The Oathbound (11 page)

It braked its descent with a thunder of wings, wings that seemed to Kethry to belong to something at least the size of an eagle. Talons like ivory knives bit into the leather of Tarma’s vambrace; the wings fanned the air for a heartbeat more, then the bird settled on Tarma’s forearm, regal and gilded.

“Well if I’d wanted a good omen, I couldn’t have asked for a better,” Tarma said in astonishment. “This is a vorcel-hawk; you see them more on the plains than in the forests—it’s my Clan’s standard.”

The bird was half-again larger than any hawk Kethry had ever seen; its feathers glistened with an almost metallic gold sheen, no more than a shade darker than the bird’s golden eyes. It cocked its head to one side and regarded Kethry with an intelligent air she found rather disturbing. Rodi snorted at the alien creature, but Kessira stood calmly when one wing flipped a hair‘s-breadth from her ear, apparently used to having huge birds swoop down at her rider from out of nowhere.

“Now, who speaks for you, winged one?” Tarma turned her attention fully to the bird on her arm, stroking his breast feathers soothingly until he settled, then running her hand down to his right leg and examining it. Kethry edged closer, cautiously; wary of the power in that beak and those sharp talons. She saw that what Tarma was examining was a wide band on its leg, a band of some shiny stuff that wasn’t metal and wasn’t leather.

“Moonsong k‘Vala, hmmm? Don’t know the name. Well, let’s send the invitation to talk. I really should at least pay my respects before leaving the trees, if anyone wants to take them, so ...”

Tarma lowered her arm a little, and the hawk responded by moving up it until he perched on her shoulder. His beak was in what Kethry considered to be uncomfortably close proximity to Tarma’s face, but Tarma didn’t seem at all concerned. Thinking about the uncertain temperament of all the raptors she’d ever had anything to do with, Kethry shivered at Tarma’s casualness.

When the bird was safely on her shoulder, Tarma leaned over a little and rummaged in her saddlebag, finally coming up with a cluster of three small medallions. Kethry could see that they were light copper disks, beautifully enameled with the image of the bird that sat her shoulder.

She selected one, dropepd the other two back in her bag; then with great care, took a thong from a collection of them looped to a ring on her belt, passed the thong through the hole in the top of the medallion and knotted it securely. She offered the result to the bird, who looked at it with a surprising amount of intelligence before opening his beak slowly and accepting the thong. He bobbed his head twice, the medallion bouncing below his head, and Tarma raised her arm again. He sidled along it until he reached her wrist, and she launched him into the air. His huge wings beat five or six times, raising a wind that fanned their hair, then he was lost to sight among the branches.

“What was that all about?”

“Politeness, more than anything. The Hawkbrothers have known we were here from the moment we entered the forest, and they knew I was Shin‘a’in Kal‘enedral when they came to look at us in person—that would have been the first night we camped. Since then they’ve just been making sure we didn’t wander off the track, or get ambushed by something we couldn’t handle. We’ll be leaving the forest soon.”

“Soon? When?”

“Keep your breeches on, girl! Tomorrow afternoon at the latest. Anyway, you wanted to see one of the Hawkbrothers, and it’s only polite for me to acknowledge the fact that they’ve been guarding us.”

“I thought you said they were watching us.”

“Since I’m Shin‘a’in and we’re allies, it amounts to the same thing.
Sa-hai;
I just sent my Clan token off to our current guardian, whoever it is. If he or she chooses, we’ll get a response before we leave.”

“Moonsong sounds like a female name to me,” Kethry replied.

“Maybeso, maybeno. The Hawkbrothers are v-e-r-y different—well, you’ll see if we get a visitor. Keep your eyes busy looking for a good campsite; stick to the road. As Shin‘a’in I have certain privileges here, and I’m tired of dried beef. I’m going hunting.”

She swung Kessira off under the trees, following the path the hawk had taken, leaving Kethry alone on the track. With a shrug, Kethry urged Rodi back into a walk and did as she’d been told.

Still homing in on the Plains; she’s been easier than she was before Mornedealth, but still—home is drawing her with a power even I can feel. I wonder if it’s because she hasn’t a real purpose anymore, not since
she
accomplished
her revenge.

