The Oathbound (19 page)

As she surveyed the outer room, she wondered how Tarma was faring.

 

Tarma sat quietly beneath the window of a tiny, bare, rock-walled cell. In a few moments the light of the rising moon would penetrate it, first through the eastern window, then the skylight overhead. For now, the only light in the room was that of the oil-fed flame burning on the low table before her. There was something else on that table—the long, coarse braids of Tarma’s hair.

She had shorn those braids off herself at shoulder-length, then tied a silky black headband around her forehead to confine what remained. That had been the final touch to the costume she’d donned with an air of robing herself for some ceremony—clothing that had long stayed untouched, carefully folded in the bottom of her pack. Black clothing; from low, soft boots to chainmail shirt, from headband to hose—the stark, unrelieved black of a Shin‘a’in Sword Sworn about to engage in ritual combat or on the trail of blood-feud.

Now she waited, patiently, seated cross-legged before the makeshift altar, to see if her preparations received an answer.

The moon rose behind her, the square of dim white light creeping slowly down the blank stone wall opposite her, until, at last, it touched the flame on the altar.

And without warning, without fanfare, She was there, standing between Tarma and the altar-place. Shin‘a’in by Her golden skin and sharp features, clad identically to Tarma, only Her eyes revealed Her as something not human. Those eyes—the spangled darkness of the sky at midnight, without white, iris or pupil—could belong to only one being; the Shin‘a’in Goddess of the South Wind, known only as the Star-Eyed, or the Warrior.

“Child, I answer.” Her voice was melodious.

“Lady.” Tarma bowed her head in homage.

“You have questions, child? No requests?”

“No requests, Star-Eyed. My fate—does not interest me. I will live or die by my own skills. But Kethry’s fate—
that
I would know.”

“The future is not easy to map, child, not even for a goddess. I must tell you that tomorrow might bring your life or your death; both are equally likely.”

Tarma sighed. “Then what of my
she‘enedra
should it be the second path?”

The Warrior smiled, Tarma felt the smile like a caress. “You are worthy, child; hear, then. If you fall tomorrow, your
she‘enedra,
who is perhaps a bit more pragmatic than you, will work a spell that lifts both herself and the Lady Myria to a place leagues distant from here, while Warrl releases Hellsbane and Ironheart and drives them out the gates. I fear she allows you this combat only because she knows you regard it as touching your honor to hold by these outClan customs. If the choice were in her hands, you would all be far from here by now; you, she, the lady and her child and all—well; she will abide by your choices. For the rest, when Kethry recovers from that spell they shall go to our people, to the Liha’irden; Lady Myria will find a mate to her liking there. Then, with some orphans of other Clans, they shall go forth and Tale‘sedrin will ride the plains again, as Kethry promised you. The blade will release her, and pass to another’s hands.”

Tarma sighed, and nodded. “Then, Lady, I am content, whatever my fate tomorrow. I thank you.”

The Warrior smiled again; then between one heartbeat and the next, was gone.

Tarma left the flame to burn itself out, lay down upon the pallet that was the room’s only other furnishing, and slept.

 

Sleep was the last thing on Kethry’s mind.

She surveyed the room that had been Lord Corbie’s; plain stone walls, three entrances, no windows. One of the entrances still had the bar across the door, the other two led to Myria’s bower and to the hall outside. Plain stone floor, no hidden entrances there. She knew the blank wall held nothing either; the other side was the courtyard of the manor. Furnishings; one table, one chair, one ornate bedstead against the blank wall, one bookcase, half filled, four lamps. A few bright rugs. Her mind felt as blank as the walls.

Start at the beginning
—she told herself.
Follow what happened. The girl came in here alone, the man followed after she was asleep, then what?

He was found at his desk,
said a voice in her mind, startling her.
He probably walked straight in and sat down. What’s on the desk that he might have been doing?

