Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound

by Mercedes Lackey

Introduction

This is the tale of an unlikely partnership, that

of the Shin'a'in swordswoman and celibate

Kal'enedral, Tarma shena Tale'sedrin and the nobly-

born sorceress Kethry, member of the White Winds

school, whose devotees were sworn to wander the

world using their talents for the greatest good. How

these two met is told in the tale "Sword Sworn,"

published in Marion Zimmer Bradley's anthology

SWORD AND SORCERESS III. A second of the accounts

of their wandering life will be seen in the fourth

volume of that series. But this story begins where

that first tale left off, when they have recovered

from their ordeal and are making their way back to

the Dhorisha Plains and Tarma's home.

One

The sky was overcast, a solid gray sheet that

seemed to hang just barely above the treetops,

with no sign of a break in the clouds anywhere.

The sun was no more than a dimly glowing spot

near the western horizon, framed by a lattice of

bare black branches. Snow lay at least half a foot

thick everywhere in the forest, muffling sound. A

bird flying high on the winter wind took dim notice

that the forest below him extended nearly as far as

he could see no matter which way he looked, but

was neatly bisected by the Trade Road immedi-

ately below him. Had he flown a little higher (for

the clouds were not as low as they looked), he

might have seen the rooftops and smokes of a city

at the southern end of the road, hard against the

forest. Although the Trade Road had seen enough

travelers of late that the snow covering it was packed

hard, there were only two on it now. They had

stopped in the clearing halfway through the forest

that normally saw heavy use as an overnighting

point. One was setting up camp under the shelter

of a half-cave of rock and tree trunks piled together—

partially the work of man, partially of nature. The

other was a short distance away, in a growth-free

pocket just off the main area, picketing their beasts.

The bird circled for a moment, swooping lower,

eyeing the pair with dim speculation. Humans some-

times meant food—

But there was no food in sight, at least not that

the bird recognized as such. And as he came lower

still, the one with the beasts looked up at him

suddenly, and reached for something slung at her

saddlebow.

The bird had been the target of arrows often

enough to recognize a bow when he saw one. With a

squawk of dismay, he veered off, flapping his wings

with all his might, and tracing a twisty, convoluted

course out of range. He wanted to be the eater, not

the eaten!

Tarma sighed as the bird sped out of range, un-

strung her bow, and stowed it back in the saddle-

quiver. She hunched her shoulder a little beneath

her heavy wool coat to keep her sword from shift-

ing on her back, and went back to her task of scrap-

ing the snow away from the grass buried beneath it

with gloved hands. Somewhere off in the far dis-

tance she could hear a pair of ravens calling to each

other, but otherwise the only sounds were the sough

of wind in branches and the blowing of her horse

and Kethry's mule. The Shin'a'in place of eternal

punishment was purported to be cold; now she had

an idea why.

She tried to ignore the ice-edged wind that seemed

to cut right through the worn places in her nonde-

script brown clothing. This was no place for a

Shin'a'in of the Plains, this frozen northern forest.

She had no business being here. Her garments, more

than adequate to the milder winters in the south,

were just not up to the rigors of the cold season

here.

Her eyes stung, and not from the icy wind.

Home—Warrior Dark, she wanted to be home! Home,

away from these alien forests with their unfriendly

weather, away from outClansmen with no under-

standing and no manners . .. home. ...

Her little mare whickered at her, and strained

against her lead rope, her breath steaming and her

muzzle edged with frost. She was no fonder of this

chilled wilderness than Tarma was. Even the

Shin'a'in winter pastures never got this cold, and

what little snow fell on them was soon melted. The

mare's sense of what was "right" was deeply of-

fended by all this frigid white stuff.

"Kathal, dester'edra," Tarma said to the ears that

pricked forward at the first sound of her harsh

voice. "Gently, windborn-sister. I'm nearly finished

here."

Kessira snorted back at her, and Tarma's usually

solemn expression lightened with an affectionate

smile.

"Li'ha'eer, it is ice-demons that dwell in this place,

and nothing else."

When she figured that she had enough of the

grass cleared off to at least help to satisfy her mare's

hunger, she heaped the rest of her foragings into

the center of the area, topping the heap with a

carefully measured portion of mixed grains and a

little salt. What she'd managed to find was poor

enough, and not at all what her training would

have preferred—some dead seed grasses with the

heads still on them, the tender tips from the

branches of those trees and bushes she recognized

as being nourishing, even some dormant cress and

cattail roots from the stream. It was scarcely enough

to keep the mare from starving, and not anywhere

near enough to provide her with the energy she

needed to carry Tarma on at the pace she and her

partner Kethry had been making up until now.

She loosed little Kessira from her tethering and

picketed her in the middle of the space she'd cleared.

It showed the measure of the mare's hunger that

she tore eagerly into the fodder, poor as it was.

There had been a time when Kessira would have

turned up her nose in disdain at being offered such

inferior provender.

"Ai, we've come on strange times, haven't we,

you and I," Tarma sighed. She tucked a stray lock

of crow-wing-black hair back under her hood, and

put her right arm over Kessira's shoulder, resting

against the warm bulk of her. "Me with no Clan

but one weirdling outlander, you so far from the

Plains and your sibs."

Not that long ago they'd been just as any other

youngling of the nomadic Shin'a'in and her saddle

mare; Tarma learning the mastery of sword, song,

and steed, Kessira running free except when the

lessoning involved her. Both of them had been safe

and contented in the heart of Clan Tale'sedrin—

true, free Children of the Hawk.

Tarma rubbed her cheek against Kessira's furry

shoulder, breathing in the familiar smell of clean

horse that was so much a part of what had been

home. Oh, but they'd been happy; Tarma had been

the pet of the Clan, with her flute-clear voice and

her perfect memory for song and tale, and Kessira

had been so well-matched for her rider that she

almost seemed the "four-footed sister" that Tarma

frequently named her. Their lives had been so close

to perfect—in all ways. The king-stallion of the

herd had begun courting Kessira that spring, and

Tarma had had Dharin; nothing could have spoiled

what seemed to be their secure future.

Then the raiders had come upon the Clan; and

all that carefree life was gone in an instant beneath

their swords.

Tarma's eyes stung again. Even full revenge

couldn't take away the ache of losing them, all,

all-

In one candlemark all that Tarma had ever known

or cared about had been wiped from the face of the

earth.

"What price your blood, my people? A few pounds

of silver? Goddess, the dishonor that your people

were counted so cheaply!"

The slaughter of Tale'sedrin had been the more

vicious because they'd taken the entire Clan un-

awares and unarmed in the midst of celebration;

totally unarmed, as Shin'a'in seldom were. They

had trusted to the vigilance of their sentries.

But the cleverest sentry cannot defeat foul magic

that creeps upon him out of the dark and smothers

the breath in his throat ere he can cry out.

The brigands had not so much as a drop of honor-

able blood among them; they knew had the Clan

been alerted they'd have had stood the robbers off,

even outnumbered as they were, so the bandit's

hired mage had cloaked their approach and stifled

the guards. And so the Clan had fought an unequal

battle, and so they had died; adults, oldsters, chil-

dren, all....

"Goddess, hold them—" she whispered, as she

did at least once each day. Every last member of

Tale'sedrin had died; most had died horribly. Ex-

cept Tarma. She should have died; and unaccount-

ably been left alive.

If you could call it living to have survived with

everything gone that had made life worth having.

Yes, she had been left alive—and utterly, utterly

alone. Left to live with a ruined voice that had once

been the pride of the Clans, with a ravaged body,

and most of all, a shattered heart and mind. There

had been nothing left to sustain her but a driving

will to wreak vengeance on those who had left her

Clanless.

She pulled a brush from an inside pocket of her

coat, and began needlessly grooming Kessira while

the mare ate. The firm strokes across the familiar

chestnut coat were soothing to both of them. She

had been left Clanless, and a Shin'a'in Clanless is

one without purpose in living. Clan is everything to

a Shin'a'in. Only one thing kept her from seeking

oblivion and death-willing herself, that burning need

to revenge her people.

But vengeance and blood-feud were denied the

Shin'a'in—the ordinary Shin'a'in. Else too many of

the people would have gone down on the knives of

their own folk, and to little purpose, for the God-

dess knew Her people and knew their tempers to

be short. Hence, Her law. Only those who were the

Kal'enedral of the Warrior—the Sword Sworn,

outClansmen called them, although the name meant

both "Children of Her Sword" and "Her Sword-

Brothers"—could cry blood-feud and take the trail

of vengeance. That was because of the nature of

their Oath to Her—first to the service of the God-

dess of the New Moon and South Wind, then to the

Clans as a whole, and only after those two to their own

particular Clan. Blood-feud did not serve the Clans

if the feud was between Shin'a'in and Shin'a'in;

keeping the privilege of calling for blood-price in

the hands of those by their very nature devoted to

the welfare of the Shin'a'in as a whole kept interClan

strife to a minimum.

"If it had been you, what would you have chosen,

hmm?" she asked the mare. "Her Oath isn't a light

one." Nor was it without cost—a cost some might

think far too high. Once Sworn, the Kal'enedral

became weapons in Her hand, and not unlike the

sexless, cold steel they wore. Hard, somewhat aloof,

and totally asexual were the Sword Sworn—and

this, too, ensured that their interests remained Hers

and kept them from becoming involved in interClan

rivalry. So it was not the kind of Oath one involved

in a simple feud was likely to even consider taking.

But the slaughter of the Tale'sedrin was not a

matter of private feud or Clan against Clan—this

was a matter of more, even, than personal ven-

geance. Had the brigands been allowed to escape

unpunished, would that not have told other wolf-

heads that the Clans were not invulnerable—would

there not have been another repetition of the slaugh-

ter? That may have been Her reasoning; Tarma

had only known that she was able to find no other

purpose in living, so she had offered her Oath to

the Star-Eyed so that she could pledge her life to

revenge her Clan. An insane plan—sprung out of a

mind that might be going mad with grief.

There were those who thought she was already

mad, who were certain She would accept no such

Oath given by one whose reason was gone. But

much to the amazement of nearly everyone in the

Clan Liha'irden who had succored, healed, and pro-

tected her, that Oath had been accepted. Only the

shamans had been unsurprised.

She had never in her wildest dreaming guessed

what would come of that Oath and that quest for

justice.

Kessira finished the pile of provender, and moved

on to tear hungrily at the lank, sere grasses. Be-

neath the thick coat of winter hair she had grown,

her bones were beginning to show in a way that

Tarma did not in the least like. She left off brush-

ing, and stroked the warm shoulder, and the mare

abandoned her feeding long enough to nuzzle her

rider's arm affectionately.

"Patient one, we shall do better by you, and soon,"

Tarma pledged her. She left the mare to her graz-

ing and went to check on Kethry's mule. That sturdy

beast was capable of getting nourishment from much

coarser material than Kessira, so Tarma had left

him tethered amid a thicket of sweetbark bushes.

He had stripped all within reach of last year's

growth, and was straining against his halter with

his tongue stretched out as far as it would reach for

a tasty morsel just out of his range.

"Greedy pig," she said with a chuckle, and moved

him again, giving him a bit more rope this time,

and leaving his own share of grain and foraged

weeds within reach. Like all his kind he was a

clever beast; smarter than any horse save one

Shin'a'in-bred. It was safe enough to give him plenty

of lead; if he tangled himself he'd untangle himself

just as readily. Nor would he eat to foundering, not

that there was enough browse here to do that. A

good, sturdy, gentle animal, and even-tempered, well

suited to an inexperienced rider like Kethry. She'd

been lucky to find him.

His tearing at the branches shook snow down on

her; with a shiver she brushed it off as her thoughts

turned back to the past. No, she would never have

guessed at the changes wrought in her life-path by

that Oath and her vow of vengeance.

"Jel'enedra, you think too much. It makes you

melancholy."

She recognized the faintly hollow-sounding tenor

at the first word; it was her chief sword-teacher.

This was the first time he'd come to her since the

last bandit had fallen beneath her sword. She had

begun to wonder if her teachers would ever come

back again.

All of them were unforgiving of mistakes, and

quick to chastise—this one more than all the rest

put together. So though he had startled her, though

she had hardly expected his appearance, she took

care not to display it.

"Ah?" she replied, turning slowly to face him.

Unfair that he had used his other-worldly powers

to come on her unawares, but he himself would

have been the first to tell her that life—as she well

knew—was unfair. She would not reveal that she

had not detected his presence until he spoke.

He had called her "younger sister," though, which

was an indication that he was pleased with her for

some reason. "Mostly you tell me I don't think

enough."

Standing in a clear spot amid the bushes was a

man, garbed in fighter's gear of deepest black, and

veiled. The ice-blue eyes, the sable hair, and the

cut of his close-wrapped clothing would have told

most folk that he was, like Tarma, Shin'a'in. The

color of the clothing would have told the more

knowledgeable—since most Shin'a'in preferred a car-

nival brightness in their garments—that he, too,

was Sword Sworn; Sword Sworn by custom wore

only stark black or dark brown. But only one very

sharp-eyed would have noticed that while he stood

amid the snow, he made no imprint upon it. It

seemed that he weighed hardly more than a shadow.

That was scarcely surprising since he had died

long before Tarma was born.

"Thinking to plan is one case; thinking to brood

is another," he replied. "You accomplish nothing

but to increase your sadness. You should be devis-

ing a means of filling your bellies and those of your

jel'suthro'edrin. You cannot reach the Plains if you

do not eat."

He had used the Shin'a'in term for riding beasts

that meant "forever-younger-Clanschildren." Tarma

was dead certain he had picked that term with

utmost precision, to impress upon her that the wel-

fare of Kessira and Kethry's mule Rodi were as

important as her own—more so, since they could

not fend for themselves in this inhospitable place.

"With all respect, teacher, I am ... at a loss.

Once I had a purpose. Now?" She shook her head.

"Now I am certain of nothing. As you once told

me—"

"Li'sa'eer! Turn my own words against me, will

you?" he chided gently. "And have you nothing?"

"My she'enedra. But she is outClan, and strange

to me, for all that the Goddess blessed our oath-

binding with Her own fire. I know her but little.

I—only—"

"What, bright blade?"

"I wish—I wish to go home—" The longing she

felt rose in her throat and made it hard to speak.

"And so? What is there to hinder you?"

"There is," she replied, willing her eyes to stop

stinging, "the matter of money. Ours is nearly gone.

It is a long way to the Plains."

"So? Are you not now of the mercenary calling?"

"Well, unless there be some need for blades

hereabouts—the which I have seen no evidence for,

the only way to reprovision ourselves will be if my

she'enedra can turn her skill in magic to an honor-

able profit. For though I have masters of the best,"

she bowed her head in the little nod of homage a

Shin'a'in gave to a respected elder, "sent by the

Star-Eyed herself, what measure of attainment I

have acquired matters not if there is no market for

it."

"Hai'she'li! You should market that silver tongue,

jel'enedra!" he laughed. "Well, and well. Three things

I have come to tell you, which is why I arrive

out-of-time and not at moonrise. First, that there

will be storm tonight, and you should all shelter,

mounts and riders together. Second, that because of

the storm, we shall not teach you this night, though

you may expect our coming from this day on, every

night that you are not within walls."

He turned as if to leave, and she called out, "And

third?"

"Third?" he replied, looking back at her over his

shoulder. "Third—is that everyone has a past. Ere

you brood over your own, consider another's."

Before she had a chance to respond, he vanished,

melting into the wind.

Wrinkling her nose over that last, cryptic re-

mark, she went to find her she'enedra and partner.

Kethry was hovering over a tiny, nearly smoke-

less fire, skinning a pair of rabbits. Tarma almost

smiled at the frown of concentration she wore; she

was going at the task as if she were being rated on

the results! They were a study in contrasts, she

and her outClan blood-sister. Kethry was sweet-

faced and curvaceous, with masses of curling am-

ber hair and startling green eyes; she would have

looked far more at home in someone's court circle

as a pampered palace mage than she did here, at

their primitive hearth. Or even more to the point,

she would not have looked out of place as someone's

spoiled, indulged wife or concubine; she really

looked nothing at all like any mage Tarma had ever

seen. Tarma, on the other hand, with her hawklike

face, forbidding ice-blue eyes and nearly sexless

body, was hardly the sort of person one would ex-

pect a mage or woman like Kethry to choose as a

partner, much less as a friend. As a hireling,

perhaps—in which case it should have been Tarma

skinning the rabbits, for she looked to have been

specifically designed to endure hardship.

Oddly enough, it was Kethry who had taken to

this trip as if she were the born nomad, and Tarma

who was the one suffering the most from their

circumstances, although that was mainly due to the

unfamiliar weather.

Well, if she had not foreseen that becoming

Kal'enedral meant suddenly acquiring a bevy of

long-dead instructors, this partnership had come as

even more of a surprise. The more so as Tarma had

really not expected to survive the initial confronta-

tion with those who had destroyed her Clan.

"Do not reject aid unlooked-for," her instructor

had said the night before she set foot in the ban-

dit's town. And unlooked-for aid had materialized,

in the form of this unlikely sorceress. Kethry, too,

had her interests in seeing the murderers brought

low, so they had teamed together for the purpose of

doing just that. Together they had accomplished

what neither could have done alone—they had ut-

terly destroyed the brigands to the last man.

And so Tarma had lost her purpose. Now—now

there was only the driving need to get back to the

Plains; to return before the Tale'sedrin were deemed

a dead Clan. Farther than that she could not, would

not think or plan.

Kethry must have sensed Tarma's brooding eyes

on her, for she looked up and beckoned with her

skinning knife.

"Fairly good hunting," Tarma hunched as close

the fire as she could, wishing they dared build

something larger.

"Yes and no. I had to use magic to attract them,

poor things." Kethry shook her head regretfully as

she bundled the offal in the skins and buried the

remains in the snow to freeze hard. Once frozen,

she'd dispose of them away from the camp, to avoid

attracting scavengers. "I felt so guilty, but what

else was I to do? We ate the last of the bread

yesterday, and I didn't want to chance on the hunt-

ing luck of just one of us."

"You do what you have to, Keth. Well, we're able

to live off the land, but Kessira and Rodi can't,"

Tarma replied. "Our grain is almost gone, and we've

still a long way to go to get to the Plains. Keth, we

need money."

"I know."

"And you're the one of us best suited to earning

it. This land is too peaceful for the likes of me to

find a job—except for something involving at least

a one-year contract, and that's something we can't

afford to take the time for. I need to get back to the

Plains as soon as I can if I'm to raise Tale'sedrin's

banner again."

"I know that, too." Kethry's eyes had become

shadowed, the lines around her mouth showed strain.

"And I know that the only city close enough to

serve us is Mornedealth."

And there was no doubt in Tarma's mind that

Kethry would rather have died than set foot in that

city, though she hadn't the vaguest notion why.

Well, this didn't look to be the proper moment to

ask—

"Storm coming; a bad one," she said, changing

the subject. "I'll let the hooved ones forage for as

long as I dare, but by sunset I'll have to bring them

into camp. Our best bet is going to be to shelter all

together because I don't think a fire is going to

survive the blow."

"I wish I knew where you get your information,"

Kethry replied, frown smoothing into a wry half-

smile. "You certainly have me beat at weather-

witching."

"Call it Shin'a'in intuition," Tarma shrugged,

wishing she knew whether it was permitted to an

outland she'enedra—who was a magician to boot—to

know of the veiled ones. Would they object? Tarma

had no notion, and wasn't prepared to risk it. "Think

you can get our dinner cooked before the storm gets

here?"

"I may be able to do better than that, if I can

remember the spells." The mage disjointed the rab-

bits, and spitted the carcasses on twigs over the

fire. She stripped off her leather gloves, flexed her

bare fingers, then held her hands over the tiny fire

and began whispering under her breath. Her eyes

were half-slitted with concentration and there was

a faint line between her eyebrows. As Tarma

watched, fascinated, the fire and their dinner were

enclosed in a transparent shell of glowing gold mist.

"Very pretty; what's it good for?" Tarma asked

when she took her hands away.

"Well, for one thing, I've cut off the wind; for

another, the shield is concentrating the heat and

the meat will cook faster now."

"And what's it costing you?" Tarma had been in

Kethry's company long enough now to know that

magic always had a price. And in Kethry's case,

that price was usually taken out of the resources of

the spell-caster.

Kethry smiled at her accusing tone. "Nowhere

near so much as you might think; this clearing has

been used for overnighting a great deal, and a good

many of those camping here have celebrated in one

way or another. There's lots of residual energy here,

energy only another mage could tap. Mages don't

take the Trade Road often, they take the Courier's

Road when they have to travel at all."

"So?"

"So there's more than enough energy here not

only to cook dinner but to give us a little more

protection from the weather than our bit of canvas."

Tarma nodded, momentarily satisfied that her

blood-sister wasn't exhausting herself just so they

could eat a little sooner. "Well, while I was scroung-

ing for the hooved ones, I found a bit for us, too—"

She began pulling cattail roots, mallow-pith, a

few nuts, and other edibles from the outer pockets

of her coat. "Not a lot there, but enough to supple-

ment dinner, and make a bit of breakfast besides."

"Bless you! These bunnies were a bit young and

small, and rather on the lean side—should this stuff

be cooked?"

"They're better raw, actually."

"Good enough; want to help with the shelter,

since we're expecting a blow?"

"Only if you tell me what to do. I've got no

notion of what these winter storms of yours are

like."

Kethry had already stretched their canvas tent

across the top and open side of the enclosure of

rocks and logs, stuffed brush and moss into the

chinks on the inside, packed snow into the chinks

from the outside, and layered the floor with pine

boughs to keep their own bodies off the snow. Tarma

helped her lash the canvas down tighter, then

weighted all the loose edges with packed-down snow

and what rocks they could find.

As they worked, the promised storm began to

give warning of its approach. The wind picked up

noticeably, and the northern horizon began to darken.

Tarma cast a wary eye at the darkening clouds. "I

hope you're done cooking because it doesn't look

like we have too much time left to get under cover."

"I think it's cooked through."

"And if not, it won't be the first time we've eaten

raw meat on this trip. I'd better get the grazers."

Tarma got the beasts one at a time; first the

mule, then her mare. She backed them right inside

the shelter, coaxing them to lie down inside, one on

either side of it, with their heads to the door-flap

just in case something should panic them. With the

two humans in the space in the middle, they should

all stay as close to warm as was possible. Once

again she breathed a little prayer of thankfulness

for the quality of mule she'd been able to find for

Kethry; with a balky beast or anything other than

another Shin'a'in-bred horse this arrangement would

have been impossible.

Kethry followed, grilled rabbit bundled into a

piece of leather. The rich odor made Tarma's mouth

water and reminded her that she hadn't eaten since

this morning. While Kethry wormed her way in

past her partner, Tarma lashed the door closed.

"Hold this, and find a comfortable spot," the

mage told her. While Tarma snuggled up against

Kessira's shoulder, Kethry knelt in the space re-

maining. She held her hands just at chin height,

palms facing outward, her eyes completely closed

and her face utterly vacant. By this Tarma knew

she was attempting a much more difficult bit of

magery than she had with their dinner.

She began an odd, singsong chant, swaying a lit-

tle in time to it. Tarma began to see a thin streak of

weak yellow light, like a watered-down sunbeam,

dancing before her. In fact, that was what she prob-

ably would have taken it for—except that the sun

was nearly down, not overhead.

As Kethry chanted, the light-beam increased in

strength and brightness. Then, at a sharp word

from her, it split into six. The six beams remained

where the one had been for a moment, perhaps a

little longer. Kethry began chanting again, a differ-

ent rhythm this time, and the six beams leapt to

the walls of their shelter, taking up positions spaced

equally apart.

When they moved so suddenly, Tarma had nearly

jumped out of her skin—especially since one of

them had actually passed through her. But when

she could feel no strangeness—and certainly no harm

from the encounter—she relaxed again. The ani-

mals appeared to be ignoring the things, whatever

they were.

Now little tendrils of light were spinning out

from each of the beams, reaching out until they met

in a kind of latticework. When this had spread to

the canvas overhead, Tarma began to notice that

the wind, which had been howling and tugging at

the canvas, had been cut off, and that the shelter

was noticeably warmer as a result.

Kethry sagged then, and allowed herself to half-

collapse against Rodi's bulk.

"Took less than I might think, hmm?"

"Any more comments like that and I'll make you

stay outside."

"First you'd have to fight Kessira. Have some

dinner." Tarma passed her half the rabbit; it was

still warm and amazingly juicy and both of them

wolfed down their portions with good appetite, nib-

bling the bones clean, then cracking them and suck-

ing out the last bit of marrow. With the bones

licked bare, they finished with the roots of Tarma's

gleaning, though more than half of Tarma's share

went surreptitiously to Kessira.

When they had finished, the sun was gone and

the storm building to full force. Tarma peeked out

the curtain of tent-canvas at the front of the shel-

ter; the fire was already smothered. Tarma noticed

then that the light-web gave off a faint illumina-

tion; not enough to read by, but enough to see by.

"What is—all this?" she asked, waving a hand at

the light-lattice. "Where'd it come from?"

"It's a variation of the fire-shield I raised; it's

magical energy manifesting itself in a physical fash-

ion. Part of that energy came from me, part of it

was here already and I just reshaped it. In essence,

I told it I thought it was a wall, and it believed me.

So now we have a 'wall' between us and the storm."

"Uh, right. You told that glowing thing you

thought it was a wall, and it believed you—"

Kethry managed a tired giggle at her partner's

expression. "That's why the most important tool a

magician has is his will; it has to be strong in order

to convince energy to be something else."

"Is that how you sorcerers work?"

"All sorcerers, or White Winds sorcerers?"

"There's more than one kind?"

"Where'd you think magicians came from any-

way? Left in the reeds for their patrons to find?"

Kethry giggled again.

"No, but the only 'magicians' the Clans have are

the shamans, and they don't do magic, much. Heal-

ing, acting as advisors, keepers of outClan know-

ledge—that's mostly what they do. When we need

magic, we ask Her for it."

"And She answers?" Kethry's eyes widened in

fascination.

"Unless She has a damn good reason not to. She's

very close to us—closer than most deities are to

their people, from what I've been able to judge. But

that may be because we don't ask Her for much, or

very often. There's a story—" Tarma half smiled.

"—there was a hunter who'd been very lucky and

had come to depend on that luck. When his luck

left him, his skills had gotten very rusty, and he

couldn't manage to make a kill. Finally he went to

the shaman, and asked him if he thought She would

listen to a plea for help. The shaman looked him up

and down, and finally said, 'You're not dead yet.' "

"Which means he hadn't been trying hard enough

by himself?"

"Exactly. She is the very last resort—and you

had damned well better be careful what you ask

Her for—She'll give it to you, but in Her own way,

especially if you haven't been honest with Her or

with yourself. So mostly we don't ask." Tarma

warmed to Kethry's interest, and continued when

that interest didn't flag. This was the first chance

she'd had to explain her beliefs to Kethry; before

this, Kethry had either been otherwise occupied or

there hadn't been enough privacy. "The easiest of

Her faces to deal with are the Maiden and the

Mother, they're gentler, more forgiving; the hard-

est are the Warrior and the Crone. Maiden and

Mother don't take Oathbound to themselves, War-

rior and Crone do. Crone's Oathbound—no, I won't

tell you—you guess what they do."

"Uh," Kethry's brow furrowed in thought, and

she nibbled a hangnail. "Shamans?"

"Right! And Healers and the two Elders in each

Clan, who may or may not also be Healers or sha-

mans. Those the Crone Binds are Bound, like the

Kal'enedral, to the Clans as a whole, serving with

their minds and talents instead of their hands.

Now—you were saying about magicians?" She was

as curious to know about Kethry's teaching as Keth

seemed to be about her own.

"There's more than one school; mine is White

Winds. Um, let me go to the very basics. Magic has

three sources. The first is power from within the

sorcerer himself, and you have to have the Talent

to use that source—and even then it isn't fully

trained by anyone I know of. I've heard that up

north a good ways they use pure mind-magic, rather

than using the mind to find other sources of power."

"That would be—Valdemar, no?"

"Yes!" Kethry looked surprised at Tarma's knowl-

edge. "Well, the second is power created by living

things, rather like a fire creates light just by being

a fire. You have to have the Talent to sense that

power, but not to use it so long as you know it's

there. Death releases a lot of that energy in one

burst; that's why an unTalented sorcerer can turn

to dark wizardry; he knows the power will be there

when he kills something. The third source is from

creatures that live in places that aren't this world,

but touch this world—like pages in a book. Page one

isn't page two, but they touch all along each other.

Other Planes, we call them. There's one for each

element, one for what we call 'demons,' and one

for very powerful creatures that aren't quite gods,

but do seem kindly inclined to humans. There may

be more, but that's all anyone has ever discovered

that I know of. The creatures of the four Elemental

Planes can be bargained with—you can build up

credit with them by doing them little favors, or you

can promise them something they want from this

Plane."

"Was that what I saw fighting beside you when

you took out that wizard back in Brether's Cross-

roads ? Other-whatsit creatures ?"

"Exactly—and that fight is why my magic is so

limited at the moment—I used up all the credit I

had built with them in return for that help. Fortu-

nately I didn't have to go into debt to them, or we'd

probably be off trying to find snow-roses for the

Ethereal Varirs right now. There is another way of

dealing with them. You can coerce them with magi-

cal bindings or with your will. The creatures from

the Abyssal Plane can be bought with pain-energy

and death-energy—they feed off those—or coerced

if your will is strong enough, although the only way

you can 'bind' them magically is to hold them to

this Plane; you can't force them to do anything if

your own will isn't stronger than theirs. The crea-

tures of the Sixth Plane—we call it the 'Empyreal

Plane'—can't be coerced in any way, and they'll

only respond to a call if they feel like it. Any

magician can contact the Other-Planar creatures,

it's just a matter of knowing the spells that open

the boundaries between us and them. The thing

that makes schools of magic different is their eth-

ics, really. How they feel about the different kinds

of power and using them."

"So what does yours teach?" Tarma lay back

with her arms stretched along Kessira's back and

neck; she scratched gently behind the mare's ears

while Kessira nodded her head in drowsy content-

ment. This was the most she'd gotten out of Kethry

in the past six months.

"We don't coerce; not ever. We don't deal at all

with the entities of the Abyssal Planes except to

send them back—or destroy them if we can. We

don't deliberately gain use of energy by killing or

causing pain. We hold that our Talents have been

given us for a purpose; that purpose is to use them

for the greatest good. That's why we are wander-

ers, why we don't take up positions under perma-

nent patrons."

"Why you're dirt-poor and why there're so few of

you," Tarma interrupted genially.

" 'Fraid so," Kethry smiled. "No worldly sense,

that's us. But that's probably why Need picked

me."

"She'enedra, why don't you want to go to Morne-

dealth?"

"I---"

"And why haven't you ever told me about your

home and kin?" Tarma had been letting her spirit-

teacher's last remark stew in the back of her mind,

and when Kethry had begun giving her the "les-

son" in the ways of magic had realized she knew

next to nothing about her partner's antecedents.

She'd been brooding on her own sad memories, but

Kethry's avoidance of the subject of the past could

only mean that hers were as sorry. And Tarma

would be willing to bet the coin she didn't have

that the mystery was tied into Mornedealth.

Kethry's mouth had tightened with an emotion

Tarma recognized only too well. Pain.

"I'll have to know sooner or later, she'enedra. We

have no choice but to pass through Mornedealth,

and no choice but to try and raise money there, or

we'll starve. And if it's something I can do any-

thing about—well, I want doubly to know about it!

You're my Clan, and nobody hurts my Clan and

gets away with it!"

"It—it isn't anything you can deal with—"

"Let me be the judge of that, hmm?"

Kethry sighed, and visibly took herself in hand.

"I—I guess it's only fair. You know next to nothing

about me, but accepted me anyway."

"Not true," Tarma interrupted her, "She accepted

you when you oathbound yourself to me as blood-

sib. That's all I needed to know then. She wouldn't

bind two who didn't belong together."

"But circumstances change, I know, and it isn't

fair for me to keep making a big secret out of where

I come from. All right." Kethry nodded, as if mak-

ing up her mind to grasp the thorns. "The reason I

haven't told you anything is this; I'm a fugitive. I

grew up in Mornedealth; I'm a member of one of

the Fifty Noble Houses. My real name is Kethryveris

of House Pheregrul."

Tarma raised one eyebrow, but only said, "Do I

bow, or can I get by with just kissing your hand?"

Kethry almost smiled. "It's a pretty empty title

—or it was when I ran away. The House estates

had dwindled to nothing more than a decaying man-

sion in the Old City by my father's time, and the

House prerequisites to little more than an invita-

tion to all Court functions—which we generally

declined graciously—and permission to hunt the

Royal Forests—which kept us fed most of the year.

Father married mother for love, and it was a disas-

ter. Her family disowned her, she became ill and

wouldn't tell him. It was one of those long declin-

ing things, she just faded bit by bit, so gradually

that he, being absent-minded at best, really didn't

notice. She died three years after I was born. That

left just the three of us."

"Three?"

Kethry hadn't ever mentioned any sibs before.

"Father, my brother Kavin—that's Kavinestral—

and me. Kavin was eight years older than me, and

from what everyone said, the very image of Father

in his youth. Handsome—the word just isn't ade-

quate to describe Kavin. He looks like a god."

"And you worshiped him." Tarma had no trouble

reading that between the lines.

It wasn't just the dim light that was making

Kethry look pale. "How could I not? Father died

when I was ten, and Kavin was all I had left, and

when he exerted himself he could charm the moss

off the wall. We were fine until Father died; he'd

had some income or other that kept the house going,

well, that dried up when he was gone. That left

Kavin and me with no income and nowhere to go

but a falling-down monstrosity that we couldn't

even sell, because it's against the law for the Fifty

Families to sell the ancestral homes. We let the few

servants we had go—all but one, my old nurse Tildy.

She wouldn't leave me. So Tildy and I struggled to

run the household and keep us all clothed and fed.

Kavin hunted the Royal Forests when he got hun-

gry enough, and spent the rest of his time being

Kavin. Which, to me, meant being perfection."

"Until you got fed up and ran away?" Tarma

hazarded, when Kethry's silence had gone too long.

She knew it it wasn't the right answer, but she

hoped it would prod Kethry back into speaking.

"Hardly." Kethry's eyes and mouth were bitter.

"He had me neatly twined 'round his finger. No,

things went on like that until I was twelve, and

just barely pubescent. Two things happened then

that I had no knowledge of. The first was that

Kavin himself became fed up with life on the edge,

and looked around for something to make him a lot

of money quickly. The second was that on one of

his dips in the stews with his friends, he acciden-

tally encountered the richest banker in Mornedealth

and found out exactly what his secret vice was.

Kavin may have been lazy, but he wasn't stupid.

He was fully able to put facts together. He also

knew that Wethes Goldmarchant, like all the other

New Money moguls, wanted the one thing that all

his money couldn't buy him—he wanted inside the

Fifty Families. He wanted those Court invitations

we declined; wanted them so badly it made him

ache. And he'd never get them—not unless he some-

how saved the realm single-handedly, which wasn't

bloody likely."

Kethry's hands were clenched tightly in her lap,

she stared at them as if they were the most fasci-

nating things in the universe. "I knew nothing of

all this, of course, mewed up in the house all day

and daydreaming about finding a hidden cache of

gold and gems and being able to pour them in Kavin's

lap and make him smile at me. Then one day he did

smile at me; he told me he had a surprise for me. I

went with him, trusting as a lamb. Next thing I

knew, he was handing me over to Wethes; the mar-

riage ceremony had already taken place by proxy.

You see, Wethes' secret vice was little girls—and

with me, he got both his ambition and his lust

satisfied. It was a bargain too good for either of

them to resist—"

Kethry's voice broke in something like a sob;

Tarma leaned forward and put one hard, long hand

on the pair clenched white-knuckled in her part-

ner's lap.

"So your brother sold you, hmm? Well, give him a

little credit, she'enedra; he might have thought he

was doing you a favor. The merchant would give

you every luxury, after all; you'd be a valued and

precious possession."

"I'd like to believe that, but I can't. Kavin saw

some of those little girls Wethes was in the habit of

despoiling. He knew what he was selling me into,

and he didn't care, he plainly did not care. The

only difference between them and me was that the

chains and manacles he used on me were solid gold,

and I was raped on silk sheets instead of linen. And

it was rape, nothing else! I wanted to die; I prayed

I would die. I didn't understand anything of what

had happened to me. I only knew that the brother I

worshiped had betrayed me." Her voice wavered a

moment, and faded against the howl of the storm-

winds outside their shelter. Tarma had to strain to

hear her.

Then she seemed to recover, and her voice streng-

thened again. "But although I had been betrayed, I

hadn't been forgotten. My old nurse managed to

sneak her way into the house on the strength of the

fact that she was my nurse; nobody thought to deny

her entry. When Wethes was finished with me, she

waited until he had left and went inquiring for me.

When she found me, she freed me and smuggled

me out."

Kethry finally brought her eyes up to meet her

partner's; there was pain there, but also a hint of

ironic humor. "You'd probably like her; she also

stole every bit of gold and jewelry she found with

me and carried them off, too."

"A practical woman; you're right, I think I would

like her. I take it she had somewhere to hide you?"

"Her brother's farm—it's east of here. Well, I

wasn't exactly in my right mind for a while, but

she managed to help with that for a bit. But then—

then I started having nightmares, and when I did,

every movable thing in my room would go flying

about. Mind you, I never broke anything—"

"Since I gather this was a 'flying about' without

benefit of hands, I would think it would be rather

unnerving."

"Tildy knew she hadn't any way of coping with

me then, so she took me to the nearest mage-school

she knew, which was White Winds. It only took one

nightmare to convince them that I needed help—

and that I was going to be a pretty good mage after I

got that help. That's where I got Need."

Kethry's hands unclenched, and one of them

strayed to the hilt of a plain short-sword wedged in

among the supplies tucked into the shelter.

"Now that's another tale you never told me."

"Not for any reason, just because there isn't much

to tell. We had a guard there, an old mercenary

who'd been hired on to give us a bit of protection,

and to give her a kind of semi-retirement. Baryl

Longarm was her name. When I was ready to take

the roads, she called me into her rooms."

"That must have had you puzzled."

"Since she didn't have a reputation for chasing

other females, it certainly did. Thank goodness she

didn't leave me wondering for long. 'You're the

first wench we've had going out for a dog's age,' she

said, 'and there's something I want you to have. It's

time it went out again, anyway, and you'll probably

have to use it before you're gone a month.' She took

down this sword from the wall, unsheathed it, and

laid it in my hands. And the runes appeared on the

blade."

"I remember when you showed me. 'Woman's

Need calls me, as Woman's Need made me. Her

Need I will answer as my maker bade me.' " Tarma

glanced at Kethry's hand on the hilt. "Gave me a

fair turn, I can tell you. I always thought magic

blades were gold-hiked and jewel-bedecked."

"Then she told me what little she knew—that

the sword's name was Need, that she was in-

destructible so far as Baryl had been able to tell.

That she only served women. And that her service

was such that she only gave what you yourself did

not already have. That to her, a fighter, Need gave

a virtual immunity to all magic, but didn't add so

much as a fillip to her fighting skills—but that for

me, a mage, if I let it take control when it needed

to, it would make me a master swordswoman, though

it wouldn't make the least difference to any spell I

cast. And that it would help Heal anything short of

a death-wound."

"Rather like one of Her gifts, you know?" Tarma

interrupted. "Makes you do your utmost, to the

best of your abilities, but bails you out when you're

out of your depth."

"I never thought about it that way, but you're

right. Is there any way Need could be Shin'a'in?"

"Huh-uh. We've few metal-workers, and none of

them mages—and we don't go in for short-swords,

anyway. Now, what's the problem with you going

back to Mornedealth? Changing the subject isn't

going to change my wanting to know."

"Well, you can't blame me for trying—she'enedra,

I have angered a very powerful man, my husband—"

"Crap! He's no more your husband than I am, no

matter what charade he went through."

"—and a very ruthless one, my brother. I don't

know what either of them would do if they learned

I was within their reach again." Kethry shuddered,

and Tarma reached forward and clasped both her

hands in her own.

"I have only one question, my sister and my

friend," she said, so earnestly that Kethry came out

of her own fear and looked deeply into the shad-

owed eyes that met hers. "And that is this; which

way do you want them sliced—lengthwise, or

widthwise?"

"Tarma!" The sober question struck Kethry as so

absurd that she actually began laughing weakly.

"In all seriousness, I much doubt that either of

them is going to recognize you; think about it, you're

a woman grown now, not a half-starved child. But

if they do, that's what I'm here for. If they try

anything, I'll ask you that question again, and you'd

best have a quick answer for me. Now, are you

satisfied?"

"You are insane!"

"I am Shin'a'in; some say there is little differ-

ence. I am also Kal'enedral, and most say there is

no difference. So believe me; no one is going to

touch you with impunity. I am just crazed enough

to cut the city apart in revenge."

"And this is supposed to make me feel better?"

"You're smiling, aren't you?"

"Well," Kethry admitted reluctantly, "I guess I

am."

"When a child of the Clans falls off her horse, we

make her get right back on again. She'enedra, don't

you think it's time you remounted this one?"

"I--"

"Or do you prefer to live your life with them

dictating that you shall not return to your own

city?"

Her chin came up; a stubborn and angry light

smoldered in her eyes. "No."

"Then we face this city of yours and we face it to-

gether. For now, make a mattress of Rodi, she'enedra;

and sleep peacefully. I intend to do the same. To-

morrow we go to Mornedealth and make it deal

with us on our terms. Hai?"

Kethry nodded, convinced almost against her will,

and beginning to view the inevitable encounter with

something a little more like confidence.

"Hai," she agreed.

Two

Kethry envied her partner's ability to drop

immediately into sleep under almost any cir-

cumstances. Her own thoughts were enough to keep

her wakeful; add to them the snoring of her mule

and the wailing of the wind outside their shelter,

and Kethry had a foolproof recipe for insomnia.

She wanted to avoid Mornedealth no matter what

the cost. Just the thought that she might encounter

Wethes was enough to make her shudder almost

uncontrollably. In no way was she prepared to deal

with him, and she wondered now if she would ever

be....

And yet, Tarma was right. She would never truly

be "free" unless she dealt with her fear. She would

never truly be her own woman if she allowed fear

and old memories to dictate where she would or

would not go.

The disciplines of the Order of White Winds

mandated self-knowledge and self-mastery. She had

deceived herself into thinking she had achieved

that mastery of self; Tarma had just shown her

how wrong she was.

It's been seven years, she thought bitterly. Seven

long years—and those bastards still have power over

me. And I'll never be an adept until I break that power.

For that, after all, was the heart of the White

Winds discipline; that no negative tie be permitted

to bind the sorcerer in any way. Positive ties—like

the oath of she'enedran she had sworn with Tarma,

like the bond of lover to lover or parent to child—

were encouraged to flourish, for the sorcerer could

draw confidence and strength from them. But the

negative bonds of fear, hatred, or greed must be

rooted out and destroyed, for they would actually

drain the magician of needed energy.

Sometimes Tarma can be so surprising, see things so

clearly. And yet she has such peculiar blind spots. Or

does she? Does she realize that she's driving us both to

the Plains as if she was geas-bound? She's like a

messenger-bird, unable to travel in any direction but

the one appointed.

Kethry hadn't much cared where she wandered;

this was her time of journey, she wouldn't settle in

any one place until she reached the proficiency of

an Adept. Then she would either found a school of

her own, or find a place in an established White

Winds enclave. So Tarma's overwhelming need to

return home had suited her as well as anything

else.

Until she had realized that the road they were on

led directly to Mornedealth.

It all comes back to that, doesn't it? And until I face

it, I'm stalemated. Dammit, Tarma's right. I'm a full

sorceress, I'm a full adult, and I have one damned fine

swordswoman for a partner. What in Teslat's name am

I afraid of? There is nothing under the law that they

can really do to me—I've been separated from Wethes

for seven years, and three is enough to unmake the

marriage, assuming there really was one. I'm not going

in under my full name, and I've changed so much. How

are they even going to recognize me?

Across the shelter Tarma stirred, and curled her-

self into a tighter ball. Kethry smiled and shook her

head, thinking about her partner's words on the

subject.

"Do you want them sliced lengthwise or widthwise"

—Windborn, she is such a bundle of contradictions.

We have got to start talking; we hardly know anything

about one another. Up until now, we've had our hands

full of bandit-extermination, then there just wasn't the

privacy. But if I'd had all the world to choose a sister

from, I would have picked her over any other. Goddess-

oath and all, I would have chosen her. Though that

Warrior of hers certainly took the decision right out of

our hands.

Kethry contemplated the sleeping face of her part-

ner. In repose she lost a great deal of the cold

harshness her expression carried when she was

awake. She looked, in fact, a great deal younger

than Kethry was.

When she sleeps, she's the child she was before she

lost her Clan. When she's awake—I'm not sure what

she is. She eats, drinks and breathes the Warrior, that's

for certain, yet she hasn't made any move to convert

me. I know it would please her if I did, and it wouldn't

be any great change to do so; her Goddess just seems to

me to be one more face of the Windborn Soulshaper.

She seems like any other mercenary hire-sword—insisting

on simple solutions to complicated problems, mostly

involving the application of steel to offending party.

Then she turns around and hits me with a sophisticated

proverb, or some really esoteric knowledge—like know-

ing that mind-magic is used in Valdemar. And she's

hiding something from me; something to do with that

Goddess of hers, I think. And not because she doesn't

trust me . . . maybe because I don't share her faith. Her

people—nobody really knows too much about the

Shin'a'in; they keep pretty much to themselves. Of

course that shouldn't be too surprising; anyone who

knew the Dhorisha Plains the way they do could dive

into the grass and never be seen again, if that's what he

wanted to do. You could hide the armies of a dozen

nations out there, and they'd likely never run into each

other. Assuming the Shin'a'in would let them past the

Border. 1 suspect if Tale'sedrin had been on the Plains

instead of camped on the road to the Great Horse Fair

the bandits would be dead and the Hawk's Children

still riding. And I would be out a sister.

Kethry shook her head. Well, what happened, hap-

pened. Now I have to think about riding into Morne-

dealth tomorrow. Under a glamour?

She considered the notion for a moment, then

discarded it. No. I'll go in wearing my own face,

dammit! Besides, the first sorcerer who sees I'm wear-

ing a glamour is likely to want to know why—and

likely to try to find out. If I'm luckly, he'll come to us

with his hand out. If I'm not, he'll go to Wethes or

Kavin. No, a glamour would only cause trouble, not

avoid it. I think Tarma's right; we'll go in as a merce-

nary team, no more, no less, and under her Clanname.

We'll stay quiet, draw no attention to ourselves, and

maybe avoid trouble altogether. The more complicated

a plan is, the more likely it is to go wrong. . . .

Kethry began formulating some simple story for

her putative background, but the very act of having

faced and made the decision to go in had freed her

of the tension that was keeping her sleepless. She

had hardly begun, when her weariness claimed her.

The blizzard cleared by morning. Dawn brought

cloudless skies, brilliant sun, and still, cold air that

made everything look sharp-edged and brightly-

painted. They cleared camp and rode off into a

world that seemed completely new-made.

Tarma was taken totally by surprise by the change-

ling forest; she forgot her homesickness, forgot her

worry over Kethry, even temporarily forgot how

cold she was.

Birdcalls echoed for miles through the forest, as

did the steady, muffled clop of their mounts' hooves.

The storm had brought a fine, powder like snow,

snow that frosted every branch and coated the un-

derbrush, so that the whole forest reflected the

sunlight and glowed so that they were surrounded

by a haze of pearly light. Best of all, at least to

Tarma's mind, the soft snow was easy for the beasts

to move through, so they made good time. Just past

midafternoon, glimpses of the buildings and walls

of Mornedealth could be seen above and through

the trees.