Kethry kept Rodi to a walk, listening with half her attention for the sound of water. Running surface water was somewhat scarce in the forest; finding it meant they made a campsite then and there.

 

When Tarma caught up with her, it was a candlemark or so before sunset, but it was already dark under the trees. Kethry had found a site that looked perfect, with a tiny, clear stream nearby and a cleared area where one of the giant trees had fallen and taken out a wide swath of seedlings with it. That had left a hole in the green canopy above where sunlight could penetrate, and there were enough grasses and plants growing that there was browse for their animals. The tree had been down for at least a season, so the wood was dry and gathering enough firewood for the evening had been the task of less than a candlemark.

Kethry discovered when she was sweeping out the area for stones to line a firepit that others had found the site just as perfect, for many of the stones bore scorch marks. Now their camp was set up, and the tiny fire burning brightly in the stone-lined pit. When they had entered this forest, Tarma had emphasized the importance of keeping their fires small and under strict control. Now that Kethry knew about the Hawkbrothers, she could guess why. This tree-filled land was theirs, and they doubtless had laws that a visitor to it had better keep, especially with winged watchers all about.

She heard Tarma approaching long before she saw her; a dark shape looming back along the trail, visible only because it was moving.

“Ho, the camp!” Tarma’s hoarse voice called cheerfully.

“Ho, yourself—what was your luck?”

“Good enough. From
this
place you take no more than you need, ally or not. Got browse?”

Tarma appeared in the firelight, leading Kessira, something dangling from her hand.

“Behind me about forty paces; Rodi’s already tethered there, along a downed tree. If you’ll give me what you’ve got, I’ll clean it.”

“Skinning is all you need to do, I field-gutted ‘em.” Tarma tossed two odd creatures at Kethry’s feet, the size and shape of plump rabbits, but with short, tufted ears, long claws, and bushy, flexible tails.

“I’ll go take care of Rodi and my baby, and I’ll be right back.” Tarma disappeared into the darkness again, and sounds from behind her told Kethry that she was unsaddling her mare and grooming both the animals. She had unsaddled Rodi but had left the rest to Tarma, knowing the Shin‘a’in could tend a saddlebeast in the dark and half asleep. Rodi, while well-mannered for a mule, was too ticklish about being groomed for Kethry to do it in uncertain light.

When Tarma returned, she brought with her their little copper traveling-kettle filled with water. “We’ll have to stew those devils; they’re tough as old boots after the winter,” she said; then, so softly Kethry could hardly hear her, “I got a reply to my invitation. We’ll have a visitor in a bit. Chances are he’ll pop in out of nowhere; try not to look startled, or we’ll lose face. I can guarantee he’ll look very strange; in this case, the stranger the better—if he really looks odd it will mean he’s giving us full honors.”

Just at the moment the stewed meat seemed ready, their visitor appeared.

Even though she’d been forewarned, Kethry still nearly jumped out of her skin. One moment the opposite side of the fire was empty—the next, it was not.

He was tall; like Tarma, golden-skinned and blue-eyed. Unlike Tarma, his hair was a pure silver-white; it hung to his waist, two braids framing his face, part of the rest formed into a topknot, the remainder streaming unconfined down his back. Feathers had been woven into it—a tiny owlet nestled at the base of the topknot, a nestling Kethry thought to be a clever carving, until it moved its head and blinked.

His eyes were large and slightly slanted, his features sharp, with no trace of facial hair. His eyebrows had a slight, upward sweep to them, like wings. His clothing was green, all colors of green—Kethry thought it at first to be rags, until she saw how carefully those seeming rags were cut to resemble foliage. In a tree, except for that hair, he’d be nearly invisible, even with a wind blowing. He wore delicate jewelry of woven and braided silver wire and crystals.

He carried in his right hand a strange weapon; a spearlike thing with a wicked, curving point that seemed very like a hawk’s talon at one end and a smooth, round hook at the other. In his left he carried Tarma’s medallion.

Tarma rose to her feet, gracefully. “Peace, Moonsong. ”

“And upon you, Child of the Hawk.” Both of them were speaking Shin‘a’in—after months of tutoring Kethry was following their words with relative ease.