Every time Warrl spoke to her mind-to-mind it surprised her. She still couldn’t imagine how he managed to make himself heard when she hadn’t a scrap of that particular Gift. Tarma seemed to accept it unquestioningly; how she’d ever gotten used to it, the sorceress couldn’t imagine.

Tarma—time was wasting.

On the desk stood a wineglass with a sticky residue in the bottom, an inkwell and quill, and several stacked ledgers. The top two looked disturbed.

Kethry picked them up, and began leafing through the last few pages, whispering a command to the invisible presence at her shoulder. The answer was prompt. The ink on the last three pages of both ledgers was fresh enough to still be giving off fumes detectable only by a creature of the air. The figures were written no more than two days ago.

She leafed back several pages worth, noting that the handwriting changed from time to time.

“Who else kept the accounts besides your lord?” she called into the next room.

“The seneschal; that was why his room has an entrance on this one,” the woman Katran replied, entering the lord’s room herself. “I can’t imagine why the door was barred. Lord Corbie almost never left it that way.”

“That’s a lot of trust to place in a hireling.”

“Oh, the seneschal isn’t a hireling, he’s Lord Corbie’s bastard brother. He’s been the lord’s right hand since he inherited the lordship of Felwether.”

 

The sun rose; Tarma was awake long before.

If the priest was surprised to see her change of outfit, he didn’t show it. He had brought a simple meal of bread and cheese, and watered wine; he waited patiently while she ate and drank, then indicated she should follow him.

Tarma checked all her weapons. She secured all the fastenings of her clothing (how many had died because they had forgotten to tie something tightly enough?), and stepped into place behind him, as silent as his shadow.

He conducted her to a small tent that had been erected in one corner of the keep’s practice ground, against the keep walls. The walls of the keep formed two sides, the outer wall the third; the fourth side was open. The practice ground was of hard-packed clay, and relatively free of dust. A groundskeeper was sprinkling water over the dirt to settle it.

Once they were in front of the little pavilion, the priest finally spoke.

“The first challenger will be here within a few minutes; between fights you may retire here to rest for as long as it takes for the next to ready himself, or one candlemark, whichever is longer. You will be brought food at noon and again at sunset.” His expression plainly said that he did not think she would be needing the latter, “and there will be fresh water within the tent at all times. I will be staying with you.”

Now his expression was apologetic.

“To keep my partner from slipping me any magical aid?” Tarma asked wryly. “Hellfire, priest, you know what I am, even if these dirt-grubbers here don‘t!”

“I know, Sword Sworn. This is for your protection as well. There are those here who would not hesitate to tip the hand of the gods somewhat.”

Tarma’s eyes hardened. “Priest, I’ll spare who I can, but it’s only fair to tell you that if I catch anyone trying an underhanded trick, I won’t hesitate to kill him.”

“I would not ask you to do otherwise.”

She looked at him askance. “There’s more going on here than meets the eye, isn’t there?”

He shook his head, and indicated that she should take her seat in the champion’s chair beside the tent-flap. There was a bustling on the opposite side of the practice ground, and a dark, heavily bearded man followed by several boys carrying arms and armor appeared only to vanish within another, identical tent on that side. Spectators began gathering along the open side and the tops of the walls.

“I fear I can tell you nothing, Sword Sworn. I have only speculations, nothing more. But I pray your little partner is wiser than I.”

“Or I’m going to be cold meat by nightfall,” Tarma finished for him, watching as her first opponent emerged from the challenger’s pavilion.

The priest winced at her choice of words, but did not contradict her.

Circles within circles....

 

Kethry had not been idle.

The sticky residue in the wineglass had been more than just the dregs of drink; there had been a powerful narcotic in it. Unfortunately, this just pointed back to Myria; she’d been using just such a potion to help her sleep since the birth of her son. Still, it wouldn’t have been all that difficult to obtain, and Kethry had a trick up her sleeve, one the average mage wouldn’t have known; one she would use if they could find the other bottle of potion.