It was a city made of the wood that was its staple

in trade; weathered, silver-gray wooden palisades,

wooden walls, wooden buildings; only the founda-

tions of a building were ever made of stone. The

outer wall that encircled it was a monument to

man's ingenuity and Mornedealth's woodworkers;

it was two stories tall, and as strong as any corres-

ponding wall of stone. Granted, it would never

survive being set afire, as would inevitably happen

in a siege, but the wall had never been built with

sieges in mind. It was intended to keep the beasts

of the forest out of the city when the hardships of

winter made their fear of man less than their hun-

ger, and to keep the comings and goings of strang-

ers limited to specific checkpoints. If an enemy

penetrated this realm so far as to threaten Morne-

dealth, all was lost anyway, and there would be

nothing for it but surrender.

Since the only city Tarma had ever spent any

length of time in was Brether's Crossroads—less

than half the size of Mornedealth—the Shin'a'in

confessed to Kethry that she was suitably impressed

by it long before they ever entered the gates.

"But you spent more than a year hunting down

Gregoth and his band. Surely you—"

"Don't remember much of that, she'enedra. It was

a bit like being in a drug haze. I only really came

awake when I was tr—" she suddenly recalled that

Kethry knew nothing of her faceless trainers and

what they were, and decided that discretion was in

order. "When I had to. To question someone, or to

read a trail. The rest of the time, I might just as

well not have been there, and I surely wasn't in any

kind of mood for seeing sights."

"No—you wouldn't be. I'm sorry; I wasn't think-

ing at all."

"Nothing to apologize for. Just tell me what I'm

getting into here. You're the native; where are we

going?"

Kethry reined in, a startled look on her face.

"I—I've spent so much time thinking about Kavin

and Wethes . . ."

"Li'sa'eer!" Tarma exclaimed in exasperation, pull-

ing Kessira up beside her. "Well, think about it

now, dammit!" She kneed her mare slightly; Kessira

obeyed the subtle signal and shouldered Rodi to

one side until both of the beasts had gotten off onto

the shoulder of the road, out of the way of traffic.

There wasn't anybody in sight, but Tarma had had

yuthi'so'coro—road-courtesy—hammered into her

from the time she was old enough to sit a horse

unaided. No Shin'a'in omitted road-courtesy while

journeying, not even when among deadly enemies.

And road-courtesy dictated that if you were going

to sit and chat, you didn't block the progress of

others while you were doing it.

"We'll have to use the Stranger's Gate," Kethry

said after long thought, staring at the point where

the walls of Mornedealth began paralleling the road.

"That's no hardship, it's right on the Trade Road.

But we'll have to register with the Gate Guard,

give him our names, where we're from, where we're

going, and our business here."

"Warrior's Oath! What do they want, to write a

book about us?" Tarma replied with impatience.

"Look, this is as much for our sakes as theirs.

Would you want total strangers loose in your Clan

territory?"

"Sa-hai. You're right. Not that strangers ever get

past the Border, but you're right."

"The trouble is, I daren't tell them what I really

am, but I don't want to get caught in a complicated

falsehood."

"Now that's no problem," Tarma nodded. "We

just tell him a careful mixture of the truth with

enough lie in it to keep your enemies off the track.

Then?"

"There are specific inns for travelers; we'll have

to use one of them. They won't ask us to pay straight

off, we'll have three days to find work and get our

reckoning taken care of. After that, they confiscate

everything we own except what we're wearing."

Tarma snorted a little with contempt, which ob-

viously surprised Kethry.

"I thought you'd throw a fit over the notion of

someone taking Kessira."

"I'd rather like to see them try. You've never

seen her with a stranger. She's not a battle-steed,

but nobody lays a finger on her without my permis-

sion. Let a stranger put one hand on her rein and

he'll come away with a bloody stump. And while

he's opening his mouth to yell about it, she'll be off

down the street, headed for the nearest gate. If I

were hurt and gave her the command to run for it,

she'd carry me to the closest exit she could remem-

ber without any direction from me. And if she

couldn't find one, she might well make one. No, I've

no fear of anyone confiscating her. One touch, and

they wouldn't want her. Besides, I have something I

can leave in pledge—I'd rather not lose it, but it's

better than causing a scene."

Tarma took off her leather glove, reached into

the bottom of her saddlebag and felt for a knobby,

silk-wrapped bundle. She brought the palm-sized

package out and unwrapped it carefully, uncover-

ing to the brilliant sunlight an amber necklace. It

was made of round beads alternating with carved

claws or teeth; it glowed on the brown silk draped

over her hand like an ornament of hardened sun-

beams.

"Osberg wore that!"

"He stole it from me. I took it back off his dead

body. It was the last thing Dharin gave me. Our

pledge-gift. I never found the knife I gave him."

Kethry said nothing; Tarma regarded the neck-

lace with a stony-cold expression that belied the

ache in her heart, then rewrapped it and stowed it

away. "As I said, I'd rather not lose it, but losing

it's better than causing a riot. Now how do we find

work?"

"We'd be safest going to a Hiring Hall. They

charge employers a fee to find people with special

talents."

"Well, that's us."

"Of course, that's money we won't see. We could

get better fees if we went out looking on our own,

but it would probably take longer."

"Hiring Hall; better the safe course."

"I agree, but they're sure to notice at the gate

that my accent is native. Would you mind doing the

talking?"

Tarma managed a quirk of the lips that approxi-

mated a half-smile. "All right, I'll do all the talking

at the gate. Look stupid and sweet, and let them

think you're my lover. Unless that could get us in

trouble."

Kethry shook her head. "No, there's enough of

that in Mornedealth. Virtually anything is allowed

provided you're ready to pay for it."

"And they call this civilization! Vai datha; let's

get on with it."

They turned their beasts once more onto the road,

and within a candlemark were under scrutiny of

the sentries on the walls. Tarma allowed a lazy,

sardonic smile to cross her face. One thing she had

to give them; these guards were well disciplined.

No catcalls, no hails, no propositions to Kethry—

just a steady, measuring regard that weighed them

and judged them unthreatening for the moment.

These "soft, city-bred" guards were quite impressive.

The Stranger's Gate was wide enough for three

wagons to pass within, side by side, and had an

ironwork portcullis as well as a pair of massive

bleached-wood doors, all three now standing open.

They clattered under the wall, through a wooden-

walled tunnel about three horse-lengths deep. When

they reached the other entrance, they found them-

selves stopped by a chain stretched across the in-

ner side of the gate. One of the men standing sentry

approached them and asked them (with short words,

but courteous) to follow him to a tiny office built

right into the wall. There was always a Gate Guard

on duty here; the man behind the desk was, by the

insignia pinned to his brown leather tunic, a cap-

tain. Kethry had told her partner as they approached

the walls that those posted as Gate Guards tended

to be high-ranking, and above the general cut of

mercenary, because they had to be able to read and

write. Their escort squeezed them inside the door,

and returned to his own post. The Gate Guard was

a middle-aged, lean, saturnine man who glanced up

at them from behind his tiny desk, and without a

word, pulled a ledger, quill and ink from under-

neath it.

The Gate Guard was of the same cut as the men

on the walls; Tarma wondered if Kethry would be

able to pass his careful scrutiny. It didn't look like

he missed much. Certainly Kethry looked nothing

like a Shin'a'in, so she'd have to be one damn con-

vincing actress to get away with claiming a Shin'a'in

Clanname.

Tarma stole a glance sideways at her partner and

had to refrain from a hoarse chuckle. Kethry wore a

bright, vapid smile, and was continuously fussing

with the way her cloak draped and smoothing down

her hair. She looked like a complete featherhead.

No problem. The Guard would have very little

doubt why the partner of a rather mannish swords-

woman was claiming her Clanname!

At the Guard's brusque inquiry as to their names

and business, Tarma replied as shortly, "We're

Shin'a'in mercenaries. Tarma shena Tale'sedrin,

Kethry shena Tale'sedrin. We're on our way back

to the Dhorisha Plains; I've got inheritance coming

from my Clan I need to claim. But we've run out of

provisions; we're going to have to take some tempo-

rary work to restock."

"Not much call for your kind on a temporary

basis, Swordlady," he replied with a certain gruff

respect. "Year contract or more, sure; Shin'a'in have

a helluva reputation. You'd be able to get top wage

as any kind of guard, guard-captain or trainer; but

not temporary. Your pretty friend's in mage-robes;

that just for show, or can she light a candle?"

"Ah, Keth's all right. Good enough to earn us

some coin, just no horse-sense, he shala? She's worth

the trouble taking care of, and for more reasons

than one, bless her."

"Eyah, and without you to keep the wolves away,

a pretty bit like that'd get eaten alive in a week,"

the Guard answered with a certain gleam of sym-

pathy in his eyes. "Had a shieldmate like that in

my younger days, fancied himself a poet; didn't

have sense enough to come in out of a storm. Caught

himself a fever standing out in a blizzard, admiring

it; died of it eventually—well, that's the way of

things. You being short of coin; tell you what, one

professional to another—you go find the Broken

Sword, tell 'em Jervac sent you. And I hear tell the

Hiring Hall over by the animal market was on the

lookout for a mage on temp."

"Will do—luck on your blade, captain."

"And on yours. Ah—don't mount up; lead your

beasts, that's the law inside the gates."

As they led their mounts in the direction the

Gate Guard had indicated, Kethry whispered, "How

much of that was good advice?"

"We'll find out when we find this inn; chances

are he's getting some kickback, but he could be

doing us a good turn at the same time. Thanks for

the help with the ruse of being your protector; that

should warn off anybody that might be thinking

your services other than magery are for hire. We

couldn't have done better for a sympathizer if we'd

planned this, you know, that's why I played it a bit

thick. He had the feeling of a she'chorne; that bit

about a 'shieldmate' clinched it. If you're not lov-

ers, you call your partner 'shieldbrother,' not

'shieldmate.' How are you doing?"

Kethry looked a bit strained, but it was some-

thing likely only someone who knew her would

have noticed. "Holding up; I'll manage. The more

time I spend with nobody jumping me out of the

shadows, the easier it'll get. I can handle it."

"Vai datha." If Kethry said she'd be able to han-

dle her understandable strain, Tarma was willing

to believe her. Tarma took the chance to look around,

and was impressed in spite of herself. "Damn,

Greeneyes, you never told me this place was so

big!"

"I'm used to it," Kethry shrugged.

"Well, I'm not," Tarma shook her head in amaze-

ment. The street they led their beasts on was fully

wide enough for two carts with plenty of space for

them to pass. It was actually paved with bricks,

something Tarma didn't ever remember seeing be-

fore, and had a channel down the middle and a

gutter on either side for garbage and animal drop-

pings. There were more people than she ever re-

called seeing in one place in her life; she and Kethry

were elbow to elbow in the crush. Kessira snorted,

not liking so many strangers so close. "Why isn't

anyone riding? Why'd the Guard say riding was

counter the law?" Tarma asked, noticing that while

there were beasts and carts in plenty, all were

being led, like theirs—just as the guard had told

them.

"No one but a member of one of the Fifty is

allowed to ride within the walls, and for good rea-

son. Think what would happen if somebody lost

control of his beast in this crush!"

"Reasonable. Look, there's our inn—"

The sign was plain enough-—the pieces of an ac-

tual blade nailed up to a shingle suspended above

the road. They turned their mounts' heads into a

narrow passage that led into a square courtyard.

The inn itself was built entirely around this yard.

It was two-storied, of the ubiquitous wood stained a

dark brown; old, but in excellent repair. The court-

yard itself was newly swept. The stabling was to

the rear of the square, the rest of the inn forming

the other three sides.

"Stay here, I want to have a look at the stabling.

That will tell me everything I need to know." Tarma

handed over her mare's reins to Kethry, and strode

purposefully toward the stable door. She was inter-

cepted by a gray-haired, scar-faced man in a leather

apron.

"Swordlady, welcome," he said. "How may we

serve you?"

"Bed, food and stabling for two—if I like what I

see. And I'd like to see the stables first."

He grinned with the half of his mouth not puck-

ered with a scar. "Shin'a'in? Thought so—this way,

lady."

He himself led the way into the stables, and

Tarma made up her mind then and there. It was

clean and swept, there was no smell of stale dung

or urine. The mangers were filled with fresh hay,

the buckets with clean water, and the only beasts

tied were those few whose wild or crafty eyes and

laid-back ears told Tarma were that they were safer

tied than loose.

"Well, I do like what I see. Now if you aren't

going to charge us like we were gold-dripping pal-

ace fatheads, I think you've got a pair of boarders.

Oh, and Jervac sent us."

The man looked pleased. "I'm Hadell; served with

Jervac until a brawl got me a cut tendon and

mustering out pay. About the charges; two trade-

silver a day for both of you and your beasts, if you

and the mage are willing to share a bed. Room isn't

big, I'll warn you, but it's private. That two pieces

gets you bed and breakfast and supper; dinner you

manage on your own. Food is guard-fare; it's plain,

but there's plenty of it and my cook's a good one.

I'll go the standard three days' grace; more, if you've

got something to leave with me as a pledge. Suits?"

"Suits," Tarma replied, pleased. "I do have a

pledge, but I'd rather save it until I need it. Where's

your stableboy? I don't want my mare to get a

mouthful of him."

"Her," Hadell corrected her. "My daughter. We're

a family business here. I married the cook, my girl

works the stables, my boys wait tables."

"Safer than the other way 'round, hey? Espe-

cially as she gets to the toothsome age." Tarma

shared a crooked grin with him, as he gave a pierc-

ing whistle. A shaggy-haired urchin popped out of

the door of what probably was the grain room, and

trotted up, favoring Tarma with an utterly fearless

grin.

"This is—" he cocked his head inquiringly.

"Tarma shena Tale'sedrin. Shin'a'in, as you said."

"She and her partner are biding here for a bit,

and she wants to make sure her mount doesn't eat

you."

"Laeka, Swordlady." The urchin bobbed her head.

"At your service. You're Shin'a'in?" Her eyes wid-

ened and became eager. "You got a battlesteed?"

"Not yet, Laeka. If I can make it back to the

Plains in one piece, though, I'll be getting one.

Kessira is a saddle-mare; she fights, but she hasn't

the weight or the training of a battlesteed."

"Well, Da says what the Shin'a'in keep for

thesselves is ten times the worth o' what they sells

us."

The innmaster cuffed the girl—gently, Tarma

noticed. "Laeka! Manners!" Laeka rubbed her ear

and grinned, not in the least discomfited.

Tarma laughed. "No insult taken, Keeper, it's

true. We sell you outClan folk our culls. Come with

me, Laeka, and I'll introduce you to what we keep."

With the child trotting at her side and the inn-

keeper following, Tarma strolled back to Kethry.

"This's a good place, she'enedra, and they aren't

altogether outrageous in what they're charging. We'll

be staying. This is Laeka, she's our Keeper's daugh-

ter, and his chief stableman."

Laeka beamed at the elevation in her station

Tarma granted her.

"Now, hold out your hand to Kessira, little lady;

let her get your measure." She placed her own

hand on Kessira's neck and spoke a single com-

mand word under her breath. That told Kessira

that the child was not to be harmed, and was to be

obeyed—though she would only obey some com-

mands if they were given in Shin'a'in, and it wasn't

likely the child knew that tongue. Just as well, they

didn't truly need a new back door to their stabling.

The mare lowered her head with grave dignity

and snuffled the child's hand once, for politeness'

sake, while the girl's eyes widened in delight. Then

when Tarma put the reins in Laeka's hands, Kessira

followed her with gentle docility, taking careful,

dainty steps on the unfamiliar surface. Kethry

handed her the reins to the mule as well; Rodi, of

course, would follow anyone to food and stabling.

Hadell showed them their room; on the first floor,

it was barely big enough to contain the bed. But it

did have a window, and the walls were freshly

whitewashed. There were plenty of blankets—again,

well-worn but scrupulously clean—and a feather

comforter. Tarma had stayed in far worse places,

and said as much.

"So have I," Kethry replied, sitting on the edge

of the bed and pulling off her riding boots with a

grimace of pain. "The place where I met you, for

one. I think we've gotten a bargain, personally."

"Makes me wonder, but I may get the answer

when I see the rest of the guests. Well, what's

next?" Tarma handed her a pair of soft leather

half-boots meant for indoor wear.

"Dinner and bed. It's far too late to go to the

Hiring Hall; that'll be for first thing in the morn-

ing? I wonder if we could manage a bath out of

Hadell? I do not like smelling like a mule!"

As if to answer that question, there came a gentle

rap on the door. "Lady-guests?" a boy's soprano

said carefully, "Would ye wish th' use o' the

steamhouse? If ye be quick, Da says ye'll have it t'

yerselves fer a candlemark or so."

Tarma opened the door to him; a sturdy, dark

child, he looked very like his father. "And the charge,

lad?" she asked, "Though if it's in line with the

rest of the bill, I'm thinking we'll be taking you up

on it."

"Copper for steamhouse and bath, copper for soap

and towels," he said, holding out the last. "It's at

the end of the hallway."

"Done and done, and point us the way." Kethry

took possession of what he carried so fast he was

left gaping. "Pay the lad, Tarma; if I don't get

clean soon, I'm going to rot of my own stink."

Tarma laughed, and tossed the boy four coppers.

"And here I was thinking you were more trail-

hardened than me," she chuckled, following Kethry

down the hall in the direction the boy pointed.

"Now you turn out to be another soft sybarite."

"I didn't notice you saying no."

"We have a saying—"

"Not another one!"

" 'An enemy's nose is always keener than your

own.' "

"When I want a proverb, I'll consult a cleric.

Here we are," Kethry opened the door to the bath-

house, which had been annexed to the very end of

the inn. "Oh, heaven!"

This was, beyond a doubt, a well managed place.

There were actually three rooms to the bathing

area; the first held buckets and shallow tubs, and

hot water bubbled from a wooden pipe in the floor

into a channel running through it, while against the

wall were pumps. This room was evidently for ac-

tual bathing; the bather mixed hot water from the

channel with cold from the pumps, then poured

the dirty water down the refuse channel. The hot-

water channel ran into the room beside this one,

which contained one enormous tub sunk into the

floor, for soaking out aches and bruises. Beyond

this room was what was obviously a steamroom.

Although it was empty now, there were heated

rocks in a pit in the center of the floor, buckets

with dippers in them to pour water on the rocks,

and benches around the pit. The walls were plain,

varnished wood; the windows of something white

and opaque that let light in without making a mock-

ery of privacy.

"Heaven, in very deed," Tarma was losing no

time in shedding her clothing. "I think I'm finally

going to be warm again!"

One candlemark later, as they were blissfully

soaking in hot mineral water—"This is a hot spring,"

Kethry remarked after sniffing the faint tang of

copper in the air. "That's why he can afford to give

his baths away"—a bright grin surmounted by a

thatch of tousled brown hair appeared out of the

steam and handed them their towels.

"Guard-shift's changin', miladies; men as stays

here'll be lookin' fer their baths in a bit. You wants

quiet, ye'd best come t' dinner. You wants a bit o'

summat else—you jest stays here, they'll gie' ye

that!"

"No doubt," Tarma said wryly, taking the towel

Laeka held out to her and emerging reluctantly

from the hot tub, thinking that in some ways a

child being raised in an inn grew up even faster

than a child of the Clans. "We'll take the quiet,

thanks. What's wrong?"

The child was staring at her torso with stricken

eyes. "Lady—you—how did—who did—"

Tarma glanced down at her own hard, tawny-

gold body, that was liberally latticed with a net-

work of paler scars and realized that the child had

been startled and shocked by the evidence of so

many old wounds on one so relatively young. She

also thought about the adulation that had been in

Laeka's eyes, and the concern in her father's when

the man had seen it there. This might be a chance

to do the man a good turn, maybe earn enough

gratitude that he'd exert himself for them.

"A lot of people did that to me, child," she said

quietly. "And if you've ever thought to go adven-

turing, think of these marks on me first. It isn't like

the tales, where people go to battle one candlemark

and go feast the next, with never a scratch on them.

I was months healing from the last fight I had, and

the best that those I fought for could give me was a

mule, provisions, and a handful of coin as reward.

The life of a mercenary is far from profitable most

of the time."

Laeka gulped, and looked away. "I like horses,"

she ventured, finally. "I be good with 'em."

"Then by all means, become a horse-trainer,"

Tarma answered the unspoken question. "Train 'em

well, and sell 'em to fools like me who earn their

bread with swords instead of brains. Tell you what—

you decide to do that, you send word to the Clans

in my name. I'll leave orders you're to get a better

choice than we give most outlanders. Hmm?"

"Aye!" The girl's eyes lighted at the promise,

and she relaxed a little as Tarma donned her close-

fitting breeches, shirt, and wrapped Shin'a'in jacket,

covering the terrible scars. "Da says t' tell you

supper be stew, bread 'n' honey, an' ale."

"Sounds fine—Keth?"

"Wonderful."

"Tell him we'll be there right behind you."

The child scampered out, and Kethry lifted an

eyebrow. "Rather overdoing it, weren't you?"

"Huh! You didn't see the hero-worship in the

kid's eyes, earlier, or the worry in her Da's. Not too

many female mercenaries ride through here, I'd

guess; the kid's seen just enough to make it look

glamorous. Well, now she knows better, and I'm

thinking it's just as well."

"You knew better, but you took this road anyway."

"Aye, I did," Tarma laced her boots slowly, her

harsh voice dropping down to a whisper. "And the

only reason I left the Plains was to revenge my

Clan. All Shin'a'in learn the sword, but that doesn't

mean we plan to live by it. We—we don't live to

fight, we fight when we have to, to live. Sometimes

we don't manage the last. As for me, I had no

choice in taking up the blade, in becoming a merce-

nary; no more than did you."

Kethry winced, and touched Tarma's arm lightly.

"Put my foot in it, didn't I? She'enedra, I'm sorry—I

meant no offense—"

Tarma shook off her gloom with a shake of her

head. "I know that. None taken. Let's get that food.

I could eat this towel, I'm that hungry."

The whitewashed common room was quite empty,

although the boy who brought them their supper

(older than the other two children, darker, and

quieter) told them it would be filling shortly. And

so it proved; men of all ages and descriptions slowly

trickling in to take their places at table and bench,

being served promptly by Hadell's two sons. The

room could easily hold at least fifty; the current

crowd was less than half that number. Most of the

men looked to be of early middle-age with a sprin-

kling of youngsters; all wore the unconsciously com-

petent air of a good professional soldier. Tarma

liked what she saw of them. None of these men

would ever be officers, but the officers they did

serve would be glad to have them.

The talk was muted; the men were plainly weary

with the day's work. Listening without seeming to,

the women soon gleaned the reason why.

As Tarma had already guessed, these men were

foreign mercenaries, like themselves. This would

be Hadell's lean season—one reason, perhaps, that

his prices were reasonable, and that he was so glad

to see them. The other reason was that he was that

rare creature, an honest man, and one who chose to

give the men he had served beside a decent break.

Right now, only those hire-swords with contracts

for a year or more—or those one or two so prosper-

ous that they could afford to bide out the merce-

nary's lean season in an inn—were staying at the

Broken Sword. Normally a year-contract included

room and board, but these men were a special case.

All of them were hired on with the City Guard,

which had no barracks for them. The result was

that their pay included a stipend for board, and a

good many of them stayed at inns like the Broken

Sword. The job was never the easy one it might

appear to the unknowing to be; and today had been

the occasion of a riot over bread prices. The Guard

had been ordered to put down the riot; no few of

these men had been of two minds about their or-

ders. On the one hand, they weren't suffering; but

on the other, most of them were of the same lower-

classes as those that were rioting, and could re-

member winters when they had gone hungry. And

the inflated grain prices, so rumor had it, had no

basis for being so high. The harvest had been good,

the granaries full. Rumor said that shortages were

being created. Rumor said, by Wethes Goldmarchant.

Both Tarma and her partner took to their bed

with more than a bellyful of good stew to digest.

"Are you certain you want to come with me, even

knowing there probably won't be work for you?

You deserved a chance to sleep in for a change."

Kethry, standing in the light from the window,

gave her sorcerer's robe a good brushing and slipped

it on over her shirt and breeches—and belted on

her blade as well.

"Eyah. I want to be lurking in the background

looking protective and menacing. I want to start

rumors about how it's best to approach my partner

with respect. You put on whatever act you think

will reinforce mine. And I don't think you should

be wearing that."

Kethry glanced down at Need and pursed her

lips. "You're probably right, but I feel rather naked

without her."

"We don't want to attract any attention, right?

You know damn well mages don't bear steel other

than eating knives and ritual daggers." Tarma

lounged fully-clothed—except for her boots—on the

bed, since there wasn't enough room for two people

to be standing beside it at the same time.

"Right," Kethry sighed, removing the blade and

stowing it under the bed with the rest of their

goods. "All right, let's go."

The Hiring Hall was no more than a short stroll

from the inn; an interesting walk from Tarma's

point of view. Even at this early an hour the streets

were full of people, from ragged beggars to well-

dressed merchants, and not all from around here—

Tarma recognized the regional dress of more than a

dozen other areas, and might have spotted more

had she known what to look for. This might be the

lean season, but it was evident that Mornedealth

always had a certain amount of trade going.

At the Hiring Hall—just that, a hall lined with

benches on both sides, and a desk at the end, all of

the ubiquitous varnished wood—they gave essen-

tially the same story they'd given the guard. Their

tale differed only in that Kethry was being more of

herself; it wouldn't do to look an idiot when she

was trying to get work. As they had been told, the

steward of the hall shook his blond head regretfully

when Tarma informed him that she was only inter-

ested in short-term assignments.

"I'm sorry, Swordlady," he told her, "Very sorry.

I could get you your pick of a round dozen one-to-

five-year contracts. But this is the lean season, and

there just isn't anything for a hire-sword but long-

term. But your friend—yes."

"Oh?" Kethry contrived to look eager.

"There's a fellow from a cadet branch of one of

the Fifty; he just came into a nice fat Royal grant.

He's getting the revenue from Upvale wine taxes,

and he's bent on showing the City how a real aristo

does things when he gets the cash to work with.

He's starting a full stable; hunters, racers, carriage

beasts and pleasure beasts. He knows his horse-

flesh; what he doesn't know is how to tell if there's

been a glamour put on 'em. Doesn't trust City mages,

as who could blame him. They're all in the pay of

somebody, and it's hard to say who might owe whom

a favor or three. So he's had me on the lookout for

an independent, and strictly temporary. Does that

suit your talents?"

"You couldn't have suited me better!" Kethry

exclaimed with delight. "Mage-sight's one of my

strongest skills."

"Right then," the steward said with satisfaction.

"Here's your address; here's your contract—sign

here—"

Kethry scrutinized the brief document, nodded,

and made her mage-glyph where he indicated.

"—and off you go; and good luck to you."

They left together; at the door, Tarma asked,

"Want me with you?"

"No, I know the client, but he won't know me.

He's not one of Kavin's crowd, which is all I was

worried about. I'll be safe enough on my own."

"All right then; I'll get back to the inn. Maybe

Hadell has a connection to something."

Hadell poured Tarma a mug of ale, sat down

beside her at the bench, and shook his head with

regret. "Not a thing, Swordlady. I'm—"

"Afraid this is the lean season, I know. Well look,

I'm half mad with boredom, is there at least some-

where I can practice?" Her trainers would not come

to her while she was within city boundaries, so it

was up to her to stay in shape. If she neglected

to—woe betide her the next time they did come to

her!

"There's a practice ground with pells set up be-

hind the stable, if you don't mind that it's outside

and a simple dirt ring."

"I think I'll survive," she laughed, and went to

fetch her blades.

The practice ground was easy enough to find;

Tarma was pleased to find it deserted as well.

There was a broom leaning against the fence to

clear off the light snow; she used it to sweep the

entire fenced enclosure clean. The air was crisp

and still, the sun weak but bright, and close enough

to the zenith that there would be no "bad" sides to

face. She stood silently for a moment or two, eyes

closed; shaking off the "now" and entering that

timeless state that was both complete concentra-

tion and complete detachment. She began with the

warmup exercises; a series of slow, deliberate move-

ment patterns that blurred, each into the next. When

she had finished with them, she did not stop, but

proceeded to the next stage, drawing the sword at

her back and executing another movement series,

this time a little faster. With each subsequent stage

her moves became more intricate, and a bit more

speed was added, until her blade was a shining

blur and an onlooker could almost see the invisible

opponent she dueled with.

She ended exactly where she had begun, slowing

her movements down again to end with the reshea-

thing of her blade, as smooth and graceful as a leaf

falling. As it went home in the scabbard with a

metallic click, the applause began.

Startled, Tarma glanced in the direction of the

noise; she'd been so absorbed in her exercises that

she hadn't noticed her watchers. There were three

of them—Hadell, and two fur-cloaked middle-aged

men who had not been part of the Guard contingent

last night.

She half-bowed (with a wry grin), and let them

approach her.

"I'd heard Shin'a'in were good—Swordlady, you've

just proved to me that sometimes rumor speaks

truth," said the larger of the two, a weathered-

looking blond with short hair and a gold clasp to his

cloak. "Lady, I'm Justin Twoblade, this is my

shieldbrother Ikan Dry vale."

"Tarma shena Tale'sedrin," she supplied, "And

my thanks. A compliment comes sweeter from a

brother in the trade."

"We'd like to offer you more than compliments,

if you're willing," said the second, amber-haired,

like Kethry, but with blue eyes; and homely, with a

plowboy's ingenuous expression.

"Well, since I doubt it's a bid for bed-services,

I'll at least hear you out."

"Lessons. We'll pay your reckoning and your part-

ner's in return for lessons."

Tarma leaned on the top bar of the practice-

enclosure and gave the notion serious thought. "Hmm,

I'll admit I like the proposition," she replied, squint-

ing into the sunlight. "Question is, why, and for

how long? I'd hate to miss a chance at the only

short-term job for months and then have you two

vanish on me."

Hadell interceded for them. "They'll not van-

ish, Swordlady," he assured her. "Justin and Ikan

are wintering here, waiting for the caravans to start

up again in spring. They're highly valued men to

the Jewel Merchant's Guild—valued enough that

the merchants pay for 'em to stay here idle during

the lean season."

"Aye, valued and bored!" Ikan exclaimed. "That's

one reason for you. Few enough are those willing to

spar with either of us—fewer still with the leisure

for it. And though I've seen your style before, I've

never had a chance to learn it—or how to counter

it. If you wouldn't mind our learning how to counter

it, that is,"

"Mind? Hardly. Honest guards like you won't see

Clan facing your blades, and anyone else who's

learned our style thinking he'll have an easy time

against hirelings deserves to meet someone with

the counters. Done, then; for however long it takes

Keth to earn us the coin to reprovision, I'll be your

teacher."

"And we'll take care of the reckoning," Justin

said, with a sly grin. "We'll just add it to our

charges on the Guild. Odds are they'll think we've

just taken to drinking and wenching away the win-

ter nights!"

"Justin, I think I'm going to like you two," Tarma

laughed. "You think a lot like me!"

Three

Yellow lamplight made warm pools around the

common room of the Broken Sword, illuminat-

ing a scene far more relaxed than that of the night

before. The other residents of the inn were much

more cheerful, and certainly less weary, for there

had been no repetition of yesterday's riot.

The two women had taken a table to themselves

at the back of the room, in the corner. It was

quieter there, and easier for them to hear each

other. A lamp just over the table gave plenty of

light, and Kethry could see that Tarma was quite

well pleased with herself.

". . . so I've got a pair of pupils. Never thought

I'd care for teaching, but I'm having a rare good

time of it," Tarma concluded over fish stew and

fried potatoes. "Of course it helps that Ikan and

Justin are good-tempered about their mistakes, and

they've got the proper attitude about learning

swordwork."

"Which is?" Kethry asked, cheered to see a smile

on Tarma's face for a change. A real smile, one of

pleasure, not of irony.

"That inside that enclosure, I'm the only author-

ity there is."

Kethry sniffed in derision; it was quiet enough

in the back-wall corner they'd chosen that Tarma

heard the sniff and grinned. "Modest, aren't you?"

the mage teased.

She was feeling considerably better herself. No

spies of Wethes or Kavin had leapt upon her during

the day, and nothing that had occurred had brought

back any bad memories. In point of fact she had

frequently forgotten that she was in Mornedealth

at all. All her apprehension now seemed rather

pointless.

"No, seriously," Tarma replied to her japing.

"That's the way it is; no matter what your relation-

ship is outside the lessons, inside the lesson the

master is The Master. The Master's word is law,

and don't argue about the way you learned some-

thing before." Tarma wiped her plate clean with a

last bit of bread, and settled back against the wall.

"A lot of hire-swords don't understand that rela-

tionship—especially if it's a woman standing in the

Master's place—but Ikan and Justin have had good

teaching, and got it early enough to do some good.

They're able, and they're serious, and they're going

to come along fast."

"What if you wanted to learn something from one

of them?" Kethry asked, idly turning a ring on her

finger. "Wouldn't all this Master business cause

problems?"

"No, because when I become the pupil, my teacher

becomes the Master—actually that's already hap-

pened. Just before we wrapped up for the day, I

asked Justin to show me a desperation-counter he'd

used on me earlier." Tarma sighed regretfully. "Wish

you knew something of swordwork, Greeneyes—that

was a clever move he showed me. If you knew

enough to appreciate it, I could go on about it for a

candlemark. Could get you killed if you tried it

without timing it exactly right, but if you did, it

could save your getting spitted in a situation I

couldn't see any way out of."

Kethry shook her head. "I don't see how you keep

things straight. Back at the School, we only had one

Master for each pupil, so we didn't get mixed up in

trying to learn two different styles of magery."

"But half of your weaponry as a hire-sword is

flexibility. You've got to be able to learn anything

from anybody," Tarma replied. "If you can't be

flexible enough mentally to accept any number of

Masters, you've no business trying to make your

living with a blade, and that's all there is to say.

How did your day go?"

"Enlightening." Kethry wore a fairly wry smile.

She raised her voice slightly so as to be heard above

the hum of conversation that filled the room. "I

never quite realized the extent to which polite feud-

ing among the Fifty goes before I took this little

job."

"Ah?" Tarma cocked an inquiring eyebrow and

washed down the last bite of bread and butter with

a long pull on her mug.

"Well, I thought that business the fellow at the

Hiring Hall told us was rather an exaggeration—

until I started using mage-sight on some of the

animals my client had picked out as possibles. A

good half of them had been beglamoured, and I

recognized the feel of the kind of glamour that's

generally used by House mages around here. Some

of what was being covered was kind of funny, in a

nasty-brat sort of way—like the pair of matched

grays that turned out to be fine animals, just a

particularly hideous shade of muddy yellow."

"What would that have accomplished? A horse is

a horse, no matter the color."

"Well, just imagine the young man's chagrin to

be driving these beasts hitched to his maroon rig;

in a procession, perhaps—and then the glamour is

lifted, with all eyes watching and tongues ready to

flap."

Tarma chuckled. "He'd lose a bit of face over it,

not that I can feel too sorry for any idiot that would

drive a maroon rig."

"You're heartless, you are. Maroon and blue are

his House colors, and he hasn't much choice but to

display them. He'd lose more than a little face over

it; he wouldn't dare show himself with his rig in

public until he got something so spectacular to pull

it that his embarrassment would be forgotten, and

for a trick like that, he'd practically have to have

hitched trained griffins to overcome his loss of

pride. By the way, that's my client you're calling an

idiot, and he's paying quite well."

"In that case, I forgive him the rig. How long do

you think you'll be at this?"

"About a week, maybe two."

"Good; that will give my pupils their money's

worth and get us back on the road in good time."

"I hope so," Kethry looked over her shoulder a

little, feeling a stirring of her previous uneasiness.

"The longer I stay here, the more likely it is I'll be

found out."

"I doubt it," Tarma took another long pull at her

mug. "Who'd think to look for you here?"

"She's where?" The incredulous voice echoed in

the high vaulting and bounced from the walls of

the expensively appointed, blackwood paneled office.

"At one of the foreigner's inns; the Broken Sword.

It's used mostly by mercenaries," Kavin replied,

leaning back in his chair and dangling his nearly-

empty wineglass from careless fingers. He half-closed

his gray eyes in lazy pleasure to see Wethes squirm-

ing and fretting for his heirloom carpet and fragile

furniture. "She isn't using her full name, and is

claiming to be foreign herself."

"What's she doing there?" Wethes ran nervous

fingers through his carefully oiled black locks, then

played with the gold letter opener from his desk

set. "Has she any allies? I don't like the notion of

going after her in an inn full of hire-swords. There

could be trouble, and more than money would cover."

"She wears the robes of a sorceress, and from all

I could tell, has earned the right to—"

"That's trouble enough right there," Wethes

interrupted.

Kavin's eyes narrowed in barely-concealed anger

at the banker's rudeness. "That is what you have a

house mage to take care of, my gilded friend. Use

him. Besides, I strongly doubt she could be his

equal, else she'd have a patron, and be spending the

winter in a cozy little mage-tower. Instead of that,

she's wandering about as an itinerant, doing noth-

ing more taxing than checking horses for beglamour-

ing. As to her allies, there's only one that matters.

A Shin'a'in swordswoman."

"Shin'a'in? One of the sword-dancers? I don't

like the sound of that."

"They seem," he continued, toying with a lock of

his curly, pale gold hair, "to be lovers."

"I like that even less."

"Wethes, for all your bold maneuvering in the

marketplace, you are a singularly cowardly man."

Kavin put his imperiled glass safely on one of

Wethes' highly-polished wooden tables, and smiled

to himself when Wethes winced in anticipation of

the ring its moist bottom would cause. He stood up

and stretched lazily, consciously mirroring one of

the banker's priceless marbles behind him; then

smoothed his silk-velvet tunic back into its proper

position. He smiled to himself again at the flash of

greed in Wethes' eyes; the banker valued him as

much for his decorative value as for his lineage.

With Kavin as a guest, any party Wethes held was

certain to attract a high number of Mornedealth's

acknowledged beauties as well as the younger mem-

bers of the Fifty. It was probably time again to

grace one of the fat fool's parties with his presence,

after all, he did owe him something. His forbear-

ance in not negating their bargain when Kavin's

brat-sister vanished deserved some reward.

Of course, their arrangement was not all one-

sided. Wethes would have lost all he'd gained by

the marriage and more had it become known that

his child-bride had fled him before the union was a

day old. And now that she'd been gone more than

three years—by law, she was no longer his wife at

all. That would have been infinitely worse. It had

been Kavin who had suggested that they pretend

that Kethry had gone to stay on Wethes' country

estate. Kethry was unused to dealing with people

in any numbers, and found her new position as

Wethes' helpmeet somewhat overwhelming—so they

told the curious. She was happier away from the

city and the confusion of society. Kavin was only

too pleased to represent her interests with Wethes,

and play substitute for her at formal occasions.

They'd kept up the fiction for so long that even

Kavin was starting to half-believe in Wethes' "shy"

spouse.

"The Shin'a'in will be no problem," Kavin said

soothingly, "She's a stranger in this city; she doesn't

know it, she has no friends; All we need do is take

your wayward wife when she's out from under the

swordswoman's eye, and the Shin'a'in will be help-

less to find her. She wouldn't even begin to know

where to look. Although why you're bothering with

this is beyond me. Kethry's hardly of an age to

interest you anymore. And you have the connec-

tions you want without the burden of a real wife."

"She's mine," Wethes said, and the expression in

his eyes was cold and acquisitive. "What's mine, I

keep. No one robs me or tricks me with impunity.

I'll keep her in chains for the insult she's done

me—chains of her own body. She'll do to breed a

dozen heirs, and they tell me no pregnant mage can

work her tricks while so burdened."

Kavin raised a sardonic eyebrow, but made no

further comment except to say, "I wouldn't believe

that particular peasant's tale if I were you—I've

had friends thought the same and didn't live to

admit they were wrong. Now, I suspect your next

question was going to be whether or not the Shin'a'in

might be able to get a hearing with the Council. It

might be possible—but who would believe a for-

eigner's tale of abduction against the word of the

wealthiest man in Mornedealth?"

"Put that way, I see no risk of any kind to us,"

Wethes put down the gold paper knife. "And cer-

tainly I wish above all to have this accomplished at

no risk of exposure. There are enough stories about

why I mew my wife up in the country as it is. I'd

rather no one ever discovered she's never been in

my possession at all. But how do we get her away

from her lover?"

"Just leave that—" Kavin smiled, well aware that

his slow smile was not particularly pleasant to look

on, "—to me."

Kethry woke with an aching head and a vile taste

in her mouth; lying on her side, tied hand and foot,

in total darkness. It hurt even to think, but she

forced herself to attempt to discipline her thoughts

and martial them into coherency, despite their ten-

dency to shred like spiderwebs in a high wind.

What had happened to her—where was she?

Think—it was so hard to think—it was like swim-

ming through treacle to put one thought after an-

other. Everything was fogged, and her only real

desire was to relax and pass back into oblivion.

Which meant she'd been drugged.

That made her angry; anger burned some of the

befuddlement away. And the resulting temporary

surge in control gave her enough to remember a

cleansing ritual.

Something like a candlemark later, she was still

tied hand and foot and lying in total darkness. But

the rest of the drug had been purged from her body

and she was at last clearheaded and ready to think—

and act. Now, what had happened?

She thought back to her last clear memory—

parting with her client for the day. It had been a

particularly fruitless session, but he had voiced

hopes for the morrow. There were supposed to be

two horse tamers from the North arriving in time

for beast-market day. Her client had been optimis-

tic, particularly over the rumored forest-hunters

they were said to be bringing. They had parted, she

with her day's wages safely in the hidden pocket of

her robe, he accompanied by his grooms.

And she'd started back to the inn by the usual

route.

But—now she had it!—there'd been a tangle of

carts blocking the Street of the Chandlers. The

carters had been swearing and brawling, laughingly

goaded on by a velvet-clad youth on his high-bred

palfrey who'd probably been the cause of the acci-

dent in the first place. She'd given up on seeing the

street cleared before supper, and had ducked into

an alley.

Then had come the sound of running behind her.

Before she could turn to see who it was, she was

shoved face-first against the rough wood of the wall,

and a sack was flung over her head. A dozen hands

pinned her against the alley wall while a sickly-

sweet smelling cloth was forced over her mouth

and nose. She had no chance to glimpse the faces of

her assailants, and oblivion had followed with the

first breath of whatever-it-was that had saturated

the cloth.

But for who had done this to her—oh, that she

knew without seeing their faces. It could only be

Kavin and his gang of ennobled toughs—and to pay

for it all, Wethes.

As if her thought had conjured him, the door to

her prison opened, and Wethes stood silhouetted

against the glare of light from the torch on the wall

of the hallway beyond him.

Terror overwhelmed her, terror so strong as to

take the place of the drug in befuddling her. She

could no longer think, only feel, and all she felt was

fear. He seemed to be five hundred feet tall, and

even more menacing than her nightmares painted

him.

"So," he laughed, looking down at her as she

tried to squirm farther away from him, "My little

bride returns at last to her loving husband."

"Damn, damn, damn!" Tarma cursed, and paced

the icy street outside the door of the Broken Sword;

exactly twenty paces east, then twenty west, then

twenty east again. It was past sunset: Kethry wasn't

back yet; she'd sent no word that she'd be late, and

that wasn't like her. And—

She suddenly went cold, then hot, then her head

spun dizzily. She clutched the lintel for support

while the street spun before her eyes. The door of

the inn opened, but she dared not try and move.

Her ears told her of booted feet approaching, yet

she was too giddy to even turn to see who it was.

"I'd ask if you had too much wine, except that I

didn't see you drink more than a mouthful or two

before you left the room," Justin spoke quietly, for

her ears alone, as he added his support to that of

the lintel. "Something's wrong?"

"Keth—something's happened to Keth—" Tarma

gasped for air.

"I know she's late, but—"

"The—bond, the she'enedran-oath we swore to each

other—it was Goddess-blessed. So if anything hap-

pens to one of us—"

"Ah—the other knows. Ikan and I have some-

thing of the kind, but we're spell-bound and we

had it done a-purpose; useful when scouting. Sit.

Put your head between your knees. I'll get Ikan. He

knows a bit more about leechcraft and magery than

I."

Tarma let him ease her down to the ice-covered

doorstep, and did as she was told. The frosted stone

was very cold beneath her rump, but the cold seemed

to shake some of the dizziness away, getting her

head down did a bit more. Just as her head began to

clear, there were returning footsteps, and two pairs

of booted feet appeared beside her.

"Drink this—" Ikan hunched on his heels beside

her as she cautiously raised her head; he was hold-

ing out a small wooden bottle, and his whole pos-

ture showed concern. "Just a swallow; it's only for

emergencies."

She took a gingerly mouthful, and was glad she'd

been cautious. The stuff burned all the way down

her gullet, but left a clear head and renewed energy

behind it.

"Goddess—oh, Goddess, I have to—" she started

to rise, but Justin's hands on her shoulders pre-

vented her.

"You have to stay right where you are. You want

to get yourself killed?" Ikan asked soberly. "You're

a professional, Shin'a'in—act like one."

"All right;" Justin said calmly, as she sank back

to the stone. "Something's happened to your oath-

sister. Any clue as to what—"

"—or who?" Ikan finished. "Or why? You're not

rich enough to ransom, and too new in Mornedealth

to have acquired enemies."

"Why and who—I've got a damn good idea," Tarma

replied grimly, and told them, in brief, Kethry's

history.

"Gods, how am I to get her away from them? I

don't know where to look, and even if I did, what's

one sword against what Wethes can hire?" she fin-

ished in despair. "Why, oh why didn't I listen to

her?"

"Kavin—Kavinestral—hmm," Justin mused. "Now

that sounds familiar."

"It bloody well should," Ikan replied, stoppering

his precious bottle tightly and tucking it inside his

tunic. "He heads the Blue faction."

"The—what?" Tarma blinked at him in bewilder-

ment.

"There are five factions among the wilder off-

spring of the Fifty; Blue, Green, Red, Yellow, and

Black. They started out as racing clubs, but it's

gotten down to a nastier level than that within the

last few years," Ikan told her. "Duels in plenty, one

or two deaths. Right now only two factions are

strong enough to matter; Blue and Green. Kavin

heads the Blues; a fellow called Helansevrith heads

Green. They've been eyeblinks away from each oth-

er's throats for years, and the only thing that has

kept them from taking each other on, is that Kavin

is essentially a coward. He'd rather get his follow-

ers to do his dirty work for him. He makes a big

pose of being a tough, but he's never personally

taken anyone out. Mostly that doesn't matter, since

he's got his followers convinced."

He stood up, offering his hand to Tarma. "I can

give you a quick guess who could find out where

Kethry is, because I know where Wethes won't take

her. He won't dare take her to his home, his ser-

vants would see and gossip. He won't risk that,

because the tale he's given out all these years is

that Kethry is very shy and has been staying in

seclusion on his country estate. No, he'll take her to

his private brothel; I know he has one, I just don't

know where. But Justin's got a friend who could

tell us."

"That she could—and be happy to. Any harm she

could bring that man would make her right glad."

Even in the dim light from the torch over the door

Tarma could see that Justin looked grim.

"How do you know all this about Wethes and

Kavin?" Tarma looked from one to the other of

them.

"Because, Swordlady," Ikan's mouth stretched in

something that bore very little resemblance to a

smile, "my name wasn't always Dryvale."

Kethry had wedged herself back into a corner of

her barren, stone-floored cell. Wethes stood over

her, candle-lantern in one hand, gloating. It was the

very worst of her nightmares come true.

