The mist swirled, billowed—grew dark, then bright, then dark again. It glowed from within, the color a strange silver-blue. Then the mist condensed around the glow, forming a suggestion of a long road, a road under sunlight—and out of the center of the glowing cloud rode Idra.
Char gave a strangled cry, and fell to his knees before the rider. But for the moment she was not looking at him.
She was colorless as moonlight, and as solidly real as any of Tarma’s leshya‘e-Kal’enedral. When Kethry had decided to open the Gate, she had faced this moment of seeing Idra’s face with a tinge of fear, wondering what she would see there. She feared no longer. The long, lingering gazes Idra bestowed upon each of her “children” were warm, and full of peace. This was no spirit suffering torment—
But the face she turned upon her brother was full of something colder than hate, and more implacable than anger.
“Hello, Char,” she said, her voice echoing as from across a vast canyon. “You have a very great deal to answer for.”
Tarma led two dozen bone-weary Hawks back into Petras that morning; they made no attempt to conceal themselves, and word that they were coming—and word of what they carried—preceeded them. The streets of Petras cleared before their horses ever set hoof upon them, and they rode through a town that might well have been emptied by some mysterious plague. But eyes were watching them behind closed curtains and sealed shutters ; eyes that they could feel on the backs of their necks. There was fear echoing along with the sounds of hoofbeats along those streets. Fear of what the Hawks had done; fear of what else they might do—
By the time they rode in through the gates of the Palace, a nervous crowd had assembled in the court, and Stefansen was waiting on the stairs.
The Hawks pulled up in a semicircle before the new King, still silent but for the sound of their horses’ hooves. As the last of the horses moved into place, the last whisper coming from the crowd died, leaving only frightened, ponderous silence, a silence that could almost be weighed and measured.
There was a bloodstained bundle lashed on the back of Raschar’s horse, a bundle that Tindel and Tarma removed, carried to the new King’s feet, and dropped there without ceremony.
The folds of what had been Char’s cloak fell open, revealing what the cloak contained. Stefan, though he had visibly steeled himself, turned pale. There was just about enough left of Raschar to be recognizable.
“This man was sworn Oathbreaker and Outcast,” Tarma said harshly, tonelessly. “And he was so sworn by the full rites, by a priest, a mage, and an upright man of his own people, all of whom he had wronged, all of whom had suffered irreparable loss at his hands. We claim Mercenary’s Justice on him, by the rights of that swearing; we executed that Justice upon him. Who would deny us that right?”
There was only appalled silence from the crowd.
“I confirm it,” Stefansen said into the silence, his voice firm, and filling the courtyard. “For not only have I heard from a trusted witness the words of his own mouth, confessing that he dishonored, tortured and slew his own sister, the Lady Idra, Captain of the Sunhawks and Princess of the blood, but I have had the same tale from the servants of his household that we questioned last night. Hear then the tale of Raschar the Oathbreaker.”
Tarma stood wearily through the recitation, not really hearing it, although the murmurs and gasps from the crowd behind her told her that Stefan was giving the whole story in all its grimmest details. The mood of the people was shifting to their side, moment by moment.
And now that the whole thing was over, all she wanted to do was rest. The energy that had sustained her all this time was gone.
“Are there any,” she heard Stefansen cry at last, his voice beaking a little, “who would deny that true justice has been dispensed this day?”
The thunderous NO! that followed his question satisfied even Tarma.
Quite a little family party, Tarma thought wryly, surveying the motley individuals draped in various postures of relaxation around the shabby-comfortable library of Stefansen’s private suite.
:Enjoy it while you can,: Warrl laughed in her mind, : It won’t be too often that you can throw cherry-stones at both a King and a Crown Prince when they tease you.:
It was only Roald, and he was asking for it—
Stefansen had been officially crowned two days ago, and Roald had arrived as Valdemar’s official representative, complete with silver coronet on his blond head—and with a full entourage, as well. The time between the night of the rebellion and the day of the coronation had been so hectic that no one had had a chance to hear the full story of the rebellion from either Tarma, Kethry or Jadrek. So Stefansen had decreed today that he was having a secret Council session, had all but kidnapped his chosen party and locked all of them away. Included in the party were himself and Merits; and he had taken care that there was a great deal of food and drink and comfortable seats for all. And once everyone was settled in, he had demanded all the tales in their proper order.
The entire “Council” was mostly Sunhawks or ex-Hawks; Sewen and Tresti; Justin and Ikan; Kyra, Beaker and Jodi. Tarma herself, and Kethry, of course. Then the “outsiders”—Tindel, Jadrek, and Roald.
It had taken a long time to get through the whole story—and when Kyra had finished the last of the tales, telling in her matter-of-fact way how Idra had ridden out of the cloud of mist and moonlight, you could have heard a mouse sneeze.
“What I don’t understand is how you Hawks took that so calmly,” Tindel was saying. “I was as petrified as Char, I swear—but you—it was like she was—real.”
