The Oathbound (13 page)

“Always provided he could ever find the place where you’ve laid that sleeping roll,” Tarma laughed. “All right, you’ve convinced me.”

“When we find your people—”

“Hmm?”

“Well, then what?”

“I’ll have to go before a Council of the Elders of three Clans, and present myself. They’ll give me back the Clan banner, and—” Tarma stopped, nonplussed.

“And—” Kethry prompted.

“I don’t know; I hadn’t thought about it. Liha‘irden has been taking care of the herds; they’ll get first choice of yearlings for their help. But—I don’t know,
she’enedra;
the herds of an entire Clan are an awful lot for just two women to tend. My teacher told me I should turn mercenary ... and I’m not sure now that he meant it to be temporary.”

“That is how we’ve been living.”

“I suppose we could let Liha‘irden continue as caretakers, at least until we’re ready to settle down, but—I don’t want to leave yet.”

“I don’t blame you,” Kethry teased, “After all, you just got here!”

“Well, look—if we’re going to really try and become mercenaries, and not just play at it to get enough money to live on, we’re both going to have to get battlesteeds—and
you
are going to have to learn how to manage one.”

Kethry paled. “A battlesteed?” she faltered. “Me? I’ve never ridden anything livelier than a pony!”

“I don’t want you at my side in a fight on anything less than a Shin‘a’in-bred and trained battle- steed,” Tarma said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Kethry swallowed, and bit her lip a little.

Tarma grinned suddenly. “Don’t go lathering yourself,
she‘enedra,
we may decide to stay here, after all, and you can confine yourself to ponies and mules or your own two feet if that’s what you want. ”

“That prospect,” Kethry replied, “sounds more attractive every time you mention battlesteeds!”

 

Kethry had no idea how she did it, but Tarma led them straight into the Liha‘irden camp without a single false turning.

“Practice,” she shrugged, when Kethry finally asked, “I knew it looks all the same to you, but I know every copse and spring and hill of this end of the Plains. The Clans are nomadic, but we each have territories; Liha‘irden’s was next to Tale’sedrin’s. I expected with two Clans’ worth of herds they would be camped by one of the springs that divided the two, and pasturing in both territories. When the Hawkbrother told me which spring, I knew I was right.”

Tarma in her costume of Kal‘enedral created quite a stir—but Kethry was a wonder, especially to the children. When they first approached the camp, Tarma signaled a sentry who had then ridden in ahead of them. As they got nearer, more and more adolescents and older children came out on their saddle-beasts, forming a polite but intensely curious escort. When they entered the camp itself, the youngest came running out to see the visitors, voluble and quite audible in their surprise at the sight of Kethry.

“She has grass-eyes!”

“And sunset-hair!”

“Mata, how come she’s riding a mule? She doesn’t
look
old or sick!”

“Is she Sworn, too? Then why is she wearing dust-colors?” That from a tiny girl in blazing scarlet and bright blue.

“Is she staying?” “Is she outClan?” “Is she from the magic place?”

Tarma swung down off Kessira and took in the mob of children with a mock-stern expression. “What is this clamor? Is this the behavior of Shin‘a’in?”

The babble cut off abruptly, the children keeping complete silence.

“Better. Who will take my mare and my
she‘-
enedra’s mule?”

One of the adolescents handed his reins to a friend and presented himself. “I will, Sworn One.”

“My thanks,” she said, giving him a slight bow. He returned a deeper bow, and took both animals as soon as Kethry had dismounted.

“Now, will someone bring us to the Elders?”

“No need,” said a strong, vigorous voice from the rear of the crowd. “The Elders are here.”

The gathering parted immediately to allow a collection of four Shin‘a’in through. One was a woman of middle years, with a square (for a Shin‘a’in) face, gray-threaded hair, and a look of determination about her. She wore bright harvest-gold breeches, soft, knee-high, fringed leather boots, a cream-colored shirt with embroidered sleeves, and a scarlet-and-black embroidered vest that laced closed in the front. By the headdress of two tiny antelope horns she wore, Kethry knew she was the Shaman of Liha‘irden.

The second was a very old man, his face wrinkled so that his eyes twinkled from out of the depths of deep seams, his hair pure white. He wore blue felt boots, embroidered in green; dark blue breeches, a lighter blue shirt, and a bright green vest embroidered with a pattern to match the boots, but in blue. The purely ornamental riding crop he wore at his belt meant he was the Clan Chief. He was far from being feeble; he walked fully erect with never a hint of a limp or a stoop, and though his steps were slow, they were firm.