"What's mine remains mine, dear wife," he

crowed. "You won't be given a second chance to

escape me. I bought you, and I intend to keep you."

He was enjoying every moment, was taking plea-

sure in her fright, just as he had taken pleasure in

her pain when he'd raped her.

Kethry was paralyzed with fear, her skin crawl-

ing at the bare presence of him in the same room

with her. What would she do if he touched her?

Her heart was pounding as if she'd been running

for miles. And she thought wildly that if he did

touch her, perhaps her heart would give out.

He bent and darted his hand forward suddenly,

as if intending to catch one of her arms, and she

gave a little mew of terror and involuntarily kicked

out at him with her bound feet.

His startled reaction took her completely by

surprise.

He jumped backward, eyes widening, hands shak-

ing so that the candle flame wavered. Fear was a

mask over his features—absolute and utter fear of

her. For one long moment he stared at her, and she

at him, hardly able to believe what her own eyes

were telling her.

He was afraid of her. For all his puffing and

threatening, he was afraid of her!

And in that moment she saw him for what he

was—an aging, paunchy, greedy coward. Any sign

of resistance in an adult woman obviously terrified

him.

She kicked out again, experimentally, and he

jumped back another pace.

Probably the only females he could dominate were

helpless children; probably that was why he chose

them for his pleasures. At this moment he was as

terrified of her as she had been of him.

And the nightmare-monster of her childhood re-

vealed itself to be a thing of old clothes stuffed

with straw.

Her fear of him evaporated, like a thing spun of

mist. Anger quickly replaced the fear; and while

fear paralyzed her magecraft, anger fed her pow-

ers. That she had been held in thrall for seven long

years by fear of this!

He saw the change from terror to rage on her

face; she could see his realization that she was no

longer cowed mirrored on his. He bit his lip and

stepped backward another three or four paces.

With three barked words she burned through the

ropes on her hands and feet. She rose swiftly to her

feet, shaking the bits off her wrists as she did so,

her eyes never once leaving his face.

"Kidnap me, will you?" she hissed at him, eyes

narrowed. "Drug me and leave me tied up, and

think you can use me as you did before—well, I've

grown up, even if you haven't. I've learned how to

deal with slime like you."

Wethes gulped, and backed up again.

"I'll teach you to mend your ways, you fat, slob-

bering bastard! I'll show you what it feels like to be

a victim!"

She pointed a finger at him, and miniature light-

ning leapt from it to his feet.

Wethes yelped, hopping from one foot to the other.

Kethry aimed her finger a bit higher.

"Let's see how you like being hurt."

He screeched, turned, and fled, slamming the

door behind him. Kethry was at it in an eyeblink,

clawing at it in frustration, for there was no handle

on this side. She screamed curses at him; in her

own tongue, then in Shin'a'in when that failed her,

pounding on the obdurate portal with both fists.

"Come back here, you half-breed son of a pig and

an ape! I'll wither your manhood like a fifty-year-

old sausage! Coward! Baby-raper! If I ever get my

hands on your neck, I'll wrap a rope around it and

spin you like a top! I'll peel your skull like a chest-

nut! Come back here!"

Finally her bruised fists recalled her to her senses.

She stopped beating senselessly on the thick wood

of the door, and rested for a moment, eyes closed as

she reined in her temper. Anger did feed her power,

but uncontrolled anger kept her from using it. She

considered the door, considered her options, then

acted.

A half-dozen spells later, her magic energies were

becoming exhausted; the wood of the door was black-

ened and splintered, and the floor before it warped,

but the door remained closed. It had been warded,

and by a mage who was her equal at the very least.

She used the last of her power to fuel a feeble

mage-light; it hovered over her head, illuminating

the barren cell in a soft blue radiance. She leaned

her back against the far wall and allowed herself to

slide down it, wearily. Wrapping her arms around

her tucked-up knees, she regarded the warded door

and planned her next move.

If Wethes could have seen the expression on her

face, he'd have died of fright on the spot.

Tarma had been expecting Justin's "friend" to be

a whore. Certainly she lived on a street where

every other door housed one or more who practiced

that trade—and the other doors led to shops that

catered to their needs or those of their customers.

They stopped midway down the block to tap lightly

at one of those portals that plainly led to a small

apartment, and Tarma expected it to be opened by

another of the painted, bright-eyed trollops who

bestowed themselves on doorways and windows all

up and down this thoroughfare. She was shivering

at the sight of most of them, not from dislike, but

from sympathy. She was half-frozen (as usual), and

could not imagine for a moment how they managed

to stay warm in the scarves and shreds of silk they

wore for bodices and skirts.

She didn't hold them in low esteem for selling

themselves to earn their bread. After all, wasn't

that exactly what she and Keth were doing? It was

too bad that they had no other commodity to offer,

but that was what fate had dealt them.

But the dark-eyed creature who opened her door

at Justin's coded knock was no whore, and was

unlikely to ever be mistaken for one, no matter how

murky the night or intoxicated the customer.

In some ways she was almost a caricature of

Tarma herself; practically sexless. Nothing other

than Justin's word showed she was female—her

sable hair cut so short it was hardly more than a

smooth dark cap covering her skull; the thin, half-

starved-looking body of an acrobat. She wore mid-

night blue; the only relief of that color came from

the dozens of knives she wore, gleaming in the light

that streamed from the room behind her, the torches

of the street, and the lantern over the door, which

Tarma noticed belatedly was of blue glass, not red.

Two bandoliers were strapped across her slim chest,

and both housed at least eight or nine matched

throwing daggers. More were in sheaths strapped

to her arms and legs; two longer knives, almost

short swords, resided on each hip. Her face was as

hard as marble, with deeply etched lines of pain.

"Justin, it's late," she said in a soft voice, frown-

ing a little. "I take my shift soon."

"Cat-child, I know," Justin replied; Tarma real-

ized in that instant that the hard lines of the girl's

face had deceived her; she couldn't have been more

than fifteen or sixteen. "But we have a chance to

get at Wethes Goldmarchant and—"

The girl's face blazed with an unholy light.

"When? How? I'll have somebody else sub for me;

Gesta owes me a favor—"

"Easy, girl," Ikan cautioned. "We're not sure what

we're going to be doing yet, or how much we're

going to be able to hurt him, if at all."

She gave Ikan a sidelong look, then fixed her

attention again on Justin. "Him—who?" she asked,

shortly, jerking her head at Ikan.

"My shieldbrother; you've heard me talk about him

often enough," he replied, interpreting the brief

query, "And this swordlady is Tarma shena Tale'sed-

rin, Shin'a'in mercenary. Wethes has her oathsister,

a sorceress—it's rather too long a tale to go into, but

we know he took her, he's got his reasons for want-

ing her and we know he won't be taking her to his

house in the District."

"And you want to know if I know where his

latest pleasure-house is. Oh, aye; I do that. But

unless you swear to let me in on this, I won't tell

you."

"Cat, you don't know what you're asking—"

"Let her buy in,"" Tarma interrupted, and spoke

to the girl directly. "I'm guessing you're one of

Wethes' discards."

"You're not wrong. I hate his littlest nail-paring.

I want a piece of him—somehow, some way—prefer-

ably the piece he prizes the most."

"That's a reasonable request, and one I'm in-

clined to give you a chance at. Just so long as you

remember that our primary goal is the rescue of my

oathsister, and you don't jeopardize getting Keth

out in one piece."

"Let me roust out Gesta."

The girl darted between Tarma and Justin; ran

up the staircase to the second floor to knock on

another nondescript door. The ugliest man Tarma

had ever seen in her life answered it; Cat whis-

pered something inaudible. He grinned, pulled a

savage-looking half-ax from somewhere just inside

the door, and sauntered down the stairs with it,

whistling tunefully. He gave all three of them a

wink as he passed them, said shortly, "Good hunt-

ing," and passed out of sight around a corner. The

girl returned with a thoughtful look in her eyes.

"Come on in. Let's sit and plan this over. Being

too hasty to look before I acted got me into Wethes'

hands."

"And you won't be making that mistake a second

time, will you, my girl?" Justin finished for her.

They filed into the tiny room; it held a few

cushions and a pallet, a small clothes chest, more

knives mounted on the wall, and a lantern, nothing

more.

"You say your friend's a sorceress? The old bas-

tard probably has her under binding from his house

mage," she mused as she dropped down cross-legged

on the pallet, leaving them to choose cushions.

"Think she could break herself free if we gave him

something else to think about?"

"Probably; Keth's pretty good—"

"The mage isn't all we have to worry about.

Kavinestral's crowd is bound to be hanging around,"

Ikan interrupted.

"Damn—there's only four of us, and that lot is

nearly thirty strong." The girl swore under her

breath. "Where in sheva are we going to get enough

bodies to throw at them?"

Whatever had been in that drink Ikan had given

her seemed to be making Tarma's mind work at

high speed. " 'Find your enemy's enemy.' That's

what my people would say."

Ikan stared at her, then began to grin.

The last explosion from the sealed room below

made the whole house rattle. Wethes turned to

Kavin with stark panic in his face. "What have you

gotten me into?" he choked hysterically, grabbing

Kavin by the front of his tunic and shaking him.

"What kind of monster has she become?"

Kavin struck the banker's hands away, a touch of

panic in his own eyes. Kethry wasn't going to be

any happier with him than she was with Wethes—

and if she got loose— "How was I to know? Mage-

craft doesn't breed true in my family! Mages don't

show up oftener than one in every ten births in my

House! She never gave any indication she had that

much power when I was watching her! Can't your

mage contain her?"

"Barely—and then what do I do? She'll kill me if

I try and let her go, and may the gods help us if

Regyl has to contend with more than simply con-

taining her."

He might have purposefully called the sounds of

conflict from the yard beyond the house. Shouts

and cries of pain, and the sound of steel on steel

penetrated the door to the courtyard; mingled in

those shouts was the rally cry of the Greens. That

galvanized Kavin into action; he started for the

door to the rear of the house and the only other

exit, drawing his sword as he ran, obviously hoping

to escape before the fracas penetrated into the

building.

But he stopped dead in his tracks as the door

burst inward, and narrowly missed being knocked

off his feet by the force that blew it off its hinges.

His blade dropped from numb fingers, clattering on

the slate-paved floor. His eyes grew round, and he

made a tiny sound as if he were choking. Behind

him, Wethes was doing the same.

There were five people standing in the doorway;

whether Wethes knew all of them, he didn't know,

but Kavin recognized only two.

First in line stood Kethry. Her robes were slightly

torn and scorched in one place; she was disheveled,

smoke-stained, and dirty. But she was very clearly

in control of the situation—and Kavin found him-

self completely cowed by her blazing eyes.

Behind her was the Shin'a'in Tarma; a sword in

one hand, a dagger in the other, and the look of an

angry wolf about her. Should Kethry leave any-

thing of him, he had no doubt that his chances of

surviving a single candlemark with her were nil.

Next to Tarma stood a young girl in midnight

blue festooned with throwing daggers and with a

long knife in either hand. She was the only one of

the lot not dividing her attention between himself

and Wethes. Kavin looked sideways over his shoul-

der at the banker, and concluded that he would

rather not be in Wethes' shoes if that girl were

given her way with him; Wethes looked as if he

were as frightened of her as of the rest combined.

Behind those three stood a pair of men, one of

whom looked vaguely familiar, although Kavin

couldn't place him. They took one look at the situa-

tion, grinned at each other, sheathed their own

weapons, and left, closing what remained of the

door behind the three women.

Kavin backed up, feet scuffling on the floor, until

he ran into Wethes.

"Surprise, kinsmen," Kethry said. "I am so glad

to find you both at home."

The Broken Sword was the scene of general cele-

bration; Hadell had proclaimed that the ale was on

the house, in honor of the victory the five had just

won. It was a double victory, for not only had they

rescued Kethry, but Ikan had that very day gotten

them a hearing and a highly favorable verdict from

the Council. Wethes was, insofar as his ambitions

went, a ruined man. Worse, he was now a laughing-

stock to the entire city.

"Cat-child, I expected you at least to want him

cut up into collops." Justin lounged back precari-

ously in his chair on the hearth, balancing it on two

legs. "I can't fathom why you went along with

this."

"I wanted to hurt him," the girl replied, trim-

ming her nails with one of her knives. "And I knew

after all these years of watching him that there's

only two ways to hurt that bastard; to hit his pride

or his moneybags. Revenge, they say, is a dish best

eaten cold, and I've had three years of cooling."

"And here's to Kethry, who figured how to get

both at the same time," Ikan raised his mug in a

toast.

Kethry reciprocated. "And to you, who convinced

the Council I was worth heeding."

Ikan smiled. "Just calling in a few old debts,

that's all. You're the one who did the talking."

"Oh, really? I was under the impression that you

did at least half of it."

"Some, maybe. Force of habit, I'm afraid. Too

many years of listening to my father. You may

know him—Jonis Revelath—"

"Gods, yes, I remember him!" Kethry exclaimed.

"He's the legal counsel for half the Fifty!"

"Slightly more than half."

"That must be why you're the one who remem-

bered it's against the law to force any female of the

Fifty into any marriage without her consent," Kethry

said admiringly. "Ikan, listening to you in there—I

was truly impressed. You're clever, you're persua-

sive, you're a good speaker. Why aren't you . . ."

"Following in my father's footsteps? Because he's

unable to fathom why I am more interested in jus-

tice than seeing that every client who hires me gets

off without more than a reprimand."

"Which is why the old stick wouldn't defend

Wethes for all the gold that bastard threw at him,"

Justin chuckled, seeing if he could balance the chair

on one leg. "Couldn't bear to face his son with Ikan

on the side of Good, Truth, and Justice. Well,

shieldbrother, going to give up the sword and Fight

for Right?" The irony in his voice was so strong it

could have been spread on bread and eaten.

"Idiot!" Ikan grinned. "What do you think I am,

a dunderhead like you? Swords are safer and usu-

ally fairer than the law courts any day!"

"Well, I think you were wonderful," Kethry began.

"I couldn't have done it without you and Cat

being so calm and clear. You had an answer for

everything they could throw at you."

"Enough!" Tarma growled, throwing apples at

all of them. "You were all brilliant. So now Wethes

is poorer by a good sum; Cat has enough to set

herself up as anything she chooses, we have enough

to see us to the Plains, and the entire town knows

Wethes isn't potent with anything over the age of

twelve. He's been the butt of three dozen jokes that

I've heard so far; there are gangs of little boys

chanting rude things in front of his house at this

moment."

"I've heard three songs about him out on the

street, too," Cat interrupted with an evil grin.

"And last of all, Keth's so-called marriage has

been declared null. What's left?"

"Kavin?" Justin hazarded. "Are we likely to see

any more trouble from him?"

"Well, I saw to it that he's been declared disin-

herited by the Council for selling his sister. Keth

didn't want the name or the old hulk of a house

that goes with it, so it's gone to a cadet branch of

her family."

"With my blessings; they're very religious, and I

think they intend to set up a monastic school in it.

As for my brother, when last seen, Kavin was fleeing

for his life through the stews with the leader of the

Greens in hot pursuit," Kethry replied with a cer-

tain amount of satisfaction. "I saw him waiting for

Kavin outside the Council door, and I was kind

enough to pinpoint my brother for him with a ball

of mage-light. I believe his intention was to paint

Kavin a bright emerald when he caught him."

Justin burst into hearty guffaws—and his chair

promptly capsized.

The rest of them collapsed into helpless laughter

at the sight of him, looking surprised and indig-

nant, amid the ruins of his chair.

"Well!" he said, crossing his arms and snorting.

"There's gratitude for you! That's the last time I

ever do any of you a fav—"

Whatever else he was going to say ended in a

splutter as Ikan dumped his mug over his head.

"Still set on getting back to the Plains?" Kethry

asked into the darkness.

A sigh to her right told her that Tarma wasn't

asleep yet. "I have to," came the reluctant answer.

"I can't help it. I have to. If you want to stay ..."

Kethry heard the unspoken plea behind the words

and answered it. "I'm your she'enedra, am I not?"

"But do you really understand what that means?"

"Understand—no. Beginning to understand, yes.

You forget, I'm a mage; I'm used to taking internal

inventory on a regular basis. I've never had a Tal-

ent for Empathy, but now I find myself knowing

what you're feeling, even when you're trying to

hide it. And you knew the instant I'd been taken,

didn't you?"

"Yes."

"And now you're being driven home by some-

thing you really don't understand."

"Yes."

"Does it have anything to do with that Goddess

of yours, do you think?"

"It might; I don't know. We Sworn Ones move

mostly to Her will, and it may be She has some

reason to want me home. I know She wants Tale'-

sedrin back as a living Clan."

"And She wants me as part of it."

"She must, or She wouldn't have marked the

oathtaking."

Kethry stretched tired muscles, and put her hands

under her head. "How much time do you have

before you have to be back?"

"Before Tale'sedrin is declared dead? Four years,

maybe five. Kethry ..."

"It's all right, I told you, I can feel some of what

you're feeling now, I understand."

"You're—you're better. I'm—I'm feeling some of

what you're feeling, too."

"This whole mess was worth it," Kethry replied

slowly, only now beginning to articulate what she'd

only sensed. "It really was. My ghosts have been

laid to rest. And revenge—great Goddess, I couldn't

have hoped for a better revenge! Kavin is terrified

of me; he kept expecting me to turn him into a

toad, or something. And Wethes is utterly ruined.

He's still got his money, but it will never buy him

back his reputation. Indirectly, you got me that,

Tarma. I finally realized that I would never reach

Adept without coming to terms with my past. You

forced me into the confrontation I'd never have

tried on my own. For that alone I would be in-

debted to you."

"She'enedran don't have debts."

"I rather figured that. But—I want you to know,

I'm going with you because I want to, not because I

think that I owe you. I didn't understand what this

oath meant at first, but I do now, and I would

repeat it any time you asked."

A long silence. Then, "Gestena, she'enedra."

That meant "thank you," Kethry knew—thanks,

and a great deal more than thanks.

"Yai se corthu," she replied uncertainly. "Two

are one." For she suddenly felt all Tarma's loneli-

ness and her own as well, and in the darkness of

the night it is sometimes possible to say things that

are too intense and too true for daylight.

"Yai se corthu." And a hand came from the dark-

ness to take hers.

It was enough.

Four

"Tarma, we've been riding for weeks, and I

still haven't seen any sign that this country

is going to turn into grass-plains," Kethry com-

plained, shifting uncomfortably in Rodi's saddle.

"Brush-hills, yes. Near-desert, certainly. Forest, ye

gods! I've seen more trees than I ever want to see

again!"

"What's wrong with forest, other than that you

can't do a straight-line gallop or get a clear shot at

anything, that is?"

Kethry gazed in all directions, and then glanced

up to where branches cut off every scrap of sky

overhead. Huge evergreens loomed wherever she

looked; the only sunlight came from those few beams

that managed to penetrate the canopy of needles. It

seemed as if she'd been breathing resin forever, the

smell clung to everything; clothing, hair—it even

got into the food. It wasn't unpleasant; the oppo-

site, in fact, especially after they'd first penetrated

the edges of the forest after days of fighting a dusty

wind. But after days of eating, drinking, and breath-

ing the everlasting odor of pine, she was heartily

tired of it.

It was chilly and damp on the forest floor, and

lonely. Kethry hadn't seen a bird in days, for they

were all up where the sun was. She could hear

them calling, but the echoes of their far-off singing

only made the empty corridors between the tree

trunks seem more desolate. This forest had to be

incredibly ancient, the oldest living thing she'd ever

seen, perhaps. Certainly the trees were larger than

any she was familiar with. They towered for yards

before branching out, and in the case of a few

giants she had noticed, their trunks were so large

that several adults could have circled the biggest of

them with their arms without touching hand to

hand. The road they followed now was hardly more

than a goat track; the last person they had seen had

been two weeks ago, and since that time they'd

only had each other's voices to listen to.

At first it had been pleasurable to ride beneath

these branches, especially since they had spent

weeks skirting that near-desert she had mentioned,

riding through furlong after furlong of stony, brush-

covered hills with never anything taller than a man

growing on them. While the spring sun had no-

where near the power it would boast in a mere

month, it had been more than hot enough for Kethry

during the height of the day. She couldn't imagine

how Tarma, dressed in her dark Sword Sworn cos-

tume, could bear it. When the hills began to grow

into something a bit more impressive, and the brush

gave way to real trees, it was a genuine relief to

spend all day in their cool shade. But now ...

"It's like they're—watching. I haven't sensed any-

thing, either with mage-senses or without, so I know

it must be my imagination, but..."

"It's not your imagination; something is watch-

ing," Tarma interrupted calmly. "Or rather, someone.

I thought I'd not mention it unless you saw or felt

something yourself, since they're harmless to MS.

Hadn't you ever wondered why I haven't taken any

shots at birds since we entered the trees?"

"But—"

"Oh, the watchers themselves aren't within sens-

ing distance, and not within the scope of your mage-

senses either—just their feathered friends. Hawks,

falcons, ravens and crows by day, owls and night-

hawks by dark. Tale'edras, my people call them—

the Hawkbrothers. We really don't know what they

call themselves. We don't see them much, though

they've been known to trade with us."

"Will we see any of them?"

"Why, do you want to?" Tarma asked, with a

half-grin at Kethry's nod. "You mages must be curi-

osity incarnate, I swear! Well, I might be able to do

something about that. As I said, we're in no danger

from them, but if you really want to meet one—

let's see if I still have my knack for identifying

myself."

She reined in Kessira, threw back her head, and

gave an ear-piercing cry—not like the battle shriek

of a hawk, but a bit like the mating cry, or the cry

that identifies mate to mate. Rodi started, and

backed a few steps, fighting his bit, until Kethry

got him back into control. A second cry echoed

hers, and at first Kethry thought it was an echo, but

it was followed by a winged streak of gold lightning

that swooped down out of the highest branches to

land on Tarma's outstretched arm.

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 intel-

ligent 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 set-

tled, 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, hmm? 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 do to with, Kethry shivered

at Tarma's casualness.

When the bird was safely on her shoulder, Tarma

leaned over a little and rummaged in her saddle-

bag, 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, dropped 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 surpris-

ing 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 Hawk-

brothers have known we were here from the mo-

ment 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 after-

noon 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 draw-

ing her with a power even I can feel. 1 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 sur-

face water was somewhat scarce in the forest; find-

ing it meant they made a campsite then and there.

I don't really have a purpose either, except to learn

and grow stronger in magic—but I expected that. I

knew that's the way my life would be once 1 left the

school until I could found my own. But Tarma—she

needs a purpose, and this home-seeking is only a sub-

stitute for one. I wonder if she realizes that.

When Tarma caught up with her, it was a candle-

mark 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 em-

phasized 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 uncer-

tain 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 invita-

tion. 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 nes-

tled 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 fea-

tures sharp, with no trace of facial hair. His eye-

brows 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 re-

semble 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, Moon-

song."

"And upon you, Child of the Hawk." Both of

them were speaking Shin'a'in—after months of tu-

toring Kethry was following their words with rela-

tive 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 remem-

bered 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 fright-

ened 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.

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 scan-

ning 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 si-

lence. "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 fal-

con 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—"

His blue eyes bored into hers with an intensity

that would have been frightening had he not held

her beyond fear with the power he now showed

himself to possess. She knew then that she was

face-to-face with a true Adept, though of a disci-

pline alien to hers; that he was one such as she

hardly dared dream of becoming. Finally he leaned

back, and Kethry shook off the near-trance he had

laid on her, coming to herself with a start.

"How did you—"

He silenced her with a wave of his hand.

"I read what is written for me to see, nothing

more," he replied, rising with the same swift grace

he had shown before. "Remember what I have read,

both of you. As you are two-made-one, so your task

will be one. First the binding, then the finding. For

the hearth, for the meal, my thanks. For the future,

my blessing. Lady light thy road—"

And as abruptly as he had appeared, he was

gone.

Kethry started to say something, but the odd look

of puzzlement on Tarma's face stopped her.

"Well," she said at last, "I have only one thing to

say. I've passed through this forest twenty times, at

least. In all that time, I must have met Hawkbrothers

ten out of the twenty, and that was extraordinary.

But this—" she shook her head. "That's more words

at once from one of them than any of my people has

ever reported before. Either we much impressed

him—"

"Or?"

"Or," she smiled crookedly, "We are in deep

trouble."

Kethry wasn't quite sure what it was that woke

her; the cry of a bird, perhaps; or one of the riding

beasts waking out of a dream with a snort, and so

waking her in turn.

The air was full of gray mist that hung at waist

height above the needle-strewn forest floor. It glowed

in the dim blue light that signaled dawn, and the

treetops were lost beyond thought within it. It was

chill and thick in the back of her throat; she felt

almost as if she were drinking it rather than breath-

ing it.

The fire was carefully banked coals; it was

Tarma's watch. Kethry sighed and prepared to go

back to another hour of sleep—then stiffened. There

were no sounds beyond what she and the two saddle-

beasts were making. Tarma was gone.

Then, muffled by the fog, came the sound of

blade on blade; unmistakable if heard once. And

Kethry had heard that peculiar shing more times

than she cared to think.

Kethry had lain down fully-clothed against the

damp; now she sprang to her feet, seizing her blade

as she rose. Barefooted, she followed the sound

through the echoing trunks, doing her own best to

make no sound.

For why, if this had been an attack, had Tarma

not awakened her? An ambush then? But why hadn't

Tarma called out to her? Why wasn't she calling

for help now ? What of the Hawkbrothers that were

supposed to be watching out for them?

She slipped around tree trunks, the thick carpet

of needles soft beneath her feet, following the noise

of metal scissoring and clashing. Away from the

little cup where they had camped the fog began to

wisp and rise, winding around the trunks in woolly

festoons, though still thick as a storm cloud an arm's

length above her head. The sounds of blades came

clearer now, and she began using the tree trunks to

hide behind as she crept up upon the scene of

conflict.

She rounded yet another tree, and shrank again

behind it; the fog had deceived her, and she had

almost stumbled into the midst of combat.

The fog ringed this place, moving as if alive, a

thick tendril of it winding out, now and again, to

interpose itself between Tarma and her foe. It

glowed—it glowed with more than the predawn

light. To mage-sight it glowed with power, power

bright and pure, power strong, true, and—strange.

It was out of her experience—and it barred her

from the charmed circle where the combatants

fenced.

Tarma's eyes were bright with utter concentra-

tion, her face expressionless as a sheet of polished

marble. Kethry had never seen her quite like this,

except when in the half-trance she induced when

practicing or meditating. She was using both sword

and dagger to defend herself—

Against another Shin'a'in.

This man was unmistakably of Tarma's race. The

tawny gold skin of hands and what little Kethry

could see of his face showed his kinship to her. So

did the strands of raven hair that had been bound

out of his face by an equally black headband, and

ice-blue eyes that glinted above his veil.

For he was veiled; this was something Tarma

never had worn for as long as Kethry had known

her. Kethry hadn't even known till this moment

that a veil could be part of a Shin'a'in costume, but

the man's face was obscured by one, and it did not

have the feeling of a makeshift. He was veiled and

garbed entirely in black, the black Tarma had worn

when on the trail of those who had slaughtered her

Clan. Black was for blood-feud—but Tarma had

sworn that there was never blood-feud between

Shin'a'in and Shin'a'in. And black was for Kal'ene-

dral—three times barred from internecine strife.

There was less in their measured counter and

riposte of battle than of dance. Kethry held her

breath, transfixed by more than the power of the

mist. She was caught by the deadly beauty of the

weaving blades, caught and held entranced, drawn

out of her hiding place to stand in the open.

Tarma did not even notice she was there—but

the other did.

He stepped back, breaking the pattern, and mo-

tioned slightly with his left hand. Tarma instantly

broke off her advance, and seemed to wake just as

instantly from her trance, staring at Kethry with

the startled eyes of a wild thing broken from hiding.

The other turned, for his back had been to Kethry.

He saluted the sorceress in slow, deliberate cere-

mony with his own blade. Then he winked slowly

and gravely over his veil, and—vanished, taking the

power in the magic fog with him.

Released from her entrancement, Kethry stared

at her partner, not certain whether to be fright-

ened, angry or both.

"What—was—that—" she managed at last.

"My trainer; my guide," Tarma replied sheep-

ishly. "One of them, anyway." She sheathed her

sword and stood, to all appearances feeling awk-

ward and at a curious loss for words. "I ... never

told you about them before, because I wasn't sure it

was permitted. They train me every night we aren't

within walls . .. one of them takes my watch to see

you safe. I... I guess they decided I was taking too

long to tell you about them; I suppose they figured it

was time you knew about them."

"You said your people didn't use magic—but

he—he was alive with it! Only your Goddess—"

"He's Hers. In life, was Kal'enedral; and now—"

she lifted up her hand, "—as you saw. His magic is

Hers—"

"What do you mean, 'in life'?" Kethry asked, an

edge of hysteria in her voice.

"You mean—you couldn't tell?"

"Tell what?"

"He's a spirit. He's been dead at least a hundred

years, like all the rest of my teachers."

It took Tarma the better part of an hour to calm

her partner down.

They broke out of the trees, as Tarma had prom-

ised, just past midafternoon.

Kethry stared; Tarma sat easily in Kessira's sad-

dle, and grinned happily. "Well?" she asked, finally.

Kethry sought for words, and failed to find them.

They had come out on the edge of a sheer drop-

off; the mighty trees grew to the very edge of it,

save for the narrow path on which they stood. Be-

low them, furlongs, it seemed, lay the Dhorisha

Plains.

Kethry had pictured acres of grassland, a sea of

green, as featureless as the sea itself, and as flat.

Instead she saw beneath her a rolling country of

gentle, swelling rises; like waves. Green grass there

was in plenty—as many shades of green as Kethry

had ever seen, and more—and golden grass, and a

faint heathered purple. And flowers—it must have

been flowers that splashed the green with irregular

pools of bright blue and red, white and sunny yel-

low, orange and pink. Kethry took an experimental

sniff and yes, the breeze rising up the cliff carried

with it the commingled scents of growing grass and

a hundred thousand spring blossoms.

There were dark masses, like clouds come to earth,

running in lines along the bottoms of some of the

swells. After a long moment Kethry realized that

they must be trees, far-off trees, lining the water-

courses.

"How—" she turned to Tarma with wonder in

her eyes, "how could you ever bear to leave this?"

"It wasn't easy, she'enedra," Tarma sighed, deep

and abiding hunger stirring beneath the smooth

surface of the mask she habitually wore. "Ah, but

you're seeing it at its best. The Plains have their

hard moments, and more of them than the soft.

Winter—aye, that's the coldest face of all, with all

you see out there sere and brown, and so barren all

the life but the Clans and the herds sleeps beneath

the surface in safe burrows. High summer is nearly

as cruel, when the sun burns everything, when the

watercourses shrink to tiny trickles, when you long

for a handsbreadth of shade, and there is none to be

found. But spring—oh, the Plains are lovely then,

as lovely as She is when She is Maiden—and as

welcoming."

Tarma gazed out at the blowing grasslands with a

faint smile beginning to touch her thin lips.

"Ah, I swear I am as sentimental as an old granny

with a mouthful of tales of how golden the world

was when she was young," she laughed, finally,

"and none of this gets us down to the Plains. Fol-

low me, and keep Rodi exactly in Kessira's foot-

steps. It's a long way down from here if you slip."

They followed a narrow trail along the face of the

drop-off, a trail that switched back and forth con-

stantly as it dropped, so that there was never more

than a length or two from one level of the trail to

the next below it. This was no bad idea, since it

meant that if a mount and rider were to slide off

the trail, they would have a fighting chance of

saving themselves one or two levels down. But it

made for a long ride, and all of it in the full sun,

with nowhere to rest and no shade anywhere. Kethry

and her mule were tired and sweat-streaked by the

time they reached the bottom, and she could see

that Tarma and Kessira were in no better shape.

But there was immediate relief at the bottom of

the cliff, in the form of a grove of alders and wil-

lows with a cool spring leaping out of the base of

the escarpment right where the trail ended. They

watered the animals first, then plunged their own

heads and hands into the tinglingly cold water,

washing themselves clean of the itch of sweat and

dust.

Tarma looked at the lowering sun, slicking back

wet hair. "Well," she said finally, "We have a choice.

We can go on, or we can overnight here. Which

would you rather?"

"You want the truth? I'd rather overnight here.

I'm tired, and I ache; I'd like the chance to rinse all

of me off. But I know how anxious you are to get

back to your people."

"Some," Tarma admitted, "But . . . well, if we

quit now, then made an early start of it in the

morning, we wouldn't lose too much time."

"I won't beg you, but—"

"All right, I yield!" Tarma laughed, giving in to

Kethry's pleading eyes.

Camp was quickly made; Tarma went out with

bow and arrow and returned with a young hare and

a pair of grass-quail.

"This—this is strange country," Kethry com-

mented sleepily over the crackle of the fire. "These

grasslands shouldn't be here, and I could swear

that cliff wasn't cut by nature."

"The gods alone know," Tarma replied, stirring

the fire with a stick. It's possible, though. My peo-

ple determined long ago that the Plains are the

bowl of a huge valley that is almost perfectly circu-

lar, even though it takes weeks to ride across the

diameter of it. This is the only place where the rim

is that steep, though. Everywhere else it's been

eroded down, though you can still see the bound-

aries if you know what to look for."

"Perfectly circular—that hardly seems possible."

"You're a fine one to say 'hardly possible,' " Tarma

teased. "Especially since you've just crossed through

the lowest reaches of the Pelagir Hills."

"I what?" Kethry sat bolt upright, no longer sleepy.

"The forest we just passed through—didn't you

know it was called the Pelgiris Forest? Didn't the

name sound awfully familiar to you?"

"I looked at it on the map—I guess I just never

made the connection."

"Well, keep going north long enough and you're

in the Pelagirs. My people have a suspicion that

the Tale'edras are Shin'a'in originally, Shin'a'in who

went a bit too far north and got themselves changed.

They've never said anything, though, so we keep

our suspicions to ourselves."

"The Pelagirs ..." Kethry mused.

"And just what are you thinking of? You surely

don't want to go in there, do you?"

"Maybe."

"Warrior's Oath! Are you mad? Do you know the

kind of things that live up there? Griffins, fire-

birds, colddrakes—things without names 'cause no

one who's seen 'em has lived long enough to give

them any name besides 'AAAARG!' "

Kethry had to laugh at that. "Oh, I know," she

replied, "Better than you. But I also know how to

keep us relatively safe in there—"

"What do you mean, 'us'?"

"—because one of my order came from the heart

of the Pelagirs. The wizard Gervase."

"Gervase?" Tarma's jaw dropped. "The Lizard

Wizard? You mean that silly song about the Wizard

Lizard is true?"

"Truer than many that are taken for pure fact.

Gervase was a White Winds adept, because the

mage that gifted him was White Winds—and it was

a good day for the order when he made that gift.

Gervase, being a reptile, and being a Pelagir change-

ling as well, lived three times the span of a normal

sorcerer, and we are notoriously long-lived. He be-

came the High Adept of the order, and managed to

guide it into the place it holds today."

"Total obscurity," Tarma taunted.

"Oh, no—protective obscurity. Those who need

us know how to find us. Those we'd rather couldn't

find us can't believe anyone who holds the power a

White Winds Adept holds would ever be found ankle-

deep in mud and manure, tending his own onions.

Let other mages waste their time in politics and

sorcerer's duels for the sake of proving that one of

them is better—or at least more devious—than the

other. We save our resources for those who are in

need of them. There's this, too—we can sleep sound

of nights, knowing nobody is likely to conjure an

adder into one of our sleeping rolls."

"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 be-

come 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 any-

thing 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 your-

self, 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 know 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 adoles-

cents 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 scar-

let 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 col-

lection 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 determina-

tion 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 wrin-

kled 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 embroi-

dered 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 Hawk-

brothers 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 eye-

brow 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 pro-

nouncement 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 War-

rior'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 pro-

duced 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 me-

teor 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. Pain 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 train-

ing 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 atten-

tion 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.

Five

The 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 any-

thing, 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 entertain-

ment. 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, draw-

ing the rest of the glow up into itself until it was a

fat globe dancing weightlessly up near the centerpole.

"This is the tale as it was told me," Kethry be-

gan, just as the Shin'a'in storytellers had begun,

while the children oohed and whispered and the

adults tried to pretend they weren't just as fasci-

nated as the children. "Once in a hollow tree on

the top of a hill, there lived a lizard."

Within the globe the light faded and then bright-

ened, and a scene came into focus; a stony, vetch-

covered hill surmounted by a lightning-blasted tree

of great girth, a tree that glowed ever so faintly. As

the Clansfolk watched, a green and brown scaled

lizard poked his head cautiously out of a crevice at

the base of it; the lizard looked around, and appar-

ently saw nothing, for the rest of him followed.

Now even the adults gasped, for this lizard walked

erect, like a man, and had a head more manlike

than lizardlike.

"The lizard's name was Gervase, and he was one

of the hertasi folk that live still in the Pelagir Hills.

Hertasi once were tree-lizards long, long ago, until

magic changed them. Like humans, they can be of

any nature; good or bad, kind or cruel, giving or

selfish. But they all have one thing in common. All

are just as intelligent as we are, and all were made

that way long ago by magic wars. Now this Gervase

knew a great deal about magic; it was the cause of

him being the way he was, after all, and there was

so much of it in the place where he lived that his

very tree-home glowed at night with it. So it isn't

too surprising that he should daydream about it,

now, is it?"

The scene changed; the children giggled, for the

lizard Gervase was playing at being a wizard, just

as they had often done, with a hat of rolled-up

birch bark and a "wand" of a twisted branch.

"He wanted very badly to be a wizard; he used to

dream about how he would help those in trouble,

how he would heal the sick and the wounded, how

he would be so powerful he could stop wars with a

single wave of his wand. You see, he had a very

kind heart, and all he ever really wanted to do was

to make the world a little better. But of course, he

knew he couldn't; after all, he was nothing but a

lizard."

The lizard grew sad-looking (odd how body-

language could convey dejection when the crea-

ture's facial expressions were nil), put aside his

hat and wand, and crawled up onto a branch to sit

in the sun and sigh.

"Then one day while he was sunning himself, he

heard a noise of hound and horse in the distance."

Now the lizard jumped to his feet, balancing

himself on the branch with his tail while he craned

his neck to see as far as he could.

"While he was trying to see what all the fuss was

about, a man stumbled into his clearing."

A tattered and bloody human of early middle age

fell through the bushes, catching himself barely in

time to keep from cracking his head open on the

rocks. There was a gasp from the assembled Clans-

folk, for the man had plainly been tortured. Kethry

had not toned the illusion-narrative down much

from the one she'd been shown; firstly, the chil-

dren of the Clans were used to bloodshed, sec-

ondly, it brought the fact home to all of them that

this was a true tale.

The man in the illusion was dark-haired and

bearded; bruised and beaten-looking. And if one

looked very carefully, it was possible to see that the

rags he wore had once been a wizard's robe.

"Gervase didn't stop to wonder about who the

man was or why he was being chased; he only

knew that no thinking creature should hunt an-

other down like a rabbit with dogs and horses. He

ran to the man—"

The lizard slid down the tree trunk and scam-

pered to the fallen wizard. Now it was possible to

see, as he helped the man to his feet, that he was

very close to being man-sized himself, certainly

the size of a young adolescent. At first the man

was plainly too dazed to realize what it was that

was helping him, then he came to himself and did a

double take. The shock and startlement on his face

made the children giggle again—and not just the

children.

" 'Come, human,' Gervase said. 'You must hide

in my tree, it's the only place where you can be

safe. I will keep the dogs away from you.' The

wizard—for that was what he was—did not waste

any breath in arguing with him, for he could clearly

hear the dogs baying on his track."

The lizard half-carried the man to the crevice in

the tree; the man crawled inside. Gervase then ran

over to a rock in the sun and arranged himself on it,

for all the world like an ordinary (if overly-large)

lizard basking himself.

"When the dogs came over the hill, with the

hunters close behind them, Gervase was ready."

As the dogs and the horses burst through the

underbrush, Gervase jumped high in the air, as if

startled out of his wits. He dashed back and forth

on all fours for a moment, then shot into the crack

in the tree. There he remained, with his head stick-

ing out, obviously hissing at the dogs that came to

bark and snap at him and the man he was protect-

ing. When one or two got too close, Gervase bit

their noses. The dogs yelped and scuttled to the

rear of the pack, tails between their legs, while the

entire tent roared with laughter.

"Then the man who had been hunting the wizard

arrived, and he was not pleased. He had wanted

the wizard to serve him; he had waited until the

wizard's magics were either exhausted or nullified

by his own magicians, then he had taken him pris-

oner and tortured him. But our wizard had pre-

tended to be unconscious and had escaped into the

Pelagirs. The lord was so angry he had escaped

that he had taken every hunter and dog he had and

pursued him—but thanks to Gervase, he thought

now that he had lost the trail."

The plump and oily man who rode up on a sweat-

ing horse bore no small resemblance to Wethes.

Tarma smiled at that, as the "lord" whipped off his

hounds and laid the crop across the shoulders of

his fearful huntsman, all the while turning purple

with rage. At length he wrenched his horse's head

around, spurring it savagely, and led the lot out of

the clearing. Gervase came out of hiding; so did the

wizard.

"The wizard was very grateful. 'There is a great

deal of magical energy stored in your home,' he

said. 'I can grant you nearly anything you want,

little friend, if you'll let me use it. What way can I

reward you?' Gervase didn't even have to think

about it. 'Make me a man like you!' he said, 'I want

to be a man like you!' Think carefully on what

you're asking,' the mage said. 'Do you want to be

human, or do you want to be a magician? You have

the potential within you to be a great mage, but it

will take all the magic of your tree to unlock it, and

even then it will take years of study before you can

make use of your abilities. Or would you rather

have the form of a human? That, too, will take all

the magic of your tree. So think carefully, and

choose.' "

The little lizard was plainly in a quandary; he

twitched and paced, and looked up at the sky and

down at the ground for help.

"Gervase had a terrible decision, you see? If he

became a human, people would listen to him, but

he wouldn't have the magic to do what he wanted

to do. But if he chose to have his Gifts unlocked,

where would he find someone who would teach the

use of them to a lizard? But finally, he chose. 'I

will be a mage,' he said, 'and somewhere I will

find someone willing to teach me, someone who

believes that good inside is more important than

the way I look on the outside.' "

The wizard in the vision smiled and raised his

hands over Gervase. The tree began to glow brightly;

then the glow flowed off the tree and over the little

lizard, enveloping him and sinking into him.

" 'You need look no further, little friend,' said

the mage, when he'd done. Tor I myself will teach

you, if you wish to be my apprentice.' "

Gervase plainly went half-mad with joy; he

danced comically about for a good several minutes,

then dashed into the now-dark tree and emerged

again with a few belongings tied into a cloth. To-

gether he and the mage trudged down the path and

disappeared into the forest. The glowing globe went

dark then, and vanished slowly, dissolving like

smoke.

"And that is the tale of how Gervase became an

apprentice to Cinsley of White Winds. What hap-

pened to him after that—is another tale."

The applause Kethry received was as hearty as

ever Tarma had gotten back in the days when her

voice was the pride of the Clans.

"Well done," Tarma whispered, when the atten-

tions of those gathered had turned to the next to

entertain.

"I was wondering if my doing magic would of-

fend anyone—" Kethry began, then looked up, sud-

denly apprehensive, seeing one of the Clansfolk

approaching them.

And not just any Shin'a'in, but the Shaman.

The grave and imposing woman was dressed in

earthy yellows this evening; she smiled as she ap-

proached them, as if she sensed Kethry's apprehen-

sion. "Peace, jel'enedra," she said quietly, voice barely

audible to the pair of them over the noise of the

musicians behind her. "That was well done."

She seated herself on the carpeted floor beside

them. "Then—you didn't mind my working magic?"

Kethry replied, tension leaving her.

"Mind? Li'sa'eer! Anything but! Our people sel-

dom see outClan magic. It's well to remind them

that it can be benign—"

"As well as being used to aid the slaughter of an

entire Clan?" Tarma finished. "It's well to remind

them that it exists, period. It was that forgetfulness

that lost Tale'sedrin."

"Hai, you have the right of it. Jel'enedra. I sense a

restlessness in you. More, I sense an unhappiness

in both you and your oathkin."

"Is it that obvious?" Kethry asked wryly. "I'm

sorry if it is."

"Do not apologize; as I said, I sense it in your

she'enedra as well."

"Tarma?" Kethry's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Look, I don't think this is where we should be

discussing this," Tarma said uncomfortably.

"Will you come to my tent, then, Kal'enedra; you

and your oathsister?" The request was more than

half command, and they felt almost compelled to

follow her out of the tent, picking their way care-

fully among the crowded Clansfolk.

Tarma was curious to see what the Shaman's

dome-shaped tent looked like within; she was

vaguely disappointed to see that it differed very

little from her own inside. There was the usual

sleeping pad of sheepskins and closely-woven woolen

blankets, the mule-boxes containing personal be-

longings and clothing, two oil-lamps, and bright

rugs and hangings in profusion. It was only when

Tarma took a closer look at the hangings that she

realized that they were something out of the ordinary.

They seemed to be figured in random patterns,

yet there was a sense of rhythm in the pattern—

like writing.

The Shaman seemed uncannily aware of what

Tarma was thinking. "Hai, they are a written his-

tory of our people; written in a language all their

own. It is a language so concise that one hundred

years of history can be contained in a single hanging."

Tarma looked around the tent, and realized that

there must be close to fifty of these hangings, lay-

ered one upon the other. But—that meant five thou-

sand years!

Again the Shaman seemed to sense Tarma's

thoughts. "Not so many years as you may think.

Some of these deal with the history of peoples other

than our own, peoples whose lives impinge upon

ours. But we are not here to speak of that," the

Shaman seated herself on her pallet, allowing Kethry

and Tarma to find places for themselves on her

floor. "I think the Plains grow too small for both of

you, he shala?"

"There's just no real need for me here," Kethry

replied. "My order—well, we just can't stay where

there's nothing for us to do. If some of the Clansfolk

had magic gifts, or wanted to learn the magics that

don't require a Gift, it would be different; I'd gladly

teach them here. But no one seems interested, and

frankly, I'm bored. Actually, it's a bit worse than

being bored. I'm not learning anything. I'll never

reach Adept status if I stay here."

"I ... don't fit here," Tarma sighed, "And I

never thought I'd say that. Like Keth, I'd be happy

to teach the children swordwork, but that would be

usurping Shelana's position. I thought I could keep

busy working with her, but—"

"I venture to guess you found her scarcely more

challenging than her pupils? Don't look so sur-

prised, my child; I of all people should know what

your Oath entails. Liha'irden has not had Kal'enedral

in its midst for a generation, but I know what your

skill is likely to be—and how it was acquired."

There was silence for a moment, then Tarma

said wryly, "Well, I wish you'd told me! The first

time one of Them showed up, it was enough to stop

my heart!"

"We were a trifle short of time to be telling you

anything, even had you been in condition to hear it.

So—tell me more of your troubles."

"I love my people, I love the Plains, but I have no

purpose here. I am totally useless. I'd be of more use

raising income for Tale'sedrin than I am now."

"Ah—you have seen the problem with raising the

banner?"

"We're only two; we can't tend the herds our-

selves. We could bring in orphans and third and

fourth children from Clans with far too many to

feed, but we have no income yet to feed them our-

selves. And frankly, we have no Name. We aren't

likely to attract the kind of young men and women

that would be my first choice without a Name."

"Would you mind telling me what you two are

talking about?" Kethry demanded, bewilderment

written plainly on her face.

"Goddess—I'm sorry, Keth. You've fallen in with

us so well, I forget you aren't one of us."

"Allow me," the Shaman interrupted gently.