“Lad,” Beaker said in a kindly tone (to a man at least a decade or two his senior!), “We’ve ridden with Idra through things you can’t imagine; she’s stood by us through fear and flood and Hellfire itself. How could we have been afraid of her? She was only dead. It’s the living we fear.”
“And rightly,” Justin rumbled into the somber silence that followed Beaker’s words. “And speaking of the living, you will never guess who sauntered in two days ago, Shin‘a’in.”
Tarma shook her head, baffled. She’d been spending most of her free time sleeping.
“Your dear friend Leslac.”
“Oh no!” she choked. “Justin, if I’ve ever done you any favors, keep him away from me!”
“Leslac?” Roald said curiously. “Minstrel, isn’t he? Dark hair, swarthy, thin? Popular with women?”
“That’s him,” groaned Tarma, hiding her face in her hands.
“What’s it worth to you,” he asked, leaning forward, and wearing a slyly humorous expression, “to get him packed off to Valdemar? Permanently?”
“Choice of Tale‘sedrin’s herds,” she said quickly, “Three mares and a stallion, and anything but battlesteeds.”
“Four mares, and one of them sworn to be in-foal.”
“Done, done, done!” she replied, waving her hands frantically.
“Stefan, old friend,” Roald said, turning to the King, “Is it worth an in-foal Shin‘a’in mare to force a swordpoint marriage by royal decree on one motheaten Bard?” Roald’s face was sober, but his eyes danced with laughter.
“For that, I’d force a swordpoint marriage on Tindel!” Stefansen chuckled. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
“Countess Reine. She’s actually a rather sweet old biddy, unlike her harridan sister, who is—thank the gods!—no longer with us. I’m rather fond of her, for all that she hasn’t the sense of a new-hatched chick.” Roald shook his head, and sighed. “A few years back, her sister went mad during a storm and killed herself. Or so it’s said, and nobody wants to find out otherwise. I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on her, to keep her out of trouble.”
“How delightful.”
“Oh, it isn’t too bad; she just has this ability to attract men who want to prey on her sensibilities. They are, of course, all of honorable intent.”
“Of course,” said Stefan, solemnly.
“Well, Leslac seems to be another o
f the same sort. It’s common knowledge in my entourage that the poor dear is absolutely head over heels with him. And his music. He, naturally, has been languishing at her feet, accepting her presents, and swearing undying love when no one else is around, I don’t doubt. I can see it coming now; he figures that when I find out, I’ll confront him—he’ll vow he isn’t worthy of her, being lowborn and all, I’ll agree, and he’ll get paid off. But I actually have no objection to lowborn-highborn marriages; I expect Reine’s family will be only too happy to see the end of the stream of vultures that’s been preying on her, and I can see a way of doing two friends a favor here. I’m certain that the threat of royal displeasure if he makes Reine unhappy will keep the wandering fancy in line once I get him back with me.”
“I,” Tarma said fervently, “will be your devoted slave for the rest of your life. Both of you.”
Stefan shook his head at her. “I owe you too much, Tarma, and if this will really make you happy—”
“It will! Trust me, it will!”
“Consider it ordered, Roald. Now I have a question for you two fellow-conspirators over there. What can I do for you?”
“If you’re serious—” Kethry began.
“Totally. Anything short of being crowned; unless the Sword sings for you, even I can’t manage that. Titles? Lands? Wealth—I can’t quite supply; Char made too many inroads in the Treasury, but—”
“For years we have wanted to found a joint school,” Kethry said, slowly. “‘Want’ is actually too mild a word. By the edicts of my own mage school, now that I’m an Adept I just about have to start a branch of the White Winds school. What we need, really, is a place with a big enough building to house our students and teachers, and enough lands to support it. But that kind of property isn’t easily come by.”
“Because it’s usually in the hands of nobles or clergy. I’m disappointed,” Stefan said with a grin, “I thought you’d want something hard. One of Char’s hereditary holdings was a fine estate down in the south, near the border—a large manorhouse, a village of its own, and an able staff to maintain it. It is, by the by, where I was supposed to end my days in debauchery. It has an indoor riding arena attached to the stable because Char hated to ride when it rained, it has a truly amazing library; why it even has a professional salle, because the original builder was a notable fighter. Is that just about what you’re looking for?”
Tarma had felt her jaw dropping with every word, until, when Stefan glanced over at her with a sly smile and a broad wink, she was unable to get her voice to work.
Kethry answered for her. “Windborn—gods, yes! I—Stefan, would you really give it to us?”
“Well, since the property of traitors becomes property of the crown, and since I have some very unpleasant memories of the place—Lady Bright, I’m only too pleased that you want it! Just pay your taxes promptly, that’s all I ask!”
Tarma tried to thank him, but her voice still wouldn’t work. Kethry made up for her—leaping out of her chair and giving the King a most disrespectful hug and kiss, both of which he seemed to enjoy immensely.
“Furthermore, I’ll be sending my offspring of both sexes to you for training,” he continued. “If nothing else, I want them to have the discipline of a good swordmaster, something I didn’t have. Maybe that will keep them from being the kind of brat I was. This will probably scandalize my nobles—”
“Oh, it will, lover,” Mertis laughed, “But I agree with the notion. It will do the children good.”