Third was a woman whose age lay somewhere between the Clan Chief and the Shaman. She wore scarlet; nothing but shades of red. That alone told Kethry that this was the woman in whose charge lay both the duties of warleader and of instructing the young in the use of arms.

Last was a young man in muted greens, who smiled widely on seeing Tarma. Kethry knew this one from Tarma’s descriptions; he was Liha‘irden’s Healer and the fourth Elder.

“Either news travels on the wings of the birds, or you’ve had scouts out I didn’t see,” Tarma said, giving them the greeting of respect.

“In part, it did travel with birds. The Hawkbrothers told us of your return,” the Healer said. “They gave us time enough to bring together a Council.”

The crowd parted a second time to let five more people through, all elderly. Tarma raised one eyebrow in surprise.

“I had not expected to be met by a full Council,” she said, cautiously. “And I find myself wondering if this is honor, or something else.”

“Kal‘enedra, I wish you to know that this was nothing of my doing,” the Clan Chief of Liha’irden replied, his voice heavy with disapproval. “Nor will my vote be cast against you.”

“Cast against me? Me? For why?” Tarma flushed, then blanched.

“Tale‘sedrin is a dead Clan,” one of the other five answered her, an old woman with a stubborn set to her mouth. “It only lacks a Council’s pronouncement to make history what is already fact.”

“I
still live! And while I live, Tale‘sedrin lives!”

“A Clan is more than a single individual, it is a living, growing thing,” she replied, “You are Kal‘ene- dral; you are barren seed by vow and by the Warrior’s touch. How can Tale’sedrin be alive in you, when you cannot give it life?”

“Kal‘enedra, Tarma, we have no wish to take from you what is yours by right of inheritance,” the Warleader of Liha’irden said placatingly. “The herds, the goods, they are still yours. But the Children of the Hawk are no more; you are vowed to the Shin‘a’in, not to any single Clan. Let the banner be buried with the rest of the dead.”

“No!” Tarma’s left hand closed convulsively on the hilt of her dagger, and her face was as white as marble. “Sooner than that I would die with them! Tale‘sedrin
lives!”

“It lives in me.” Kethry laid one restraining hand on Tarma’s left and then stepped between her and the Council. “I am
she‘enedra
to the Sworn One—does this not make me Shin’a‘in also? I have taken no vows of celibacy; more, I am a White Winds sorceress, and by my arts I can prolong the period of my own fertility. Through me Tale’sedrin is a living, growing thing!”

“How do we know the bond is a true one?” One of the group of five, a wizened old man, asked querulously.

Kethry held up her right hand, palm out, and reached behind her to take Tarma’s right by the wrist and display it as well. Both bore silvered, crescent-shaped scars.

“By the fact that She blessed it with Her own fire, it can be nothing but a true bond—” Tarma began, finding her tongue again.

“Sheka!”
the old man spat, interrupting her. “She says openly she is a sorceress. She could have produced a seeming sign—could have tricked even you!”

“For what purpose?”

“To steal what outClan have always wanted; our battlesteeds!”

Tarma pulled her hand away from Kethry’s and drew her sword at that venomous accusation.

“Kethry has saved my life; she has bled at my side to help me avenge Tale‘sedrin,” Tarma spat, holding her blade before her in both hands, taking a wide-legged, defensive stance. “How dare you doubt the word of Kal’enedral? She is my true
she‘enedra
by a Goddess-blessed vow, and you will retract your damned lie or die on my blade!”

Whatever tragedy might have happened next was forestalled by the battle scream of a hawk high in the sky above Kethry. For some reason—she never could afterward say why—she flung up her arm as Tarma had to receive the hawk in the forest.

A second scream split the air, and a golden meteor plummeted down from the sun to land on Kethry’s wrist. The vorcel-hawk was even larger than Moonsong’s had been, and its talons bit into Kethry’s arm as it flailed the air with its wings, mantling angrily at the Council. Fain raced up her arm and blood sprang out where the talons pierced her, for she had no vambrace such as Tarma wore. Blood was dying the sleeve of her robe a deep crimson, but Kethry had endured worse in her training as a sorceress. She bit her lip to keep from crying out and kept her wrist and arm steady.