"]el'enedra, when you pledged yourself to providing

children for Tale'sedrin, you actually pledged only

to provide the Clan core—unless you know some

magic to cause you to litter like a grass-runner!"

The Shaman's smile was warm, and invited Tarma

as well as Kethry to share the joke. "So; what will

be, is that when you do find a mate and raise up

your children, they must spend six months of the

year here, shifting by one season each year so that

they see our life in harsh times as well as easy.

When they come of age, they will choose—to be

Shin'a'in always, or to take up a life off of the

Plains. Meanwhile, we will be sending out the call,

and unmated jel'asadra of both sexes are free to

come to your banner to make it their own. Orphans,

also. Until you and your she'enedra declare the Clan

closed. Do you see?"

"I think so. Now what was the business about a

Name?"

"The caliber of youngling you will attract will

depend on the reputation you and Tarma have among

the Clans. And right now—to be frank, you will

only attract those with little to lose. Not the kind of

youngling I would hope to rebuild a Clan with, if I

were rebuilding Tale'sedrin."

"The part about income was clear enough," Kethry

said after a long moment of brooding. "We—we'd

either have to sell some of the herd at a loss, or

starve."

"Are you in condition to hear advice, the pair of

you?"

"I think so," said Tarma.

"Leave the Clans; leave the Plains. There is noth-

ing for you here, you are wasting your abilities and

you are wasting away of boredom. I think there is

something that both of you wish to do—and I also

think that neither of you has broached the subject

for fear of hurting the other's feelings."

"I..." Kethry faltered. "Well, there's two things,

really. Since I've vowed myself to rebuilding Tale's-

edrin—that needs a man, I'm afraid. I'll grant you

that I could just go about taking lovers but ... I

want something more than that, I want to care for

the father of any children I might have. And frankly,

most of the men here are terribly alien to me."

"Understandable," the Shaman nodded. "Laud-

able, in fact. The Clan law holds that you, your

she'enedra, and your children would comprise a true

Clan-seed, but I think everyone would be happier if

you chose a man as a long-term partner-mate, and

one with whom you have more in common than one

of us. And the other?"

"If I ever manage to get myself to the stage of

Adept, it's more-or-less expected of a White Winds

sorceress that she start a branch of the school. But

to do that, to attract pupils, I'd need two things. A

reputation, and money."

"So again, we come to those two things, as impor-

tant to you as to the Clan."

"Well that's odd, that you've been thinking of

starting a school, because I've been playing with

the same notion," Tarma said in surprise. "I've

been thinking I enjoyed teaching Justin and Ikan so

much that it would be no bad thing to have a school

of my own, one that teaches something besides

swordwork."

"Teach the heart as well as the mind and body?"

the Shaman smiled. "Those are praiseworthy goals,

children, and not incompatible with rebuilding

Tale'sedrin. Let me make you this proposition; for

a fee, Liha'irden will continue to raise and tend

your herds—I think a tithe of the yearlings would

be sufficient. Do you go out before the snows close

us in and see if you cannot raise both the reputa-

tion and the gold to build your schools and your

Clan. If you do not succeed, you may always return

here, and we will rebuild the harder way, but if

you dp, well, the Clan is where the people are;

there is no reason why Tale'sedrin should not first

ride in outClan lands until the children are old

enough to come raise the banner themselves. Will

that satisfy your hungers?"

"Aye, and then some!" Tarma spoke for both of

them, while Kethry nodded, more excitement in

her eyes than had been there for weeks.

* * *

Kessira and Rodi remained behind with the herds

when they left two weeks later. Now that they

were to pursue their avocation of mercenary in

earnest, they rode a matched pair of the famed

Shin'a'in battlesteeds; horses they had picked out

and had been training with since spring.

Battlesteeds were the result of a breeding pro-

gram that had been going on for as long as the

Shin'a'in had existed as nomadic horsebreeders. Un-

like most horsebreeding programs, the Shin'a'in had

not been interested in looks, speed, or conforma-

tion. They had bred for intelligence, above all else—

and after intelligence, agility, strength, and en-

durance. The battlesteeds were the highly success-

ful result.

Both horses they now rode were mottled gray;

they had thick necks and huge, ugly heads with

broad foreheads. They looked like unpolished stat-

ues of rough granite, and were nearly as tough.

They could live very handily on forage even a mule

would reject; they could travel sunrise to sunset at

a ground-devouring lope that was something like a

wolfs tireless tracking-pace. They could be trusted

with an infant, but would kill on signal or on a

perceived threat. They were more intelligent than

any horse Kethry had ever seen—more intelligent

than a mule, even. In their ability to obey and to

reason they more resembled a highly trained dog

than a horse, for they could actually work out a

simple problem on their own.

This was why Shin'a'in battlesteeds were so

famed—and why the Clansfolk guarded them with

their very lives. Between their intelligence and the

training they received, battlesteeds were nearly the

equal partners of those who rode them in a fight. It

was in no small part due to the battlesteeds that

the Shin'a'in had remained free and the Dhorisha

Plains unconquered.

But they were rare; a mare would drop no more

than four or five foals in a lifetime. So no matter

how tempting the price offered, no battlesteed would

ever be found in the hands of anyone but a Shin'a'in

—or one who was pledged blood-sib to a Shin'a'in.

These horses had been undergoing a strenuous

course of training for the past four years, and had

just been ready this spring to accept permanent

riders. They were trained to fight either on their

own or with a rider—something Kethry was grate-

ful for, since she was nothing like the kind of rider

Tarma was. Tarma could stick to Hellsbane's back

like a burr on a sheep; Kethry usually lost her seat

within the first few minutes of a fight. But no

matter; Ironheart would defend her quite as read-

ily on the ground—and on the ground Kethry could

work her magics without distraction.

Both battlesteeds were mares; mares could be

depended on to keep their heads no matter what

the provocation, and besides, it was a peculiarity of

battlesteeds that they tended to throw ten or fif-

teen fillies to every colt. That meant colts were

never gelded—and never left the Plains.

This time when Tarma left the Liha'irden en-

campment, it was with every living soul in it out-

side to bid her farewell. The weather was perfect;

crisp and cool without being too cold. The sky was

cloudless, and there was a light frost on the ground.

"No regrets?" Kethry said in an undertone as she

tightened Ironheart's girth.

"Not many," Tarma replied, squinting into the

thin sunlight, then mounting with an absentminded

ease Kethry envied. "Certainly not enough to worry

about."

Kethry scrambled into her own saddle—Ironheart

was nearly sixteen hands high, the tallest beast

she'd ever ridden—and settled her robes about

herself.

"You have some, though?" she persisted.

"I just wish I knew this was the right course

we're taking ... I guess," Tarma laughed at her-

self, "I guess I'm looking for another omen."

"Lady Bright, haven't you had enough—" Kethry

was interrupted by a scream from overhead.

The Shin'a'in about them murmured in excite-

ment and pointed—for there, overhead, was a vorcel-

hawk. It might have been the same one that had

landed on Kethry's arm when Tarma had been chal-

lenged; it was certainly big enough. This time, how-

ever, it showed no inclination to land. Instead, it

circled the encampment overhead, three times. Then

it sailed majestically away northward, the very di-

rection they had been intending to take.

As it vanished into the ice-blue sky, Kethry tugged

her partner's sleeve to get her attention.

"Do me a favor, hmm?" she said in a voice that

shook a trifle. "Stop asking for bloody omens!"

"Why I ever let you talk me into this—" Tarma

stared about them uneasily. "This place is even

weirder than they claim!"

They were deep into the Pelagir Hills—the true

Pelagirs. There was a track they were following;

dry-paved, it rang under their mares' hooves, and it

led ever deeper into the thickly forested hills and

was arrow-flight straight. To either side of them

lay the landscape of dreams ... or maybe nightmare.

The grass was the wrong color for fall. It should

have been frost-seared and browning; instead it

was a lush and juicy green. The air was warm; this

was fall, it should have been cool, but it felt like

summer, it smelled like summer. There were even

flowers. Tarma disliked and distrusted this false,

magic-born summer. It just wasn't right.

The other plants besides the grass—well, some

were normal (or at least they seemed normal), but

others were not. Tarma had seen plants whose leaves

had snapped shut on unwary insects, flowers whose

blooms glowed when the moon rose, and thorny

vines whose thorns dripped some unnamable liq-

uid. She didn't know if they were hazardous, but

she wasn't about to take a chance; not after she saw

the bones and skulls of small animals littering the

ground beneath a dead tree laden with such vines.

The trees didn't bear thinking about, much. The

least odd of them were as twisted and deformed as

if they'd grown in a place of constant heavy winds.

The others .. .

Well, there was the grove they'd passed of lacy

things that sang softly to themselves in childlike

voices. And the ones that pulled away from them as

they passed, or worse, actually reached out to touch

them, feeling them like blind and curious old women.

And the sapling that had torn up its roots and

shuffled away last night when Tarma thought about

how nice a fire would feel ...

And by no means least, the ones like they'd spent

the night in (though only after Kethry repeatedly

assured her nervous partner that it was perfectly

harmless). It had been hut-sized and hut-shaped,

with only a thatch of green on the "roof—and

hollow. And inside had been odd protrusions that

resembled stools, a table, and bed-platforms to a

degree that was positively frightening. A lovely lit-

tle trap it would have made—Tarma slept rest-

lessly that night, dreaming about the "door" growing

closed and trapping them inside, like those poor

bugs the flowers had trapped.

"I'm at the stage where I could use a familiar,"

Kethry replied, "I've explained all this before. Be-

sides, a familiar will be able to take some of the

burden of night-watch off both of us, particularly if

I can manage to call a kyree."

Tarma sighed.

"It's only fair. I came with you to the Plains. I

took a battlesteed at your insistence."

"Agreed. But I don't have to like this place. Are

you sure there's anything here you can call? We

haven't seen so much as a mouse or a sparrow since

things started looking weird."

"That's because they don't want you to see them.

Relax, we're going to stop soon; we're almost where

I wanted to go."

"How can you tell, if you've never been here?"

"You'll see."

Sure enough, Tarma did see. The paved road came

to a dead end; at the end it widened out into a flat,

featureless circle some fifty paces in diameter.

The paved area was surrounded by yet another

kind of tree, some sort of evergreen with thin, tan-

gled branches that started a bit less than knee-high

and continued straight up so that the trees were

like green columns reaching to the sky. They had

grown so closely together that it would have been

nearly impossible for anything to force its way be-

tween them. That meant there was only one way

for anything to get into the circle—via the road.

"Now what?"

"Find someplace comfortable and make yourself

a camp wherever you feel safest—although I can

guarantee that as long as you stay inside the trees

you'll be perfectly safe."

"Myself? What about you?"

"Oh, I'll be here, but I'll be busy. The process of

calling a familiar is rather involved and takes a

long time." Kethry dismounted in the exact center

of the pavement and began unloading her saddle-

bags from Ironheart's back.

"How long is 'a long time'?" The paved area

really took up only about half of the circular clear-

ing. The rest was grass and scattered boulders, a

green and lumpy rim surrounding the smooth gray

pavement. There was plenty of windfall lying around

the grassy area, most of it probably good and dry,

dry enough to make a fire. And there was a nice

little nook at the back of the circle, a cluster of

boulders that would make a good firepit. Somehow

Tarma didn't want even the slightest chance of fire

escaping from her. Not here. Not after that walking

sapling; no telling what its mother might think

about fire, or the makers of fire.

"Until sunset tomorrow night."

"What?"

"I told you, it's very complicated. Surely you can

find something to do with yourself ..."

"Well, I'm going to have to, aren't I? I'm cer-

tainly not going to leave you alone out here."

Kethry didn't bother to reply with anything more

than an amused smile, and began setting up her

spell-casting equipment. Tarma, grumbling, took both

mares over to the side of the paved area and gave

them the command to stay on the grass, unsaddled

and unharnessed them, and began grooming them

to within an inch of their lives.

When she slipped a look over at her partner,

Kethry was already seated within a sketched-in

circle, a tiny brazier emitting a spicy-scented smoke

beside her. Her eyes were closed and from the way

her lips were moving she was chanting. Tarma

sighed with resignation, and hauled the tack over

to the area where she intended to camp.

It had lacked about a candlemark to sunset when

they'd reached this place; by the time Tarma fin-

ished setting up camp to her liking, the sun was

down and she was heartily glad of the fire she'd lit.

It wasn't that it was cold ...

No, it was the things outside that circle of trees

that made her glad of the warm glow of the flames.

The warm earthly glow of the flames. There were

noises out there, sounds like she'd never heard be-

fore. The mares moved over to the fireside of their

own volition, and were not really interested in the

handfuls of grain Tarma offered them. They stood,

one on either side of her, in defensive posture, ears

twitching nervously.

It sounded like things were gathering just on the

other side of the trees. There was a murmuring

that was very like something speaking, except that

no human throat ever made burbling and trilling

sounds quite like those Tarma heard. There were

soft little whoops, and watery chuckles. Every now

and then, a chorus of whistlers exchanged responses.

And as if that weren't enough—

Through the branches Tarma could see amor-

phous patches of glow, patches that moved about.

As the moon rose above the trees, she unsheathed

her sword and dagger, and held them across her

lap.

"Child—"

Tarma screeched and jumped nearly out of her

skin.

She was on her feet without even thinking about

rising, and whipped around to face—

Her instructor, who had come with the first

moonlight.

"You—you—sadist!" she gasped, trying to get her

heart down out of her throat. "You nearly fright-

ened me to death!"

"There is nothing for you to fear. What is outside

the trees is curious, no more."

"And I'm the Queen of Valdemar."

"I tell you truly. This is a place where no evil

can bear to tread; look about you—and look to your

she'enedra."

Tarma looked again, and saw that the mares had

settled, their heads down, nosing out the last of the

grain she'd given them. She saw that the area of the

pavement was glowing—that what she'd mistaken

for a soft silver reflection of the moonlight was in

fact coming from within the paving material. Nor

was that all—the radiance was brighter where

Kethry sat oblivious within her circle, and blended

from the silver of the pavement into a pale blue

that surrounded her like an aura. And the trees

themselves were glowing—something she hadn't no-

ticed, being intent on the lights on the other side—a

healthy, verdant green. All three colors she knew

from Kethry's chance-made comments were associ-

ated with life-magic, positive magic.

And now the strange sounds from outside their

enclosure no longer seemed so sinister, but rather

like the giggling and murmuring of a crowd of curi-

ous small children.

Tarma relaxed, and shrugged. "Well, I still don't

exactly like this place ..."

"But you can see it is not holding a threat, half"

"Hai." she placed the point of her blade on the

pavement and cocked her head at him. "Well, I

haven't much to do, and since you're here . . ."

"You are sadly in need of practice," he mocked.

"Shesti!" she scoffed back, bringing her sword up

into guard position, "I'm not that badly off!"

By day the circle of trees no longer seemed quite

so sinister, especially after Tarma's instructor had

worked her into sweat-dripping exhaustion. When

dawn came—and he left—she was ready to drop

where she stood and sleep on the hard pavement

itself.

But the mares needed more than browse and

grain, they needed water. There was no water here

save what they'd brought with them. And Tarma

dared not truly sleep while Kethry remained en-

wrapped in spell-casting.

So when the first hint of the sun reddened the

sky, she took Hellsbane with her and cautiously

poked her nose out of the sheltered area, looking for

a hint of water.

There was nothing stirring outside the circle of

trees; the eerie landscape remained quiet. But when

Tarma looked at the dirt at the foot of the trees she

saw tracks, many tracks, and few of them were

even remotely identifiable.

"Kulath etaven," she said softly to her mare, "Find

water."

Hellsbane raised her head and sniffed; then took

two or three paces to the right. Tarma placed one

hand on the mare's shoulder; Hellsbane snorted,

rubbed her nose briefly against Tarma's arm, then

proceeded forward with more confidence.

She headed for a tangle of vines—none of which

moved, or had bones beneath them—and high, rank

bushes, all of which showed the familiar summery

verdancy. As the pair forced their way in past the

tangle, breaking twigs and bruising leaves, Tarma

found herself breathing in an astringent, mossy scent

with a great deal of pleasure. The mare seemed to

enjoy the odor too, though she made no move to

nibble the leaves.

There was a tiny spring at the heart of the tan-

gle, and Tarma doubted she'd have been able to

locate it without the mare's help. It was hardly

more than a trickle, welling up from a cup of moss-

covered stone, and running a few feet, only to van-

ish again into the thirsty soil. The mare slurped up

the entire contents of the cup in a few swallows,

and had to wait for it to fill again several times

before she'd satisfied her thirst.

It was while she was awaiting Hellsbane's satia-

tion that Tarma noticed the decided scarcity of

insects within this patch of growth. Flies and the

like had plagued them since they entered the

Pelagirs; as a horsewoman, Tarma generally took

them for granted.

There were no flies in here. Nor any other in-

sects. Curious . ..

When the mare was finished, Tarma guided her

out backward, there being no room to turn her

around; it seemed almost as if the bushes and vines

were willing to let them inflict a limited amount of

damage in order to reach the water, but resisted

any more than that. And as soon as they were clear

of the scent of the crushed vegetation, the flies

descended on Hellsbane again.

An idea occurred to her; she backtracked to the

bushes, and got a handful of the trampled leaves

and rubbed them on the back of her hand. She

waited for some sort of reaction; rash, burning,

itching—nothing happened. Satisfied that the vege-

tation at least wasn't harmful, she rubbed it into

the mare's shaggy hide. It turned her a rather odd

shade of gray-green, but the flies wouldn't even

land on her.

Very pleased with herself, Tarma watered Iron-

heart and repeated the process on her. By the time

she'd finished, the sun was well up, and she was

having a hard time keeping her eyes open. She was

going to have to get some rest, at least.

But that was another advantage of having battle-

steeds.

She loosed Hellsbane and took her to the en-

trance of the circle. "Guard," she said, shortly. The

mare immediately went into sentry-mode—and it

would take a determined attacker indeed to get

past those iron-shod hooves and wicked teeth. Now

all she needed to keep alert for was attack from

above.

She propped herself up with their packs and

saddles, and allowed herself to fall into a half-doze.

It wasn't as restful as real sleep, but it would do.

When hunger finally made further rest impossi-

ble, it was getting on to sunset—and Kethry was

showing signs of breaking out of trance.

She'd carefully briefed Tarma on what she'd need

to do; Tarma shook herself into full alertness, and

rummaged in Kethry's pack for high-energy rations.

Taking those and her waterskin, she sat on her

heels just outside of the inscribed circle, and waited.

She didn't have to wait long; Kethry's eyes opened

almost immediately, and she sagged forward with

exhaustion, scarcely able to make the little dismiss-

ing motion that broke the magic shield about her.

Tarma was across the circle the instant she'd done

so, and supported her with one arm while she drank.

Kethry looked totally exhausted; mentally as well

as physically. She was pale as new milk, and scarcely

had the energy to drink, much less speak. Tarma

helped her to her feet, then half-carried her to the

tiny campsite and her bedroll.

Kethry had no more than touched her head to her

blankets than she was asleep. She slept for several

hours, well past moonrise, then awoke again with

the first appearance of the lights and noises that

had so disturbed Tarma the night before.

"They seem to be harmless," Tarma began.

"They are. That's not what woke me," Kethry

croaked from a raw throat. "It's coming—what I

called—"

"What did you call, anyway?"

After a swallow or two of water, Kethry was

better able to speak. "A kyree—they're a little like

wolves, only bigger; they also have some of the

physical characteristics of the big grass-cats, re-

tractile claws, that sort of thing. They're also like

Gervase's folk; they're human-smart and have some

gift for magic. They'd probably do quite well for

themselves if they had hands instead of paws—well,

that's one reason why some of them are willing to

become mage-familiars. Another is gender. Or lack

of."

"Get'ke?"

"Kyree throw three kinds of cubs—male, female,

and neuter. The neuters really don't have much to

do in pack-life, so they're more inclined to wander

off and see the world."

Kethry broke off, staring over Tarma's shoulder.

Tarma turned.

In the opening of the tree-circle where the road

turned into the paved "court" was—something. It

looked lupine—it had a wolf-type head, anyway.

But it was so damn big!

Kethry pulled herself to her feet and half-stumbled

to the entrance. "If you come in the Name of the

Powers of Light, enter freely," she croaked, "If not,

be you gone."

The thing bowed its head gravely, and padded

into the circle. There it stood, looking first at Kethry,

then at Tarma; deliberately, measuringly.

I bond to you, said a deep voice in the back of

Tarma's head.

Once again she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Li'sa'eer!" she choked, backing a few paces away

from the thing. "What?"

I bond to you, warrior. We are alike, we two; both

warriors for the Light, both—celibate— The voice in

her head had a feeling of amusement about the

choice of the last word. It is fit we be soul-bonded.

Besides, Lady of Power—he turned to look at Kethry,

—you do not need me. You have the spirit-sword. But

you—he turned his huge eyes back to Tarma,—YOU

need me.

"She'enedra," Tarma said tightly, keeping a firm

grip on her nerves, "What in hell am I supposed to

do? He says he wants me!"

"Oh, my Lady Bright—what a bloody mess! It

could only happen to me! Give in," Kethry stag-

gered to her bedroll and half-collapsed into it, laugh-

ing weakly. "A day and a night of spell-casting, and

what happens? My familiar decides he'd rather

bond to my partner! Lady Bright—if it weren't so

damned funny I think I'd kill you both!"

"But what am I supposed to do?"

You could try talking to me.

Tarma gulped, and approached the beast cau-

tiously. It sat at its ease, tongue lolling out in a kind

of grin. She could sense his amusement at her ap-

prehension in the back of her mind. Curiously, that

seemed to make her fear vanish.

"Well," she said at last, after several long mo-

ments of trying to think of something appropriate.

"I'm Tarma."

And I—am Warrl. The creature lay down on the

pavement, and cocked its head to one side. Its—no,

his; it might have been a "neuter" but there was a

distinctly masculine feeling to him—his eyes caught

the moonlight and reflected greenishly.

"I'm not quite sure what I should do about you,"

she confessed. "I mean I'm no mage—what's the

next move?"

You might start by offering me something to eat,

Warrl said, I've come a long way, and I'm hungry. Do

I smell meat-bars? There was something in his men-

tal sending that was so like a child begging for a

sweet that Tarma had to laugh.

"You do, my friend," she replied, rising to get

one for him. "And if you like them as much as I

dislike them, I have the feeling we're going to suit

each other very well indeed!"

Six

They were fortunate; almost as soon as they

emerged from the Pelagirs, they were able to

find a short-term job as escorts. A scrawny, middle-

aged man sought them at their inn within hours of

when they had posted themselves at the Mercenar-

ies' Guild and paid their fees.

"You'll be providing protection for my new bride,"

their employer, an hereditary knight who didn't

look capable of lifting his ancestral blade, much

less using it, told Tarma. "I will be remaining here

for a month or more to consolidate my interests

with Darthela's father, but I wish her to make the

journey to Fromish now, before winter weather sets

in."

"Are we to be the only guards?" Tarma asked, a

little doubtfully. She shifted on the wooden bench

uncomfortably, and wished Kethry was here in-

stead of visiting the tiny White Winds enclave she'd

ferreted out. She could have used the sorceress'

quick wits right now.

"I'm afraid so," he replied with a sheepish smile.

"To be brutally frank, Swordlady, my house is in

rather impoverished condition at the moment. I

couldn't afford to take any of my servants away

from the harvesting to serve as guards for her, and

I can't afford to hire more than the two of you. And

before you ask, my bride's retinue is confined to

one handmaiden. Her dower is to be in things less

tangible, but ultimately more profitable, than im-

mediate cash."

Tarma decided that she liked him. The smile had

been genuine, and his frankness with a pair of

hirelings rather touching.

Of course, she thought wryly, that could just be to

convince us that the fair Darthela won't have much

with her worth stealing.

"I'll tell you what we can do to narrow the odds

against us a bit," Tarma offered. "I can arrange to

set out a little later than you asked us, so that we're

about half a day behind that spice-trader. Anybody

looking for booty is likely to go for him and miss

us."

"But what about wild beasts?" he asked, looking

concerned. "Won't they have been attracted to the

campsites by the trader's leavings?"

Tarma's estimation of him rose a notch. She had

been picturing him as so likely to have his nose in a

book all the time that he had little notion of the

realities of the road.

"Wild beasts are the one problem we won't have,"

she replied. "You're getting a bargain, you know—

you aren't actually getting two guards, you're get-

ting three."

At her unspoken call, Warrl inched out from un-

der the bar where he'd been drowsing, stretched

lazily, and opened enormous jaws in a yawn big

enough to take in a whole melon. Sir Skolte re-

garded the kyree with astonishment and a little

alarm.

"Bright Lord of Hosts!" he exclaimed, inching

away a little. "What is that?"

"My partner calls him a kyree, and his name is

Warrl."

"A Pelagir Hills kyree? No wonder you aren't

worried about beasts!" The knight rubbed a hand

across his balding pate, and looked relieved. "I am

favored by your acquaintance, Sirrah Warrl. And

grateful for your services."

Warrl nodded graciously and returned to his rest-

ing place beneath the bar. This close to the Hills,

the innmaster and his help were fairly familiar

with the kyree kind—and when Warrl had helped to

break up a bar-fight within moments of the trio's

arrival, he had earned their gratitude and a place of

honor. And no few spiced sausages while he rested

there.

Tarma was pleased with the knight's ready ac-

ceptance of her companion, and finalized the trans-

action with him then and there. By the time Kethry

returned, she had already taken care of supplies for

the next day.

They appeared at the house of the bride's father

precisely at noon the next day, ready to go. Sir

Skolte met them at the gate—which was something

of a surprise to Kethry.

"I—rather expected you would send a servant to

wait for us," Kethry told him, covering her confu-

sion quickly, but not so quickly that Tarma didn't

spot it.

"Darthela has been insisting that I 'properly in-

troduce' you," he replied, a rather wry smile on his

thin lips. "That isn't the sort of thing one leaves to

a servant. I confess that she has been most eager to

meet you."

Tarma caught her partner's quizzical glance and

shrugged.

The odd comment was explained when they fi-

nally met the fair young bride; she entered the

room all flutters and coquettishness, which affecta-

tions she dropped as soon as she saw that her es-

corts were female. She made no effort to hide her

disappointment, and left "to pack" within moments.

"Now I see why you hired us instead of that pair

of Barengians," Tarma couldn't help but say, sti-

fling laughter.

Sir Skolte shrugged eloquently. "I won't deny I'm

a bit of a disappointment for her," he replied cyni-

cally. "But beggars can't be choosers. She's the sixth

in a set of seven daughters, and her father was so

pleased at being able to make trade bargains with

me in lieu of dower that he almost threw her at me.

Fortunately, my servants are all uglier than I am."

The look in his eye told Tarma that Darthela was

going to have to be a great deal cleverer than she

appeared to be if she intended to cuckold this fellow.

But then again . ..

"Tell me, are folk around here acquainted with

the tale of 'Bloody Carthar's Fourteen Wives?' Or

'Meralis and the Werebeast?' "

He shook his head. "I would say I know most of

the tales we hear in these parts by heart, and those

don't sound familiar."

"Then we'll see if we can't incline Darthela's

mind a bit more in an appropriate direction," Kethry

said, taking her cue from the two stories Tarma

had mentioned. "We'll be a week in traveling, and

stories around the campfire are always welcome,

no?"

"What—oh, I see!" Sir Skolte began to laugh heart-

ily. "Now, more than ever, I am very glad to have

met you! Ladies, if you are ever looking for work

again, I shall give you the highest recommendations—

especially to aging men with pretty young wives!"

That took them from Lythecare to Fromish, on

the eastbound roads. In Fromish they ran into old

friends—Ikan and Justin.

"Hey-la! Look who we have here!" Tarma would

have known that voice in a mob; in the half-empty

tavern it was as welcome as a word from the tents.

She leapt up from her seat to catch Justin's fore-

arm in a welcoming clasp. And not more than a

pace behind him came Ikan.

They got themselves sorted out, and the two new-

comers gave their orders to the serving boy before

settling at Tarma's table.

"Well, what brings you ladies to these benighted

parts?" Ikan asked, shaking hair out of his guileless

eyes. "Last we saw, you were headed south."

"Looking for work," Tarma replied shortly. "We

did get home but ... well, we decided, what with

one thing and another, to go professional. Even got

our Guild tags." She pulled the thong holding the

little copper medal out of her tunic to display it for

them.

"I thought you two didn't work in winter," Kethry

said in puzzlement.

"It isn't winter yet, at least not according to our

employers. Last caravan of the season. Say—we

might be able to do each other a favor, though."

Justin eyed the two women with speculation. "You

say you're Guild members now? Lord and Lady,

the Luck is with us, for certain!"

"Why?"

"We've got two guards down with flux—and it

does not look good. We want out of here before the

snows close in, but we daren't go shorthanded and

I don't trust the scum that's been turning up, hop-

ing to get hired on in their places. But you two—"

"Three," Tarma corrected, as Warrl shambled

out of the kitchen where he'd been enjoying meat

scraps and the antics of the innkeeper's two children.

"Hey-la! A kyree!" Ikan exclaimed in delight.

"Even better!"

"Shieldbrother," Justin lounged back in his chair

with an air of complete satisfaction, "I will never

doubt your conjuring of the Luck again. And to-

night the drink's on me!"

The nervous jewel merchants were only too

pleased to find replacements that could be vouched

for by their most trusted guard-chiefs. They were

even happier when they learned that one of the two

was Shin'a'in and the other a mage. Kethry more

than earned her pay on that trip, preventing a thief-

mage from substituting bespelled glass for the ru-

bies and sapphires they had just traded for.

They left the merchants before they returned to

Mornedealth, Kethry not particularly wanting to

revisit quite yet. Ikan and Justin did their best to

persuade them otherwise, but to no avail.

"You could stay at the Broken Sword. Tarma

could keep drilling us like she did last year," Justin

coaxed. "And Cat would dearly love to see you.

She's set herself up as a weapons merchant."

"No ... I want things to cool down a little more,"

Kethry said. "And frankly, we need to earn our-

selves a reputation and a pretty good stake, and we

won't do that sitting around in Mornedealth all

winter."

"You," Ikan put in, a speculative gleam in his

eyes, "have got more in mind than earning the kind

of cozy docket we have. Am I right, or no?"

"You're right," Tarma admitted.

"So? What've you got in mind?"

"Schools—or rather a school, with both of us teach-

ing what we're best at."

"You'll need more than a good stake and a rep—

you'll need property. Some kind of big building,

stables, maybe a real indoor training area—and a

good library, warded research areas, and neighbors

who aren't too fussy about what you conjure."

"Gods, I hadn't thought that far, but you're right,"

Tarma said with chagrin. "Sounds as if what we

want is on the order of a manor house."

"Which means you'd better start thinking in terms

of working for a noble with property to grant once

you get that rep. A crowned head would be best."

Justin looked at both of them soberly. "That's not

as unlikely as you might think; a combination like

you two is rare even among men; sword and magic

in concert are worth any ten straight swordsmen,

however good. Add to it that you're female—think

about it. Say you've got a monarch needing body-

guards; who'd check out his doxy and her servant ?

There's a lot of ways you could parlay yourself into

becoming landed, and Keth's already ennobled."

"But for now . .." Kethry said.

"For now you've got to earn that rep. Just bear in

mind that what you're going after is far from

impossible."

"Can we—ask you for advice now and again?"

Kethry asked. "Justin, you sound to me as if you've

figured some of this out for yourselves."

"He did," his partner grinned. "Or rather, we

did. But we decided that it was too big a field for

the two of us to hope to plow. So we settled for

making ourselves indispensable to the Jewel Mer-

chant's Guild. Fact is, we've also been keeping our

eyes out for somebody like you two. We aren't going

to be young forever, and we figured on talking some-

body into taking us on at their new school as in-

structors before we got so old our bones creaked

every time we lunged." He winked at Kethry.

Tarma stared. "You really think we have a chance

of pulling this off?"

"More than a chance, nomad—I'd lay money on

it. I'm sure enough that I haven't even tried luring

your lovely little partner into my bed—I don't make

love to prospective employers."

"Well!" Tarma was plainly startled. "I will be

damned ..."

"I hope not," Justin chuckled, "or I'll have to

find another set of prospects!"

They got a commission with another caravan to

act as guards—courtesy of their friends. On their

way they detoured briefly when Need called them

to rid a town of a monster, a singularly fruitless

effort, for the monster was slain by a would-be

"hero" the very day they arrived.

After that they skirmished with banditti and a

half-trained magician's ex-apprentice who thought

robbing caravans was an easier task than memoriz-

ing spells. Kethry "slapped his hands," as she put

it, and left him with a geas to build walls for the

temple of Sun-Lord Resoden until he should learn

better.

When the caravan was safely gotten home, they

found an elderly mage of the Blue Mountains school

who wanted some physical protection as he returned

to his patron, and was delighted with the bonus of

having a sorceress of a different discipline to con-

verse with.

During these journeys Tarma and Warrl were

learning to integrate themselves as a fighting team;

somewhat to Tarma's amazement, her other-worldly

teachers were inclined to include him whenever he

chose. After her initial shock—and, to some extent,

dismay—she had discovered that they did have a

great deal in common, especially in attitudes. He

was, perhaps, a bit more cynical than she was, but

he was also older. He never would admit exactly

how old he was; when Tarma persisted, he seized

one of her hands in his powerful jaws and mind-

sent, My years are enough, mindmate, to suffice. She

never asked again.

But now they had fallen on dry times; they had

wound up on the estate of Viscount Hathkel, with

no one needing their particular talents and no cit-

ies nearby. The money they had earned must now

be at least partially spent in provisioning them to

someplace where they were likelier to find work.

That was the plan, anyway—until Need woke

from her apparent slumbers with a vengeance.

Tarma goaded her gray Shin'a'in warsteed into

another burst of speed, urging her on with hand

and voice (though not spur—never spur; that would

have been an insult the battlesteed would not toler-

ate) as if she were pursued by the Jackels of Dark-

ness. It had been more than long enough since she

had first become Kal'enedral for her hair to have

regrown—now her long, ebony braids streamed be-

hind her; close enough to catch one of them rode

Kethry. Kethry's own mare was a scant half a length

after her herd-sister.

Need had left Kethry almost completely alone

save for that one prod almost from the time they'd

left the Liha'irden camp. Both of them had nearly

forgotten just what bearing her could mean. They

had been reminded this morning, when Need had

woken Kethry almost before the sun rose, and had

been driving the sorceress (and so her blood-oath

sister as well) in this direction all day. At first it

had been a simple pull, as she had often felt before.

Tarma had teased, and Kethry had grumbled; then

they had packed up their camp and headed for the

source. Kethry had even had time enough to sum-

mon a creature of the Ethereal Plane to scout and

serve as a set of clairvoyant "eyes" for them. But

the call had grown more urgent as the hours passed,

not less so—increasing to the point where by mid-

afternoon it was actually causing Kethry severe

mental pain, pain that even Tarma was subject to,

through the oath-bond. That was when they got

Warrl up onto the special carry-pad they'd rigged

for him behind Tarma's saddle, and prepared to

make some speed. They urged their horses first

into a fast walk, then a trot, then as sunset neared,

into a full gallop. By then Kethry was near-blind

with mental anguish, and no longer capable of even

directing their Ethereal ally, much less questioning

it.

Need would not be denied in this; Moonsong

k'Vala, the Hawkbrother Adept they had met, had

told them nothing less than the truth. Kethry was

soul-bonded to the sword, just as surely as Tarma

was bonded to her Goddess or Warrl to Tarma.

Kethry was recalling now with some misgiving that

Moonsong had also said that she had not yet found

the limit to which it would bind itself to her—and

if this experience was any indication of the future,

she wasn't sure she wanted to.

All that was of any importance at the moment

was that there was a woman within Need's sensing

range in grave peril—peril of her life, by the way

the blade was driving Kethry. And they had no

choice but to answer the call.

Tarma continued to urge Hellsbane on; they were

coming to a cultivated area, and surely their goal

couldn't be far. Ahead of them on the road they

were following loomed a walled village; part and

parcel of a manor-keep, a common arrangement in

these parts. The gates were open; the fields around

empty of workers. That was odd—very odd. It was

high summer, and there should have been folk out

in the fields, weeding and tending the irrigation

ditches. There was no immediate sign of trouble,

but as they neared the gates, it was plain just who

the woman they sought was—

Bound to a scaffold high enough to be visible

through the open gates, they could see a young,

dark-haired woman dressed in white, almost like a

sacrificial victim. The last rays of the setting sun

touched her with color—touched also the heaped

wood beneath the platform on which she stood,

making it seem as if her pyre already blazed up.

Lining the mud-plastered walls of the keep and

crowding the square inside the gate were scores of

folk of every class and station, all silent, all waiting.

Tarma really didn't give a fat damn about what

they were waiting for, though it was a good bet that

they were there for the show of the burning. She

coaxed a final burst of speed out of her tired mount,

sending her shooting ahead of Kethry's as they

passed the gates, and bringing her close in to the

platform. Once there, she swung Hellsbane around

in a tight circle and drew her sword, placing her-

self between the woman on the scaffold and the

men with the torches to set it alight.

She knew she was an imposing sight, even cov-

ered with sweat and the dust of the road; hawk-

faced, intimidating, ice-blue eyes glaring. Her

clothing alone should tell them she was nothing to

fool with—it was obviously that of a fighting mer-

cenary; plain brown leathers and brigandine armor.

Her sword reflected the dying sunlight so that she

might have been holding a living flame in her hand.

She said nothing; her pose said it all for her.

Nevertheless, one of the men started forward,

torch in hand.

"I wouldn't," Kethry was framed in the arch of

the gate, silhouetted against the fiery sky; her mount

rock-still, her hands glowing with sorcerous energy.

"If Tarma doesn't get you, I will."

"Peace," a tired, gray-haired man in plain, dusty-

black robes stepped forward from the crowd, hold-

ing his arms out placatingly, and motioned the

torch-bearer to give way. "Istan, 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 cap-

tive 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, catch-

ing 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 ap-

peared to be a sigh of relief rather than a gasp of

arousal. 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 over-

whelming. 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, she'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 sun-

down—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 challeng-

ers, 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."

"What?"

"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 Warrl." 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 depend-

ing 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 dumb-

founded 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 midteens. 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. And now that they

were doing something about the lady's plight, Need

was quiescent; leaving Kethry able to think and

work again.

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 be-

tween 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 compan-

ion, 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. After all, he kept no great

number of men-at-arms; he warred with no one. He

felt that 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 win-

dows 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, bend-

ing 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 ex-

pression 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 somewhat awkwardly 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 any-

thing 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.

"You can detect what I'd need a spell for. See if

the bar was bespelled into place 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 like-human 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 gave the exclama-

tion something of a prayerful cast. She started to

rise herself, then stared 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 mar-

riage 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 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 an-

swer 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. He is swearing by every

god that if you have been harmed he will not leave

stone on stone here."

Myria gave a tiny cry and buried her face in her

hands; Katran moved to comfort her as her shoul-

ders 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. While it gave Kethry an

expertise in swordwork a master would envy, it

would do nothing to augment her 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

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 prepara-

tions 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 span-

gled 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 inter-

est 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 be-

cause 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 heart-

beat 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 Cor-

bie's; plain stone walls, three entrances, no win-

dows. 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 en-

trances there. She knew the blank wall held noth-

ing either; the other side was the courtyard of the

manor. Furnishings; one table, one chair, one or-

nate 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

dawn. 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 ac-

cept 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 resi-

due 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 magi-

cal 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 protec-

tion 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 hesi-

tate 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, iden-

tical 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 pe-

rusing 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 de-

cided 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 ex-

amining 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 magick-

ing 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 watch-

ing every move he made—that she was able to dis-

arm 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 "as-

sassin" 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 ta-

bles 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.

She decided to make a grandstand move out of

this. She stalked to the challenger's pavilion, where

more of her would-be opponents had gathered, and

cast the hand down at their feet.

"Assassin's tricks, 'noble lords'?" she spat, ooz-

ing contempt. "Is this the honor of Felwether? I'd

rather fight jackals. At least they're honest in their

treachery! Have you no trust in the judgment of

the gods—and their champion?"

That should put a little doubt in the minds of the

honest ones—and a little fear in the hearts of the

ones that weren't.

Tarma stalked stiff-legged back to her own pavil-

ion, where she threw herself down on the little cot

inside it, and hoped she'd get her wind back before

they got their courage up.

In the very back of one of the drawers Kethry

found a very curious contrivance. It was a coil of

hempen twine, two cords, really, at the end of which

was tied a barbless, heavy fishhook, the kind sea-

fishers used to take shark and the great sea-salmon.

But the coast was weeks from here. What on earth

could the seneschal have possibly wanted with such

a curious souvenir?

Just then Warrl barked sharply; Kethry turned

to see his tail sticking out from under the bedstead.

There's a hidden compartment under the boards here,

he said eagerly in her mind. I smell gold, and magic—

and fresh blood.

She tried to move the bed aside, but it was far too

heavy, something the seneschal probably counted

on. So she squeezed in beside Warrl, who pawed at

the place on the board floor where he smelled

strangeness.

Sneezing several times from the dust beneath the

bed, she felt along the boards—carefully, carefully;

it could be booby-trapped. She found the catch, and

a whole section of the board floor lifted away. And

inside ...

Gold, yes; packed carefully into the bottom of

it—but on top, a wadded-up tunic, and an empty

bottle.

She left the gold, but brought out the other things.

The tunic was bloodstained; the bottle, by the smell,

had held the narcotic potion she was seeking.

"Hey-la," she whispered in satisfaction.

Now if she just had some notion how he could

have gotten into a locked room without the proper

key. There was no hint or residue of any kind of

magic. And no key to the door with the bar across

it.

How could you get into a locked room?

Go before the door is locked, Warrl said in her

mind.

And suddenly she realized what the fishhook was

for.

Kethry wriggled out from under the bed, replac-

ing tunic and bottle and leaving the gold in the

hidden compartment untouched.

"Katran!" she called. A moment later Myria's

companion appeared; quite nonplussed to see the

sorceress covered with dust beside the seneschal's

bed.

"Get the priest," Kethry told her, before she had

a chance to ask any question. "I know who the

murderer is—and I know how he did it, and why."

Tarma was facing her first real opponent of the

day; a lean, saturnine fellow who used twin swords

like extensions of himself. He was just as fast on

his feet as she was—and he was fresher. The priest

had vanished just before the beginning of this bout,

and Tarma was fervently hoping this meant Kethry

had found something. Otherwise, this fight bid fair

to be her last.

Thank the Goddess this one was an honest war-

rior; if she went down, it would be to an honorable

opponent. Not too bad, really, if it came to it. Not

even many Sword Sworn could boast to having de-

feated twelve opponents in a single morning.

Even if some of them had been mere babes.

She had a stitch in her side that she was doing

her best to ignore, and her breath was coming in

harsh pants. The sun was punishing hard on some-

one wearing head-to-toe black; sweat was trickling

down her back and sides. She danced aside, avoid-

ing a blur of sword, only to find she was moving

right into the path of his second blade.

Damn!

At the last second she managed to drop and roll,

and came up to find him practically on top of her

again. She managed to get to one knee and trap his

first blade between dagger and sword—but the sec-

ond was coming in—

From the side of the field, came a voice like a

trumpet call.

"Hold!"

And miracle of miracles, the blade stopped mere

inches from her unprotected neck.

The priest strode onto the field, robes flapping.

"The sorceress has found the true murderer of our

lord and proved it to my satisfaction," he announced

to the waiting crowd. "She wishes to prove it to

yours."

Then he began naming off interested parties as

Tarma sagged to her knees in the dirt, limp with

relief, and just about ready to pass out with ex-

haustion. Her opponent dropped both his blades in

the dust at her side, and ran off to his side of the

field, returning in a moment with a cup of water.

And before handing it to her, he smiled sardoni-

cally, saluted her with it and took a tiny sip himself.

She shook sweat-sodden hair out of her eyes, and

accepted the cup with a nod of thanks. She downed

the lukewarm water, and sagged back onto her heels

with a sigh.

"Sword Sworn, shall I find someone to take you

to your pavilion?"

The priest was bending over her in concern.

Tarma managed to find one tiny bit of unexpended

energy.

"Not on your life, priest. I want to see this

myself!"

There were perhaps a dozen nobles in the group

that the priest escorted to the lord's chamber. Fore-

most among them was the seneschal; the priest

most attentive on him. Tarma was too tired to won-

der about that; she saved what little energy she

had to get her into the room and safely leaning up

against the wall within.

"I trust you all will forgive me if I am a bit

dramatic, but I wanted you all to see exactly how

this deed was done."

Kethry was standing behind the chair that was

placed next to the desk; in that chair was an older

woman in buff and gray. "Katran has kindly agreed

to play the part of Lord Corbie; I am the murderer.

The lord has just come into this chamber; in the

next is his lady. She has taken a potion to relieve

pain, and the accustomed sound of his footstep is

not likely to awaken her."

She held up a wineglass. "Some of that same

potion was mixed in with the wine that was in this

glass, but it did not come from the batch Lady

Myria was using. Here is Myria's bottle," she placed

the wineglass on the desk, and Myria brought a

bottle to stand beside it. "Here," she produced a

second bottle, "is the bottle I found. The priest

knows where, and can vouch for the fact that until

he came, no hand but the owner's and mine touched

it."

The priest nodded. Tarma noticed with a preter-

natural sensitivity that made it seem as if her every

nerve was on the alert that the seneschal was be-

ginning to sweat.

"The spell I am going to cast now—as your priest

can vouch, since he is no mean student of magic

himself—will cause the wineglass and the bottle

that contained the potion that was poured into it

glow."

Kethry dusted something over the glass and the

two bottles. As they watched, the residue in the

glass and the fraction of potion in Kethry's bottle

began to glow with an odd, greenish light.

"Is this a true casting, priest?" Tarma heard one

of the nobles ask in an undertone.

He nodded. "As true as ever I've seen."

"Huh," the man replied, frowning with thoughts

he kept to himself.

"Now—Lord Corbie has just come in; he is work-

ing on the ledgers. I give him a glass of wine,"

Kethry handed the glass to Katran. "He is grate-

ful; he thinks nothing of the courtesy, I am an old

and trusted friend. He drinks it, I leave the room,

presently he is asleep."

Katran allowed her head to sag down on her

arms.

"I take the key from beneath his hand, and qu-

ietly lock the door to the hall. I replace the key. I

know he will not stir, not even cry out, because of

the strength of the potion. I take Lady Myria's

dagger, which I obtained earlier. I stab him." Kethry

mimed the murder; Katran did not move, though

Tarma could see she was smiling sardonically. "I

take the dagger and plant it beneath Lady Myria's

bed—and I know that because of the potion she has

been taking—and which I recommended, since we

have no Healer—she will not wake either."

Kethry went into Myria's chamber, and returned

empty-handed.

"I've been careless—got some blood on my tunic,

I've never killed a man before and I didn't know

that the wound would spurt. No matter, I will hide

it where I plan to hide the bottle. By the way, the

priest has that bloody tunic, and he knows that his

hands alone removed it from its hiding place, just

like the bottle. Now comes the important part—"

She took an enormous fishhook on a double length

of twine out of her beltpouch.

"The priest knows where I found this—rest as-

sured that it was not in Myria's possession. Now,

on the top of this door, caught on a rough place in

the wood, is another scrap of hemp. I am going to

get it now. Then I shall cast another spell—and if

that bit of hemp came from this twine, it shall

return to the place it came from."

She went to the door and jerked loose a bit of

fiber, taking it back to the desk. Once again she

dusted something over the twine on the hook and

the scrap, this time she also chanted as well. A

golden glow drifted down from her hands to touch

first the twine, then the scrap.