“Then my nobles will have to live with being scandalized. Now, I want the rest of you to decide what you’d like,” he said when Kethry had resumed her seat, but not her calm. “Because I’m going to do my best by all of you. But right now I fear I do have a Council session, and there are a lot of unpleasant messes Char left behind him that need attending to.”
Stefan rose, and gave his hand to Mertis, and the two exited gracefully from the library. The rest clustered around Tarma and her partner, congratu lating them—
All but Jadrek, who had inexplicably vanished.
The partners made their weary way to their rooms. It had been a long day, but for Tarma, a very happy one
But Kethry was preoccupied—and a little disturbed, Tarma could sense it without any special effort.
“Keth?” she asked, finally, “What’s stuck in your craw?”
“‘It’s a Jadrek. He hasn’t said anything or come near me since the night of the rebellion.” She turned troubled and unhappy eyes on her partner. “I don’t know why; I thought he loved me—I know I love him. And this afternoon—just disappearing like that—”
“Well, we’re official now. He’s reverting to courtly manners. You don’t go sneaking around to a lady’s room; you treat her with respect.”
“Courtly manners be hanged!” Kethry snapped. “Dammit Tarma, we’ll be gone soon! Doesn’t he care? If he doesn’t say something—”
“Then you’ll hit him over the head and carry him off, like the uncivlized barbarian mercenary I know you are. And I’ll help.”
Kethry started laughing at that. “I hate to tell you this, but that’s exactly what I’ve been contemplating.”
“Go make wish-lists of things you think you’ll be needing for this new school of ours,” Tarma advised her. “That should keep your mind occupied. I have the feeling this is going to sort itself out before long.”
She parted company with her she‘enedra at Kethry’s door. They had rooms inside the royal complex now, not in the visitors area. Stefansen was treating them as very honored guests.
She knew she wasn’t alone the moment she closed the door behind her. She also knew who it was—without Warrl’s helpful hint of :It’s Jadrek. I let him in. He wants to talk:
“Tarma—”
“Hello, Jadrek,” she said calmly, lighting a candle beside the door before turning around to face him. “We haven’t been seeing a lot of you; we’ve missed you.”
“I’ve been thinking,” he said awkwardly. “I—”
She crossed her arms, and waited for him to continue. He straightened his back and lifted his chin. “Tarma shena Tale‘sedrin,” he said, with all the earnest solemnity of a high priest, “Have I your permission to pay my court to your oathsister?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Can you give me a good reason why I should?”
Her question wilted him. He sat down abruptly, obviously struggling for words. “I—Tarma, I love her, I really do. I love her too much to just play with her, I want something formal binding us, something—in keeping with her honor. She’s lovely, you know that as well as I do, but it isn’t just her exterior I care for, it’s her mind. She challenges me, like nobody I’ve ever known before. We’re equals—I want to be her partner, not—not a—I don’t know, I want to have something like Mertis and Stefan have, and I know we’ll give each other that! I want to help you with your schools, too. I think it’s a wonderful dream and I want to make it real, and work alongside of both of you to make it more than a dream.”
“We’re something more than partners, she and I,” Tarma reminded him. “There’s certain things between us that will affect any children Kethry may have.”
“I took the liberty of asking Warrl about that,” he said, blushing. “I don’t have any problem with—children. With them being raised Tale‘sedrin. Everything I know about the Shin’a‘in, everything I’ve learned in working with you—I would be very, very proud if you considered my blood good enough to flow into the Clans. Tarma, this is probably going to sound stupid, but I’ve come to—love—you. You’ve done so much for me, more than you guess. What I really want is that what we’ve built with the three of us in the last few months should endure—the friendship, the love, the partnership. I never had that before—and I’d do anything right now to prevent losing either of you.”
Tarma looked into his pleading eyes—and much to his evident shock and delight, she took both his hands, pulled him up out of his chair into her arms, hugged him just short of
breaking his ribs, and planted a kiss squarely in the middle of his forehead before letting him go again.
“Well, outClan brother,” she laughed, “while I can’t speak for the lady, I would suggest you trot next door and ask her for her hand yourself—because I do know that if you don‘t, you’re going to find yourself trussed hand and foot and lying over Hellsbane’s rump like so much baggage. You see, we happen to be barbarians, and we will do anything to prevent losing you. He shala?”
His mouth worked for a moment, as he stared at her, his eyes brightening with what Tarma suspected were tears of joy. Then he took her face in both his hands, kissed her, and ran out her door as if joy had put wings on his back.
“Better get Stefan to pick your successor,” she called after him. “Because we’re going to keep you much too busy to putter about in his Archives.”
And so they did.
Appendix One
Dictionary of Shin‘a’in Terms
PRONUNCIATION:
‘ : glottal stop, a pause, but not quite as long a pause as between two words
ai: as in air
ay: long “a” as in way
ah: soft “a” as in ah
ee: long “e” as in feet
ear: as in fear
e: as in fend
i: long “i” as in violent
oh: long “o” as in moat
oo: as in boot
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