The members of the Council—with the exception of the Clan Chief, the Shaman and the Healer of Liha‘irden—stepped back an involuntary pace or two, murmuring.

Tarma held out her arm, still gripping her blade in her right hand; the hawk lifted itself to the proffered perch, allowing Kethry to lower her wounded arm and clutch it to her chest in a futile effort to ease the pain. Need would not heal wounds like these; they were painful, but hardly life-threatening. She would have to heal them herself when this confrontation was over; for now, she would have to endure the agony in silence, lest showing weakness spoil Tarma’s bid for the attention of the Council.

“Is this omen enough for you?” Tarma asked, in mingled triumph and anger. “The emblem of Tale‘se drin has come, the spirit of Tale’sedrin shows itself—and it comes to Kethry, whom you call outClan and deceiver! To me,
she‘enedra!”

Again, without pausing for second or third thoughts, Kethry reached out her wounded right hand and caught Tarma’s blade-hand; the hawk screamed once more, and mantled violently. It hopped along Tarma’s arm until it came to their joined hands, hands that together held Tarma’s blade outstretched, pointing at the members of the Council. There it settled for one moment, one foot on each wrist.

Then it screamed a final time, the sound of its voice not of battle, but of triumph, and it launched itself upward to be lost in the sun.

Kethry scarcely had time to notice that the pain of her arm was gone, before the young Healer of Liha‘irden was at her side with a cry of triumph of his own.

“You doubt—you dare to doubt still?” he cried, pulling back a sleeve that was so soaked with blood that beneath it the flesh was surely pierced to the bone. “Look here, all of you—
look!
”

For beneath Kethry’s sleeve her arm was smooth and unwounded, without so much as a scar.

T
he gathering-tent was completely full; crowded with gaudily garbed Shin‘a’in as it was, it would have been difficult to find space for even a small child. Tarma and Kethry had places of honor near the center and the firepit. Since the confrontation with the Council and their subsequent vindication, their credit had been very high with the Liha‘irden.

“Keth—” Tarma’s elbow connected gently with Kethry’s ribs.

“Huh?” Kethry started; she’d been staring at the fire, more than half mesmerized by the hypnotic music three of her Liha‘irden “cousins” had been playing. Except for her hair and eyes she looked as Shin’a‘in as Tarma; weeks in the sun this summer had turned her skin almost the same golden color as her partner’s, and she was dressed in the same costume of soft boots, breeches, vest and shirt, all brightly colored and heavily embroidered, that the Shin‘a’in themselves wore. If anything, it was Tarma who stood out in her sober brown.

It had been a good time, this past spring and summer; a peaceful time. And yet, Kethry was feeling a restlessness. Part of it had to be Need’s fault; the sword wanted her about and doing. But part of it—part of it came from within her. And Tarma was often unhappy, too. She hadn’t said anything, but Kethry could feel it.

“It’s your turn. What’s it going to be; magic, or tale?”

The children, who had been lulled by the music, woke completely at that. Their young voices rose above the murmuring of their elders, all of them trying to have some say in the choice of entertainment. Half of them were clamoring for magic, half for a story.

These autumn gatherings were anticipated all year; in spring there were the young of the herds to guard at night, in summer night was the time of moving the herds, and in winter it was too cold and windy to put up the huge gathering-tent. Children were greatly prized among the Clans, but normally were not petted or indulged—except here. During the gatherings, they were allowed to be a little noisy; to beg shamelessly for a particular treat.

This was the first time Tarma had included her
she‘enedra
in the circle of entertainment, and the Liha’irden were as curious about her as young cats.

“Does it have to be one or the other?” Kethry asked.

“Well, no ...”

“All right then,” Kethry said, raising her voice to include all of them. “In that case, I’ll tell you
and
show you a tale I learned when I was an apprentice with Melania of the White Winds Adepts.” She settled herself carefully and spun out some of her own internal energy into an illusion-form. She held out her hands, which began to glow, then the thin thread of the illusion-form spun up away from them like a wisp of rising smoke. The tendril rose until it was just above the heads of the watching Shin‘a’in, then the end thickened and began to rotate, drawing the rest of the glow up into itself until it was a fat globe dancing weightlessly up near the centerpole.