And the bit of fiber shot across to the twine like

an arrow loosed from a bow.

"Now you will see the key to entering a locked

room, now that I have proved that this was the

mechanism by which the trick was accomplished."

She went over to the door to the seneschal's cham-

ber. She wedged the hook under the bar on the

door, and lowered the bar so that it was only held

in place by the hook; the hook was kept where it

was by the length of twine going over the door

itself. The other length of twine Kethry threaded

under the door. Then she closed the door.

The second piece of twine jerked; the hook came

free, and the bar thudded into place. And the whole

contrivance was pulled up over the door and through

the upper crack by the first piece.

All eyes turned toward the seneschal--whose

white face was confession enough.

* * *

"Lady Myria was certainly grateful enough."

"If we'd let her, she'd have stripped the treasury

bare," Kethry replied, waving at the distant figures

on the keep wall. "I'm glad you talked her out of

it."

"Greeneyes, they don't have it to spare, and we

both know it. As it is, she'll have to spend most of

the seneschal's hoard in making up for the short-

falls among the hirelings that his skimmings caused

in the first place."

"Will she be all right, do you think?"

"Now that her brother's here I don't think she

has a thing to worry about. She's gotten back all the

loyalty of her lord's people and more besides. All

she needed was a strong right arm to beat off un-

welcome suitors, and she's got that now! Warrior's

Oath, I'm glad that young monster wasn't one of the

challengers. I'd never have lasted past the first

round!"

"Tarma—"

The swordswoman raised an eyebrow at Kethry's

unwontedly serious tone.

"If you—did all that because you think you owe

me—"

"I 'did all that' because we're she'enedran," she

replied, a slight smile wanning her otherwise for-

bidding expression. "No other reason is needed."

"But—"

"No 'buts,' Greeneyes." Tarma looked back at

the waving motes on the wall. "Hell, we've just

accomplished something we really needed to do.

This little job is going to give us a real boost on our

reputation. Besides, you know I'd do whatever I

needed to do to keep you safe."

Kethry did not reply to that last; not that she

wasn't dead certain that it was true. That was the

problem.

Tarma had been stepping between Kethry and

possible danger on a regular basis, often when such

intercession wasn't needed. At all other times, she

treated Kethry as a strict equal, but when danger

threatened—

She tried to keep the sorceress wrapped in a

protective cocoon spun of herself and her blades.

She probably doesn't even realize she's doing it—but

she's keeping me so safe, she's putting herself in more

risk than she needs to. She knows I can take care of

myself-—

Then the answer occurred to her.

Without me, there will never be a Tale'sedrin. She's

protecting, not just me, but her hopes for a new Clan!

But she's stifling me—and she's going to get herself

killed!

She glanced over at Tarma, at the distant, brood-

ing expression she wore.

I can't tell her. She might not believe me. Or worse,

she might believe, and choke when she needs to act. 1

wonder if Warrl has figured out what she's doing? I

hope so—

She glanced again at her partner.

—or she's going to end up killing all three of us. Or

driving me mad.

Seven

The sorcerer was young, thin, and sweating

nervously, despite the cold of the musty cellar

chamber that served as his living area and work-

room. His secondhand robe was clammy with chill

and soaked through with his own perspiration.

He had every reason to be nervous. This was the

first time he and his apprentice (who was now

huddled out of the way in the corner) had ever

attempted to bind an imp to his service. The sum-

moning of a spirit from the Abyssal Planes is no

small task, even if the spirit one hopes to summon

is of the very least and lowliest of the demonic

varietals. Demons and their ilk are always watch-

ing for a chance misstep—and some are more eager

to take advantage of a mistake than others.

The torches on the walls wavered and smoked,

their odor of hot pitch nearly overwhelming the

acrid tang of the incense he was burning. Mice

squeaked and scuttled along the rafters overhead.

Perhaps they were the cause of his distraction, for

he was distracted for a crucial moment. And one of

those that watched and waited seized the unhoped-

for opportunity when the sorcerer thrice chanted,

not the name "Talhkarsh"—the true-name of the

imp he meant to bind—but "Thalhkarsh."

Incandescent ruby smoke rose and filled the inte-

rior of the diagram the mage had so carefully chalked

upon the floor of his cluttered, dank, high-ceilinged

stone chamber. It completely hid whatever was form-

ing within the bespelled hexacle.

But there was something there; he could see shad-

ows moving within the veiling smoke. He waited, dry-

mouthed in anticipation, for the smoke to clear, so

that he could intone his second incantation, one that

would coerce the imp he'd summoned into the bottle

that waited within the exact center of the hexacle.

Then the smoke vanished as quickly as it had

been conjured—and the young mage nearly fainted,

as he looked up at what stood there. And looked

higher. And his sallow, bearded visage assumed the

same lack of color as his chalk when the occupant,

head just brushing the rafters, calmly stepped across

the spell-bound lines, bent slightly at the waist,

and seized him none-too-gently by the throat.

Thinking quickly, he summoned everything he

knew in the way of arcane protections, spending

magical energy with what in other circumstances

might have been reckless wastefulness. There was

a brief flare of light around him, and the demon

dropped him as a human would something that had

unexpectedly scorched his hand. The mage cringed

where he had fallen, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Oh, fool," the voice was like brazen gongs just

slightly out of tune with each other, and held no

trace of pity. "Look at me."

The mage opened one eye, well aware of the

duplicity of demons, yet unable to resist the com-

mand. His knowledge did him little good; his face

went slack-jawed with bemusement at the serpen-

tine beauty of the creature that stood over him. It

had shrunk to the size of a very tall human and

its—his—eyes glowed from within, a rich ruby

color reminiscent of wine catching sunlight. He was

—wonderful.

He was the very image of everything the mage

had ever dreamed of in a lover. The face was that

of a fallen angel, the nude body that of a god. The

ruby eyes promised and beckoned, and were filled

with an overwhelming and terribly masculine power.

The magician's shields did not include those meant

to ward off beglamoring. He threw every pitiful

protection he'd erected to the four winds in an

onslaught of delirious devotion.

The demon laughed, and took him into his arms.

When he was finished amusing himself, he tore

the whimpering creature that remained to shreds

.. . slowly.

It was only then, only after he'd destroyed the

mage past any hope of resurrection, and when he

was sated with the emanations of the mage's tor-

ment and death, that he paused to think—and, think-

ing, to regret his hasty action.

There had been opportunity there, opportunity

to be free forever of the Abyssal Planes, and more,

a potential for an unlimited supply of those de-

lights he'd just indulged in. If only he'd thought

before he'd acted!

But even as he was mentally cursing his own

impulsiveness, his attention was caught by a hint

of movement in the far corner.

He grew to his full size, and reached out lazily

with one bloodsmeared claw to pull the shivering,

wretched creature that cowered there into the torch-

light. It had soiled itself with fear, but by the torque

around its throat and the cabalistic signs on its

shabby robe, this pitiful thing must have been the

departed mage's apprentice.

Thalhkarsh chuckled, and the apprentice tried to

shrink into insignificance. All was not yet lost. In

fact, this terror-stricken youth was an even better

candidate for what he had in mind than his master

would have been.

Thalhkarsh bent his will upon the boy's mind; it

was easy to read. The defenses his master had

placed about him were few and weak, and fading

with the master's death. Satisfied by what he read

there, the demon assumed his most attractive as-

pect and spoke.

"Boy, would you live? More, would you prosper?"

The apprentice trembled and nodded slightly,

his eyes glazed with horror, a fear that was rapidly

being subsumed by the power the demon was

exerting on his mind.

"See you this?" the demon hefted the imp-bottle

that had been in the diagram with him. Plain, red-

dish glass before, it now glowed from within like

the demon's eyes. "Do you know what it is?"

"The—imp-bottle," the boy whispered, after two

attempts to get words out that failed. "The one

Leland meant to—to—"

"To confine me in—or rather, the imp he meant

to call. It is a worthless bottle no more; thanks to

having been within the magic confines of the dia-

gram when I was summoned instead of the imp, it

has become my focus. Did your master tell you

what a demonic focus is?"

"It—" the boy stared in petrified fascination at

the bottle in the demon's hand, "it lets you keep

yourself here of your own will. If you have enough

power."

The demon smiled. "But I want more than free-

dom, boy. I want more than power. I have greater

ambitions. And if you want to live, you'll help me

achieve them."

It was plain from the boy's eyes that he was more

than willing to do just about anything to ensure his

continued survival. "How—what do you want?"

Thalhkarsh laughed, and his eyes narrowed.

"Never mind, child. I have plans—and if you suc-

ceed in what I set out for you, you will have a life

privileged beyond anything you can now imagine.

You will become great—and I, I will become—greater

than your poor mind can dream. For now, child,

this is how you can serve me. . .."

"Here?" Tarma asked her mage-partner. "You're

sure?"

The sunset bathed her in a blood-red glow as

they approached the trade-gate of the city of Delton,

and a warm spring breeze stirred a lock of coarse

black hair that had escaped the confines of her

short braids; her hair had grown almost magically

the past few months, as if it had resented being

shorn. The last light dyed her brown leather tunic

and breeches a red that was nearly black.

Kethry's softly attractive face wore lines of strain,

and there was worry in her emerald eyes. "I'm

sure. It's here—and it's bad, whatever it is. This is

the worst Need's ever pulled on me that I can

remember. It's worse than that business with Lady

Myria, even." She pushed the hood of her traveling

robe back from an aching forehead and rubbed her

temples a little.

"Huh. Well, I hope that damn blade of yours

hasn't managed to get us knee-deep into more than

we can handle. Only one way to find out, though."

The swordswoman kneed her horse into the lead,

and the pair rode in through the gates after passing

the cursory inspection of a somewhat nervous

Gate Guard. He seemed oddly disinclined to climb

down from his gatehouse post, being content to

pass them through after a scant few moment's

scrutiny.

Tarma's ice-blue eyes scanned the area just in-

side the gate for signs of trouble, and found none.

Her brow puckered in puzzlement. "She'enedra, I

find it hard to believe you're wrong, but this is the

quietest town I've ever seen. I was expecting blood

and rapine in the streets."

"I'm not mistaken," Kethry replied in a low, tense

voice. "And there's something very wrong here—the

very quiet is wrong. It's too quiet. There's no one at

all on the streets—no beggars, no whores, no nothing."

Tarma looked about her with increased alertness.

Now that Keth had mentioned it, this looked like

an empty town. There were no loiterers to be seen

in the vicinity of the trade gate or the inns that

clustered about the square just inside it, and that

was very odd indeed. No beggars, no thieves, no

whores, no strollers, no street musicians—just the

few stablehands and inn servants that had to be

outside, leading in the beasts of fellow travelers,

lighting lanterns and torches. And those few betook

themselves back inside as quickly as was possible.

The square of the trade inns was ominously deserted.

"Warrior's Oath! This is blamed spooky! I don't

like the look of this, not one bit."

"Neither do I. Pick us an inn, she'enedra; pick

one fast. If the locals don't want to be out-of-doors

after sunset, they must have a reason, and I'd rather

not be out here either."

Tarma chose an inn with the sign of a black

sheep hanging above the door, and the words (for

the benefit of those that could read) "The Blacke

Ewe" painted on the wall beside the door. It looked

to be about the right sort for the state of their

purses, which were getting a bit on the lean side.

They'd been riding the Trade Road north to Valde-

mar, once again looking for work, when Kethry's

geas-forged blade Need had drawn them eastward

until they ended up here. The sword had left them

pretty much alone except for a twinge or two—and

the incident with the feckless priestess, that had

wound up being far more complicated than it had

needed to be thanks to the Imp of the Perverse and

Tarma's own big mouth. Tarma was beginning to

hope that it had settled down.

And then this afternoon, Kethry had nearly fainted

when it "called" with all of its old urgency. They'd

obeyed its summons, until it led them at last to

Delton.

Tarma saw to the stabling of their beasts; Kethry

to bargaining for a room. The innkeeper looked

askance at a mage wearing a sword, for those who

trafficked in magic seldom carried physical weap-

onry, but he was openly alarmed by the sight of

what trotted at Tarma's heels—a huge, black,

wolflike creature whose shoulders came nearly as

high as the swordswoman's waist.

Kethry saw the alarm in his eyes, realized that

he had never seen a kyree before, and decided to use

his fear as a factor in her bargaining. "My famil-

iar," she said nonchalantly, "and he knows when

I'm being cheated."

The price of their room took a mysterious plunge.

After installing their gear and settling Warrl in

their room, they returned to the taproom for sup-

per and information.

If the streets were deserted, the taproom was

crowded far past its intended capacity.

Tarma wrinkled her nose at the effluvia of cheap

perfume, unwashed bodies, stale food odors and

fish-oil lanterns. Kethry appeared not to notice.

Tarma's harsh, hawklike features could be made

into a veritable mask of intimidation when she chose

to scowl; she did so now. Her ice-cold stare got

them two stools and a tiny, round table to them-

selves. Her harsh voice summoned a harried ser-

vant as easily as Kethry could summon a creature

of magic. A hand to her knife-hilt and the ostenta-

tious shrugging of the sword slung on her back into

a more comfortable position got her speedy service,

cleaning her fingernails with her knife got them

decent portions and scrubbed plates.

Kethry's frown of worry softened a bit. "Life has

been ever so much easier since I teamed with you,

she'enedra," she chuckled quietly, moving the sides

of her robe out of the way so that she could sit

comfortably.

"No doubt," the swordswoman replied with a

lifted eyebrow and a quirk to one corner of her

mouth. "Sometimes I wonder how you managed

without me."

"Poorly." The green eyes winked with mischief.

Their food arrived, and they ate in silence, fur-

tively scanning the crowded room for a likely source

of information. When they'd nearly finished, Kethry

nodded slightly in the direction of a grizzled mer-

cenary sitting just underneath one of the smoking

lanterns. Tarma looked him over carefully; he looked

almost drunk enough to talk, but not drunk enough

to make trouble, and his companions had just de-

serted him, leaving seats open on the bench oppo-

site his. He wore a badge, so he was mastered, and

so was less likely to pick a fight. They picked up

their tankards and moved to take those vacant seats

beside him.

He nodded as they sat; warily at Tarma, appre-

ciatively at Kethry.

He wasn't much for idle chatter, though. "Eve-

ning," was all he said.

"It is that," Tarma replied, "Though 'tis a strange

enough evening and more than a bit early for folk to

be closing themselves indoors, especially with the

weather so pleasant."

"These are strange times," he countered, "And

strange things happen in the nights around here."

"Oh?" Kethry looked flatteringly interested.

"What sort of strange things? And can we take care

of your thirst?"

He warmed to the admiration—and the offer.

"Folk been going missing; whores, street trash,

such as won't be looked for by the watch," he told

them, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, while Tarma

signaled the serving wench. He took an enormous

bite of the spiced sausage that was the Blacke Ewe's

specialty; grease ran into his beard. He washed the

bite down by draining his tankard dry. "There's

rumors—" His eyes took on a certain wariness. He

cast an uneasy glance around the dim, hot and

odorous taproom.

"Rumors?" Tarma prompted, pouring his tan-

kard full again, and sliding a silver piece under it.

"Well, we little care for rumors, eh? What's rumor

to a fighter but ale-talk?"

"Plague take rumors!" he agreed, but his face

was strained. "What've magickers and demons got

to do with us, so long as they leave our masters in

peace?" He drained the vessel and pocketed the

coin. "So long as he leaves a few for me, this

Thalhkarsh can have his fill of whores!"

"Thalhkarsh? What might that be? Some great

lecher, that he has need of so many lightskirts?"

Tarma filled the tankard for the third time, and

kept her tone carefully casual.

"Sh!" the mercenary paled, and made a caution-

ary wave with his hand. " 'Tisn't wise to bandy

that name about lightly—them as does often aren't

to be seen again. That—one I mentioned—well, some

say he's a god, some a demon summoned by a mighty

powerful magicker. All I know is that he has a

temple on the Row—one that sprang up overnight,

seemingly, and one with statues an' such that could

make me blush, were I to go view 'em. The which I

won't. 'Tisn't safe to go near there—"

"So?" Tarma raised one eyebrow.

"They sent the city guard trooping in there after

the first trollops went missing. There were tales

spread of blood-worship, so the city council reck-

oned somebody'd better check. Nobody ever saw so

much as a scrap of bootleather of that guard-squad

ever again."

"So folk huddle behind their doors at night, and

hope that they'll be left in peace, hmm?" Kethry

mused aloud, taking her turn at replenishing his

drink. "But are they?"

"Rumor says not—not unless they take care to

stay in company at night. Odd thing though, 'cept

for the city guard, most of the ones taken by night

have been women. I'd watch meself, were I you

twain."

He drained his tankard yet again. This proved to

be one tankard too many, as he slowly slid off the

bench to lie beneath the table, a bemused smile on

his face.

They took the god-sent opportunity to escape to

their room.

"Well," Tarma said, once the door had been bolted,

"we know why, and now we know what. Bloody

Hell! I wish for once that that damned sword of

yours would steer us toward something that pays!"

Kethry worked a minor magic that sent the ver-

min sharing their accommodations skittering under

the door and out the open window. Warrl surveyed

her handiwork, sniffed the room over carefully,

then lay down at the foot of the double pallet with

a heavy sigh.

"That's not quite true—we don't really know what

we're dealing with. Is it a god, truly? If it is, I don't

stand much chance of making a dent in its hide. Is

it a demon, controlled by this magician, that has

been set up as a god so that its master can acquire

power by blood-magic? Or is it worse than either?"

"What could possible be worse?"

"A demon loose, uncontrolled—a demon with am-

bition," Kethry said, flopping down beside Warrl

and staring up at nothing, deep in thought.

Their lantern (more fish-oil) smoked and danced,

and made strange shadows on the wall and ceiling.

"Worst case would be just that: a demon that

knows exactly how to achieve godhood, and one

with nothing standing in the way of his intended

path. If it is a god—a real god—well, all gods have

their enemies; it's simply a matter of finding the

sworn enemy, locating a nest of his clerics, and

bringing them all together. And a demon under the

control of a mage can be sent back to the Abyssal

Planes by discovering the summoning spell and

breaking it. But an uncontrolled demon—the only

way to get rid of it that I know of is to find its

focus-object and break it. Even that may not work

if it has achieved enough power. With enough accu-

mulated power, or enough worshipers believing in

his godhood, even breaking his focus wouldn't send

him back to the Abyssal Planes. If that happens—

well, you first have to find a demon-killing weapon,

then you have to get close enough to strike a killing

blow. And you hope that he isn't strong enough to

have gone beyond needing a physical form. Or you

damage him enough to break the power he gets

from his followers' belief—but that's even harder

to do than finding a demon-killing blade."

"And, needless to say, demon-killing weapons are

few and far between."

"And it isn't terribly likely that you're going to

get past a demon's reach to get that killing blow in,

once he's taken his normal form."

Tarma pulled off her boots, and inspected the

soles with a melancholy air. "How likely is that—an

uncontrolled demon?"

"Not really likely," Kethry admitted. "I'm just

being careful—giving you worst-case first. It's a lot

more likely that he's under the control of a mage

that's using him to build a power base for himself.

That's the scenario I'd bet on. I've seen this trick

pulled more than once before I met you. It works

quite well, provided you can keep giving your con-

gregation what they want."

"So what's next?"

"Well, I'd suggest we wait until morning, and see

what I can find out among the mages while you see

if you can get any more mercenaries to talk."

"Somehow I was afraid you'd say that."

They met back at the inn at noon; Tarma was

empty-handed, but Kethry had met with a certain

amount of success. At least she had a name, an

address, and a price—a fat skin of strong wine

taken with her, with a promise of more to come.

The address was in the scummiest section of the

town, hard by the communal refuse heap. Both

women kept their hands on the hilts of their blades

while making their way down the rank and odorous

alleyway; there were flickers of movement at vari-

ous holes in the walls (you could hardly call them

"doors" or "windows") but they were left unmo-

lested. More than one of the piles of what seemed

to be rotting refuse that dotted the alley proved to

be a human, though it was difficult to tell for cer-

tain if they were living humans or corpses. Kethry

again seemed blithely unaware of the stench; Tarma

fought her stomach and tried to breathe as little as

possible, and that little through her mouth.

At length they came to a wall that boasted a

proper door; Kethry rapped on it. A mumbled voice

answered her; she whispered something Tarma

couldn't make out. Evidently it was the proper

response, as the door swung open long enough for

them to squeeze through, then shut hurriedly be-

hind them.

Tarma blinked in surprise at what lay beyond

the alleyside door. The fetid aroma of the air out-

side was gone. There was a faint ghost of wine, and

an even fainter ghost of incense. The walls were

covered with soft, colorful rugs; more rugs covered

the floor. On top of the rugs were huge, plush

cushions. The room was a rainbow of subtle reds

and oranges and yellows. Tarma was struck with a

sudden closing of the throat, and she blinked to

clear misting eyes. This place reminded her forci-

bly of a Shin'a'in tent.

Fortunately the woman who turned from locking

the door to greet them was not a Clanswoman, or

Tarma might have had difficulty in ridding her

eyes of that traitorous mist. She was draped head

to toe with a veritable marketplace-full of veils, so

that only her eyes showed. The voluminous cover-

ing, which rivaled the room for color and variety of

pattern, was not, however, enough to hide the fact

that she was wraith-thin. And above the veils, the

black eyes were gray-ringed, bloodshot, and haggard.

"You know my price?" came a thin whisper.

Kethry let the heavy wineskin slide to her feet,

and she nudged it over to the woman with one toe.

"Three more follow, one every two days, from the

master of the Blacke Ewe."

"What do you wish to know?"

"How comes this thing they call Thalhkarsh

here—and why?"

The woman laughed crazily; Tarma loosened one

of her knives in its hidden arm-sheath. What in the

name of the Warrior had Kethry gotten them into?

"For that I need not even scry! Oh, no, to my

sorrow, that is something I know only too well!"

The eyes leaked tears; Tarma averted her gaze,

embarrassed.

"A curse on my own pride, and another on my

curiosity! For now he knows my aura, knows it

well—and calls me—and only the wine can stop my

feet from taking me to him—" the thin voice whined

to a halt, and the eyes closed, as if in a sudden

spasm of pain.

For a long moment the woman stood, still as a

thing made of wood, and Tarma feared they'd get

nothing more out of her. Then the eyes opened

again, and fixed Kethry with a stillettolike glare.

"Hear then the tale of my folly—'tis short enough.

When Thalhkarsh raised his temple, all in a single

night, I thought to scry it and determine what sort

of creature was master of it. My soul-self was

trapped by him, like a cruel child traps a mouse,

and like cruel children, he and his priest tormented

it—for how long, I cannot say. Then they seemed to

forget me; let me go again, to crawl back to myself.

But they had not forgotten me. I soon learned that

each night he would call me back to his side. Each

night I drink until I can no longer hear the call, but

each night it takes more wine to close my ears. One

night it will not be enough, and I shall join his

other—brides."

The veils shook and trembled.

"This much only did I learn. Thalhkarsh is a

demon; summoned by mistake instead of an imp.

He bides here by virtue of his focus, the bottle that

was meant to contain the imp. He is powerful; his

priest is a mage as well, and has his own abilities

augmented by the demon's. No sane person would

bide in this town with them rising to prominence

here."

The woman turned back to the door in a flutter

of thin fabric and cracked it open again. One sticklike

arm and hand pointed the way out. "That is my

rede; take it if you are not fools."

Tarma was only too pleased to escape the cham-

ber, which seemed rather too confining of a sud-

den. Kethry paused, concern on her face, to reach a

tentative hand toward the veiled mystery. The

woman made a repudiating motion. "Do not pity

me!" she whispered harshly. "You cannot know! He

is terrible—but he is also glorious—so—glorious—"

Her eyes glazed for a moment, then focused again,

and she slammed the door shut behind them.

Kethry laced herself into the only dress she owned,

a sensuous thing of forest green silk, a scowl twist-

ing her forehead. "Why do I have to be the one

pawed at and drooled over?"

Tarma chuckled. "You were the one who decreed

against using any more magic than we had to," she

pointed out.

"Well, I don't want to chance that mage detect-

ing it and getting curious!"

"And you were the one who didn't want to chance

using illusion."

"What if something should break it?"

"Then don't complain if I can't take your place.

You happen to be the one of us that is lovely,

amber-haired, and toothsome, not I. And you are

the one with the manner-born. No merchant-lord or

minor noble is going to open his doors to a nomad

mercenary, and no decadent stripling is going to

whisper secrets into the ear of one with a face like

an ill-tempered hawk and a body like a sword-

blade. Now hurry up, or the market will be closed

and we'll have to wait until the morrow."

Kethry grumbled under her breath, but put more

speed into her preparations. They sallied forth into

the late afternoon, playing parts they had often

taken before, Kethry assuming the manners of the

rank she actually was entitled to, playing the minor

noblewoman on a journey to relatives with Tarma

as her bodyguard.

As was very often the case, the marketplace was

also the gathering-place for the offspring of what

passed for aristocracy in this borderland trade-town.

Within no great span of time Kethry had garnered

invitations to dine with half a dozen would-be gal-

lants. She chose the most dissipated of them, but

persuaded him to make a party of the occasion, and

invite his friends.

A bit miffed by the spoiling of his plans (which

had not included having any competition for Kethry's

assets), he agreed. As with the common folk, the

well-born had taken to closing themselves behind

sturdy doors at the setting of the sun, and with it

already low in the west, he hastened to send a

servant around to collect his chosen companions.

The young man's father was not at home, being

off on a trading expedition. This had figured very

largely in his plans, for he had purloined the key to

his father's plushly appointed gazebo for his enter-

tainment. The place was as well furnished as many

homes: full of soft divans and wide couches, and

boasting seven little alcoves off the main room, and

two further rooms for intimate entertainment be-

sides. Tarma's acting abilities were strained to the

uttermost by the evening's events; she was hard-

put to keep from laughing aloud at Kethry's perfor-

mance and the reactions of the young men to her.

To anyone who did not know her, Kethry embodied

the very epitome of light-minded, light-skirted, ca-

pricious demi-nobility. No one watching her would

have guessed she ever had a thought in her head

besides her own pleasuring.

To the extreme displeasure of those few female

companions that had been brought to the festivi-

ties, she monopolized all the male attention in the

room. It wasn't long before she had sorted out which

of them had actually been to one of the infamous

"Rites of Dark Desires" and which had only heard

rumors. Those who had not been bold enough to

attend discovered themselves subtly dismissed from

the inner circle, and soon repaired to the gardens

or semi-private alcoves to enjoy the attentions of

the females they had brought, but ignored. Kethry

lured the three favored swains into one of the pri-

vate rooms, motioning Tarma to remain on guard at

the door. She eventually emerged; hot-eyed, con-

temptuous, and disheveled. Snores echoed from the

room behind her.

"Let's get out of here before I lose my temper and

go back to wring their necks," she snarled, while

Tarma choked back a chuckle. "Puppies! They

should still be in diapers, every one of them! Not

anything resembling a real adult among them! I

swear to you—ah, never mind. I'd just like to see

them get some of the treatment they've earned.

Like a good spanking and a long stint in a hermitage—

preferably one in the middle of a desert, stocked

with nothing but hard bread, water, and boring

religious texts!"

No one followed them out into the night, which

was not overly surprising, given the fears of the

populace.

"I hope it was worth it," Tarma said, as casually

as she could.

"It was," Kethry replied, a little cooler. "They

were all very impressed with the whole ritual, and

remembered everything they saw in quite lurid de-

tail. It seems that it is the High Priest who is the

one truly in command; from the sound of it, my

guess was right about his plans. He conducts every

aspect of the ritual; he calls the 'god' up, and he

sends him back again. The god selects those of the

females brought to him that he wants, the male

followers get what's left, or share the few female

followers he has. It's a rather unpleasant combina-

tion of human sacrifice and orgy. The High Priest

must be the magician that summoned the demon in

the first place. He's almost certainly having the

demon transform himself, since the god is almost

unbearably attractive, and the females he selects go

to him willingly—at least at first. After his initial

attentions, they're no longer in any condition to

object to much of anything. Those three back there

were positively obscene. They gloated over all the

details of what Thalhkarsh does to his 'brides,' all

the while doing their best to get me out of my

clothing so they could demonstrate the 'rites.' It

was all I could do to keep from throwing up on

them."

"You sleep-spelled them?"

"Better, I dream-spelled them, just like I did

with our 'customers' when I was posing as a whore

back when we first met. It's as easy as sleep-spelling

them, it's a very localized magic that isn't likely to

be detected, and it will keep our disguises intact.

They'll have the best time their imaginations can

possibly provide."

Kethry looked suddenly weary as they approached

their inn. "Bespeak me a bath, would you, dearheart?

I feel filthy—inside and out."

The next night was the night of moon-dark, the

night of one of the more important of the new

deity's rituals, and there was a pair of spies watch-

ing the streets that led to Temple Row with partic-

ular care. Those two pairs of eyes paid particularly

close attention to two women making their cautious

way through the darkened and deserted streets,

muffled head-to-toe in cloaks. Though faint squeals

and curses showed that neither of them could see

well enough to avoid the rocks and fetid heaps of

refuse that dotted the street, they seemed not to

wish any kind of light to brighten their path. Gold

peeked out from the hoods; the half-seen faces were

old before their time; their eyelids drooped with

boredom that had become habit, but their eyes re-

vealed a kind of fearful anticipation. Their destina-

tion was the Temple of Thalhkarsh. They were

intercepted a block away, by two swiftly moving

figures who neatly knocked them unconscious and

spirited them into a nearby alleyway.

Tarma spat out several unintelligible oaths. The

dim light of a heavily shuttered dark-lantern fell on

the two bodies at her feet. Beneath the cloaks, the

now unconscious women had worn little more than

heavy jewelry and a strategically placed veil or

two.

"We'll be searched, you can bet on it," she said in

disgust. "And where the bloody Hell are we going

to hide weapons in these outfits?"

In truth, there wasn't enough cover among the

chains and medallions to have concealed even the

smallest of her daggers.

"We can't," Kethry replied flatly. "So that leaves

—Warrl?"

Tarma pursed her lips. "Hmm. That's a thought.

Fur-face, could you carry two swords?"

The kyree cocked his head to one side, and exper-

imentally mouthed Need's sheath. Kethry took the

blade off and held it for him to take. He swung his

head from side to side a little, then dropped the

blade.

Not that way, Tarma heard in her mind. Too

clumsy. Won't balance right; couldn't run or jump—

might get stuck in a tight doorway. I want to be able to

bite—these teeth aren't just for decoration, you know!

And anyway, I can't carry two blades at the same time

in my mouth.

"Could we strap them to you, somehow?"

If you do, I can try how it feels.

Using their belts they managed to strap the

blades along his flanks, one on either side, to Ward's

satisfaction. He ran from one end of the alley to the

other, then shook himself carefully without dis-

lodging them or getting tangled by them.

It'll work, he said with satisfaction. Let's go.

They left their victims sleeping in a dead-end

alley; they'd be rather embarrassed when they woke

stark-naked in the morning. They'd come to no

harm; thanks to Thalhkarsh not even criminals

moved about the city by night, and the evening was

warm enough that they wouldn't suffer from expo-

sure. Whether or not they'd die of mortification

remained to be seen.

The partners left their own clothing hidden in

another alley farther on. Muffled in the stolen cloaks,

they approached the temple, Warrl a shadow flit-

ting behind them.

On seeing the entrance, Tarma gave a snort of

disgust. It was gaudy and decadent in the extreme,

with carvings and statuary depicting every vice

imaginable (and some she'd never dreamed existed)

encrusting the entire front face.

The single guard was a fat, homely man who

moved slowly and clumsily, as if he were under the

influence of a drug. He seemed little interested in

the men who passed him by, other than seeing that

they dropped their cloaks and giving them a cur-

sory search for weaponry. The women were an-

other case altogether. Between the preoccupation

he was likely to have once he'd seen Kethry and the

shadows cast by the carvings in the torchlight, Warrl

should have no difficulty in slipping past him.

Kethry touched the swords woman's arm slightly

as they stood in line and nodded toward the guard,

giving a little wiggle as she did so. Tarma knew

what that meant—Kethry was going to make cer-

tain the guard's attention stayed on her. The

Shin'a'in dropped her eyelids briefly in assent. When

their turn came and they dropped their cloaks,

Kethry posed and postured provocatively beneath

the guard's searching hands. He was so busy filling

his eyes—and greasy paws—with her that he paid

scant attention to either Tarma or the shadow that

slipped inside behind her.

When he'd delayed long enough that there was

considerable grumbling from those waiting their

turn behind the two women, he finally let Kethry

pass with real reluctance. They slipped inside the

smoke-wreathed portal and found themselves walk-

ing down a dark corridor, heavy with the scent of

cloying incense. When the corridor ended, they

passed through a curtain of some heavy material

that moved of itself, as if it sensed their presence,

and had a slippery feel and a sour smell to it. Once

past that last obstruction, they found themselves

blinking in the light of the temple proper.

The interior was almost austere compared with

the exterior. The walls were totally bare of orna-

mentation; the pillars upholding the roof were sim-

ple columns and not debauched caryatids. That

simplicity left the eye only one place to go—the

altar, a massive black slab with manacles at each

corner and what could only be blood-grooves carved

into its surface.

There was no sign of any bottle.

There were huge lanterns suspended from the

ceiling and torches in brackets on the pillars, but

the walls themselves were in shadow. There were

braziers sending plumes of incense into the air on

either side of the door. Beneath the too-sweet odor

Tarma recognized the taint of tran-dust. This was

where and how the guard had acquired his dreamy

clumsiness. She nudged Kethry and they moved

hastily along the wall to a spot where a draft car-

ried fresher air to them. Tran-dust was dangerous

at best, and could be fatal to them, for it slowed

reactions and blurred the senses. They would need

both at full sharpness tonight.

There was a drumming and an odd, wild music

that was almost more felt than heard. From a door-

way behind the altar emerged the High Priest, at

this distance, little more than a vague shape in

elaborate robes of crimson and gold. Behind him

came an acolyte, carrying an object that made

Kethry's eyes widen with satisfaction; it was a

bottle, red, that glowed dimly from within. The

acolyte fitted this into a niche in the foot of the

altar near the edge; the place all the blood-grooves

drained into.

They worked their way closer, moving carefully

along the wall. When they were close enough to

make out the High Priest's features, Kethry became

aware of his intensely sexual attraction. As if to

underscore this, she saw eager devotion written

plainly on the face of a woman standing near to the

altar-place. She tightened her lips; evidently this

was one aspect of domination that both high priest

and demon-deity shared. She warded her own mind

against beglamorment. Tarma she knew she need

not protect; by her very nature as Sword Sworn

she would be immune to this kind of deception.

A gong began sounding; slowly, insistently. The

music increased in tempo; built to a crescendo—a

blood-red brightness behind the altar intensified,

echoing the rising music. At the climax of both,

when the altar was almost too bright to look at,

something appeared, pulling all the light and sound

into itself.

He was truly beautiful; poisonously beautiful.

Compared to him, the priest's attraction was insig-

nificant. The line of women being brought in by

two more acolytes ceased their fearful trembling,

sighed, and yearned toward him.

He beckoned to one, who literally ran to him,

eagerly.

Tarma turned her eyes resolutely away from the

spectacle being presented at the altar-place. There

was nothing either of them could do to help the

intended sacrifice; she was thanking her Goddess

that Need was not at Kethry's hand just now. The

sorceress had been known once or twice to become

a berserker under the blade's influence, and she

was not altogether sure how much the sword was

capable of in the way of thought. It wasn't mindless

—but in a situation like this it was moot whether or

not it would prefer the long term goal of destroying

the demon as opposed to the short term goal of

ending the sacrifice's torment.

At least the rest of the devotees were so preoccu-

pied with the victim and her suffering that they

scarcely noticed the two women slowly making their

way closer to the altar. Tarma looked closely into

one face, and quickly looked away, nauseated. Those

glazed eyes—swollen lips—the panting—it would

have been obvious even to a child that the man was

erotically enraptured by what he was watching.

Tarma caught Kethry's eyes a moment; the other

nodded, lips tightly compressed. The Shin'a'in

swordswoman was past hoping to end this quietly.

She had begun to devoutly wish for a chance to

cleave a few skulls around here, and she had a

shrewd suspicion that Kethry felt the same.

The young High Priest looked up from his work,

and saw the anomalous—two women, dressed as de-

votees, but paying no attention to the rites, and seem-

ingly immune to the magical charisma of Thalhkarsh.

They had worked their way nearly to the altar itself.

He looked sharply at them—and noted the fight-

er's muscles and the faint aura of the god-touched

about the thin one, then the unmistakable presence

of a warding spell on the other.

His mind flared with sudden alarm.

He stepped forward once—

He was given no time to act on his suspicions.

Tarma saw his alerted glance, and whistled shrilly

for Warrl.

From the crowd to the left of her came shouts—

then screeches, and the sound of panic. Warrl was

covering the distance between himself and Tarma

with huge leaps, and was slashing out with his

teeth as he did so. The worshipers scrambled to get

out of the way of those awful jaws, clearing the last

few feet for him. He skidded to a halt beside her;

with one hand she snatched Need from her sheath

and tossed her to Kethry, with the other she un-

sheathed her own blade, turning the operation into

an expert stroke that took out the two men nearest

her. Warrl took his stand, guarding Tarma's back.

Need had sailed sweetly into Kethry's hand, hilt

first; she turned her catch into a slash that mir-

rored Tarma's and cleared space for herself. Then

she found herself forced to defend against two sorts

of attack; the physical, by the temple guards, and

the magical, by the High Priest.

While the demon unaccountably watched, but did

nothing, the priest forced Kethry back against the

wall. As bolts of force crashed against the shield

she'd hastily thrown up, Kethry had firsthand proof

that his magics had been augmented by the demon.

Even so, she was the more powerful magician—but

she was being forced to divide her attentions.

Warrl solved the problem; the priest-mage was

not expecting a physical attack. Warrl's charge from

the side brought him down, and in moments the

kyree had torn out his throat. That left Kethry free

to erect a magical barrier between themselves and

reinforcements for the guards they were cutting

down. She breathed a prayer of thanks to whatever

power might be listening as she did so—thanks that

the past few months had required so little of her

talents that her arcane armaments and energy re-

serves were at their height.

Tarma grinned maliciously as a wall of fire sprang

up at Kethry's command, cutting them off from the

rest of the temple. Now there were only two aco-

lytes, the remaining handful of guards, and the

oddly inactive demon to face.

"Hold."

The voice was quiet, yet stirred uneasiness in

Tarma's stomach. She tried to move—and found

that she couldn't. The guards were utterly motion-

less, as lifeless as statues. Only the acolytes were

able to move, and all their attention was on the

demon.

His gaze was bent on Kethry.

Tarma heard a rumbling snarl from behind the

altar. Before she could try to prevent him, Warrl

leaped from the body of the high priest in a suici-

dal attack on the demon.

Thalhkarsh did not even glance in the kyree`s

direction; he intercepted Warrl's attack with a seem-

ingly negligent backhanded slap. The kyree yelped

as the hand caught him and sent him crashing into

the wall behind Tarma, limp and silent.

"Woman, I could use you." The demon's voice

was low and persuasive. "Your knowledge is great,

the power you command formidable, and you have

infinitely more sense than that poor fool your fa-

miliar killed. I could make you a queen among ma-

gicians. I would make you my consort."

Tarma fumed in impotence as the demon reached

for her oathkin.

Kethry's mind bent beneath the weight of the

demon's attentions. It was incredibly difficult to

think clearly; all her thoughts seemed washed out

in the red glare of his gaze. Her enchantments to

counter beguilement seemed as thin as silk veils,

and about as protective.

"You think me cruel, evil. Yet what ever have I

done save to give each of these people what he

wants? The women have but to see me to desire

me; the men lust for what women I do not care to

take—all my worshipers want power. All these

things I have given in exchange for worship. Surely

that is fair, is it not? It would be cruelty to with-

hold these things, not cruelty to bestow them."

His voice was reasoned and persuasive. Kethry

found herself wavering from what she had until

now thought to be the truth.

"Is it the bonds with that scrap of steel that

trouble you? Fear not—it would be the work of a

single thought to break them. And think of the

knowledge that would be yours in the place at my

side! Think of the power ..."

His eyes glowed yet more brightly and seduc-

tively, and they filled her vision.

"Think of the pleasure ..."

Pain lancing across her thoughts woke her from

the dreams called up by those eyes. She looked

down at the blood trickling along her right hand—

she'd clenched it around the bare blade of her sword

with enough force to cut her palm. And with the

pain came the return of independent thought. Even

if everything he said were true, and not the usual

truth-twisting demons found so easy, she was not

free to follow her own will.

There were other, older promises that bound her.

There was the geas she had willingly taken with

the fighting-gifts bestowed by Need, and the pledge

she had made as a White Winds sorceress to use

her powers for the greater good of mankind. And by

no means least, there was the vow she had made

before all of Liha'irden; pledging Tarma that one

day she would take a mate (or mates) and raise a

clutch of children to bear the banner and name of

Tarma's lost Clan. Only death itself could keep her

from fulfilling that vow. And it would kill Tarma

should she violate it.

She stared back at the demon's inhuman eyes,

defiance written in every fiber.

He flared with anger. "You are the more foolish,

then!" he growled—and backhanded her into the

wall as casually as he had Warrl.

She was halfway expecting such a move, and

managed to relax enough to take the blow limply. It

felt rather like being hit with a battering ram, but

the semiconsciousness she displayed as she slid

into a heap was mostly feigned.

"You will find you have ample leisure to regret

your defiance later!" he snarled in the same petu-

lant tones as a thwarted spoiled child.

Now he turned his attentions to Tarma.

"So—the nomad—"

Tarma did her best to simulate a fascination with

the demon that she did not in the least feel.

"It seems that I must needs petition the swords-

woman. Well enough, it may be that you are even

more suitable than your foolish companion."

The heat of his gaze was easily dissipated by the

cool armoring of her Goddess that sheathed Tarma's

heart and soul. There simply was nothing there for

the demon to work on; the sensual, emotional parts

of her nature had been subsumed into devotion to

the Warrior when Tarma had Sworn Sword-Oath.

But he couldn't know that—or could he?

At any rate her attempt to counterfeit the same

bemused rapture his brides had shown was appar-

ently successful.

"You are no beauty; well, then—look into my

eyes, and see the face and body that might be yours

as my priestess."

Tarma looked—she dared not look away. His eyes

turned mirrorlike; she saw herself reflected in them,

then she saw herself change.

The lovely, lithe creature that gazed back at her

was still recognizably Tarma—but oh, the differ-

ences that a few simple changes made! This was a

beauty that was a match for Thalhkarsh's own. For

a scant second, Tarma allowed herself to be truly

caught by that vision.

The demon felt her waver—and in that moment

of weakness, exerted his power on the bond that

made her Kal'enedral.

And Tarma realized at that instant that Thalh-

karsh was truly on the verge of attaining godlike

powers, for she felt the bond weaken—

Thalhkarsh frowned at the unexpected resistance

he encountered, then turned his full attention to

breaking the stubborn strength of the bond.

And that changing of the focus of his attention in

turn released Tarma from her entrapment. Not

much—but enough for her to act.

Tarma had resisted the demon with every ounce

of stubbornness in her soul, augmenting the strength

of the bond, but she wasn't blind to what was going

on around her.

And to her horror she saw Kethry creeping up on

the demon's back, a fierce and stubborn anger in

her eyes.

Tarma knew that no blow the sorceress struck

would do more than anger Thalhkarsh. She decided

to yield the tiniest bit, timing her moment of weak-

ness with care, waiting until the instant Need was

poised to strike at the demon's unprotected back.

And as Thalhkarsh's magical grip loosened, her

own blade-hand snapped out, hilt foremost, to strike

and break the demon's focus-bottle.

At the exact moment Tarma moved, Kethry bur-

ied Need to the hilt in the demon's back, as the

sound of breaking glass echoed and re-echoed the

length and breadth of the temple.

Any one of those actions, by itself, might not

have been sufficient to defeat him; but combined—

Thalhkarsh screamed in pain, unanticipated, un-

expected, and all the worse for that. He felt at the

same moment a good half of his stored power flow-

ing out of him like water from a broken bottle—

—a broken bottle!

His focus—was gone!

And pain like a red-hot iron seared through him,

shaking him to the roots of his being.

He lost his carefully cultivated control.

His focus was destroyed, and with it, the power

he had been using to hold his followers in thrall.

And the pain—it could not destroy him, but he was

not used to being the recipient of pain. It took him

by surprise, and broke his concentration and cost

him yet more power.

He lost mastery of his form. He took on his true

demonic aspect—as horrifying as he had been

beautiful.

And now his followers saw for the first time the

true appearance of what they had been calling a

god. Their faith had been shaken when he did noth-

ing to save the life of his High Priest. Now it was

destroyed by the panic they felt on seeing what he

was.

They screamed, turned mindlessly, and attempted

to flee.

His storehouse of power was gone. His other

power-source was fleeing madly in fear. His focus

was destroyed, and he was racked with pain, he

who had never felt so much as a tiny pinprick

before. Every spell he had woven fell to ruins about

him.

Thalhkarsh gave a howling screech that rose un-

til the sound was nearly unbearable; he again

slapped Kethry into the wall. Somehow she man-

aged to take her blade with her, but this time her

limp unconsciousness as she slid down the wall

was not feigned.

He howled again, burst into a tower of red and

green flame, and the walls began to shift.

Tarma dodged past him and dragged Kethry un-

der the heavy marble slab of the altar, then made a

second trip to drag Warrl under its dubious shelter.

The ground shook, and the remaining devotees

rushed in panic-stricken confusion from one hoped-

for exit to another. The ceiling groaned with a

living voice, and the air was beginning to cloud

with a sulfurous fog. Then cracks appeared in the

roof, and the trapped worshipers screeched hope-

lessly as it began to crumble and fall in on them.

Tarma crouched beneath the altar stone, protect-

ing the bodies of Kethry and Warrl with her own—

and hoped the altar was strong enough to shelter

them as the temple began falling to ruins around

them.

It seemed like an eternity, but it couldn't have

been more than an hour or two before dawn that

they crawled out from under the battered slab,

pushing and digging rubble out of the way with

hands that were soon cut and bleeding. Warrl did

his best to help, but his claws and paws were meant

for climbing and clinging, not digging; and besides

that, he was suffering from more than one cracked

rib. Eventually Tarma made him stop trying to

help before he lamed himself.

"Feh," she said distastefully, when they emerged.

The stone—or whatever it was—that the building

had been made of was rotting away, and the odor

was overpowering. She heaved herself wearily up

onto the cleaner marble of the altar and surveyed

the wreckage about them.

"Gods—to think I wanted to do this quietly! Well,

is it gone, I wonder, or did we just chase it away for

a while?"

Kethry crawled up beside her, wincing. "I can't

tell; there's too many factors involved. I don't think

Need is a demon-killer, but I don't know every-

thing there is to know about her. Did we get rid of

him because he lost the faith of his devotees, be-

cause you broke the focus, because of the wound I

gave him, or all three? And does it matter? He

won't be able to return unless he's called, and I

can't imagine anyone wanting to call him, not for a

long, long time." She paused, then continued. "You

had me frightened, she'enedra."

"Whyfor?"

"I didn't know what he was offering you in re-

turn for your services. I was afraid if he could see

your heart—"

"He didn't offer me anything I really wanted,

dearling. I was never in any danger. All he wanted

to give me was a face and figure to match his own."

"But if he'd offered you your Clan and your voice

back—" Kethry replied soberly.

"I still wouldn't have been in any danger," Tarma

replied with a little more force than she intended.