More encouraging was what she had found perusing the ledgers. The seneschal had been siphon ing off revenues; never much at a time, but steadily. By now it must amount to a tidy sum. What if he suspected Lord Corbie was likely to catch him at it?

Or even more—what if Lady Myria was found guilty and executed? The estate would go to her infant son, and who would be the child’s most likely guardian but his half-uncle, the seneschal?

And children die so very easily, and from so many natural causes.

Now that she had a likely suspect, Kethry decided it was time to begin investigating him.

The first place she checked was the barred door. And on the bar itself she found an odd little scratch, obvious in the paint. It looked new, her air-spirit confirmed that it was. She lifted the bar after examining it even more carefully, finding no other marks on it but those worn places where it rubbed against the brackets that held it.

She opened the door, and began examining every inch of the door and frame. And found, near the top, a tiny piece of hemp that looked as if it might have come from a piece of twine, caught in the wood of the door itself.

Further examination of the door yielded nothing, so she turned her attention to the room beyond.

It looked a great deal like the lord’s room, with more books and a less ostentatious bedstead—and a wooden floor, rather than one of stone. She called Warrl in and sent him sniffing about for any trace of magic. That potion required a tiny bit of magicking to have full potency, and if there were another bottle of it anywhere about, Warrl would find it.

She turned her own attention to the desk.

 

Tarma’s first opponent had been good, and an honest fighter. It was with a great deal of relief—especially after she’d seen an anxious-faced woman with three small children clinging to her skirt watching every move he made—that she was able to disarm him and knock him flat on his rump without seriously injuring him.

The second had been a mere boy; he had no business being out here at all. Tarma had the shrewd notion he’d been talked into it just so she’d have one more live body to wear her out. Instead of exerting herself in any way, she lazed about, letting him wear himself into exhaustion, before giving him a little tap on the skull with the pommel of her knife that stretched him flat on his back, seeing stars.

The third opponent was another creature altogether.

He was slim and sleek, and Tarma smelled “assassin” on him as plainly as if she’d had Warrl’s clever nose. When he closed with her, his first few moves confirmed her guess. His fighting style was all feint and rush, never getting in too close. This was a real problem. If she stood her ground, she’d open herself to the poisoned dart or whatever other tricks he had secreted on his person. If she let him drive her all over the bloody practice ground he’d wear her down. Either way, she lost.

Of course, she might be able to outfox him—

So far she’d played an entirely defensive game, both with him and her first two opponents. If she took the offense when he least expected it, she might be able to catch him off his guard.

She let him begin to drive her, and saw at once that he was trying to work her around so that the sun was in her eyes. She snarled inwardly, let him think he was having his way, then turned the tables on him.

She came at him in a two-handed pattern-dance, one that took her back to her days on the Plains and her first instructor; an old man she’d never
dreamed
could have moved as fast as he did. She hadn’t learned that pattern then; hadn’t learned it until the old man and her Clan were two years dead and she’d been Kethry’s partner for more than a year. She’d learned it from one of Her Kal‘enedral, a woman who’d died a hundred years before Tarma had ever been born.

It took her opponent off-balance; he back-pedaled furiously to get out the the way of the shining circles of steel, great and lesser, that were her sword and dagger. And when he stopped running, he found
himself
facing into the sun.

Tarma saw him make a slight movement with his left hand; when he came in with his sword in an over-and-under cut, she paid his sword-hand only scant attention. It was the other she was watching for.

Under the cover of his overt attack he made a strike for her upper arm with his gloved left. She avoided it barely in time; a circumstance that made her sweat when she thought about it later, and executed a spin-and-cut that took his hand off at the wrist at the end of the move. While he stared in shock at the spurting stump, she carried her blade back along the arc to take his head as well.

The onlookers were motionless, silent with shock. What they’d seen from her up until now had not prepared them for this swift slaughter. While they remained still, she stalked to where the gloved hand lay and picked it up with great care. Embedded in the fingertips of the gloves, retracted or released by a bit of pressure to the center of the palm, were four deadly little needles. Poisoned, no doubt.