Oathblood (12 page)

“Peace—” a tired, gray-haired man in plain, dusty-black robes stepped forward from the crowd, holding his arms out placatingly, and motioned the torch-bearer to give way. “Ilvan, go back to your place. Strangers, what brings you here at this time of all times?”

Kethry pointed—a thin strand of glow shot from her finger and touched the ropes binding the captive on the platform. The bindings loosed and fell from her, sliding down her body to lie in a heap at her feet. The woman swayed and nearly fell, catching herself at the last moment with one hand on the stake she had been bound to. A small segment of the crowd—mostly women—stepped forward as if to help, but fell back again as Tarma swiveled to face them.

“I know not what crime you accuse this woman of, but she is innocent of it,” Kethry said to him, ignoring the presence of anyone else.
“That
is what brings us here.”

A collective sigh rose from the crowd at her words. Tarma watched warily to either side, but it appeared to be a sigh of relief rather than a gasp of anger. She relaxed the white-knuckled grip she had on her sword hilt by the merest trifle.

“The Lady Myria is accused of the slaying of her lord,” the robed man said quietly. “She called upon her ancient right to summon a champion to her defense when the evidence against her became overwhelming. I, who am priest of Felwether, do ask you—strangers, will you champion the Lady and defend her in trial-by-combat?”

Kethry began to answer in the affirmative, but the priest shook his head negatively. “No, lady-mage, by ancient law
you
are bound from the field; neither sorcery nor sorcerous weapons such as I see you bear may be permitted in trial-by-combat.”

“Then—”

“He wants to know if I'll do it,
he‘enedra
,” Tarma croaked, taking a fiendish pleasure in the start the priest gave at the sound of her harsh voice. “I know your laws, priest, I've passed this way before. I ask you in my turn—if my partner, by her skills, can prove to you the lady's innocence, will you set her free and call off the combat, no matter how far it has gotten?”

“I so pledge, by the Names and the Powers,” the priest nodded—almost eagerly.

“Then I will champion this lady.”

About half the spectators cheered and rushed forward. Three older women edged past Tarma to bear the fainting woman back into the keep. The rest, except for the priest, moved off slowly and reluctantly, casting thoughtful and measuring looks back at Tarma. Some of them seemed friendly—most did not.

“What—”

“Was that all about?” That was as far as Tarma got before the priest interposed himself between the partners.

“Your pardon, mage-lady, but you may not speak with the champion from this moment forward—any message you may have must pass through me—”

“Oh, no, not yet, priest.” Tarma urged Hellsbane forward and passed his outstretched hand. “I told you I know your laws—and the ban starts at sundown—Greeneyes, pay attention, I have to talk fast. You're going to have to figure out just who the real culprit is—the best I can possibly do is buy you time. This business is combat to the death for the champion—I can choose just to defeat my challengers, but they have to kill me. And the longer you take, the more likely that is—”

“Tarma, you're better than anybody here—”

“But not better than any twenty—or thirty.” Tarma smiled crookedly. “The rules of the game,
she‘enedra,
are that I keep fighting until nobody is willing to challenge me. Sooner or later they'll wear me out and I'll go down.”

“Shush, I knew what I was getting into. You're as good at your craft as I am at mine—I've just given you a bit of incentive. Take arrl—” The tall, lupine creature jumped to the ground from behind Tarma where he'd been clinging to the special pad with his retractile claws. “—he might well be of some use. Do your best,
veshta‘cha;
there're two lives depending on you—”

The priest interposed himself again. “Sunset, champion,” he said firmly, putting his hand on her reins.

Tarma bowed her head, and allowed him to lead her and her horse away, Kethry staring dumbfounded after them.

 

 

“All right, let's take this from the very beginning.”

Kethry was in the Lady Myria's bower—a soft and colorful little corner of an otherwise drab fortress. There were no windows—no drafts stirred the bright tapestries on the walls, or caused the flames of the beeswax candles to flicker. The walls were thick stone covered with plaster—warm by winter, cool by summer. The furnishings were of light yellow wood, padded with plump feather cushions. In one corner stood a cradle, watched over broodingly by the lady herself. The air was pleasantly scented with herbs and flowers. Kethry wondered how so pampered a creature could have gotten herself into such a pass.

“It was two days ago. I came here to lie down in the afternoon. I—was tired; I tire easily since Syrtin was born. I fell asleep.”

Close up, the Lady proved to be several years Kethry's junior; scarcely past her mid-teens. Her dark hair was lank and without luster, her skin pale. Kethry frowned at that, and wove a tiny spell with a gesture and two whispered words while Myria was speaking. The creature of the ethereal plane who'd agreed to serve as their scout was still with her—it would have taken a far wilder ride than they had made to lose it. The answer to her question came quickly as a thin voice breathed whispered words into her ear.

Kethry grimaced angrily. “Lady's eyes, child, I shouldn't wonder that you tire—you're still torn up from the birthing! What kind of a miserable excuse for a Healer have you got here, anyway?”