“Tarma,” the Shin‘a’in replied, “and Kethry. My
she‘enedra.
You will share hearth and meal? It is tree-hare, taken as is the law; rejected suitors, no mates, no young, and older than this season’s birthing.”

“Then I share, and with thanks.” He sank to the ground beside the fire with a smoothness, an ease, that Kethry envied; gracefully and soundlessly as a falling leaf. She saw then that besides the feathers he had also braided strings of tiny crystals into his hair, crystals that reflected back the firelight, as did the staring eyes of the tiny owlet. She remembered what Tarma had told her, and concluded they were being given high honor.

He accepted the bowl of stewed meat and dried vegetables with a nod of thanks, and began to eat with his fingers and a strange, crystalline knife hardly longer than his hand. When Tarma calmly began her own portion, Kethry did the same, but couldn’t help glancing at their visitor under cover of eating.

He impressed her, that was certain. There was an air of great calm and patience about him, like that of an ancient tree, but she sensed he could be a formidable and implacable enemy if his anger was ever aroused. His silver hair had made her think of him as ancient, but now she wasn’t so certain of his age. His face was smooth and unlined; he could have been almost any age at all, from stripling to oldster.

Then she discovered something that truly frightened her; when she looked for him with mage-sight, he wasn’t there.

It wasn’t a shielding, either—a shield either left an impression of a blank wall or of an absolute nothingness. No, it was as if there was no one across the fire from them at all, nothing but the plants and stones of the clearing, the woods beyond, and the owlet sitting in a young tree.

It was then she realized that he was somehow appearing to her mage-sight as a part of the forest, perfectly blended in with the rest. She switched back to normal vision and smiled to herself. And as if he had known all along that she had been scanning him—in fact, if he were practiced enough to pull off what he was doing, he probably
did
—he looked up from his dinner and nodded at her.

“The banner of the Hawk’s Children has not been seen for seasons,” he said breaking the silence. “We heard ill tales. Tales of ambush on the road to the Horse Fair; tales of death come to their very tents.”

“True tales,” Tarma replied, the pain in her voice audible to Kethry ... and probably to Moonsong. “I am the last.”

“Ah. Then the blood-price—”

“Has been paid. I go to raise the banner again; this, my
she‘enedra,
goes with me.”

“Who holds herds for Tale‘sedrin?”

“Liha‘irden. You have knowledge of the camps this spring?

“Liha‘irden ...” he brooded a moment. “At Ka’tesik on the border of their territory and yours. So you go to them. And after?”

“I have given no thought to it.” Tarma smiled suddenly, but it was with a wry twist to her mouth. “Indeed, the returning has been sufficient to hold my attention. ”

“You may find,” he said slowly, “that the Plains are no longer the home to you that they were.”

Tarma looked startled. “Has aught changed?”

“Only yourself, Lone Hawk. Only yourself. The hatched chick cannot go back to the shell, the falcon who has found the sky does not willingly sit the nest. When a task is completed, it is meet to find another task—and you may well serve the Lady by serving outlanders.”

Tarma looked startled and pale, but nodded.

“OutClan Shin‘a’in—” He turned his attention abruptly to Kethry. “You bear a sword—”

“Aye, Elder.”

He chuckled. “Not so old as you think me, nor so young either. Three winters is age to a polekit, but fifty is youth to a tree. You bear a sword, yet you touched me with mage-sight. Strange to see a mage with steel. Stranger still to see steel with a soul.”

“What?” Kethry was too startled to respond politely.

“Hear me, mate of steel and magic,” he said, leaning forward so that he and the owlet transfixed her with unblinking stares. “What you bear will bind you to herself, more and more tightly with each hour you carry her. It is writ that Need is her name—you shall come to need her, as she needs you, as both of you answer need. This is the price of bearing her, and some of this you knew already. I tell you that you have not yet reached the limit to which she can—and will—bind you to herself, to her goals. It is a heavy price, yet the price is worth her service; you know she can fight for you, you know she can heal you. I tell you now that her powers will extend to aid those you love, so long as they return your care. Remember this in future times—”