"My people are dead, and no demon could bring

them back to life. They've gone on elsewhere and

he could never touch them. And without them—"

she made a tiny, tired shrug, "—without them,

what use is my voice—or for that matter, the most

glorious face and body, and all the power in the

universe?"

"I thought he had you for a moment—"

"So did he. He was trying to break my bond with

the Star-Eyed. What he didn't know was all he was

arousing was my disgust. I'd die before I'd give in

to something that uses people as casually as that

thing did."

Kethry got her belt and sheath off Warrl and

slung Need in her accustomed place on her hip.

Tarma suppressed the urge to giggle, despite pain

and weariness. Kethry, in the sorceress' robes she

usually wore, and belted with a blade looked odd

enough. Kethry, dressed in three spangles and a

scrap of cloth and wearing the sword looked totally

absurd.

Nevertheless Tarma copied her example. "Well,

that damn goatsticker of yours got us into another

one we won't get paid for," she said in more normal

tones, fastening the buckle so that her sword hung

properly on her back. "Bloody Hell! If you count in

the ale we had to pour and the bribes we had to

pay, we lost money on this one."

"Don't be so certain of that, she'enedra." Kethry's

face was exhausted and bloodstreaked, one of her

eyes was blackened and swelling shut and she had

livid bruises all over her body. On top of that she

was covered in dust, and filthy, sweat-lank locks of

hair were straggling into her face. But despite all of

that, her eyes still held a certain amusement. "In

case you hadn't noticed, these little costumes of

ours are real gold and gems. We happen to be wear-

ing a small fortune in jewelry."

"Warrior's Truth!" Tarma looked a good deal

more closely at her scanty attire, and discovered

her partner was right. She grinned with real satis-

faction. "I guess I owe that damn blade of yours an

apology."

"Only," Kethry grinned back, "If we get back

into our own clothing before dawn."

"Why dawn?"

"Because that's when the rightful owners of these

trinkets are likely to wake up. I don't think they'd

let us keep them when we're found here if they

know we have them."

"Good point—but why should we want anyone to

know we're responsible for this mess?"

"Because when the rest of the population scrapes

up enough nerve to find out what happened, we're

going to be heroines—or at least we will until they

find out how many of their fathers and brothers

and husbands were trapped here tonight. By then,

we'll be long gone. Even if they don't reward us—

and they might, for delivering the town from a

demon—our reputation has just been made!"

Tarma's jaw dropped as she realized the truth of

that. "Shek," she said. "Turn me into a sheep!

You're right!" She threw back her head and laughed

into the morning sky. "Now all we need is the

fortune and a king's blessing!"

"Don't laugh, oathkin," Kethry replied with a

grin. "We just might get those, and sooner than you

think. After all, aren't we demon-slayers?"

Eight

Someone wrote a song about it—but that was

later. Much later—when the dust and dirt were

gone from the legend. When the sweat and blood

were only memories, and the pain was less than

that. And when the dead were all but forgotten

except to their own.

"Deep into the stony hills

Miles from keep or hold,

A troupe of guards comes riding

With a lady and her gold.

Riding in the center,

Shrouded in her cloak of fur

Companioned by a maiden

And a toothless, aged cur."

"And every packtrain we've sent out for the past

two months has vanished without a trace—and with-

out survivors," the silk merchant Grumio concluded,

twisting an old iron ring on one finger. "Yet the

decoy trains were allowed to reach their destina-

tions unmolested. It's uncanny—and if it goes on

much longer, we'll be ruined."

In the silence that followed his words, he studied

the odd pair of mercenaries before him. He knew

very well that they knew he was doing so. Eventu-

ally there would be no secrets in this room—even-

tually. But he would parcel his out as if they were

bits of his heart—and he knew they would do the

same. It was all part of the bargaining process.

Neither of the two women seemed in any great

hurry to reply to his speech. The crackle of the fire

behind him in this tiny private eating room sounded

unnaturally loud in the absence of conversation.

Equally loud were the steady whisking of a whet-

stone on blade-edge, and the muted murmur of

voices from the common room of the inn beyond

their closed door.

The whetstone was being wielded by the swords-

woman, Tarma by name, who was keeping to her

self-appointed task with an indifference to Grumio's

words that might—or might not—be feigned. She

sat across the table from him, straddling her bench

in a position that left him mostly with a view of her

back and the back of her head. What little he might

have been able to see of her face was screened by

her unruly shock of coarse black hair. He was just

as glad of that; there was something about her cold,

expressionless, hawklike face with its wintry blue

eyes that sent shivers up his spine. "The eyes of a

killer," whispered one part of him. "Or a fanatic."

The other partner cleared her throat and he grate-

fully turned his attention to her. Now there was a

face a man could easily rest his eyes on! She faced

him squarely, this sorceress called Kethry, leaning

slightly forward on her folded arms, placing her

weight on the table between them. The light from

the fire and the oil lamp on their table fell fully on

her. A less canny man than Grumio might be

tempted to dismiss her as being very much the

weaker, the less intelligent of the two; she was

always soft of speech, her demeanor refined and

gentle. She was very attractive; sweet-faced and

quite conventionally pretty, with hair like the fin-

est amber and eyes of beryl-green. It would have

been very easy to assume that she was no more

than the swordswoman's vapid tagalong. A lover

perhaps—maybe one with the right to those mage-

robes she wore, but surely of no account in the

decision-making.

That would have been the assessment of most

men. But as he'd spoken, Grumio had now and

then caught a disquieting glimmer in those calm

green eyes. She had been listening quite carefully,

and analyzing what she heard. He had not missed

the fact that she, too, bore a sword. And not for the

show of it, either—that blade had a well-worn scab-

bard that spoke of frequent use. More than that,

what he could see of the blade showed that it was

well-cared-for.

The presence of that blade in itself was an anom-

aly; most sorcerers never wore more than an eating

knife. They simply hadn't the time—or the incli-

nation—to attempt studying the arts of the swords-

man. To Grumio's eyes the sword looked very odd

and quite out-of-place, slung over the plain, buff-

colored, calf-length robe of a wandering sorceress.

A puzzlement; altogether a puzzlement.

"I presume," Kethry said when he turned to face

her, "that the road patrols have been unable to

find your bandits."

She had in turn been studying the merchant; he

interested her. In his own way he was as much of

an anomaly as she and Tarma were. There was

muscle beneath the fat of good living, and old sword-

calluses on his hands. This was no born-and-bred

merchant, not when he looked to be as much re-

tired mercenary as trader. And unless she was wildly

mistaken, there was also a sharp mind beneath that

balding skull. He knew they didn't come cheaply;

since the demon-god affair their reputation had

spread, and their fees had become quite respectable.

They were even able—like Ikan and Justin—to pick

and choose to some extent. On the surface this busi-

ness appeared far too simple a task—one would simply

gather a short-term army and clean these brigands

out. On the surface, this was no job for a specialized

team like theirs—and Grumio surely knew that. It

followed then that there was something more to

this tale of banditry than he was telling.

Kethry studied him further. Certain signs seemed

to confirm this surmise; he looked as though he had

not slept well of late, and there seemed to be a

shadow of deeper sorrow upon him than the loss of

mere goods would account for.

She wondered how much he really knew of them,

and she paid close attention to what his answer to

her question would be.

Grumio snorted his contempt for the road pa-

trols. "They rode up and down for a few days,

never venturing off the Trade Road, and naturally

found nothing. Over-dressed, over-paid, under-

worked arrogant idiots!"

Kethry toyed with a fruit left from their supper,

and glanced up at the hound-faced merchant through

long lashes that veiled her eyes and her thoughts.

The next move would be Tarma's.

Tarma heard her cue, and made her move. "Then

guard your packtrains, merchant, if guards keep

these vermin hidden."

He started; her voice was as harsh as a raven's,

and startled those not used to hearing it. One cor-

ner of Tarma's mouth twitched slightly at his reac-

tion. She took a perverse pleasure in using that

harshness as a kind of weapon. A Shin'a'in learned

to fight with many weapons, words among them.

Kal'enedral learned the finer use of those weapons.

Grumio saw at once the negotiating ploy these

two had evidently planned to use with him. The

swordswoman was to be the antagonizer, the sor-

ceress the sympathizer. His respect for them rose

another notch. Most freelance mercenaries hadn't

the brains to count their pay, much less use subtle

bargaining tricks. Their reputation was plainly well-

founded. He just wished he knew more of them

than their reputation; he was woefully short a full

hand in this game. Why, he didn't even know where

the sorceress hailed from, or what her School was!

Be that as it may, once he saw the trick, he had

no intention of falling for it.

"Swordlady," he said patiently, as though to a

child, "to hire sufficient force requires we raise

the price of goods above what people are willing to

pay."

As he studied them further, he noticed some-

thing else about them that was distinctly odd. There

was a current of communication and understanding

running between these two that had him thoroughly

puzzled. He dismissed without a second thought

the notion that they might be lovers, the signals

between them were all wrong for that. No, it was

something else, something more complicated than

that. Something that you wouldn't expect between

a Shin'a'in swordswoman and an outClansman—

something perhaps, that only someone like he was,

with experience in dealing with Shin'a'in, would

notice in the first place.

Tarma shook her head impatiently at his reply.

"Then cease your inter-house rivalries, kadessa, and

send all your trains together under a single large

force."

A new ploy—now she was trying to anger him a

little—to get him off-guard by insulting him. She

had called him a kadessa, a little grasslands beast

that only the Shin'a'in ever saw, a rodent so notori-

ously greedy that it would, given food enough, eat

itself to death; and one that was known for hoard-

ing anything and everything it came across in its

nest-tunnels.

Well it wasn't going to work. He refused to allow

the insult to distract him. There was too much at

stake here. "Respect, Swordlady," he replied with

a hint of reproachfulness, "but we tried that, too.

The beasts of the train were driven off in the night,

and the guards and traders were forced to return

afoot. This is desert country, most of it, and all

they dared burden themselves with was food and

drink."

"Leaving the goods behind to be scavenged. Huh.

Your bandits are clever, merchant," the swords-

woman replied thoughtfully. Grumio thought he

could sense her indifference lifting.

"You mentioned decoy trains?" Kethry interjected.

"Yes, lady." Grumio's mind was still worrying

away at the puzzle these two presented. "Only I

and the men in the train knew which were the

decoys and which were not, yet the bandits were

never deceived, not once. We had taken extra care

that all the men in the train were known to us,

too."

A glint of gold on the smallest finger of Kethry's

left hand finally gave him the clue he needed, and

the crescent scar on the palm of that hand con-

firmed his surmise. He knew without looking that

that swordswoman would have an identical scar

and ring. These two had sword Shin'a'in blood-

oath, the oath of she'enedran; the strongest bond

known to that notoriously kin-conscious race. The

blood-oath made them closer than sisters, closer

than lovers—so close they sometimes would think

as one. In fact, the word she'enedran was sometimes

translated as "two-made-one."

"So who was it that passed judgment on your

estimable guards?" Tarma's voice was heavy with

sarcasm.

"I did, or my fellow merchants, or our own per-

sonal guards. No one was allowed on the trains but

those who had served us in the past or were known

to those who had."

He waited in silence for them to make reply.

Tarma held her blade up to catch the firelight

and examined her work with a critical eye. Evi-

dently satisfied, she drove it home in the scabbard

slung across her back with a fluid, unthinking grace,

then swung one leg back over the bench to face him

as her partner did. Grumio found the unflinching

chill of her eyes disconcertingly hard to meet for

long.

In an effort to find something else to look at, he

found his gaze caught by the pendant she wore, a

thin silver crescent surrounding a tiny amber flame.

That gave him the last bit of information he needed

to make everything fall into place—although now

he realized that her plain brown clothing should

have tipped him off as well, since most Shin'a'in

favored wildly-colored garments heavy with bright

embroideries. Tarma was a Sworn One, Kal'enedral,

pledged to the service of the Shin'a'in Warrior, the

Goddess of the New Moon and the South Wind.

Only three things were of any import to her at

all—her Goddess, her people, and her Clan (which,

of course, would include her "sister" by blood-oath).

The Sword Sworn were just as sexless and deadly

as the weapons they wore.

"So why come to us?" Tarma's expression indi-

cated she thought their time was being wasted.

"What makes you think that we can solve your

bandit problem?"

"You—have a certain reputation," he replied

guardedly.

A single bark of contemptuous laughter was

Tarma's only reply.

"If you know our reputation, then you also know

that we only take those assignments that—shall we

say—interest us," Kethry said, looking wide-eyed

and innocent. "What is there about your problem

that could possibly be of any interest to us?"

Good—they were intrigued, at least a little. Now,

for the sake of poor little Lena, was the time to

hook them and bring them in. His eyes stung a

little with tears he would not shed—not now—not

in front of them. Not until she was avenged.

"We have a custom, we small merchant houses.

Our sons must remain with their fathers to learn

the trade, and since there are seldom more than

two or three houses in any town, there is little in

the way of choice for them when it comes time for

marriage. For that reason, we are given to exchang-

ing daughters of the proper age with our trade

allies in other towns, so that our young people can

hopefully find mates to their liking." His voice

almost broke at the memory of watching Lena wav-

ing good-bye from the back of her little mare, but

he regained control quickly. It was a poor merchant

that could not school his emotions. "There were no

less than a dozen sheltered, gently-reared maidens

in the very first packtrain they took. One of them

was my niece. My only heir, and all that was left of

my brother's family after the plague six years ago."

He could continue no further.

Kethry's breath hissed softly, and Tarma swal-

lowed an oath.

"Your knowledge of what interests us is very

accurate, merchant," Tarma said after a long pause.

"I congratulate you."

"You—you accept?" Discipline could not keep

hope out of his voice.

"I pray you are not expecting us to rescue your

lost ones," Kethry said as gently as she could. "Even

supposing that the bandits were more interested in

slaves to be sold than their own pleasure—which in

my experience is not likely—there is very, very

little chance that any of them still live. The shel-

tered, the gentle, well, they do not survive—shock

—successfully."

"When we knew that the packtrain had been

taken, we sent agents to comb the slave markets.

They returned empty-handed," he replied with as

much stoicism as he could muster. "We will not ask

the impossible of you; we knew when we sent for

you there was no hope for them. No, we ask only

that you wipe out this viper's den, to insure that

this can never happen to us again—that you make

such an example of them that no one dares try this

again—and that you grant us revenge for what they

have done to us!" There—that was his full hand.

Would it be enough?

His words—and more, the tight control of his

voice—struck echoes from Tarma's own heart. And

she did not need to see her partner to know her

feelings in the matter.

"You will have that, merchant-lord," she grated,

giving him the title of respect. "We accept your

job—but there are conditions."

"Swordlady, any conditions you would set, I would

gladly meet. Who am I to contest the judgment of

those who destroyed Tha—"

"Hush!" Kethry interrupted him swiftly, and cast

a wary glance over her shoulder. "The less that is

said on that subject, the better. I am still not al-

together certain that what you were about to name

was truly destroyed. It may have been merely ban-

ished, and perhaps for no great span of time. It is

hardly wise if the second case is true to call atten-

tion to oneself by speaking Its name."

"Our conditions, merchant, are simple," Tarma

continued, outwardly unperturbed. Inwardly she

had uneasy feelings about Thalhkarsh, feelings that

had her ready to throw herself between Kethry and

anything that even looked like a demon. "We will,

to all appearances, leave on the morrow. You will

tell all, including your fellow merchants, that you

could not convince us to remain. Tomorrow night,

you—and you alone, mind—will bring us, at a meet-

ing place of your choosing, a cart and horse. . . ."

Now she raised an inquiring eyebrow at Kethry.

"And the kind of clothing and gear a lady of

wealth and blood would be likely to have when

traveling. The clothing should fit me. I will be

weaving some complicated illusions, and anything I

do not have to counterfeit will be of aid to me and

make the rest stronger. You might include lots of

empty bags and boxes," Kethry finished thoughtfully.

Tarma continued; "The following morning a fine

lady will ride in and order you to include her with

your next packtrain. You, naturally, will do your

best to dissuade her, as loudly and publicly as pos-

sible. Now your next scheduled trip was—?"

"Coincidentally enough, for the day after tomor-

row." Grumio was plainly impressed. It looked as

though he'd decided that Tarma and her partner

were even cleverer than he'd thought.

"Good. The less time we lose, the better off we

are. Remember, only you are to be aware that the

lady and the packtrain are not exactly what they

seem to be. If you say one word otherwise to

anyone—"

The merchant suddenly found himself staring at

the tip of a very sharp dagger held a scant inch

away from his nose.

"—I will personally remove enough of your hide

to make both of us slippers." The dagger disap-

peared from Tarma's hand as mysteriously as it

had appeared.

Grumio had been startled, but had not been par-

ticularly intimidated; Tarma gave him high marks

for that.

"I do not instruct the weaver in her trade," he

replied with a certain dignity, "nor do I dictate the

setting of a horseshoe to a smith. There is no reason

why I should presume to instruct you in your trade

either."

"Then you are a rare beast indeed, merchant,"

Tarma graced him with one of her infrequent smiles.

"Most men—oh, not fellow mercenaries, they know

better; but most men we deal with—seem to think

they know our business better than we simply by

virtue of their sex."

The smile softened her harsh expression, and

made it less intimidating, and the merchant found

himself smiling back. "You are not the only female

hire-swords I have dealt with." he replied. "Many

of my trade allies have them as personal retainers.

It has often seemed to me that many of those I met

have had to be twice as skilled as their male coun-

terparts to receive half the credit."

"A hit, merchant-lord," Kethry acknowledged with

open amusement. "And a shrewd one at that. Now,

where are we to meet you tomorrow night?"

Grumio paused to think. "I have a farmstead. It's

deserted now that the harvest is in. It's just outside

of town, at the first lane past the crossroad at the

South Trade Road. No one would think it odd for me

to pay a visit to it, and the barn is a good place to

hide horses and gear."

"Well enough," Tarma replied.

All three rose as one, and Grumio caught the

faint clink of brigandine mail from Tarma's direc-

tion, though there was no outward sign that she

wore any such thing beneath her worn leather tu-

nic, brown shirt and darker breeches.

"Merchant—" Tarma said, suddenly.

He paused halfway through the door.

"I, too, have known loss. You will have your

revenge."

He shivered at the look in her eyes, and left.

"Well?" Tarma asked, shutting the door behind

him and leaning her back up against it.

"Magic's afoot here. It's the only answer to what's

been going on. I don't think it's easy to deceive this

merchant—he caught on to our 'divide and con-

quer' trick right away. He's no soft money-counter,

either."

"I saw the sword-calluses." Tarma balanced her-

self on one foot, set the other against the door, and

folded her arms. "Did he tell us all he knew?"

"I think so. I don't think he held anything back

after he played his high card."

"The niece? He also didn't want us to know how

much he valued her. Damn. This is a bad piece of

business. Poor bastard."

"He'd rather we thought the loss of goods and

trade meant more to him," Kethry replied. "They're

a secretive lot in many ways, these traders."

"Almost as secretive as sorceresses, no?" One

corner of Tarma's thin lips quirked up in a half-

smile. The smile vanished as she thought of some-

thing else.

"Is there any chance that any of the women

survived?"

"Not to put too fine a point upon it, no. This—"

Kethry patted the hilt of her sword "—would have

told me if any of them had. The pull is there, but

without the urgency there'd be if there was anyone

needing rescue. Still, we need more information, so

I might as well add that to the set of questions I

intend to ask."

Concern flickered briefly in Tarma's eyes. "An

unprepared summoning? Are you sure you want to

risk it? If nothing else, it will wear you down, and

you have all those illusions to cast."

"I think it's worth it. There aren't that many

hostile entities to guard against in this area, and I'll

have all night to rest afterward—most of tomor-

row as well, once we reach that farmstead. And my

'arsenal' is full, my nonpersonal energies are com-

pletely charged, and my other-Planar alliances doing

well. It won't be any problem."

"You're the magic-worker," Tarma sighed. "Since

we've hired this room for the whole evening, want

to make use of it for your magicking? It's bigger

than our sleeping room."

At Kethry's nod, Tarma pushed the table into a

corner, stacking the benches on top of it, while

Kethry set the oil lamp on the mantlepiece. Most of

the floorspace was now cleared.

"I'll keep watch on the door." Tarma sat on the

floor with her back firmly braced against it. Since it

opened inward, the entrance was now solidly guarded

against all but the most stubborn of intruders.

Kethry inscribed a circle on the floor with pow-

ders from her belt-pouch, chanting under her breath.

She used no dramatic or spectacular ceremonies for

she had learned her art in a gentler school than the

other sorcerers Tarma had seen. Her powers came

from the voluntary cooperation of other-Planar en-

tities and she never coerced them into doing her

bidding.

There were advantages and disadvantages to this.

She need not safeguard herself against the decep-

tions and treacheries of these creatures, but the

cost to her in terms of her own energies expended

was correspondingly higher. This was particularly

true at times when she had no chance to prepare

herself for a summoning. It took a great deal of

power to attract a being of benign intent—particu-

larly one that did not have a previous alliance with

her—and more to convince it that her intent was

good. Hence, the circle—meant not to protect her,

but to protect what she would call, so that it would

know itself unthreatened.

As she seated herself within the circle, Tarma

shifted her own position until she, too, was quite

comfortable, removed one of her hidden daggers,

and began honing it with her sharpening-stone.

After some time, there was a stirring in the circle

Kethry had inscribed, and Tarma pulled her atten-

tion away from her task. Something was beginning

to form mistily in front of the seated sorceress.

The mist began to revolve into a miniature whirl-

pool, coalescing into a figure as it did so. As it

solidified, Tarma could see what seemed to be a

jewel-bright desert lizard, but one that stood erect,

like a man. It was as tall as a man's arm is long, and

had a cranium far larger than any lizard Tarma had

ever seen—except perhaps the image of Gervase

that Kethry had used to entertain Liha'irden. Fire-

light winked from its scales in bands of shining

colors, topaz and ruby predominating. It was re-

garding Kethry with intelligence and wary curiosity.

"Sa-asartha, n'hellan?" it said, tilting its head to

one side and fidgeting from one foot to the other.

Its voice was shrill, like that of a very young child.

"Vede, sa-asarth," Kethry replied in the same

tongue—whatever the tongue was.

The little creature relaxed, and stopped fretting.

It appeared to be quite eager to answer all of Kethry's

questions. Now that the initial effort of calling it

was done with, she had no trouble in obtaining all

the information she wanted. Finally she gave the

little creature the fruit she'd been toying with after

supper. It snatched the gift greedily, trilled what

Tarma presumed to be thanks, and vanished into

mist again.

When it was completely gone, Kethry rose stiffly

and began to scuff the circle into random piles of

dirt with the toe of her boot. "It's about what I

expected," she said. "Someone—someone with 'a

smell of magic about him' according to the khamsin—

has organized what used to be several small bands

of marauders into one large one of rather formida-

ble proportions. They have no set camp, so we can't

arrange for their base to be attacked while they're

ambushing us, I'm sorry to say. They have no fa-

vored ambush point, so we won't know when to

expect them. And none of the women—girls, really—

survived for more than a day."

"Oh, hell." Tarma's eyes were shadowed. "Well,

we didn't really expect anything different."

"No, but you know damn well we both hoped,"

Kethry's voice was rough with weariness. "It's up

to you now, she'enedra. You're the tactician."

"Then as the tactician, I counsel rest for you."

Tarma caught Kethry's shoulders to steady her as

she stumbled a little from fatigue. The reaction to

spell-casting was setting in fast, now. Kethry had

once described summoning as being "like balancing

on a rooftree while screaming an epic poem in a

foreign language at the top of your lungs." Small

wonder she was exhausted afterward.

The sorceress leaned on Tarma's supporting shoul-

der with silent gratitude as her partner guided her

up the stairs to their rented sleeping room.

"It's us, Warrl," Tarma called softly at the door.

A muted growl answered her, and they could hear

the sound of the bolt being shoved back. Tarma

pushed the door open with one foot, and picked up

one of the unlit tallow candles that waited on a

shelf just inside with her free hand. She lit it at the

one in the bracket outside their door, and the light

from it fell on Warrl's head and shoulders. He stood,

tongue lolling out in a lupine grin, just inside the

room. He sniffed inquisitively at them, making a

questioning whine deep in his throat.

"Yes, we took the job—that's our employer you

smell, so don't mangle him when he shows up to-

morrow night. And Kethry's been summoning, of

course, so as usual she's half dead. Close the door

behind us while I put her to bed."

By now Kethry was nearly asleep on her feet;

after some summonings Tarma had seen her pass

into unconsciousness while still walking. Tarma

undressed her with the gentle and practiced hands

of a nursemaid, and got her safely into bed before

she had the chance to fall over. The kyree, mean-

while, had butted the door shut with his head and

pushed the bolt home with his nose.

"Any trouble?" Tarma asked him.

He snorted with derision.

"Well, I didn't really expect any, either. This is

the quietest inn I've been in for a long time. The job

is bandits, hairy one, and we're all going to have to

go disguised. That includes you."

He whined in protest, ears down.

"I know you don't like it, but there's no choice.

There isn't enough cover along the road to hide a

bird, and I want you close at hand, within a few

feet of us at all times, not wandering out in the

desert somewhere."

The kyree sighed heavily, padded over to her, and

laid his heavy head in her lap to be scratched.

"I know. I know," she said, obliging him. "I don't

like it any more than you do. Just be grateful that

all we'll be wearing is illusions, even if they do

make the backs of our eyes itch. Poor Kethry's

going to have to ride muffled head-to-toe like a fine

lady."

Warrl obviously didn't care about poor Kethry.

"You're being very unfair to her, you know. And

you're supposed to have been her familiar, not mine.

You're a magic beast; born out of magic. You belong

with a spell-caster, not some clod with a sword."

Warrl was not impressed with Tarma's logic.

She doesn't need me, he spoke mind-to-mind with

the swordswoman. She has the spirit-sword. You need

me, I've told you that before. And that, so far as

Warrl was concerned, was that.

"Well, I'm not going to argue with you. I never

argue with anyone with as many sharp teeth as

you've got. Maybe being Kal'enedral counts as being

magic."

She pushed Warrl's head off her lap and went to

open the shutters to the room's one window. Moon-

light flooded the room; she seated herself on the

floor where it would fall on her, just as she did

every night when there was a moon and she wasn't

ill or injured. Since they were within the walls of a

town and not camped, she would not train this

night, but the Moonpaths were there, as always,

waiting to be walked. She closed her eyes and found

them. Walking them was, as she'd often told Kethry,

impossible to describe.

When she returned to her body, Warrl was lying

patiently at her back, waiting for her. She ruffled

his fur with a grin, stood, stretched stiffened mus-

cles, then stripped to a shift and climbed in beside

Kethry. Warrl sighed with gratitude and took his

usual spot at her feet.

"Three things see no end—

A flower blighted ere it bloomed,

A message that was wasted

And a journey that was doomed."

The two mercenaries rode out of town in the

morning, obviously eager to be gone. Grumio watched

them leave, gazing sadly at the cloud of dust they

raised, his houndlike face clearly displaying his

disappointment. His fellow merchants were equally

disappointed when he told them of his failure to

persuade them; they had all hoped the women would

be the solution to their problem.

After sundown Grumio took a cart and horse out

to his farmstead, a saddled riding beast tied to the

rear of it. After making certain that no one had

followed him, he drove directly into the barn, and

peered around in the hay-scented gloom. A fear

crossed his mind that the women had tricked him,

and had truly left that morning.

"Don't fret yourself, merchant," said a gravelly

voice just above his head. He jumped, his heart

racing. "We're here."

A vague figure swung down from the loft; when

it came close enough for him to make out features,

he started at the sight of a buxom blonde wearing

the swordswoman's clothing.

She grinned at his reaction. "Which one am I?

She didn't tell me. Blonde?"

He nodded, amazed.

"Malebait again. Good choice, no one would ever

think I knew what a blade was for. Or that I ever

thought of anything but men and clothing, not

necessarily in that order. You don't want to see

my partner." Her voice was still in Tarma's grav-

elly tones; Grumio assumed that that was only so

he'd recognize her. "We don't want you to have to

strain your acting ability tomorrow. Did you bring

everything we asked for?"

"It's all here," he replied, still not believing what

his eyes were telling him. "I weighted the boxes

with sand and stones so that they won't seem

empty."

"You've got a good head on you, merchant," Tarma

saluted him as she unharnessed the horse. "That's

something I didn't think of. Best you leave now,

though, before somebody comes looking for you."

He jumped down off the wagon, taking the reins

of his riding beast.

"And merchant—" she called as he rode off into

the night, "—wish us luck."

He didn't have to act the next morning, when a

delicate and aristocratically frail lady of obvious

noble birth accosted him in his shop, and ordered

him (although it was framed as a request) to in-

clude her in his packtrain. In point of fact, had he

not recognized the dress and fur cloak she was

wearing, he would have taken her for a real aristo,

one who, by some impossible coincidence, had taken

the same notion into her head that the swordswoman

had proposed as a ruse. This sylphlike, sleepy-eyed

creature with her elaborately coiffed hair of plati-

num silk bore no resemblance at all to the very

vibrant and earthy sorceress he'd hired.

And though he was partially prepared by having

seen her briefly the night before, Tarma (posing as

milady's maid) still gave him a shock. He saw why

she called the disguise "malebait"—this amply-

endowed blonde was a walking invitation to impro-

priety, and nothing like the sexless Sworn One. All

that remained of Tarma were the blue eyes, one of

which winked cheerfully at him, to bring him out

of his shock.

Grumio argued vehemently with the highborn

dame for the better part of an hour, and all to no

avail. Undaunted, he carried his expostulations out

into the street, still trying to persuade her to change

her mind even as the packtrain formed up in front

of his shop. The entire town was privy to the argu-

ment by that time.

"Lady, I beg you—reconsider!" he was saying

anxiously. "Wait for the King's Patrol. They have

promised to return soon and in force, since the

bandits have not ceased raiding us, and I'm morally

certain they'll be willing to escort you."

"My thanks for your concern, merchant," she

replied with a gentle and bored haughtiness, "But I

fear my business cannot wait till their return. Be-

sides, what is there about me that could possibly

tempt a bandit?"

Those whose ears were stretched to catch this

conversation could easily sympathize with Grumio's

silent—but obvious—plea to the gods for patience,

as they noted the lady's jewels, fine garments, the

weight of the cart holding her possessions, and the

well-bred mares she and her maid rode.

The lady turned away from him before he could

continue; a clear gesture of dismissal, so he held

his tongue. In stony silence he watched the train

form up, with the lady and her maid in the center.

Since they had no driver for the cart—though he'd

offered to supply one—the lead-rein of the carthorse

had been fastened to the rear packhorse's harness.

Surmounting the chests and boxes in the cart was a

toothless old dog, apparently supposed to be guard-

ing her possessions and plainly incapable of guard-

ing anything anymore. The leader of the train's six

guards took his final instructions from his master,

and the train lurched off down the Trade Road. As

Grumio watched them disappear into the distance,

he could be seen to shake his head in disapproval.

Had anyone been watching very closely—though

no one was—they might have noticed the lady's

fingers moving in a complicated pattern. Had there

been any mages present—which wasn't the case—

said mage might have recognized the pattern as

belonging to the Spell of True Sight. If illusion was

involved, it would not be blinding Kethry.

"One among the guardsmen

Has a shifting, restless eye

And as they ride, he scans the hills

That rise against the sky.

He wears a sword and bracelet

Worth more than he can afford

And hidden in his baggage

Is a heavy, secret hoard."

One of the guards was contemplating the lady's

assets with a glee and greed that equaled his mas-

ter's dismay. His expression, carefully controlled,

seemed to be remote and impassive; only his rap-

idly shifting gaze and the nervous flicker of his

tongue over dry lips gave any clue to his thoughts.

Behind those remote eyes, a treacherous mind was

making a careful inventory of every jewel and visi-

ble possession and calculating their probable values.

When the lady's skirt lifted briefly to display a

tantalizing glimpse of white leg, his control broke

enough that he bit his lip. She was one prize he

intended to reserve for himself; he'd never been

this close to a highborn woman before, and he in-

tended to find out if certain things he'd heard about

bedding them were true. The others were going to

have to be content with the ample charms of the

serving maid, at least until he'd tired of the mis-

tress. At least there wouldn't be all that caterwauling

and screeching there'd been with the merchant

wenches. That maid looked as if she'd had a man

betwixt her legs plenty of times before, and en-

joyed it, too. She'd probably thank him for livening

up her life when he turned her over to the men!

He had thought at first that this was going to be

another trap, especially after he'd heard that old

Grumio had tried to hire a pair of highly-touted

mercenary women to rid him of the bandits. One

look at the lady and her maid, however, had con-

vinced him that not only was it absurd to think

that they could be wary hire-swords in disguise,

but that they probably didn't even know which end

of a blade to hold. The wench flirted and teased

each of the men in turn. Her mind was obviously

on something other than ambushes and weaponry—

unless those ambushes were amorous, and the weap-

onry of flesh. The lady herself seemed to ride in a

half-aware dream, and her maid often had to break

off a flirtation in order to ride forward and steady

her in the saddle.

Perhaps she was a tran-dust sniffer, or there was

faldis-juice mixed in with the water in the skin on

her saddle-bow. That would be an unexpected bo-

nus; she was bound to have a good supply of it

among her belongings, and drugs were worth more

than jewels. And it would be distinctly interesting—

his eyes glinted cruelly—to have her begging him

on her knees for her drugs as withdrawal set in.

Assuming, of course, that she survived that long.

He passed his tongue over lips gone dry with antic-

ipation. Tomorrow he would give the scouts trail-

ing the packtrain the signal to attack.

"Of three things be wary—

Of a feather on a cat,

The shepherd eating mutton

And the guardsman that is fat."

The lady and her companion made camp a dis-

creet distance from the rest of the caravan, as was

only to be expected. She would hardly have a taste

for sharing their rough camp, rude talk or coarse

food.

Kethry's shoulders sagged with fatigue beneath

the weight of her heavy cloak, and she was chilled

to the bone in spite of its fur lining.

"Are you all right?" Tarma whispered sharply

when she hadn't spoken for several minutes.

"Just tired. I never thought that holding up five

illusions would be so hard. Three aren't half so

difficult to keep intact." She leaned her forehead

on one hand, rubbing her temples with cold fingers.

"I wish it was over."

Tarma pressed a bowl into her other hand. Duti-

fully, she tried to eat, but the sand and dust that

had plagued their progress all day had crept into

the food as well. It was too dry and gritty to swal-

low easily, and after one attempt, Kethry felt too

weary to make any further effort. She laid the bowl

aside, unobtrusively—or so she hoped.

Faint hope.

"Sweeting, if you don't eat by yourself, I'm going

to pry your mouth open and pour your dinner down

your throat." Tarma's expression was cloyingly

sweet, and the tone of her shifted voice dulcet.

Kethry was roused enough to smile a little. When

she was this wearied with the exercise of her mag-

ics, she had to be bullied into caring for herself.

When she'd been on her own, she'd sometimes had

to spend days recovering from the damages she'd

inflicted on her body by neglecting it. Tarma had

her badly worried lately with all the cosseting she'd

been doing—like she was trying to keep Kethry

wrapped safely in lambswool all the time—but at

this moment Kethry was rather glad to have the

cosseting. In fact, it was at moments like this that

she valued Tarma's untiring affection and aid the

most.

"What, and ruin our disguises?" she retorted with

a little more life.

"There's nothing at all out of the ordinary in an

attentive maid helping her poor, sick mistress to

eat. They already think there's something wrong

with you. Half of them think you're ill, the other

half think you're in a drug-daze," Tarma replied.

"They all think you've got nothing between your

ears but air."

Kethry capitulated, picked up her dinner, and

forced it down, grit and all.

"Now," Tarma said, when they'd both finished

eating. "I know you've spotted a suspect, I can tell

by the way you're watching the guards. Tell me

which one it is; I'd be very interested to see if it's

the same one I've got my eye on."

"It's the one with the mouse-brown hair and ratty

face that rode tail-guard this morning."

Tarma's eyes widened a little, but she gave no

other sign of surprise. "Did you say brown hair?

And a ratty face? Tailguard this morning had black

hair and a pouty, babyish look to him."

Kethry revived a bit more. "Really? Are you talk-

ing about the one walking between us and their fire

right now? The one with all the jewelry? And does

he seem to be someone you know very vaguely?"

"Yes. One of the hired swords with the horse-

traders my Clan used to deal with—I think his

name was Tedric. Why?"

Kethry unbuckled a small ornamental dagger from

her belt and passed it to Tarma with exaggerated

care. Tarma claimed it with the same caution, cau-

tion that was quite justified, since the "dagger" was

in reality Kethry's sword Need, no matter what

shape it wore at the moment. Beneath the illusion,

it still retained its original mass and weight.

"Now look at him."

Tarma cast a surreptitious glance at the guard

again, and her lips tightened. Even when it was

done by magic, she didn't like being tricked. "Mouse-

brown hair and a ratty face," she said. "He changed."

She returned the blade to Kethry.

"And now?" Kethry asked, when Need was safely

back on her belt.

"Now that's odd," Tarma said thoughtfully. "If

he's using an illusion, he should have gone back to

the way he looked before, but he didn't. He's still

mousy and ratty, but my eyes feel funny—like some-

thing's pulling at them—and he's blurred a bit

around the edges. It's almost as if his face was

trying to look different from what I'm seeing."

"Uh-huh. Mind-magic," Kethry said, with satis-

faction. "So that's why I wasn't able to detect any

spells! It's not a true illusion like I'm holding on us.

They practice mind-magic a lot more up north in

Valdemar—I think I must have told you about it at

some time or other. I'm only marginally familiar

with the way it works, since it doesn't operate

quite like what I've learned. If what I've been told

is true, his mind is telling your mind that you know

him, and letting your memory supply an acceptable

face. He could very well look like a different person

to everyone in the caravan, but since he always

looks familiar, any of them would be willing to

vouch for him."

"Which is how he keeps sneaking into the pack-

trains. He looks different each time, since no one is

likely to 'see' a man they know is dead. Very clever.

You say this isn't a spell?"

"Mind-magic depends on inborn abilities to work;

if you haven't got them, you can't learn it. It's

unlike my magic, where it's useful to have the Gift,

but not necessary. Was he the same one you were

watching?"

"He is, indeed. So your True Sight spell works on

this 'mind-magic' too?"

"Yes, thank the gods. I'm glad now I didn't rely

on mage-sight; he would have fooled that. What

tipped you off to him?"

"Nothing terribly obvious, just a lot of little things

that weren't quite right for the ordinary guard he's

pretending to be. His sword is a shade too expen-

sive. His horse has been badly misused, but he's a

gelding of very good lines; he's of much better

breeding than a common guard should own. And

lastly, he's wearing jewelry he can't afford."

Kethry looked puzzled. "Several of the other

guards are wearing just as much. I thought most

hired swords wore their savings."

"So they do. Thing is, of the others, the only ones

with as much or more are either the guard-chief, or

ones wearing mostly brass and glass; showy, meant

to impress village tarts, but worthless. His is all

real, and the quality is high. Too damned high for

the likes of him."

"Now that we know who to watch, what do we

do?"

"We wait," Tarma replied with a certain grim

satisfaction. "He'll have to signal the rest of his

troupe to attack us sooner or later, and one of us

should be able to spot him at it. With luck and the

Warrior on our side, we'll have enough warning to

be ready for them."

"I hope it's sooner." Kethry sipped at the well-

watered wine which was all she'd allow herself

when holding spells in place. Her eyes were heavy,

dry, and sore. "I'm not sure how much longer I can

hold up my end."

"Then go to sleep, dearling," Tarma's voice held

an unusual gentleness, a gentleness only Kethry,

Warrl, and small children ever saw. "Fur-face and

I can take turns on night watch; you needn't take a

turn at all."

Kethry did not need further urging, but wrapped

herself up in her cloak and a blanket, pillowed her

head on her arm and fell asleep with the sudden-

ness of a tired puppy. The illusions she'd woven

would remain intact even while she slept. Only

three things could cause them to fail. They'd break

if she broke them herself, if the pressure of spells

from a greater sorcerer than she were brought to

bear on them, or if she died. Her training had been

arduous, and quite thorough; as complete in its

way as Tarma's sword training had been.

Seeing her shiver in her sleep, Tarma built up

the fire with a bit more dried dung (the leavings of

previous caravans were all the fuel to be found out

here) and covered her with the rest of the spare

blankets. The illusions were draining energy from

Kethry, and she got easily chilled; Tarma didn't

expect to need the other coverings. She knew she'd

be quite comfortable with one blanket and her cloak;

and if that didn't suffice, Warrl made an excellent

"bedwarmer."

Warrior, guard her back, she prayed, as she had

every night lately. I can guard my own—but keep her

safe.

But the night passed uneventfully, despite Tarma's

vague worries.

Morning saw them riding deeper into the stony

hills that ringed the desert basin they'd spent the

day before passing through. The road was consider-

ably less dusty now, but the air held more of a

chill. Both Tarma and Kethry tried to keep an eye

on their suspect guard, and shortly before noon

their vigilance was rewarded. Both of them saw

him flashing the sunlight off his armband in what

could only be a deliberate series of signals.

"From ambush, bandits screaming

Charge the packtrain and its prize

And all but four within the train

Are taken by surprise

And all but four are cut down

Like a woodsman fells a log

The guardsman, and the lady,

And the maiden and the dog.

Three things know a secret—

First; the lady in a dream;

The dog that barks no warning

And the maid that does not scream."

Even with advance warning, they hadn't much

time to ready themselves.

Bandits charged the packtrain from both sides of

the road, screaming at the tops of their lungs. The

guards were taken completely by surprise. The three

apprentice traders accompanying the train flung

themselves down on their faces as their master

Grumio had ordered them to do in hopes that they'd

be overlooked. To the bandit master at the rear of

the train, it seemed that once again all had gone

completely according to plan.

Until Kethry broke her illusions.

"Then off the lady pulls her cloak—

In armor she is clad

Her sword is out and ready

And her eyes are fierce and glad

The maiden gestures briefly

And the dog's a cur no more.

A wolf, sword-maid, and sorceress

Now face the bandit corps!

Three things never anger,

Or you will not live for long—

A wolf with cubs, a man with power,

And a woman's sense of wrong."

The brigands at the forefront of the pack found

themselves facing something they hadn't remotely

expected. Gone were the helpless, frightened women

on high-bred steeds too fearful to run. In their

place sat a pair of well-armed, grim-faced merce-

naries on schooled warbeasts. With them was an

oversized and very hungry-looking kyree.

The pack of bandits milled, brought to a halt by

this unexpected development.

Finally one of the bigger ones growled a chal-

lenge at Tarma, who only grinned evilly at him.

Kethry saluted them with mocking gallantry—and

the pair moved into action explosively.

They split up and charged the marauders, giving

them no time to adjust to the altered situation. The

bandits had hardly expected the fight to be carried

to them, and reacted too late to stop them. Their

momentum carried them through the pack and up

onto the hillsides on either side of the road. Now

they had the high ground.

* * *

Kethry had drawn Need, whose magic was ena-

bling her to keep herself intact long enough to find

a massive boulder to put her back against. The long

odds were actually favoring the two of them for the

moment, since the bandits were mostly succeeding

only in getting in each other's way. Obviously they

had not been trained to fight together, and had

done well so far largely because of the surprise

with which they'd attacked and their sheer num-

bers. Once Kethry had gained her chosen spot, she

slid off her horse, and sent it off with a slap to its

rump. The mottled, huge-headed beast was as ugly

as a piece of rough granite, and twice as tough, but

she was a Shin'a'in-bred and trained warsteed, and

worth the weight in silver of the high-bred mare

she'd been spelled to resemble. Now that Kethry

was on the ground, she'd attack anything whose

scent she didn't recognize—and quite probably kill

it.

Warrl came to her side long enough to give her

the time she needed to transfer her sword to her

left hand and begin calling up her more arcane

offensive weaponry.

In the meantime, Tarma was in her element,

cutting a bloody swath through the bandit horde

with a fiercely joyous gleam in her eyes. She

clenched her mare's belly with viselike legs; only

one trained in Shin'a'in-style horse-warfare from

childhood could possibly have stayed with the beast.

The mare was laying all about her with iron-shod

hooves and enormous yellow teeth; neither animal

nor man was likely to escape her once she'd tar-

geted him. She had an uncanny sense for anyone

trying to get to her rider by disabling her; once she

twisted and bucked like a cat on hot metal to simul-

taneously crush the bandit in front of her while

kicking in the teeth of the one that had thought to

hamstring her from the rear. She accounted for at

least as many of the bandits as Tarma did.

Tarma saw Kethry's mare rear and slash out of

the corner of her eye; the saddle was empty—

She sent a brief, worried thought at Warrl.

Guard yourself, foolish child; she's doing better than

you are! came the mental rebuke. Tarma grimaced,

realizing she should have known better. The bond

of she'enedran made them bound by spirit, and she'd

have known if anything was wrong. Since the mare

was fighting on her own, Kethry must have found

someplace high enough to see over the heads of

those around her.

As if to confirm this, things like ball-lightning

began appearing and exploding, knocking bandits

from their horses, clouds of red mist began to wreath

the heads of others (who clutched their throats and

turned interesting colors), and oddly formed creatures

joined Warrl at harrying and biting at those on foot.

When that began, especially after one spectacular

fireball left a pile of smoking ash in place of the

bandit's second-in-command, it was more than the

remainder of the band could stand up to. Their

easy prey had turned into hellspawn, and there

was nothing that could make them stay to face any-

thing more. The ones that were still mounted turned

their horses out of the melee and fled for their

lives. Tarma and the three surviving guards took

care of the rest.

As for the bandit chief, who had sat his horse in

stupefied amazement from the moment the fight

turned against them, he suddenly realized his own

peril and tried to escape with the rest. Kethry,

however, had never once forgotten him. Her bolt of

power—intended this time to stun, not kill—took

him squarely in the back of the head.

"The bandits growl a challenge,

But the lady only grins.

The sorceress bows mockingly,

And then the fight begins

When it ends there are but four

Left standing from that horde—

The witch, the wolf, the traitor,

And the woman with the sword.

Three things never trust in—

The maiden sworn as pure,

The vows a king has given

And the ambush that is 'sure.' "

By late afternoon the heads of the bandits had

been piled in a grisly cairn by the side of the road

as a mute reminder to their fellows of the eventual

reward of banditry. Their bodies had been dragged

off into the hills for the scavengers to quarrel over.

Tarma had supervised the cleanup, the three ap-

prentices serving as her workforce. There had been

a good deal of stomach-purging on their part at

first—especially after the way Tarma had casually

lopped off the heads of the dead or wounded

bandits—but they'd obeyed her without question.

Tarma had had to hide her snickering behind her

hand, for they looked at her whenever she gave

them a command as though they feared that their

heads might well adorn the cairn if they lagged or

slacked.

She herself had seen to the wounds of the surviv-

ing guards, and the burial of the two dead ones.

One of the guards could still ride; the other two

were loaded into the now-useless cart after the

empty boxes had been thrown out of it. Tarma

ordered the whole caravan back to town; she and

Kethry planned to catch up with them later, after

some unfinished business had been taken care of.

Part of that unfinished business was the filling

and marking of the dead guards' graves.

Kethry brought her a rag to wipe her hands with

when she'd finished. "Damn. I wish—oh, hellspawn;

they were just honest hired swords," she said, look-

ing at the stone cairns she'd built with remote

regret. "It wasn't their fault we didn't have a

chance to warn them. Maybe they shouldn't have let

themselves be surprised like that, not with what's

been happening to the packtrains lately—but still,

your life's a pretty heavy price to pay for a little

carelessness...."