“We have
no
Healer, lady.” One of the three older women who had borne Myria back into the keep rose from her seat behind Kethry and stood between them, challenge written in her stance. She had a kind, but careworn face; her gray-and-buff gown was of good stuff, but old-fashioned in cut. Kethry guessed that she must be Myria's companion—an older relative, perhaps. “The Healer died before my dove came to childbed and her lord did not see fit to replace him. We had no use for a Healer, or so he claimed, since he kept no great number of men-at-arms, and birthing was a perfectly normal procedure and surely didn't require the expensive services of a Healer.”

“Now, Katran—”

“It is no more than the truth! He cared more for his horses than for you! He replaced the farrier quickly enough when
he
left!”

“His horses were of more use to him—” the girl said bitterly, then bit her lip. “There, you see,
that
is what brought me to this pass—one too many careless remarks let fall among the wrong ears.”

Kethry nodded, liking the girl; the child was not the pampered pretty she had first thought. No windows to this chamber—only the one entrance; a good bit more like a cell than a bower, it occurred to her. A comfortable cell, but a cell still. She stood, smoothed her buff-colored robe with an unconscious gesture, and unsheathed the sword that seldom left her side.

“Lady, what—” Katran stood, startled by the gesture.

“Peace; I mean no ill. Here—” Kethry said, bending over Myria and placing the blade in the startled girl's hands. “—hold this for a bit.”

Myria took the blade, eyes wide, a puzzled expression bringing a bit more life to her face. “But—”

“Women's magic, child. For all that blades are a man's weapon, Need here is strong in the magic of women. She serves women only—it was her power that called me here to aid you—and given an hour of your holding her, she'll Heal you. Now, go on. You fell asleep.”

Myria accepted the blade gingerly, then settled the sword across her knees and took a deep breath. “Something woke me—a sound of something falling, I think. You can see that this room connects with My Lord's chamber—that in fact the only way in or out is through his chamber. I saw a candle burning, so I rose to see if he needed anything. He—he was slumped over his desk. I thought perhaps he had fallen asleep—”

“You thought he was drunk, you mean,” the older woman said wryly.

“—does it
matter
what I thought? I didn't see anything out of the ordinary, because he wore dark colors always. I reached out my hand to shake him—and it came away bloody—”

“And she screamed fit to rouse the household,” Katran finished.

“And when we came, she had to unlock the door for us,” said the second woman, silent till now. “Both doors into that chamber were locked—hallside with the lord's key, seneschal's side barred from within this room. And the bloody dagger that had killed him was under her bed.”

“Whose was it?”

“Mine, of course,” Myria answered. “And before you ask, there was only one key to the hallside door; it could only be opened with the key, and the key was under his hand. It's an ensorcelled lock; even if you made a copy of the key, the copy would never unlock the door.”

“Warrl?” The huge beast rose from the shadows where he'd been lying and padded to Kethry's side. Myria and her women shrank away a little at the sight of him.

“I may need to conserve my energies. You can detect what I'd need a spell for—see if there's magical residue on the bar on the other door, would you? Then see if the spell on the lock's been tampered with.”

The dark-gray, nearly black beast trotted out of the room on silent paws, and Myria shivered.

“I can see where the evidence against you is overwhelming, even without misheard remarks.”

“I had no choice in this wedding,” Myria replied, her chin rising defiantly, “but I have been a true and loyal wife to my lord.”

“Loyal past his deserts, if you ask me,” Katran grumbled. “Well, that's the problem, lady-mage. My Lady came to this marriage reluctant, and it's well known. It's well known that he didn't much value her. And there's been more than a few heard to say they thought Myria reckoned to set herself up as Keep-ruler with the Lord gone.”

Warrl padded back into the room, and flopped down at Kethry's feet.

“Well, fur-brother?”

He shook his head negatively, and the women stared at this evidence of human-like intelligence.

“Not the bar nor the lock, hmm? And how do you get into a locked room without a key? Still—Lady, is all as it was in the other room?”

“Yes—the priest was one of the first in the door, and would not let anyone change so much as a dust mote. He only let them take the body away.”

“Thank the Goddess!” Kethry looked curiously at the girl. “Lady,
why
did you choose to prove yourself as you did?”

“Lady-mage—” Kethry was surprised at the true expression of guilt and sorrow the child wore. “If I had guessed strangers would be caught in this web, I never would have—I—I thought that my kin would come to my defense. I came to this marriage of their will, I thought at least one of them might—at least try. I don't think anyone here would dare the family's anger by taking the chance of killing one of the sons—even if the daughter is thought worthless by most of them—” A slow tear slid down one cheek, and she whispered her last words. “—my youngest brother, I thought at least was fond of me—”

The spell Kethry had set in motion was still active; she whispered another question to the tiny air-entity she had summoned. This time the answer made her smile, albeit sadly.

“Your youngest brother, child, is making his way here afoot, having ridden his horse into foundering trying to reach you in time, and blistering the air with his oaths.”

Myria gave a tiny cry and buried her face in her hands; Katran moved to comfort her as her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Kethry stood and made her way into the other room. Need's magic was such that the girl would hold the blade until she no longer required its power; it would do nothing to augment Kethry's magical abilities, so it was fine where it was. Right now there was a mystery to solve—and two lives hung in the balance until Kethry could puzzle it out.

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 Swordsworn 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.