.

  “I don’t know how to—”

  “Then don’t thank me,” he interrupted. “I simply re-opened what the demon had closed; my pleasure and my duty. Just as tending to the demon as she is now is my duty.”

  “You’re certain you people can keep him—or should I say her?—from any more trouble?” she asked doubtfully of her erstwhile debating partner as Kethry shook off her weariness and looked up at them. To the sorceress’ profound gratitude, Tarma looked to be most of the way back to normal—a rapid recovery, but Kethry was used to rapid recoveries from the Shin‘a’in. The face she turned to Kethry was calm and sane once again, with a hint of her old sense of humor. She reached out a hand, and Tarma caught it and squeezed it once, without taking her attention from the priest.

  “Sworn One, we are placing every safeguard known to mortal man upon her and the place where we shall keep her,” the little priest said soberly. “The being Thalhkarsh shall have no opportunity for escape. Her only chance will be to truly change, for the spells we shall use will not hold against an angelic spirit, only one of evil intent. Truly you have given us the opportunity we have long dreamed of.”

  “Well,” Tarma actually grinned, though it was weakly. “After all, it isn’t every day someone can present you with a captive demon to preach to. Not to put too fine a point on it, we’re giving you folk a chance to prove yourselves.” She managed a ghost of a chuckle. “Though I’ll admit I had no notion you were capable of restraining demons so handily.”

  “As you yourself pointed out, Sworn One, when one goes to preach to demons, the preacher had best be either agile or a very fine magician.” The balding priest’s brown eyes vanished in smile wrinkles. “And as your partner has rightly told me, while Thalhkarsh seems helpless now, there is no guarantee that she will remain so. We prefer to take no chance. As you say, this is our unlooked-for opportunity to prove the truth of our way to the entire world, and as such, we are grateful to you beyond telling.”

  With that, the little priest bowed to both of them, and his train of underlings brought the once-demon to her feet, bound by spells that at the moment were scarcely needed. She was numbly submissive, and they guided her out the way they had come, bound for their own temple.

  Kethry got to her feet and silently held out her hand to Tarma, who took it once again with no sign of resentment, and pulled herself to her feet by it. They left the scene of slaughter without a backward glance, moving as quickly as their aching bodies would allow, eager to get out into the clean air.

  “Warrior’s Oath—how long have we been in there?” Tarma exclaimed on seeing the thin sliver of moon and the positions of the stars.

  “About twenty-four candlemarks. It’s tomorrow morning. Is—that‘s not your sword, is it?” Kethry, lagging a little behind, saw that the shape strapped to Tarma’s back was all wrong.

  “ ‘No disaster without some benefit,’ she‘enedra,” Tarma lifted a hand to caress the unfamiliar hilt. “I’ve never in my life had a weapon like this one. There’s no magic to it beyond exquisite balance, fantastic design, and the finest steel I’ve ever seen, but it is without a doubt the best blade I’ve ever used. It acted like part of my arm—and you’re going to have to cut off that arm to get it away from me!”

  Briefly alarmed by her vehemence, Kethry stretched weary mage-senses one more time, fearing to find that the blade was some kind of ensorcelled trap, or bore a curse.

  She found nothing, and sighed with relief. Tarma was right, there was no hint of magic about the blade, and her partner’s reaction was nothing more than that of any warrior who has just discovered her ideal dreamed-of weapon.

  They limped painfully back to their inn with Warrl trailing behind as guard against night-thugs, stopping now and then to rest against a handy wall or building. The night-watch recognized Kethry and waved them on. The cool, clean air was heavenly after the incense and perfume-laden choke of the temple. When they finally reached their inn, they used the latchstring on their window to let themselves back inside and felt their way into their room with only the banked embers of the hearth-fire for light. Kethry expended a last bit of mage- power and lit a candle, while Tarma dropped her weapons wearily. Beds had never looked so inviting before.

  And yet, neither was quite ready to sleep.

  “This time we’ve really done it, haven’t we?” Tarma ventured, easing her “borrowed” boots off her feet and pitching them out the open window for whoever should find them in the morning to carry away. She stripped as quickly as her cuts and bruises would permit, and the clothing followed the boots as the Shin‘a’in grimaced in distaste; Kethry handed her clean breeches and an undertunic from her pack and Tarma eased herself into them with a sigh and numerous winces.

  “You mean, we’ve locked him up for good? I think so; at least insofar as I can ever be sure of anything. And we aren’t going to make the mistake of forgetting about him again.”

  “Lady Bright, not bloody likely!” Tarma shuddered. “We’ll be getting messages from the Temple every two months, like clockwork; that was part of the agreement I made with little Nemor. Huh, think of him as archpriest—seems logical now, but he sure doesn’t look the part.”

  “Until he puts on the authority. I could almost feel sorry for old Thalhkarsh. I can’t imagine a worse punishment for a demon than to have sweetness-and-light preached at him for as long as he lives—which might well be forever.”

  “And besides—” Tarma smiled, getting up with a muffled groan and another grimace, and walking over to the window. She leaned out, letting the breeze lift her hair and cool her face. “Who knows? They might succeed in redeeming him....”

  “Tarma—all this—we both nearly died. I would have died with a broken promise to you on my soul.”

  Kethry paused for a long moment, so long that Tarma was afraid she wasn’t going to finish what she had begun to say.

  She turned from looking out the window to regard her partner soberly, knowing that Kethry had something troubling her gravely. Even Warrl looked up from where he lay on Tarma’s bed, ears pricked and eyes unfathomable. Finally Kethry sighed and continued.

  “I guess what I want to ask you is this. D
o you want me—us—to stop this wandering? To go back to the Plains? After all, it’s me that’s been keeping us on the road, not you. I—haven’t found any man I’d care to spend more than a night or two with, but that really doesn’t matter to my promise. It doesn’t take liking to get children. Oh, hell, there’s always Justin and Ikan, I do like them well enough to share a bed with them for a bit. And once we had some children, I could keep myself in practice easily enough. I could establish a White Winds school even without the cash—I’m getting close enough to Adept to do that now. I’d rather have better circumstances to do that than we have right now, but I could scrape along. We certainly have the reputation now to attract good pupils.”

  Tarma turned back to gaze up at the waning moon, troubled. It was true that the most important thing in the world to her was the re-founding of her slaughtered Clan—and they had nearly died without being any closer to that goal.

  There were times when she longed for the tents of her people and the open Plains with all her soul. And there were other negatives to this life they were leading. There was no guarantee something like this couldn’t happen again. Being gang-raped, or so she suspected, had been the least of the unspeakable things she’d suffered unaware in Thalhkarsh’s hands.

  Far worse was the absence of the Star-Eyed’s presence in her soul when she’d returned to herself. And when her goddess had not returned to her with Thalhkarsh’s transformation, she’d been afraid for a moment that the Warrior would not take her back with her celibacy violated.

  That had turned out to be a foolish fear, as her priest-friend had proved to her. No sooner had he cleansed her of the last of Thalhkarsh’s magic-bindings, then she felt the Warrior’s cool and supportive presence once again in her heart; the asexual psychic armor of the Sword Sworn closed around her again, and she could regard the whole experience as something to learn and benefit from. She was heart-whole and healed again—in spirit if not in body.