Kethry, her energy back to normal now that she

was no longer being drained by her illusions, slipped

a sympathetic arm around Tarma's shoulders. "Come

on, she'enedra. 1 want to show you something that

might make you feel a little better."

While Tarma had gone to direct the cleanup,

Kethry had been engaged in stripping the bandit

chief down to his skin and readying his uncon-

scious body for some sort of involved sorcery. Tarma

knew she'd had some sort of specific punishment

in mind from the time she'd heard about the stolen

girls, but she'd had no idea of what it was.

"They've stripped the traitor naked

And they've whipped him on his way

Into the barren hillsides,

Like the folk he used to slay.

They take a thorough vengeance

For the women he's cut down

And then they mount their horses

And they journey back to town.

Three things trust and cherish well—

The horse on which you ride,

The beast that guards and watches

And your sister at your side!"

Now before her was a bizarre sight. Tied to the

back of one of the bandit's abandoned horses was—

apparently—the unconscious body of the highborn

lady Kethry had spelled herself to resemble. She

was clad only in a few rags, and had a bruise on one

temple, but otherwise looked to be unharmed.

Tarma circled the tableau slowly. There was no

flaw in the illusion, if indeed it was an illusion.

"Unbelievable," she said at last. "That is him,

isn't it?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. One of my best pieces of work."

"Will it hold without you around to maintain

it?"

"It'll hold all right," Kethry replied with deep

satisfaction. "That's part of the beauty and the

justice of the thing. The illusion is irretrievably

melded with his own mind-magic. He'll never be

able to break it himself, and no reputable sorcerer

will break it for him. And I promise you, the only

sorcerers for weeks in any direction are quite

reputable."

"Why wouldn't he be able to get one to break it

for him?"

"Because I've signed it." Kethry made a small

gesture, and two symbols appeared for a moment

above the bandit's head. One was the symbol Tarma

knew to be Kethry's sigil, the other was the glyph

for "Justice." "Any attempt to probe the spell will

make those appear. I doubt that anyone will ignore

the judgment sign, and even if they were inclined

to, I think my reputation is good enough to make

most sorcerers think twice about undoing what I've

done."

"You really didn't change him, did you?" Tarma

asked, a horrible thought occurring to her. "I mean,

if he's really a woman now . .."

"Bright Lady, what an awful paradox we'd have!"

Kethry laughed, easing Tarma's mind considerably.

"We punish him for what he's done to women by

turning him into a woman—but as a woman, we'd

now be honor-bound to protect him! No, don't worry.

Under the illusion—and it's a very complete illu-

sion, by the way, it extends to all senses—he's still

quite male."

She gave the horse's rump a whack, breaking the

light enchantment that had held it quiet, and it

bucked a little, scrabbling off into the barren hills.

"The last of the band went that way," she said,

pointing after the beast, "And the horse he's on

will follow their scent back to where they've made

their camp. Of course, none of his former followers

will have any notion that he's anything other than

what he appears to be."

A wicked smile crept across Tarma's face. It

matched the one already curving Kethry's lips.

"I wish I could be there when he arrives," Tarma

said with a note of viciousness in her harsh voice.

"It's bound to be interesting."

"He'll certainly get exactly what he deserves."

Kethry watched the horse vanish over the crest of

the hill. "I wonder how he'll like being on the

receiving end?"

"I know somebody who will like this—and I can't

wait to see his face when you tell him."

"Grumio?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You know," Kethry replied thoughtfully, "this

was almost worth doing for free."

"She'enedra!" Tarma exclaimed in mock horror.

"Your misplaced honor will have us starving yet!

We're supposed to be mercenaries!"

"I said almost." Kethry joined in her partner's

gravelly laughter. "Come on. We've got pay to col-

lect. You know—this just might end up as some

bard's song."

"It might at that," Tarma chuckled "And what

will you bet me that he gets the tale all wrong?"

"Not only that—but given bards, I can almost

guarantee that it will only get worse with age."

Nine

The aged, half-blind mage blinked confused,

rheumy eyes at his visitor. The man—or was it

woman?—looked as awful as the mage felt. Blood-

shot and dark-circled eyes glared at him from un-

der the concealing shelter of a moth-eaten hood and

several scarves. A straggle of hair that looked first

to be dirty mouse-brown, then silver-blond, then

brown again, strayed into those staring eyes. Nor

did the eyes stay the same from one moment to the

next; they turned blue, then hazel, then back to

amethyst-blue. Try as he would, the mage could

not make his own eyes focus properly, and light

from a lanthorn held high in one of the visitor's

hands was doing nothing to alleviate his befuddle-

ment. The mage had never seen a human that pre-

sented such a contradictory appearance. She (he?)

was a shapeless bundle of filthy, lice-ridden rags;

what flesh there was to be seen displayed the yellow-

green of healing bruises. Yet he had clearly seen

gold pass to the hands of his landlord when that

particular piece of human offal had unlocked the

mage's door. Gold didn't come often to this part of

town—and it came far less often borne by a hand

clothed in rags.

He (she?) had forced his (her?) way into the

verminous garret hole that was all the mage could

call home now without so much as a by-your-leave,

shouldering the landlord aside and closing the door

firmly afterward. So this stranger was far more

interested in privacy than in having the landlord

there as a possible backup in case the senile wizard

proved recalcitrant. That was quite enough to be-

wilder the mage, but the way his visitor kept shift-

ing from male to female and back again was bidding

fair to dizzy what few wits still remained to him

and was nearly leaving him too muddled to speak.

Besides that, the shapeshifting was giving him

one gods-awful headache.

"Go 'way—" he groaned feelingly, shadowing his

eyes both from the unsettling sight and from the

too-bright glare of the lanthorn his visitor still held

aloft. "—leave an old man alone! I haven't got a

thing left to steal—"

He was all too aware of his pitiful state; his robe

stained and frayed, his long gray beard snarled and

unkempt, his eyes so bloodshot and yellowed that

no one could tell their color anymore. He was housed

in an equally pitiful manner; this garret room had

been rejected by everyone, no matter how poor,

except himself; it was scarcely better than sleeping

in the street. It leaked when it rained, turned into

an oven in summer and a meat-locker in winter,

and the wind whistled through cracks in the walls

big enough to stick a finger in. His only furnishings

were a pile of rags that served as a bed, and a

rickety stool. Beneath him he could feel the ram-

shackle building swaying in the wind, and the move-

ment was contributing to his headache. The boards

of the walls creaked and complained, each in a

different key. He knew he should have been used to

it by now, but he wasn't; the crying wood rasped

his nerves raw and added mightily to his disorien-

tation. The multiple drafts made the lanthorn flame

flicker, even inside its glass chimney. The resulting

dancing shadows didn't help his befuddlement.

"I'm not here to steal, old fraud."

Even the voice of the visitor was a confusing

amalgam of male and female.

"I've brought you something."

The other hand emerged from the rags, bearing

an unmistakable emerald-green bottle. The hand

jiggled the bottle a little, and the contents sloshed

enticingly. The rags slipped, and a trifle more of

his visitor's face was revealed.

But the mage was only interested now in the

bottle. Lethe! He forgot his perplexity, his befogged

mind, and his headache as he hunched forward on

his pallet of decaying rags, reaching eagerly for the

bottle of drug-wine that had been his downfall.

Every cell ached for the blessed/damned touch of

it—

"Oh, no." The visitor backed out of reach, and

the mage felt the shame of weak tears spilling down

his cheeks. "First you give me what I want, then I

give you this."

The mage sagged back into bis pile of rags. "I

have nothing."

"It's not what you have, old fraud, it's what you

were."

"What... I.. .was...."

"You were a mage, and a good one—or so they

claim. That was before you let this stuff rob you of

your wits until they cast you out of the Guild to

rot. But there damn well ought to be enough left of

you for my purposes."

By steadfastly looking, not at the visitor, but at

the bottle, the mage was managing to collect his

scattering thoughts. "What purpose?"

The visitor all but screamed bis answer. "To take

off this curse, old fool! Are your wits so far gone you

can't even see what's in front of you?"

A curse—of course! No wonder his visitor kept

shifting and changing! It wasn't the person that

was shifting, but his own sight, switching errati-

cally between normal vision and mage-sight. Nor-

mal vision showed him the woman; when the rags

slipped a little more, she seemed to be a battered,

but still lovely little toy of a creature—amethyst-

eyed and platinum-haired—

Mage-sight showed him an equally abused but far

from lovely man; sallow and thin, battered, but by

no means beaten—a man wearing the kind of smol-

dering scowl that showed he was holding in rage by

the thinnest of bonds.

So the "curse" could only be illusion, but a very

powerful and carefully cast illusion. There was some-

thing magic-smelling about the man-woman, too;

the illusion was linked to and being fueled by that

magic. The mage furrowed his brow, then tested

the weave of the magic that formed the illusion. It

was a more than competent piece of work; and it

was complete to all senses. It was far superior to

anything the mage had produced even in his best

days. In his present condition—to duplicate it so

that he could lay new illusion over old would be

impossible; to turn it or transfer it beyond even his

former level of skill. He never even considered trying

to take it off. To break it was beyond the best mage

in Oberdorn, much less the broken-down wreck he

had become.

Eyeing the bottle with passionate longing and

despair, he said as much.

To his surprise the man accepted the bad news

with a nod. "That's what they told me," he said.

"But they told me something else. What a human

mage couldn't break, a demon might."

"A ... demon?" The mage licked his lips; the

bottle of Lethe was again within his grasp. "I used

to be able to summon demons. I still could, I think.

But it wouldn't be easy." That was untrue; the

summoning of demons had been one of his lesser

skills. It was still easily within his capabilities. But

it required specialized tools and ingredients he no

longer had the means to procure. And it was pro-

scribed by the Guild....

He'd tried to raise a minor impling to steal him

Lethe-wine when his money had run out; that was

when the Guild had discovered what he'd fallen

prey to. That was the main reason they'd cast him

out, destroying his tools and books; a mage brought

so low as to use his skills for personal theft was no

longer trustworthy. Especially not one that could

summon demons. Demons were clever and had the

minds of sharp lawyers when it came to wriggling

out of the bonds that had been set on them; that

was why raising them was proscribed for any single

mage of the Guild, and doubly proscribed for one

who might have doubts as to his own mental com-

petence at the time of the conjuration.

Of course, he was no longer bound by Guild laws

since he was outcaste. And if this stranger could

provide the wherewithal, the tools and the sup-

plies, it could be easily done.

"Just tell me what you need, old man—I'll get it

for you." The haggard, grimy face was avid, eager.

"You bring me a demon to break this curse, and the

bottle's yours."

Two days later, they stood in the cellar of the

old, rotten mansion whose garret the mage called

home. The cellar was in no better repair than the

rest of the house; it was moldy and stank, and

water-marks on the walls showed why no one cared

to live there. Not only did the place flood every

time it rained, but moisture was constantly seeping

through the walls, and water trickled down from

the roof-cisterns to drip from the beams overhead.

Bright sparks of light glinted just beyond the circle

of illumination cast by the lanthorn, the gleaming

eyes of starveling rats and mice, perched curiously

on the decaying shelves that clung to the walls.

The scratching of their claws seemed to echo the

scratching of the mage's chalks on the cracked slate

floor.

The man-woman sat impatiently on the remains

of a cask off to one side, careful not to disturb the

work at hand. It had already cost him dearly—in

gold and blood. Some of the things the mage had

demanded had been bought, but most had been

stolen. The former owners were often no longer in

a condition to object to the disposition of their

property.

From time to time the mage would glance search-

ingly up at him, make a tiny motion with his hand,

frown with concentration, then return to his drawing.

After the fourth time this had happened, the

stranger wet his lips with a nervous tongue, and

asked, "Why do you keep doing that? Looking at

me, I mean."

The mage blinked and stood up slowly, his back

aching from the strain of staying bent over for so

long. His red-rimmed, teary eyes focused to one

side of the man, for he still found it difficult to look

directly at him.

"It's the spell that's on you," he replied after a

moment to collect his thoughts. "I don't know of a

demon strong enough to break a spell that well

made."

The man jumped to his feet, reaching for a sword

he had left back in the mage's room because the old

man had warned him against bearing cold steel into

a demon's presence. "You old bastard!" he snarled.

"You told me—"

"I told you I could call one—and I can. I just

don't know one. Your best chance is if I can call a

demon with a specific grudge against the maker of

the spell—"

"What if there isn't one?"

"There will be," the mage shrugged. "Anyone

who goes about laying curses like yours and leaving

justice-glyphs behind to seal them is bound to have

angered either a demon or someone who commands

one. At any rate, since you want to know, I've been

testing the edges of your curse to make the mage-

rune appear. I'm working that into the summoning.

Since I don't know which demon to call, the sum-

moning' will take longer than usual to bear fruit,

but the results will be the same. The demon will

appear, one with a reason to help you, and you'll

bargain with it for the breaking of your curse."

"Me?" The stranger was briefly taken aback. "Why

me? Why not you?"

"Because it isn't my curse. I don't give a damn

whether it's broken or not. I told you I'd summon a

demon—I didn't say I'd bind him. That takes more

skill—and certainly more will—than I possess any-

more. My bargain with you was simple—one de-

mon, one bottle of Lethe. Once it's here, you can do

your own haggling."

The man smiled; it was far more of a grimace

than an expression of pleasure. "All right, old fraud.

Work your spell. I'd sooner trust my wits than yours

anyway."

The mage returned to his scribbling, filling the

entire area lit by the lanthorn suspended overhead

with odd little drawings and scrawls that first

pulled, then repelled the eyes. Finally he seemed

satisfied, gathered his stained, ragged robes about

him with care, and picked a dainty path through

the maze of chalk. He stood up straight just on the

border of the inscriptions, raised his arms high,

and intoned a peculiarly resonant chant.

At that moment, he bordered on the impressive—

though the effect was somewhat spoiled by the

water dripping off the beams of the ceiling, falling

onto his balding head and running off the end of

his long nose.

The last syllable echoed from the dank walls.

The man-woman waited in anticipation.

Nothing happened.

"Well?" the stranger said with slipping patience,

"Is that all there is to it?"

"I told you it would take time—perhaps as much

as an hour. Don't fret yourself, you'll have your

demon."

The mage cast longing glances at the shadow-

shrouded bottle on the floor beside his visitor as he

mopped his head with one begrimed, stained sleeve.

The woman-man noted the direction his atten-

tion was laid, thought for a moment, weighing the

mage's efforts, and smiled mirthlessly. "All right,

old fraud—I guess you've earned it. Come and get

it."

The mage didn't wait for a second invitation, or

give the man-woman a chance to take the reluctant

consent back. He scrambled forward, tripping over

the tattered edges of his robes, and sagged to his

knees as he snatched the bottle greedily.

He had it open in a trice, and began sucking at

the neck like a calf at the udder, eyes closing and

face slackening in mindless ecstasy. Within mo-

ments he was near-collapsing to the floor, half-

empty bottle cradled in his arms, oblivion in his

eyes.

His visitor walked over with a softly sinister tread

and prodded him with a toe. "You'd better have

worked this right, you old bastard," he muttered,

"Or you won't be waking—"

His last words were swallowed in the sudden

roar, like the howl of a tornado, that rose without

warning behind him. As he spun to face the area of

inscriptions, that whole section of floor burst into

sickening blood-red and hellish green flame; flame

that scorched his face, though it did nothing to

harm the beams of the ceiling. He jumped back,

frightened in spite of his bold resolutions to fear

nothing.

But before he touched the ground again, a mon-

strous, clawed hand formed itself out of the flame

and slapped him back against the rear wall of the

cellar. A second hand, the color of molten bronze,

reached for the oblivious mage.

A face worse than anything from the realm of

nightmare materialized from the flame between the

two hands. A neck, arms, and torso followed. The

hands brought the mage within the fire—the visitor

coughed on the stench of the old man's robes and

beard scorching. There was no doubt that the fire

was real, no matter that it left the ceiling intact.

The mage woke from his drugged trance, screaming

in mindless pain and terror. The smell of his flesh

and garments burning was spreading through the

cellar, and reached even to where the man-woman

lay huddled against the dank wall; he choked and

gagged at the horrible reek.

And the thing in the flames calmly bit the mage's

head off, like a child with a gingerbread manikin.

It was too much for even the man-woman to en-

dure. He rolled to one side and puked up the entire

contents of his stomach. When he looked up again,

eyes watering and the taste of bile in his mouth,

the thing was staring at him, licking the blood off

its hands.

He swallowed as his gorge rose again, and waited

for the thing to take him for dessert.

"You smell of magic." The thing's voice was like

a dozen bells ringing; bells just slightly out-of-tune

with one another. It made the man-woman nau-

seous and disoriented, but he swallowed again and

tried to, answer.

"I... have a curse."

"So I see. I assume that was why I was sum-

moned here. Well, unless we enter into an agree-

ment, I have no choice but to remain here or return

to the Abyssal Planes. Talk to me, puny one; I do

not desire the latter."

"How—why did you—the old man—"

"I dislike being coerced, and your friend made

the mistake of remaining within reach of the circle.

But I have, as yet, no quarrel with you. I take it you

wish to be rid of what you bear. Will you bargain to

have your curse broken? What can you offer me?"

"Gold?"

The demon laughed, molten-gold eyes slitted. "I

have more than that in mind."

"Sacrifice? Death?"

"I can have those intangibles readily enough on

my own—starting with yours. You are within my

reach also."

The man-woman thought frantically. "The curse

was cast by one you have reason to hate."

"This should make me love you?"

"It should make us allies, at least. I could offer

revenge—"

"Now you interest me." The demon's eyes slitted.

"Come closer, little man."

The man-woman clutched his rags about himself

and ventured nearer, step by cautious step.

"A quaint curse. Why?"

"To make me a victim. It succeeded. It was not

intended that I survive the experience."

"I can imagine." A cruel smile parted the de-

mon's lips. "A pretty thing you are; didn't care for

being raped, hmm?"

The man-woman's face flamed. He felt the de-

mon inside of his mind, picking over all of his

memories of the past year, lingering painfully over

several he'd rather have died than seen revealed.

Anger and shame almost replaced his fear.

The demon's smile grew wider. "Or did you be-

gin to care for it after all?"

"Get out of my mind, you bastard!" He stifled what-

ever else he had been about to scream, wondering if

he'd just written his own death-glyph.

"I think I like you, little man. How can you give

me revenge?"

He took a deep breath, and tried to clear his

mind. "I know where they are, the sorceress and

her partner. I know how to lure them here—and I

have a plan to take them when they come—"

"I have many such plans—but I did not know

how to bring them within my grasp. Good." The

demon nodded. "I think perhaps we have a bargain.

I shall give you the form you need to make you

powerful against them, and I shall let you bring

them here. Come, and I will work the magic to

change you, and free myself with the sealing of our

bargain. I must touch you—"

The man-woman approached the very edge of the

flames, cautious and apprehensive in spite of the

demon's assurance that he would bargain. He still

did not entirely trust this creature—and he more

than certainly still feared its power. The demon

reached out with one long, molten-bronze talon,

and briefly caressed the side of his face.

The stranger screamed in agony, for it felt as if

that single touch had set every nerve afire. He

wrapped his arms over his head and face, folded

slowly at the waist and knees, still crying out; and

finally collapsed to the floor, huddled in his rags,

quivering. Had there been anything left in his stom-

ach, he would have lost it then.

The demon waited, as patient as a snake, drink-

ing in the tingles of power and the heady aura of

agony that the man was exuding. He bent over the

shaking pile of rags in avid curiosity, waiting for

the moment when the pain of transformation would

pass. His expression was oddly human—the same

expression to be seen on the face of a cruel child

watching the gyrations of a beetle from which it

has pulled all the legs but one.

The huddled, trembling creature at the edge of

his flames slowly regained control of itself. The

quivering ceased; rags rose a little, then moved

again with more purpose. Long, delicate arms ap-

peared from the huddle, and pushed away from the

floor. The rags fell away, and the rest of the stranger

was revealed.

The visitor raised one hand to her face, then

froze at the sight of that hand. She pushed herself

into a more upright position, frowning and shaking

her head; she examined the other hand and felt of

her face as her expression changed to one of total

disbelief. Frantic now, she tore away the rags that

shrouded her chest and stared in horror at two

lovely, lily-white—and very female —breasts.

"No—" she whispered, "—it's not possible—"

"Not for a human perhaps," the demon replied

with faint irony, "But I am not subject to a hu-

man's limitations."

"What have you done to me?" she shrieked, even

her voice having changed to a thin soprano.

"I told you, I would give you a form that would

make you powerful against them. The sorceress'

geas prevents her from allowing any harm to befall

a woman—so I merely made you woman in reality,

to match the woman you were in illusion. They

will be powerless against you now, your enemies

and mine—"

"But I am not a woman! I can't be a woman!" She

looked around her for something to throw at the

demon's laughing face, and finding nothing, hurled

curses instead. "Make me a man again, damn you!

Make me a man!"

"Perhaps. Later, perhaps. When you have earned

a boon from me. You still retain your strength and

your weapon's expertise. Only the swordswoman

could be any danger to you now, and the sorceress

will be bound to see that she cannot touch you. My

bargain now, bandit." The demon smiled still wider.

"Serve me, and it may well be I shall make you a

man again. But your new body serves me far better

than your old would have. And meanwhile—"

He drew a swirl of flame about himself. When he

emerged from it, he had assumed the shape of a

handsome human man, quite naked; one whose

beauty repulsed even as it attracted. He was still

larger than a normal human in every regard, but he

no longer filled a quarter of the cellar. He stepped

confidently across the boundaries of the circle,

reached forward and gathered the frozen woman to

him. She struggled wildly; he delighted in her

struggles.

"Oh, you make a charming wench, little toy; you

play the part as if you had been born to it! A man

would have sought to slay me, but you think only to

flee. And I do not think a man would have guessed

my intentions, but you have, haven't you, little one.

I think I can teach you some of the pleasures of

being a female, as well as the fears, hmm? Perhaps I

can make you forget you ever were anything else—"

His laughter echoed through the entire house—

but the rest of the inhabitants did no more than

check the fastenings of their doors and return to

the safety of their beds, hoping that whatever it

was that was laughing would overlook them.

With another gesture, the demon transformed the

bleak basement into a setting from a whore's night-

mare; with his other hand he held his victim crushed

against his chest while he reached into her mind

with his.

She gasped in shock and dismay, feeling her will

crumble before his, feeling him take over her senses,

and feeling those senses rousing as he wished them

to. He ran his hands over her body, stripping away

the rags until she was as nude as he, and in the

wake of his hands her skin burned with fever she

could not repress.

As the last remains of her will fell to dust before

his onslaught, her body, too, betrayed her; respond-

ing as the demon desired.

And at the end, she did, indeed, forget for that

one moment what it had been like to be a man.

Kethry twined a lock of amber hair around her

fingers, leaned over her cup and hid a smile. She

found the side of herself that her swordswoman-

partner was revealing disarming, and quite de-

lightful—but she doubted Tarma would appreciate

her amusement.

The common room of their inn was far from

being crowded, and the atmosphere was relaxed

and convivial. This was really the best such place

they'd stayed in for months; it was well-lit, the

food was excellent, the beds comfortable and free

of vermin, the prices not outrageously extortionate.

And Tarma was certainly enjoying the company.

As she had been every night for the past three,

Tarma was embroiled in a religious discussion—

a discussion, not an argument; although the two

participants often waxed passionate, neither ever

found offense or became angered during their

disagreements.

Her fellow-scholar was a plump little priest of

Anathei of the Purifying Flame. He was certainly a

full priest, and might even (from his cultured ac-

cent) be a higher prelate, yet he wore only the same

soft, dark brown, unornamented robes of the least

of his order's acolytes. He was clean-shaven and

quite bald, and his cheerful brown eyes seemed to

regard everything and everyone with the open-

hearted joy of an unspoiled child. No straitlaced

ascetic, he—he and Tarma had been trading rounds

of good wine; tonight reds, last night whites.

Tarma looked even more out of place seated across

from him than she did with her sorceress-partner.

She towered over him by a head, her every move-

ment proclaiming she knew very well how to man-

age that sword slung on her back, her hawklike face

and ice-blue eyes holding a controlled intensity that

could easily have been frightening or intimidating

to a stranger. With every article of her weaponry

and earth-brown clothing so precisely arranged that

what she wore might almost have been some kind

of uniform, and her coarse black hair braided and

coiled with militant neatness, she looked as much

the priest or more than he—half-barbarian priest of

some warlike order, that is. She hardly looked as if

she could have anything in common with the schol-

arly little priest.

She hardly looked literate. Certainly no one would

expect erudite philosophy from her lips, not with

the warlike accoutrements she bore; yet she had

been quoting fully as many learned tomes as the

priest—to his evident delight and Kethry's mild

surprise. It would appear that service as a Sworn

One did not exclude knowledge as a possible arena

of combat. Kethry had long known that Tarma was

literate, and in more than one language, but she

had never before guessed that her partner was so

erudite.

Kethry herself was staying out of the conversa-

tion for the moment. This evening she and her

partner had had an argument, the first serious dis-

agreement of their association. She wanted to give

Tarma a chance to cool down—and to mull over

what she'd said.

Because while it had been unpleasant, it was

also, unfortunately, nothing less than the truth.

"You're not going out there alone, are you?" Tarma

had asked doubtfully, when Kethry had voiced her

intention to prowl the rather dubious quarter that

housed the gypsy-mages. Kethry had heard that one

of her old classmates had taken up with the wan-

derers, and was looking for news of him.

"Why not?" she asked, a little more sharply than

she had intended.

"Because it's no place for a woman alone."

"Dammit, Tarma, I'm not just any woman! I'm

perfectly capable of taking care of myself!"

"Look—even I can get taken out by a gang of

street toughs."

"In the name of the gods, Tarma, leave me alone

for once! You're smothering me! I can't go any-

where or do anything without you rushing to wrap

me in gauze, like a piece of china—"

She'd stopped then, appalled by the stricken look

on her partner's face.

Then, like lightning, the expression changed.

"You're imagining things," Tarma replied flatly.

"All right—have it your way." Kethry was too

tired to fight with her. "You will anyway. Any time

you hear something you don't like, you deny it and

shut down on me—just like you're doing now."

And she had turned on her heel and led the way

into the inn's common room, ignoring the fact that

Tarma looked as if the sorceress had just slapped

her.

The voice of the little priest penetrated her

musing.

"Nay," he said. "Nay, I cannot agree. Our teach-

ing is that evil is not a thing of itself; it is simply

good that has not been brought to see the truth. We

hold that even a demon can be redeemed—that

even the most vile of such creatures could become a

blessed spirit if someone with time and patience

were to give him the proper redirection."

"Always supposing your proselytizer managed to

keep from being devoured or ripped to shreds be-

fore he got a single word out," Tarma croaked wryly,

draping herself more comfortably over the edge of

the worn wooden table. "He'd better be either agile

or one damned powerful mage! No, I can't agree

with you, my friend. Aside from what Magister

Tenavril has to say about them, I've dealt with a

few demons up close and on a quite personal basis.

I have to side with the Twin Suns school; the

demonic beings must have been created purely of

evil forces. It isn't just the Abyssal dwellers that

are bad clear through, either; I've known a few

humans who could pass for demons. Evil is real

and a reality in and of itself. It likes being that way.

It wouldn't choose to be anything else. And it has

to be destroyed whenever a body gets the chance,

or it'll spread. Evil is easier to follow than good,

and we humans like the easy path."

"I cannot agree. Those who are evil simply don't

know what good is."

"Oh, they know, all right; and they reject it to

follow pure selfishness."

"I—" the little priest blinked in the candlelight.

"Can you give me even one instance of great evil

turned to good once good has been pointed out to

it?"

"Uh—" he thought hard for a moment, then

smiled triumphantly. "The Great Demon-Wolf of

Hastandell!"

"Oh, that's too easy. Warrl!"

A shadow in a corner of the hearth uncoiled

itself, and proved to be no shadow at all, but the

kyree, whose shoulder came nearly as high as Tarma's

waist. Closer inspection would reveal that Warrl's

body was more like that of one of the great hunting-

cats of the plains than a lupine, built for climbing

and short bursts of high speed, not the endurance

of a true wolf. But the fur and head and tail were

sufficiently wolflike that this was how Tarma gen-

erally thought of him.

He padded over to the table and benches shared

by the ill-assorted trio. The conversation of all the

other occupants of the inn died for a moment as he

moved, but soon picked back up again. After three

days, the patrons of the inn were growing a little

more accustomed to the monster beast in their midst.

Tarma had helped that along by coaxing him to

demean himself with a few tricks to entertain them

the first night of their stay. Now, while the sight of

him still unsettled a few of them, they had come to

regard him as harmless. They had no notion of his

true nature; Tarma and Kethry had tactfully re-

frained from revealing that he was just as intelli-

gent as any of them—and quite probably could beat

any one of them at chess.

"Here's your Demon-Wolf—one of his kin, rather."

Tarma cocked her head to one side, her eyes far

away as if she was listening. "Kyree is what they

call themselves; they come from the Pelagir Hills.

Warrl says to tell you that he knows that story—

that Ourra didn't know the sheep he'd been feed-

ing on belonged to anyone; when he prowled the

village at night he was just being curious. Warrl

says Ourra had never seen humans before that lot

moved in and settled; he thought they were just

odd beasts and that the houses were some kind of

dead growths—believe me, I have seen some of what

grows naturally in the Pelagirs—it isn't stretching

the imagination to think that huts could grow of

themselves once you've seen some of the bushes

and trees. Well, Warrl wants you to know that

when the priestess went out and gave Ourra a royal

tongue-lashing for eating the stock, Ourra was quite

embarrassed. Without there being someone like me

or Kethry, with the kind of mind that he could talk

to, there wasn't much he could do by way of apol-

ogy, but he did his best to make it up to the village.

His people have a very high sense of honor. Sorry,

little man—Qurra is disqualified."

"He talks to you?" the little priest said, momen-

tarily diverted. "That creature truly talks? I thought

him just a well-trained beast!"

"Oh, after all our conversation, I figured you to

be open-minded enough to let in on the 'secret.'

Kyree have a lot of talents—they're as bright as you

or me. Brighter, maybe—I have no doubt he could

give you a good battle at taroc, and that's one game

I have no gift for. As for talking—Warrior's Oath—

sometimes I wish I could get him to stop! Oh, yes,

he talks to me all right—gives me no few pieces of

unsolicited advice and criticism, and usually with

an 'I told you so' appended." She ruffled the great

beast's fur affectionately as he grinned a toothy,

tongue-lolling grin. Kethry tossed him one of the

bones left from their dinner; he caught it neatly on

the fly, and settled down beside her to enjoy it.

Behind them, the hum of voices continued.

"Now I'll give you one—evil that served only

itself. Thalhkarsh. We had firsthand experience of

that one. He had plenty of opportunity to see

good—it wasn't just the trollops he had stolen for

his rites. Or are you not familiar with that tale?"

"Not the whole of it. Certainly not from one of

the participants!"

"Right enough then—this is a long and thirsty

story. Oskar?" Tarma signaled the host, a plump,

shortsighted man who hurried to answer her sum-

mons. "Another round—no, make it a pitcher, this

may take a while. Here—" she tossed him a coin, as

it was her turn to pay; the innkeeper trotted off

and returned with a brimming ear then vessel. Kethry

was amused to see that he did not return to his

station behind the counter after placing it on the

table between Tarma and the priest. Instead he

hovered just within earshot, polishing the tables

next to them with studious care. Well, she didn't

blame him, this was a tale Tarma didn't tell often,

and it wasn't likely anyone in Oberdorn had ever

heard a firsthand account of it. Oskar would be

attracting folk to his tables for months after they'd

gone with repetitions of the story.

"From all we could put together afterward,

Thalhkarsh was a demon that had been summoned

purely by mistake. It was a mistake the mage who

called him paid for—well, that's usually the case

when something like that happens. This time though,

things were evidently a little different," she nod-

ded at Kethry, who took up the thread of the story

while Tarma took a sip of wine.

"Thalhkarsh had ambition. He didn't want to

live in his own Abyssal Planes anymore, he wanted

to escape them. More than that, he wanted far

more power than he had already; he wanted to

become a god, or a godling, at least. He knew that

the quickest ways of gaining power are by worship,

pain, and death. The second two he already had a

taste of, and he craved more. The first—well, he

calculated that he knew ways of gaining that, too.

He transformed himself into a very potently sexual

and pleasing shape, built himself a temple with a

human pawn as his High Priest, and set up a

religion."

"It was a religion tailored to his peculiar tastes.

From what I know most of the demonic types

wouldn't think of copulating with a human any-

more than you or I would with a dog; Thalhkarsh

thought otherwise." Tarma grimaced. "Of course a

part of that is simply because of the amount of pain

he could cause while engaging in his recreations—

but it may be he also discovered that sex is another

very potent way of raising power. Whatever the

reason, that was what the whole religion was

founded on. The rituals always culminated with

Thalhkarsh taking a half-dozen women, torturing

and killing them when he'd done with them, in the

full view of his worshipers. There's a kind of mind

that finds that stimulating; before too long, he had

a full congregation and was well on his way to

achieving his purpose. That was where we came

in."

"You know our reputation for helping women?"

Kethry put in.

"You have a geas?" ventured the little priest.

"Something like that. Well, since Thalhkarsh's

chosen victims were almost exclusively female, we

found ourselves involved. We slipped into the tem-

ple in disguise and went for the High Priest—

figuring if he was the one in charge, that might

solve the problem. We didn't know he was a pup-

pet, though I had guessed he might be, and then

dismissed the idea." Kethry sighed. "Then we found

our troubles had only begun. He had used this as a

kind of impromptu test of the mettle of his servant;

when the servant failed, he offered me the position.

I was tempted with anything I might want; nearly

unlimited power, beauty, wealth—and him. He was

incredibly seductive, I can't begin to tell you how

much. To try and give you a notion of his power,

every one of his victims ran to him willingly when

he called her, even though they knew what their

fate would be. Well, I guess I resisted him a little

too long; he became impatient with me and knocked

me into a wall—unconscious, or so he thought."

"Then he made me the same offer," Tarma con-

tinued. "Only with me he demonstrated his power

rather than just promising things. He totally trans-

formed me—when he was done kings would have

paid money for the privilege of laying their crowns

at my feet. He also came damned close to breaking

my bond with the Star-Eyed; I swear to you, I was

within inches of letting him seduce me—except

that the more he roused my body, the more he

roused my anger. That was his mistake; I pretended

to give in when I saw Kethry sneaking up behind

him. Then I broke his focus just as she stabbed

him; he lost control over his form and his worship-

ers' minds. When they saw what he really was,

they deserted him—that broke his power, and it

was all over."

"She' enedra, you were in no danger of breaking;

your will is too strong, he'd have needed either

more time to work on you or power to equal the

Warrior's."

"Maybe. It was a damn near thing; too near for

my liking. Well he was absolute evil for the sake of

it—and I should well know, I had that evil crawling

around in my mind. Besides that, there were other

things that came out afterward. We know he took a

few innocent girls who just had the bad luck to be

in the wrong place; we think some clerics went in

to try and exorcise him. It's hard to say for certain

since they were hedge-priests; wanderers with no

set temple. We do know they disappeared between

one night and the next; that they did not leave

town by the gates, and that they had been talking

about dealing with Thalhkarsh before they vanished."

She trailed off, the set of her mouth grim, her

eyes bleak. "We can only assume they went the

way of all of his victims, since they were never

seen or heard from again. So Thalhkarsh had plenty

of opportunity to see good and the Light—and he

apparently saw it only as another thing to crush."

The little priest said nothing; there seemed noth-

ing appropriate to say. Instead, he took a sip of his

wine; from the distant look in his eyes he was

evidently thinking hard.

"We of Anathei are not fools, Sworn One," he

said finally, "Even though we may not deal with

evil as if it were our deadly enemy. No, to throw

one's life away in the foolish and prideful notion

that one's own sanctity is enough to protect one

from everything is something very like a sin. The

arrow that strikes a friend in battle instead of a foe

is no less deadly because it is misdirected. Let me

tell you this; when dealing with the greater evils,

we do nothing blindly. We study carefully, we take

no chances; we know everything there is to be

known about an opponent before we face him to

show him the Light. And we take very great care

that he is unable to do us harm in his misguided

state."

Tarma's eyes glinted with amusement in the shift-

ing light. "Then it may well be your folk have the

right of it—and in any case, you're going about your

conversions in a practical manner, which is more

than I can say for many. Once again we will have to

agree to disagree."

"With that, lady, I rest content." He bowed to

her a little, and the bench creaked under his mov-

ing weight. "But we still have not settled the point

of contention. Even if I were willing to concede

that you are right about Thalhkarsh—which I am

not—he was still a demon. Not a man. And—"

"Well if you want irredeemable evil in a human,

we can give you that, too! Kethry, remember that

bastard Lastel Longknife?"

"Lady Bright! Now there was an unredeemable

soul if ever there was one!"

Kethry saw out of the corner of her eye that

Oskar had not moved since the tale-telling had be-

gun, and was in a fair way to polish a hole right

through the table. She wondered, as she smothered

a smile, if that was the secret behind the scrupu-

lously clean furniture of his inn.

"Lastel Longknife?" the priest said curiously.

"I doubt you'd have heard of that one. He was a

bandit that had set up a band out in the waste

between here and—"

"Wait—I think I do know that story!" the priest

exclaimed. "Isn't there a song about it? One that

goes 'Deep into the stony hills, miles from keep or

hold'?"

"Lady's Blade, is that nonsense going to follow us

everywhere?" Tarma grimaced in distaste while

Kethry gave up on trying to control her giggles.

"Damned impudent rhymester! I should never have

agreed to talk to him, never! And if I ever get my

hands on Leslac again, I'll kill him twice! Bad enough

he got the tale all backward, but that manure about

Three things never anger or you will not live for

long; a wolf with cubs, a man with power and a

woman's sense of wrong' came damn close to ruin-

ing business for a while! We weren't geas-pressed

that time, or being altruistic—we were in it for the

money, dammit! And—" she turned to scowl at

Kethry. "What are you laughing about?"

"Nothing—" One look at Tarma's face set her off

again.

"No respect; I don't get it from stupid minstrels,

I don't get it from my partner, I don't even get it

from you, Fur-face!"

Warrl put his head down on his paws and con-

trived to look innocent.

"Well, if my partner can contrive to control her-

self, this is what really happened. Longknife had

managed to unite all the little bandit groups into

one single band with the promise that they would

be able-bunder his leadership—to take even the

most heavily guarded packtrains. He made good on

his boast. Before a few months passed it wasn't

possible for a mouse to travel the Trade Road

unmolested."

"But surely they sent out decoy trains."

"Oh, they did; Longknife had an extra factor in

his favor," Kethry had managed to get herself back

into control again, and answered him. "He had a

talent for mind-magic, like they practice in Valdemar.

It wasn't terribly strong, but it was very specific.

Anyone who saw Longknife thought that he was

someone they had known for a long time but not

someone anywhere within riding distance. That way

he avoided the pitfall of having his 'double' show

up. He looked to be a different person to everyone,

but he always looked like someone they trusted, so

he managed to get himself included as a guard on

each and every genuine packtrain going out. When

the time was right, he'd signal his men and they'd

ambush the train. If it was too well guarded, he'd

wait until it was his turn on night-watch and drive

away the horses and packbeasts; there's no water

in the waste, and the guards and traders would

have to abandon their goods and make for home

afoot."

"That's almost diabolically clever."

"You do well to use that word; he was diabolic,

all right. One of the first trains he and his men took

was also conveying a half-dozen or so young girls to

fosterage—daughters of the traders in town—the

idea being that they were more likely to find young

men to their liking in a bigger city. Longknife and

his men could have ransomed them unharmed; could

even have sold them. He didn't. He took his plea-

sure of each of them in turn until he tired of them,

then turned them over to his men to be gang-raped

to death without a second thought."

The priest thought that if the minstrel Leslac

could have seen the expression in Tarma's eyes at

this moment, he'd have used stronger words in his

song than he had.

"The uncle of one of the girls found out we were

in a town nearby and sent for us," Kethry picked

up when Tarma seemed lost in her own grim

thoughts. "We agreed to take the job, and disguised

ourselves to go out with the next train. That's where

the song is worst wrong—I was the lady, Tarma

was the maidservant. When the bandits attacked, I

broke the illusions; surprise gave us enough of an

advantage that we managed to rout them."

"We didn't kill them all, really didn't even get

most of them, just the important ones, the leaders."

Tarma came back to herself and resumed the tale.

"And we got Longknife; the key to the whole

business."

"What—what was the 'thorough vengeance'?" the

priest asked. "I have been eaten up with curiosity

ever since I heard the song, but I hardly know if I

dare ask—"

Tarma's harsh laugh rang as she tossed back her

head. "We managed to keep one thing from that

songster, anyway! All right, I'll let you in on the

secret. Kethry put an all-senses illusion on him and

bound it to his own mind-magic so that he couldn't

be rid of it. She made him look like a very attrac-

tive, helpless woman. We made sure he was uncon-

scious, then we tied him to his horse and sent him

into the waste following the track of what was left

of his band. I've no doubt he knew exactly what his

victims had felt like before he finally died."

"Remind me never to anger you, Sworn One."

The priest shook his head ruefully. "I'm not sure I

care for your idea of justice."

"Turnabout is fair play—and it's no worse that

what he'd have gotten at the hands of the relatives

of the girls he murdered," Kethry pointed out.

"Tarma's Lady does not teach that evildoers should

remain unpunished; nor does mine. And Longknife

is another bit of scum who had ample opportunity

to do good—or at least no harm—and chose instead

to deliberately inflict the most harm he could. I

think he got his just desserts, personally."

"If you, too, are going to enter the affray, I fear I

am outnumbered." The priest smiled. "But I shall

retire with dignity, allowing the justice of your

assertions, but not conceding you the victory.

Though it is rather strange that you should men-

tion the demon Thalhkarsh just now."

Both Tarma and Kethry came instantly alert;

they changed their positions not so much as a hair

(Tarma leaning on both arms that rested on the

table, Kethry lounging a little against the wall) but

now they both had dropped the veneer of careless

ease they had worn, and beneath that thin skin the

wary vigilance of the predator and hunter showed

plain.

"Why?" Tarma asked carefully.

"Because I have heard rumors in the beggar's

quarter that some ill-directed soul is trying to re-

establish the worship of Thalhkarsh in the old Tem-

ple of Duross there. More than that, we have had

reports of the same from, a young woman who ap-

parently dwells there."

"Have you?" Kethry pushed back the hood of her

buff-colored robe. "Worshiping Thalhkarsh—that's

a bit injudicious, considering what happened at

Delton, isn't it?"

"Injudicious to say the least," the priest replied,

"Since they must know what will happen to them

if they are discovered. The Prince is not minded to

have light women slaughtered on altars instead of

paying his venery taxes. I heard that after Thalh-

karsh's depredations, his income from Delton was

halved for the better part of three years. He took

care to alter or tighten the laws concerning reli-

gious practice after that. Human sacrifice in any

form is punishable by enslavement; if the perpetra-

tor has murdered taxpayers, he goes to the Prince's

mages for their experiments."

Kethry lifted an eyebrow; Tarma took a largish

mouthful of wine. They'd both heard about how

Prince Lothar's mages produced his monstrous mind-

less bodyguards. They'd also heard that the process

from normal man to twelve-foot-tall brute was far

from pleasant—or painless. Lothar was sometimes

called "the Looney"—but never to his face.

The little priest met blue and green eyes in turn,

and nodded. "Besides that," he continued, "There

are several sects, mine included, who would wish

to deal with the demon on other levels. We all want

him bound, at the least. But so far it's all rumor.

The temple has been empty every time anyone's

checked."

"So you did check?"

"In all conscience, yes—although the woman didn't

seem terribly trustworthy or terribly bright. Pretty,

yes—rather remarkably pretty under the dirt, but

she seemed to be in a half-daze all the time. Brother

Thoser was the one who questioned her, not I, or I

could tell you more. My guess would be that she

was of breeding, but had taken to the street to

supply an addiction of some sort."

Tarma nodded thoughtfully.

"Where is this temple?"" Kethry's husky alto

almost made the little priest regret his vow of chas-

tity; and when she had moved into the light, and

he saw that the sweet face beneath the hood matched

the voice, he sighed a little for days long lost.

"Do you know the beggar's quarter? Well then,

it's on the river, just downwind of the slaughter-

house and the tannery. It's been deserted since the

last acolyte died of old age—oh, nearly fifteen years

ago. It's beginning to fall apart a bit; the last time I

looked at it, there didn't seem to be any signs that

anyone had entered it in all that time."

"Is it kept locked up?"

"Oh, yes; not that there's anything to steal—

mostly it's to keep children from playing where

they might be hurt by falling masonry. The beggars

used it for a bit as one of their meeting halls, before

the acolyte died, but," he chuckled, "One-Eye Tham

told me it was 'too perishin' cold and damp' and

they moved to more comfortable surroundings."

Tarma exchanged a look with her partner; We

need to talk, she hand-signed.

Kethry nodded, ever so slightly. We could be in

trouble, she signed back.

Tarma's grimace evidenced agreement.

"Well, if you will allow me," the little priest

finished the last of his wine, and shoved the bench

back with a scrape, "I fear I have morning devo-

tions to attend to. As always, Sworn One, the con-

versation and company have been delightful, if

argumentative—''

Tarma managed a smile; it transformed her face,

even if it didn't quite reach her eyes. "My friend,

we have a saying—it translates something like 'there

is room in the universe for every Way.' You travel

yours; should you need it, my sword will protect

you as I travel mine."

"That is all anyone could reasonably ask of one

who does not share his faith," he replied, "And so,

good night."

The two mercenary women finished their own

wine and headed for their room shortly after his

departure. With Warrl padding after, Kethry took

one of the candles from the little table standing by

the entrance to the hall, lit it at the lantern above

the table, and led the way down the corridor. The

wooden walls were polished enough that their light

was reflected; they'd been tended to recently and

Tarma could still smell the ferris-oil that had been

used. The sounds of snoring behind closed doors,

the homelike scents of hot wax and ferris-oil, the

buzz of conversation from the inn behind them—all

contrasted vividly with the horror that had been

resurrected in both their minds at the mention of

Thalhkarsh.

Their room held two narrow beds, a rag rug, and a

table; all worn, but scrupulously clean. They had

specified a room with a window, so Warrl could

come and go as he pleased; no one in his right mind

would break into the room with any of the three of

them in it, and their valuables were in the stable,

well-guarded by their well-named warsteeds, Hells-

bane and Ironheart.

When the door was closed and bolted behind

them, Kethry put the candle in its wall sconce and

turned to face her partner with a swish of robes.

"If he's there, if it's really Thalhkarsh, he'll be

after us."

Tarma paced the narrow confines of the room.

"Seems obvious. If I were a demon, I'd want re-

venge. Well, we knew this might happen someday.

I take it that your sword hasn't given you any

indication that there's anything wrong?"

"No. At least, nothing more than what you'd ex-

pect in a city this size. I wish Need would be a

little more discriminating." Kethry sighed, and one

hand caressed the hilt of the blade she wore at her

side over her sorceress' robes in an unconscious

gesture of habit. "I absolutely refuse to go sticking

my nose into every lover's-quarrel in this town!

And—"

"Warrior's Oath—remember the first time you

tried?" Tarma's grim face lightened into a grin

with the recollection.

"Oh, laugh, go ahead! You were no help!"

"Here you thought the shrew was in danger of

her life—you went flying in the door and knocked

her man out cold—and you expected her to throw

herself at your feet in gratitude—" Tarma was tak-

ing full revenge for Kethry's earlier hilarity at her

expense. "And what did she do? Began hurling

crockery at you, shrieking you'd killed her beloved!

Lady's Eyes, I thought I was going to die!"

"I wanted to take her over my knee and beat her

with the flat of my blade."

"And to add insult to injury, Need wouldn't let

you lay so much as a finger on her! I had to go in

with a serving dish for a shield and rescue you

before she tore you to shreds!"

"She could have done that with her tongue alone,"

Kethry grimaced. "Well, that's not solving our prob-

lem here. ..."

"True," Tarma conceded, sobering. She threw

herself down on her bed, Warrl jumping up next to

her and pushing his head under her hand. "Back to

the subject. Let's assume that the rumor is true; we

can't afford not to. If somebody has brought that

particular demon back, we know he's going to want

our hides."

"Or worse."

"Or worse. Now he can't have gotten too power-

ful, or everybody in town would know about him.

Remember Del ton."

Kethry shifted restlessly from foot to foot, finally

going over to the window to open the shutters with

a creak of hinges and stare out into the night. "I

remember. And I remember that we'd better do

something about him while he's in that state."

"This isn't a job for us, she'enedra. It's a job for

priests. Powerful priests. I remember what he al-

most did to me. He came perilously close to break-

ing my bond with the Star-Eyed. And he boasted he

could snap your tie to Need just as easily. I think

we ought to ride up to the capital as fast as Hellsbane

and Ironheart can carry us, and fetch us some

priests."

"And come back to an empty town and a demon

transformed to a godling?" Kethry turned away

from the window to shake her head at her partner,

her amber hair like a sunset cloud around her face,

and a shadow of anger in her eyes. "What if we're

wrong? We'll have some very powerful people very

angry at us for wasting their time. And if we're

right—we have to act fast. We have to take him

while he's still weak or we'll never send him back

to the Abyssal Planes at all. He is no stupid imp—

he's learned from what we did to him, you can bet

on it. If he's not taken down now, we'll never be

able to take him at all."

"That's not our job!"

"Whose is it then?" Kethry dug her fingers into

the wood of the windowframe behind her, as tense

and worried as she'd ever been. "We'd better make

it our job if we're going to survive! And I told you

earlier—I don't want you cosseting me! I know what

I'm doing, and I can protect myself!"

Tarma sighed, and there was a shadow of guilt on

her face as she rolled over to lie flat on her back,

staring at the ceiling; her hands clasped under her

head, one leg crossed over the other. "All right,

then. I don't know a damn thing about magic, and

all I care to know about demons outside of a book is

that they scare me witless. I still would rather go

for help, but if you don't think we'd have the time—

and if you are sure you're not getting into more

than you can handle—"

"I know we wouldn't have the time; he's not

going to waste time building up a power base,"

Kethry replied, sitting down on the edge of Tarma's

bed, making the frame creak.

"And he may not be there at all; it might just be

a wild rumor."

"It might; I don't think I'd care to bet my life on

waiting to see, though."

"So we need information; reliable information."

"The question is how to get it. Should I try

scrying?"

"Absolutely not!" Tarma flipped back over onto

her side, her hand chopping at the pillow for em-

phasis. Warrl winced away and looked at her re-

proachfully. "He caught that poor witch back in

Delton that way, remember? That much even I

know. If you scry, he'll have you on his ground. I

promise I won't cosset you any more, but I will not

allow you to put yourself in jeopardy when there

are any other alternatives!"

"Well, how then?"

"Me." Tarma stabbed at her own chest with an

emphatic thumb. "Granted, I'm not a thief—but I

am a skilled scout. I can slip into and out of that

temple without anyone knowing I've been there,

and if it's being used for anything, I'll be able to

tell."

"No."

"Yes. No choice, she'enedra."

"All right, then—but you won't be going without

me. If he and any followers he may have gathered

are there and they're using magic to mask their

presence, you won't see anything, but I can invoke

mage-sight and see through any illusions."

Tarma began to protest, but this time Kethry cut

her short. "You haven't a choice either; you need

my skill and I won't let you go in there without me.

Dammit Tarma, I am your partner—your full part-

ner. If I have to, I'll follow you on my own."

"You would, wouldn't you?"

"You can bet on it." Kethry scowled, then smiled

as Tarma's resigned expression told her she'd won

the argument. Warrl nudged Tarma's hand again,

and she began scratching absentmindedly behind

his ears. A scowl creased her forehead, but her

mouth, too, was quirked in an almost-smile.

"Warrior's Oath! I would tie myself to a head-

strong, stubborn, foolish, reckless, crazed mage—"

"Who loves her bond-sister and won't allow her

to throw her life away."

"—who is dearer to me than my own life."

Kethry reached out at almost the same moment

as Tarma did. They touched hands briefly, crescent-

scarred palm to crescent-scarred palm, and ex-

changed rueful smiles.

"Argument over?"

"It's over."

"All right then," Tarma said after poignant si-

lence, "Let's get to it now, while we've still got the

guts for it."

Ten

Tarma led the way, as soft- and sure-footed in

these dark city streets as she would have been

scouting a forest or creeping through grass on an

open plain.

The kyree Warrl served as their scout and their

eyes in the darkness. The uninformed would have

thought it impossible to hide a lupine creature the

size of Warrl in an open street—a creature whose

shoulder nearly came as high as Tarma's waist; but

Warrl, although somewhere close at hand, was pres-

ently invisible. Tarma could sense him, though—

now behind them, now in front. From time to time

he would speak a single word (or perhaps as many

as three) in her mind, to tell her of the results of

his scouting.

There was little moonlight; the moon was in her

last quarter. This was one of the poorest streets in

the city, and there we're no cressets and no torches

to spare to light the way by night—and if anyone

put one up, it would be stolen within the hour. The

buildings to either side were shut up tight; not

with shutters, for they were in far too poor a state

of repair to have working shutters, but with what-

ever bits of wood and cloth or rubbish came to

hand. What little light there was leaked through

the cracks in these makeshift curtainings. The street

itself was rutted mud; no wasting of paving bricks

on this side of the river. Both the mercenaries wore

thin-soled boots, the better to feel their way in the

darkness. Kethry had abandoned her usual buff-

colored, calf-length robe; she wore a dark, sleeved

tunic over her breeches. Kethry's ensorcelled blade

Need was slung at her side; Tarma's nonmagical

weapon carried in its usual spot on her back. They

had left cloaks behind; cloaks had a tendency to get

tangled at the most inopportune moments. Better

to bear with the chill.

They had slipped out the window of their room

at the inn, wanting no one to guess where they

were going—or even that they were going out at all.

They had made their way down back alleys with

occasional detours through fenced yards or even

across roofs. Although Kethry was no match for

Tarma in strength and agility, she was quite capa-

ble of keeping up with her on a trek like this one.

Finally the fences had begun to boast more holes

than entire boards; the houses leaned to one side or

the other, almost as though they huddled together

to support their sagging bones. The streets, when

they had ventured out onto them, were either de-

serted or populated by one or two furtively scurry-

ing shadows. This dubious quarter where the aban-

doned temple that their priestly friend had told

them of stood—this was hardly a place either of

them would have chosen to roam in daylight, much

less darkness. Tarma was already beginning to re-

gret the impulse that had led her here—the stub-

bornness that had forced her to prove that she was

not trying to shelter her partner unduly. Except

that ... maybe Kethry was right. Maybe she was

putting a stranglehold on the mage. But Keth was

all the Clan she had....

Tarma's nose told her where they were; down-

wind of the stockyards, the slaughterhouse, and the

tannery. The reek of tannic acid, offal, half-tanned

hides and manure was a little short of unbreathable.

From far off there came the intermittent lowing

and bleating of the miserable animals awaiting the

doom that would come in the morning.

"Something just occurred to me," Kethry whis-

pered as they waited, hidden in shadows, for a

single passerby to clear the street.

"What?"

"This close to the stockyard and slaughterhouse,

Thalhkarsh wouldn't necessarily need sacrifices to

build a power base."

"You mean—he could use the deaths of the

beasts?"

"Death-energy is the same for man and beast.

Man just has more of it, and of higher quality."

"Like you can get just as drunk on cheap beer as

on distilled spirits?"

"Something of the sort."

"Lady's Blade! And he feeds on fear and pain as

well—"

"There's plenty of that at the slaughterhouse."

"Great. That's just what I needed to hear." Tarma

brooded for a moment. "Tell me something; why's

he taking on human shape if he wants to terrify?

His own would be better for that purpose."

"Well—this is just a guess—you have to remem-

ber he wants worship and devotion as well, and he

won't get that in his real shape. That might be one

reason. A second would be because what seems to

be familiar and proves to be otherwise is a lot more

fear-inducing than the openly alien. Lastly is Thalh-

karsh himself—most demons like the Abyssal Planes,

and their anger at being summoned is because

they've been taken from home. They look on us as a

lower form of life, a species of animal. But Thalh-

karsh is perverse; he wants to stay here, he wants

to rule over people, and I suspect he enjoys physi-

cally coupling with humans. The Lady only knows

why."

"I... don't suppose he can breed, can he?"

"Windborn! Thank your Lady, no. Thank all the

gods that demons even in human form are sterile

with humans, or we might have more than Thalh-

karsh to worry about—he might be willing to pro-

duce a malleable infant. But the only way he can

reproduce is to bud—and he's too jealous of his

powers here to bud and create another on this Plane

with like powers and a mind of its own. He won't

go creating a rival, that much I'm sure of."

"Forgive me if I don't break out into carols of

relief."

They peered down the dark, shadow-lined street

in glum silence. The effluvium of the stockyards

and tannery washed over them, causing Tarma to

stifle a cough as an acrid breath seared the back of

her throat a little.

The street is clear, a voice rang in Tarma's head.

"Warrl says it's safe to go," Tarma passed the

word on, then, crouching low, crossed the street

like one of the scudding shadows cast on the street

by high clouds against the moon.

She moved so surely and so silently from the

shadows of their own building to the shadows be-

low the one across the street that even Kethry, who

knew she was there, hardly saw her. Kethry was an

instant behind her, not quite so sure or silent, but

furtive enough. Warrl was already waiting for them,

and snorted a greeting before slipping farther ahead

of them in the direction of the temple.

Hugging the rough wood and stone of the walls,

they inched their way down the street, trying not

to wince when their feet encountered unidentifi-

able piles of something soft and mushy. The reek of

tannery and stockyard overwhelmed any other taint.

From within the buildings occasionally came sounds

of revelry or conflict; hoarse, drunken singing, shout-

ing, weeping, the splintering of wood, the crash of

crockery. None of this was carried into the streets;

only fools and the mad walked the streets of the

beggar's quarter at night.

Fools, the mad, or the desperate. Right now Kethry

had both of them figured for being all three.

Finally the walls of buildings gave way to a sin-

gle stone wall, half again as tall as Tarma. This, by

the descriptions she'd gotten, would be the wall of

the temple. Beyond it, bulking black against the

stars, Kethry could see the temple itself.

* * *

Tarma surveyed the wall, deciding it would be

no great feat to scale it.

You go over first, Fur-face, she thought.

My pleasure, Warrl sent back to her, overtones of

irony so strong Tarma could almost taste the metal-

lic emotional flavoring. He backed up six or seven

paces, then flung himself at the wall. His forepaws

caught the top of it; caught, and held, and with a

scrambling of hindclaws that sounded hideously

loud to Tarma's nervous ears, he was over and

leaping down on the other side.

Now it was her turn.

She backed up a little, then ran at the wall,

leaping and catching the top effortlessly, pulling

herself up onto the stones that were set into the top

with ease. She crouched there for a moment, peer-

ing through the darkness into the courtyard beyond,

identifying the odd-shaped shadows by what she'd

been told to expect there.

In the middle there stood a dried-out fountain,

its basin broken, its statuary mostly missing limbs

and heads. To the right were three stone boxes

containing earth and dead trees. To the left had

been a shrine, now a heap of rubble, that had been

meant for those faithful who felt unworthy to enter

the temple proper. All was as it should be; nothing

moved.

I'd tell you if anything was here, wouldn't 1? Warrl

grumbled at her lack of trust.

She felt one corner of her mouth twitch at his

reply. I can take it that all's well?

Nothing out of the ordinary outside.

It's inside I'm worried about.

She saluted Kethry briefly, seeing the strained,

anxious face peering whitely up at her in the moon-

shadows, then slipped over the top to land on cat-

quiet feet in the temple courtyard.

She slid carefully along the wall, left foot testing

the ground at the base of it for loose pebbles that

might slip underfoot or be kicked away by accident.

The moon was behind her; so her side of the wall

was entirely in shadow so long as she stayed close

to it. Five steps—twenty—fifty—her outstretched

hand encountered a hinge, and wood. She'd come to

the gate.

She felt for the bar and eased it along its sockets

until one half of the gate was freed. That gave

Kethry her way in; now she would scout ahead.

She waited for another of those scudding cloud-

shadows; joining it as it raced across the courtyard.

Cobblestones were hard and a trifle slippery be-

neath her thin-soled boots; she was glad that the

first sole was of tough, abrasive sharkskin. Dew

was already beginning to collect on the cold stones,

making them slick, but the sharkskin leather gave

her traction.

She reached the shelter of the temple entrance

without incident; Warrl was waiting for her there,

a slightly darker shadow in the shadows of the

doorway.

Ready? she asked him. She felt his assent.

She reached for the door, prepared to find it

locked, and was pleasantly surprised when it wasn't.

She nudged it open a crack; when nothing hap-

pened, she opened it enough to peer carefully inside.

She saw nothing but a barren antechamber. Warrl

stuck his nose inside, and sniffed cautiously.

Nothing here—but something on the other side of the

door beyond; people for sure—and, I think, blood and

incense. And magic, lots of magic.

Tarma sighed; it would have been nice if this

had been a false alarm. Sounds like we've come to the

right place.

Shouldn't we wait for Kethry?

You go after her; I want to make sure there isn't

anyone on guard in there.

Not yet. 1 want to know you aren't biting off more

than you can swallow. Warrl waited for her to move

on, one shadow among many.

She slipped in through the crack in the door,

Warrl a hairsbreadth behind her. Moonlight shone

down through a skylight above. The door on the

other side of the antechamber stood open; between

it and the door she had entered through was noth-

ing but untracked dust.

She hugged the wall, easing carefully around the

doorpost. Once inside the sanctuary she could barely

see her own hands; she continued to hug the wall,

making her way by feel alone. She came to a corner,

paused for a moment, and tried to see, but could

only make out dim shapes in the small amount of

light that came from various holes in the ceiling of

the sanctuary. It was impossible to tell if those

sources of light were more skylights, or the evi-

dence of neglect. Dust filled the air, making her

nose itch; other than that, lacking Ward's senses,

she could only smell damp and mildew. The stones

beneath her hands were cold and slightly moist.

Beneath the film of moisture they were smooth and

felt a little like polished granite.

She went on, coming at last around behind the

statue of the rain-god that stood at the far end of

the room. The shadows were even deeper here; she

slowed her pace to inch along the stuccoed wall,

one hand feeling before her.

Then her hand encountered emptiness.

A door.

I can tell that! A door to where?

To where the blood-smell is.

Then we take it. I'm going on ahead; you go back

and fetch Kethry.

Now she was alone in pitchy darkness, with only

the rough brick wall of the corridor as a guide, and

the faint sound of her footsteps bouncing off the

walls to tell her that it was a corridor. She held

back impatience and continued to feel her way with

extreme caution—until once again her hand en-

countered open air.

She was suddenly awash with light, frozen by it,

surrounded by it on all sides. She would have been

prepared for any attack but this, which left her

blind and helpless, with tears of pain blurring what

little vision she had. She went automatically into a

defensive crouch, pulling her blade over her head

with both hands from the sheath on her back; only

to hear a laugh like a dozen brass bells from some

point above her head.

"Little warrior," the voice said caressingly. "I

have so longed for the day when we might meet

again."

"I can't say I feel the same about you," Tarma

replied after a bit, trying to locate the demon by

sound alone. "I suppose it's too much to expect you

to stand and fight me honorably?" She could see

nothing but angry red light, like flame, but without

the heat; perhaps the light was a little brighter

above and just in front of her. She tried to will her

eyes to work, but they remained dazzled, with lances

of pain shooting into her skull every time she

blinked. There was a smell of blood and sex and

something more that she couldn't quite identify.

Her heart was racing wildly with fear, but she was

determined not to let him see how helpless she felt.

"Honor is for fools—and I may have been a fool

in the past, but I am no longer quite so gullible. No,

little warrior, I shall not stand and fight you. I shall

not fight you at all. I shall simply—put you to

sleep."

A sickly sweet aroma began to weave around her,

and Tarma recognized it after a moment as black

tran-dust; the most powerful narcotic she knew of.

She had only that moment of recognition before she

felt her control over herself suddenly melt away;

her entire body went numb in a single breath, and

she fell face down on the floor, mind and body alike

paralyzed, sword falling from a hand that could no

longer hold it.

And now that you cannot fight me, said a silky

voice in her mind, I shall make of you what I will...

and somewhat more to my taste than the ice-creature

you are now. And this time your Goddess shall not be

able to help you. I am nearly a god now myself, and the

gods are forbidden to war upon other gods.

The last thing she heard was his laughter, like

bronze bells slightly out of tune with one another.

Kethry fretted inwardly, counting down the mo-

ments until she was supposed to try the gate. This

was the hardest part, for certain; the waiting. Any-

thing else she could manage with equanimity. Wait-

ing brought out the worst fears, roused her imagi-

nation to a fever pitch. The plan was for Tarma

and Warrl to check the courtyard, then unlock the

gates for her. They would precede her into the

temple as well. They were to meet in the sanctu-

ary, after Tarma had declared it free of physical

hazards.

It was a plan Kethry found herself misliking more

with every passing moment. They were a team; it

went against the grain to work separately. Granted,

Warrl was with Tarma; granted that she was some-

thing of a handicap in a skulk-and-hide situation

like this—still, Kethry couldn't help thinking that

she'd be able to detect dangers neither of the other

two would notice. More than that—her place was

with Tarma, not waiting in the wings. Now she

began to wish she hadn't told the Shin'a'in that she

intended to investigate this place. If she'd kept her

mouth shut, she could have done this properly, by

daylight, perhaps. Finally her impatience became

too much; she felt her way along the wall to the

wooden gates, and pushed very slightly on one of

them.

It moved.

Tarma had succeeded in this much, anyway; the

gates were now unbarred.

She pushed a little harder, slowly, carefully. The

gate swung open just enough for her to squeeze

herself through, scraping herself on the wooden

bulwarks both fore and aft as she did so.

Before her lay the courtyard, mostly open ground.

Remembering all Tarma had taught her, she

crouched as low as she could, waited until the

moon passed behind a cloud, and sprinted for the

shelter of the dried-up fountain.

Under the rim, in shadows, she looked around;

watching not for objects, but for movement, any

movement. But there was no movement, anomalous

or otherwise. She crawled under the rim until she

lay hidden on the side facing the temple doors.

She watched, but saw nothing; she listened, but

heard only crickets and toads. She waited, aching

from the strain of holding herself still in such an

awkward position, until the moon again went be-

hind a cloud.

She sprinted for the temple doors, flinging her-

self against the wall of the temple behind a pillar

as soon as she reached them. It was then that she

realized that there had been something very anom-

alous at the gate.

The aged gates, allegedly locked for fifteen years,

had opened smoothly and without a sound—as if

they had been oiled and put into working order

within the past several days.

Something was very wrong.

A shadow bulked in front of her, and she started

with alarm; she pulled the sword in a defensive

move before she realized that her "enemy" was

Warrl.

He reached for her arm and his teeth closed gently

on her tunic; he tugged at her sleeve. That meant

Tarma wanted her.

"You didn't meet with anything?" Kethry whisp-

ered.

Warrl snorted. I think that they are all asleep or

blind. A cub could have penetrated this place.

This was too easy; all her instincts were in an

uproar. Too easy by far. She suddenly realized what

their easy access to this place meant. This was a

trap!

And now Kethry felt a shrill alarm course through

her every nerve—a double alarm. Need was alerting

her to a woman in the deadliest danger, and very

nearby—

—and the bond of she'enedran was resonating with

soul-deep threat to her blood-sister. Tarma was in

trouble.

As if to confirm her fears, Warrl threw up his

head and voiced his battle-cry, and charged within,

leaving Kethry behind.

And given the urgency of Need's pull, that could

only mean one thing.

Thalhkarsh was here—and he had the Sworn One

at his nonexistent mercy.

The time for subterfuge was over.

Kethry pulled her ensorcelled blade with her left

hand, and caused a blue-green witchlight to dance

before her with a gesture from her right; then kicked

open the doors of the temple and flung herself

frantically through them. She landed hard against

the dingy white-plastered wall of a tiny, cobwebbed

anteroom, bruising her shoulder; and found herself

staring foolishly at an empty chamber.

Another door stood in the opposite wall, slightly

ajar. She inched along the wall and eased it open

with the tip of her blade. The witchlight showed

nothing beyond it but a brick-walled tunnel that

led deeper into the temple proper. Warrl must al-

ready have run down this way.

She moved stealthily through the door, and into

the corridor, praying to find Tarma, and soon. The

internal alerts of both her blade and her blood-bond

were nigh-unbearable, and she hardly dared con-

template what that meant to Tarma's well-being.

But the corridor twisted and turned like a kadessa-

run, seemingly without end. With every new cor-

ner she expected to find something—but every time

she rounded a corner she saw only another long,

dust-choked extension of the corridor behind her.

The dust showed no tracks at all, not even Warrl's.

Could she have somehow come the wrong way? But

there were only two directions to choose—forward,

or back the way she had come. Back she would

never go; that left only forward. And forward was

yard after yard of blank-walled corridor, with never

a door or a break of any kind. She slunk on and on

in a kind of nightmarish entrancement in which

she lost all track of time; there was only the end-

lessly turning corridor before her and the cry for

help within her. Nothing else seemed of any import

at all. As the urgings of her geas-blade Need and

the bond that tied her to Tarma grew more and

more frantic, she was close to being driven nearly

mad with fear and frustration. She was being dis-

tracted; so successfully in fact, that it wasn't until

she'd wasted far too much precious time trying to

thread the maze that she realized what it must

be—

—a magical construct, meant to delay her, aug-

mented by spells of befuddlement.

"You bastard!" she screamed at the invisible

Thalhkarsh, enraged by his duplicity. He had made

a serious mistake in doing something that caused

her to become angry; that rage was useful, it fueled

her power. She gathered it to her, made a force of it

instead of allowing it to fade uselessly; sought and

found the weak point of the spell. She sheathed

Need, and spreading her arms wide over her head,

palms facing each other, blasted with the white-

heat of her anger.

Mage-energies formed a glowing blue-white arc

between her upraised hands; a sorcerer's wind be-

gan to stir around her, forming a miniature whirl-

wind with herself as the eye. With a flick of her

wrists she reversed her hands to hold them palm-

outward and brought her arms down fully extended

to shoulder height; the mage-light poured from them

to form a wall around her, then the wall expanded

outward. The brick corridor walls about her flared

with scarlet as the glowing wall of energy touched

them; they shivered beneath the wrath-fired mage-

blast, wavered and warped like the mirages they

were. There was a moment of resistance; then,

soundlessly, they vanished.

She saw she was standing in what had been the

outer, common sanctuary; an enormous room, sup-

ported by two rows of pillars whose tops were lost

in the shadows of the ceiling. Tracks in the dust

showed she had been tracing the same circling path

all the time she had thought she was traversing the

corridor. Her anger brightened the witchlight; the

green-blue glow revealed the far end of the sanctuary

—the forgotten god stood there, behind his altar.

The statue of the gentle god of rains had a forlorn

look; he and his altar were covered with a blanket

of dust and cobwebs. Dust lay undisturbed nearly

everywhere.

Nearly everywhere—she was not the expert tracker

Tarma was, but it did not take an expert to read

the trail that passed from the front doors to some-

where behind the god's statue. And in those dust

tracks were paw prints.

Desperate to waste no more time, she pulled her

blade again and broke into a run, her blue-green

witchlight bobbing before her, intent on following

that trail to wherever it led. She passed by the

neglected altar with never a second glance, and

found the priests' door at the end of the trace in

the dust; it lay just behind and beneath the statue.

It had never been intended to be concealed, and

besides stood wide open. She sent the witchlight

shooting ahead of her and sprinted inside, panting

a little.

But the echoes of running feet ahead of her as

she passed into another brick-walled corridor told

her that her spell-breaking had not gone unnoticed.

Common sense and logic said she should find a

corner to put her back against and make a stand.

Therefore she did nothing of the kind.

As the first of four armed mercenaries came

pounding into view around a corner ahead, she took

Need in both hands and charged him, shrieking at

the top of her lungs. Her berserk attack took the

demon-hireling by surprise; he stopped dead in his

tracks, staring, and belatedly raised his own weapon.

His hesitation sealed his doom. Kethry let the el-

dritch power of Need control her body, and the

bespelled blade responded to the freedom by mov-

ing her in a lightning blow at his unprotected side.

Screaming in pain, the fighter fell, arm sheared off

at the shoulder.

The second hired thug was a little quicker to

defend himself, but he, too, was no match for Need's

spell-imparted skill. Kethry cracked his wooden

shield in half with a strength far exceeding what

she alone possessed, and swatted his blade out of

his hands after only two exchanges, sending it clat-

tering against the wall. She ran him through before

he could flee her.

The third and fourth sought to take her while—

they presumed—Kethry's blade was still held fast

in the collapsing body. They presumed too much;

Need freed itself and spun Kethry around to meet

and counter both their strokes in a display of swords-

manship a master would envy. They saw death

staring at them from the witchlight reflected on

the blood-dripping blade, from the hate-filled green

eyes.

It was more than they had the stomach to face—

and their lives were worth far more to them than

their pay. They turned and fled back down the way

they had come, with Kethry in hot pursuit, too

filled with berserk anger now to think that a charge

into unknown danger might not be a wise notion.

There was light ahead, Kethry noticed absently,

allowing her rage to speed her feet. That might

mean there were others there—and perhaps the

demon.

The hirelings ran to the light as to sanctuary;

Kethry followed—

She stumbled to a halt, at first half-blinded by

the light; then when her eyes adjusted, tripped on

nothing and nearly fell to her knees, her mind and

heart going numb at what she saw.

This had once been the inner temple; Thalh-

karsh had transformed it into his own perverted

place of unholiness. It had the red-lit look of a

seraglio in hell. It had been decorated with the

same sort of carvings that had ornamented the de-

mon's temple back in Delton. The subject was sex-

ual; every perversion possible was depicted, provided

that it included pain and suffering.

The far end of the room had been made into a

kind of platform, covered in silk and velvet cush-

ions, plushly upholstered. It was a cliched setting;

an overdone backdrop for an orgy. The demon cer-

tainly enjoyed invoking pain, but it appeared that

he himself preferred not to suffer the slightest dis-

comfort while he was amusing himself. The plat-

form was occupied by a clutch of writhing nude

and partially clothed bodies. Only now were some

of those on the platform beginning to disengage and

take notice of the hirelings fleeing for the door on

the opposite side. Evidently not even the demon

foresaw that Kethry would be able to get this far on

her own.

The demon and his followers had been inter-

rupted by her entrance at the height of their plea-

sures. And it was the sight of the demon's partner

that had stricken Kethry to the heart—for the one

being used by the demon himself was Tarma.

But it was Tarma transformed; she wore the face

and body the demon had given her when he had

first tried to seduce her to his cause. Though smaller

and far frailer, she was still recognizably herself—

but with all her angularities softened, her harsh-

ness made silken, her flaws turned to beauty. Her

clothing was in rags, and she had the bruises and

the look of a woman who has been passed from one

brutal rape to another. That was bad enough, but

that was not what had struck Kethry like a dagger

to the heart; it was the absence of any mind or

sense in Tarma's blank blue eyes.

Tarma had survived rape before; were she still

aware and in charge of herself, she would still be

fighting. Mere brutal use would not have forced

her mind from her, not when the slaughter of her

entire Clan as well as her own abuse had failed to

do that when she was a young woman and far more

innocent than she was now. No—this had to be the

work of the demon. Knowing he would be unable to

break her spirit, Thalhkarsh had stolen Tarma's

mind; stolen her mind or somehow forced her soul

out of her body.

The demon, wearing his form of a tall, beautiful

human male, was the first to recover from surprise

at the interruption.

"Amusing," he said, not appearing at all amused.

"I had thought the skill of those I had paid would

more than equal yours, even with that puny blade

to augment it. It appears that I was mistaken."

Before Kethry could make a move, he had seized

Tarma, and pulled her before him—not as a shield,

but with evident threat.

"Put up your blade, sorceress," he purred bra-

zenly, "or I tear her limb from limb."

Kethry knew he was not bluffing, and Need clat-

tered to the floor from her nerveless hand.

He laughed, a hideous howl of triumph. "You dis-

appoint me, my enemy! You have made my conquest

too easy!" He stood up and tossed Tarma aside; she

fell to the pile of cushions with the limpness of a

lifeless doll, not even attempting to break her own

fall. "Come forth, my little toy—" he continued,

turning his back on his fallen victim and beckoning

to someone lurking behind the platform.

From out of the shadows among the hangings

came a woman, and when she stepped far enough

into the light that Kethry was able to get a good

look at her, the sorceress reeled as if she had been

struck. It couldn't be—

The woman was the twin of an image she herself

had once worn—and that she had placed on the

unconscious form of the marauding bandit Lastel

Longknife by way of appropriate punishment for

the women and girls he had used and murdered. It

was an image she had never expected to see again;

she had assumed the bandit would have been treated

with brutality equaling his own by what was left

of his fellows. By all rights, he should have been

dead—long dead.

"I think the bitch recognizes me, my lord," the

dulcet voice said, heavy irony in the title of subser-

vience. Platinum hair was pushed back from ame-

thyst eyes with a graceful but impatient hand.

"You never expected to see me again, did you?"

Her eyes blazed with helpless anger. "May every

god damn you for what you did to me, woman.

Death would have been better than the misery this

shape put me through! If it hadn't been for a forgot-

ten sword and an untied horse—"

She came closer, hands crooked into claws. "I've

dreamed of having you in my hands every night

since, gods—but not like this." Her eyes betrayed

that she was walking a very thin thread of sanity.

"What you did to me was bad enough—but being

trapped in this prison of a whore's carcass is more

than I can bear—it's worse than Hell, it's—"

She turned away, clenching her hands so tightly

that the knuckles popped. After a moment of inter-

nal struggle she regained control over herself, and

turned to the demon. "Well, since it was my tales

to the priests that lured them here, the time has

come for you to keep your side of the bargain."

"You wish to lose your current form? A pity—I

had thought you had come to enjoy my attentions."

The woman colored; Kethry was baffled. She had

only placed the illusion of being female on the ban-

dit, but this—this was a real woman! Mage-sight

showed only exactly what stood before her in normal-

sight, not the bandit of the desert hills!

"Damn you," she snarled. "Oh, gods, for a demon-

slaying blade! Yes, you bastard, I enjoy it! As you

very well know, squirming like a vile snake inside

my head! You've made me your slave as well as

your puppet; you've addicted me to you, and you

revel in my misery—you cursed me far worse than

ever she did. And now, damn you, I want free of it

and you and all else besides! I've paid my part of

the bargain. Now you live up to your side!"

Thalhkarsh smiled cruelly. "Very well, my pretty

little toy—go and take her lovely throat in both

your hands, and I shall free you of that body with

her death."

One of the acolytes scuttled around behind Kethry

and seized her arms, pinioning them behind her

back. He needn't have bothered; she was so in shock

she couldn't have moved if the ceiling had begun to

fall in on them. The slender beauty approached,

stark, bitter hatred in her eyes, and seized Kethry's

throat.

A howl echoed from behind her; a hurtling black

shape leaped over her straight at the demon. It was

Warrl—who evidently had met the same kind of

delaying tactics as Kethry had. Now he had broken

free of them, and he was in a killing rage. This time

Thalhkarsh took no chances with Warrl; from his

upraised hands came double bolts of crimson light-

ning. Warrl was hit squarely in midair by both of

them. He shrieked horribly, transfixed six feet above

the floor, caught and held in midleap. He writhed

once, shrieked again—then went limp. The aura of

the demon's magic faded; the body of the kyree

dropped to the ground like a shot bird, and did not

move again.

Lastel was not in the least distracted by this; she

tightened her hands around Kethry's neck. Kethry

struggled belatedly to free herself, managing to bring

her heel down on the foot of the acolyte behind her,

catching him squarely in the instep so that he yowled

and dropped to the floor, clutching his ruined foot.

But even when her arms were free, she was pow-

erless against the bandit; she scratched at Lastel's

hands and reached for her eyes with crooked

fingers—uselessly. Her own hands would not re-

spond; her lungs screamed for air, and she began to

black out.

The demon laughed, and again raised his hands;

Kethry felt as if she'd been plunged into the heart

of a fire. Crackling energies surrounded both of

them; her legs gave beneath her and it was only

when a new acolyte caught her arms and held her

up that she remained erect. With narrowing vision

she stared into Lastel's pale eyes, unable to look

away—

And suddenly she found herself staring down

into her own face, with her own neck between her

hands! Kethry released her grip with a cry of dis-

belief; stared down at at her hands, at herself,

horror written plain on her own face. Lastel stared

up at her out of her own eyes, hatred and black

despair making a twisted mask of her face.

The demon laughed at both of them, cruel enjoy-

ment plain in his tone. He eased off the monstrous

pile of silks and stalked proudly toward them, sweep-

ing the bandit up onto her feet and into his arms as

he came to stand over Kethry, who had sagged to

her knees in shock.

"I promised to change your form, fool—I did not

promise into what image!" he chortled. "And you,

witch—I have your rightful body in my keeping

now—and you will never, never reverse a spell to

which I and I alone hold the key!"

He gestured at his acolyte, who dropped his hold

on Kethry-now-Lastel and seized Lastel-now-Ke-

thry's arms instead, hauling her roughly to her feet.

"My foolish sorceress, my equally foolish toy,

how easy it is to manipulate you! Little toy, did you

truly think that I would release you when you take

such delight in my attentions? That I would allow

such a potent source of misery out of my posses-

sion? As for you, dear enemy—I have only begun to

take my revenge upon you. I shall leave you alive,

and in full possession of your senses—unlike your

sword-sister. No doubt you wonder what I have

done with her? I have wiped her mind clean; in

time I shall implant my teachings in her, so that I

shall have an acolyte of complete obedience and

complete devotion. It was a pity that I could not

force her to suffer as you shall, but her will com-

bined with her link to her chosen goddess was far

too strong to trifle with. But now that her mind is

gone, the link has gone with it, and she will be

mine for so long as I care to keep her."

Kethry was overwhelmed with agony and despair;

she stifled a moan with difficulty. She felt tears

burning her eyes and coursing down her cheeks;

her vision was blurred by them. The demon smiled

at the sight.

"As for you, you will be as potent a source of

pain as my little toy is; know that you will feed my

power with your grief and anguish. Know that your

blood-sister will be my plaything, willingly suffer-

ing because I order it. Know all this, and know that

you are helpless to prevent any of it! As for this—"

He prodded the body of Warrl with one toe. His

smile spread even wider as she tried involuntarily

to reach out, only to have the acolytes hold her

arms back.

"I think that I shall find something suitable to

use it for. Shall I have it mounted, or—yes. The fur

is quite good; quite soft and unusual. I think I shall

have it tanned—and it shall be your only bed, my

enemy!"

He laughed, as Kethry struggled in the arms of

his acolytes, stomach twisted and mind torn nearly

in shreds by her grief and hatred of him. She sub-

sided only when they threatened to wrench her

arms out of their sockets, and hung limply in their

grasp, panting with frustrated rage and weeping

soundlessly.

"Take her, and take her friend. Put them in the

place I prepared for them," Thalhkarsh ordered

with a lift of one eyebrow. "And take that and that

as well," he indicated the body of Warrl and Kethry's

sword Need. "Put them where she can see them

until I decide what to do with them. Perhaps, little

toy, I shall give the blade to you."

Lastel's hands clenched and unclenched as he

attempted to control himself. "Do it, damn you! If

you do, I'll use it on you, you bastard!"

"How kind of you to warn me, then. But come—

you wear a new body now, and I wish to see how it

differs from the old—don't you?"

Kethry's last sight of the demon was as he swept

Lastel up onto the platform, then she and Tarma

were hustled down another brick-lined corridor,

and shoved roughly into a makeshift cage that took

up the back half of a stone-lined storage room.

Warrl's carcass and Need were both dumped un-

ceremoniously on the slate table in front of the cage

door.

The room lacked windows entirely, and had only

the one door now shut and (from the sounds that

had come after her guards had shut it), locked.

Light came from a single torch in a holder near the

door. The cage was made of crudely-forged iron

bars welded across the entire room, with an equally

crude door of similar bars that had been padlocked

closed. There was nothing whatsoever in the cage;

she and Tarma had only what they were wearing,

which in Tarma's case was little more than rags,

and in hers, the simple shift and breeches Lastel

had been wearing. Though she searched, she found

no weapons at all.

Tarma sat blank-eyed in the corner of the cage

where she'd been left, rocking back and forth and

humming tunelessly to herself. The only thing that

the demon hadn't changed was her voice; still the

ruined parody of what it had been before the slaugh-

ter of her Clan.

Kethry went to her and knelt on the cold stone at

her side. "Tarma?" she asked, taking her she'enedra's

hand in hers and staring into those blank blue eyes.

She got no response for a moment, then the eyes

seemed to see her. One hand crept up, and Tarma

inserted the tip of her index finger into her mouth.

"Tarma?" the Shin'a'in echoed ingenuously. And

that was all of intelligence that Kethry could coax

from her; within moments her eyes had gone blank

again, and she was back to her rocking and tuneless

humming.

Kethry looked from the mindless Tarma to the

gone, the link has gone with it, and she will be

mine for so long as I care to keep her."

Kethry was overwhelmed with agony and despair;

she stifled a moan with difficulty. She felt tears

burning her eyes and coursing down her cheeks;

her vision was blurred by them. The demon smiled

at the sight.

"As for you, you will be as potent a source of

pain as my little toy is; know that you will feed my

power with your grief and anguish. Know that your

blood-sister will be my plaything, willingly suffer-

ing because I order it. Know all this, and know that

you are helpless to prevent any of it! As for this—"

He prodded the body of Warrl with one toe. His

smile spread even wider as she tried involuntarily

to reach out, only to have the acolytes hold her

arms back.

"I think that I shall find something suitable to

use it for. Shall I have it mounted, or—yes. The fur

is quite good; quite soft and unusual. I think I shall

have it tanned—and it shall be your only bed, my

enemy!"

He laughed, as Kethry struggled in the arms of

his acolytes, stomach twisted and mind torn nearly

in shreds by her grief and hatred of him. She sub-

sided only when they threatened to wrench her

arms out of their sockets, and hung limply in their

grasp, panting with frustrated rage and weeping

soundlessly.

"Take her, and take her friend. Put them in the

place I prepared for them," Thalhkarsh ordered

with a lift of one eyebrow. "And take that and that

as well," he indicated the body of Warrl and Kethry's

sword Need. "Put them where she can see them

until I decide what to do with them. Perhaps, little

toy, I shall give the blade to you."

Lastel's hands clenched and unclenched as he

attempted to control himself. "Do it, damn you! If

you do, I'll use it on you, you bastard!"

"How kind of you to warn me, then. But come—

you wear a new body now, and I wish to see how it

differs from the old—don't you?"

Kethry's last sight of the demon was as he swept

Lastel up onto the platform, then she and Tarma

were hustled down another brick-lined corridor,

and shoved roughly into a makeshift cage that took

up the back half of a stone-lined storage room.

Warrl's carcass and Need were both dumped un-

ceremoniously on the slate table in front of the cage

door.

The room lacked windows entirely, and had only

the one door now shut and (from the sounds that

had come after her guards had shut it), locked.

Light came from a single torch in a holder near the

door. The cage was made of crudely-forged iron

bars welded across the entire room, with an equally

crude door of similar bars that had been padlocked

closed. There was nothing whatsoever in the cage;

she and Tarma had only what they were wearing,

which in Tarma's case was little more than rags,

and in hers, the simple shift and breeches Lastel

had been wearing. Though she searched, she found

no weapons at all.

Tarma sat blank-eyed in the corner of the cage

where she'd been left, rocking back and forth and

humming tunelessly to herself. The only thing that

the demon hadn't changed was her voice; still the

ruined parody of what it had been before the slaugh-

ter of her Clan.

Kethry went to her and knelt on the cold stone at

her side. "Tarma?" she asked, taking her she'enedra's

hand in hers and staring into those blank blue eyes.

She got no response for a moment, then the eyes

seemed to see her. One hand crept up, and Tarma

inserted the tip of her index finger into her mouth.

"Tarma?" the Shin'a'in echoed ingenuously. And

that was all of intelligence that Kethry could coax

from her; within moments her eyes had gone blank

again, and she was back to her rocking and tuneless

humming.

Kethry looked from the mindless Tarma to the

body of the kyree and back again, slow tears etching

their way down her cheeks.

"My god, my god—" she wept, "Oh, Tarma, you

were right! We should have gone for help."

She tried to take her oathkin in her arms, but it

was like holding a stiff, wooden doll.

"If I hadn't been so damned sure of myself—if I

hadn't been so determined to prove you were smoth-

ering me—it's all my fault, it's all my fault! What

have I done? What has my pride done to you?"

And Tarma rocked and crooned, oblivious to ev-

erything around her, while she wept with absolute

despair.

Eleven

You lied to me, you bastard!" Green eyes blazed

passionately with anger.

"You didn't listen carefully enough," Thalhkarsh

replied to the amber-haired hellion whom he had

backed into a corner of his "couch." "I said I would

change your form; I never said what I would change

it into."

"You never had any intention of changing me

back to a man!" Lastel choked, sagging to the pad-

ded platform, almost incoherent with rage.

"Quite right." The demon grinned maliciously as

he sat himself cross-legged on the padded platform,

carefully positioning himself so as to make escape

impossible. "Your emotions are strong; you are a

potent source of power for me, and an ever-renew-

able source. I had no intention of letting you free of

me while I still need you." He arranged himself

more comfortably with the aid of a cushion or two;

he had Lastel neatly pinned, and his otherworldly

strength and speed would enable him to counter

any move the woman made.

"Then when?"

"When shall I release you? Fool, don't you ever

think past the immediate moment?" For once the

molten-bronze face lost its mocking expression; the

glowing red-gold eyes looked frustrated. "Why should

you want release? What would you do if I gave you

back your previous form—where would you go?

Back to your wastelands, back to misery, back to

petty theft? Back to a life with every man's hand

against you, having to hide like a desert rat? Is that

what you want?"

"I_"

"Fool; blind, stupid fool! Your lust for power is

nearly as great as my own, yet you could accom-

plish nothing by yourself and everything with my

aid!" the demon rose to his feet, gesticulating.

"Think—for one moment, think! You are in a mage-

Talented body now; one in which the currents of

arcane power flow strongly. You could have me as a

patron. You could have all the advantages of being

my own High Prelate when I am made a god! And

you wish to throw this all away? Simply because

you do not care for the responses of a perfectly

healthy and attractive body?"

"But it isn't mine! It's a woman!" Lastel shrank

back into the corner, wailing. "I don't want this

body—"

"But I want you in it. I desire you, creature I

have made; I want you in a form attractive to me."

The demon came closer and placed his hands on

the walls to either side of Lastel, effectively ren-

dering her immobile. "Your emotions run so high,

and taste so sweetly to me that I sometimes think I

shall never release you."

"Why?" Lastel whispered. "Why me, why this?

And why here? I thought all your kind hated this

world."

"Not I." The demon's eyes smoldered as his ex-

pression turned thoughtful. "Your world is beauti-

ful in my eyes; your people have aroused more than

my hunger, they have aroused my desire. I want

this world, and I want the people in it! And I will

have it! Just as I shall have you."

"No—" Lastel whimpered.

"Then I ask in turn, why? Or why not? What

have I done save rouse your own passions? You are

well fed, well clothed, well housed—nor have I

ever harmed you physically."

"You're killing me!" Lastel cried, his voice break-

ing. "You're destroying my identity! Every time

you look at me, every time you touch me, I forget

what it was ever like, being a man! All I want is to

be your shadow, your servant; I want to exist only

for you! I never come back to myself until after

you've gone, and it takes longer to remember what I

was afterward—longer every time you do this to

me."

The demon smiled again with his former cruelty,

and brought his lips in to brush her neck. "Then,

little toy," he murmured, "perhaps it is something

best forgotten?"

Tarma was lost; without sight, without hearing,

without senses of any kind. Held there, and drained

weak past any hope of fighting back. So tired—too

tired to fight. Too tired to hope, or even care. Emp-

tied of every passion—

Wake UP!

The thin voice in her mind was the first sign that

there was any life at all in the vast emptiness

where she abode, alone. She strained to hear it

again, feeling ... something. Something besides the

apathy that had claimed her.

Mind-mate, wake!

It was familiar. If only she could remember, re-

member anything at all.

Wake, wake, wake!

The voice was stronger, and had the feel of teeth

in it. As if something large and powerful was clos-

ing fangs on her and shaking her. Teeth—

In the name of the Star-Eyed! the voice said, fran-

tically. You MUST wake!

Teeth. Star-Eyed. Those things had meant some-

thing, before she had become nothing. Had meant

something, when she was—

Tarma.

She was Tarma. She was Tarma still, Sworn One,

kyree-friend, she'enedra.

Every bit of her identity that she regained brought

more tiny pieces back with it, and more strength.

She fought off the gray fog that threatened to steal

those bits away, fought and held them, and put

more and more of herself together, fighting back

inch by inch. She was Shin'a'in, of the free folk of

the open plains—she would not be held and pri-

soned! She—would—not—be—held!

Now she felt pain, and welcomed it, for it was

one more bridge to reality. Salvation lay in pain,

not in the gray fog that sucked the pain and every-

thing else away from her. She held the pain to her,

cherished it, and reached for the voice in her mind.

She found that, too, and held to it, while it re-

joiced fiercely that she had found it.

No—not it. He. The kyree, the mage-beast. Warrl.

The friend of her soul, as Kethry was of her heart.

As if that recognition had broken the last strand

of foul magic holding her in the gray place, she

suddenly found herself possessed again of a body—a

body that ached in a way that was only too familiar.

A body stiff and chilled, and sitting—from the feel

of the air on her skin—nearly naked and on a cold

stone floor. She could hear nothing but the sound of

someone crying softly—and cautiously cracked her

eyes open the merest slit to see where she was.

She was in a cage; she could see the iron bars

before her, but unless she changed position and

moved, she couldn't see much else. She closed her

eyes again in an attempt to remember what could

have brought her to this pass. Her memories tum-

bled together, confused, as she tried with an aching

skull to sort them out.

But after a moment, it all came back to her, and

with it, a rush of anger and hatred.

Thalhkarsh!

The demon—he'd tricked her, trapped her—then

overpowered her, changed her, and done—something

to her to send her into that gray place. But if

Thalhkarsh had taken her, then where were Warrl

and Kethry?

I'm lying on the table, mind-mate, said the voice,

The demon thinks he killed me; he nearly did. His

magic sent me into little-death, and I decided to con-

tinue the trance until we were all alone; it seemed

safer that way. There was nothing I could do for you.

Your she'enedra is in the same cage as you. It would be

nice to let her know the demon hasn't destroyed your

mind after all. She thinks that you're worse than dead,

and blames herself entirely for what was both your

folly.

Tarma moved her head cautiously; her muscles

all ached. There was someone in the cage with her,

crumpled in a heap in the corner; by the shaking of

her shoulders, the source of the weeping—but—

That's not Kethry!

Not her body, but her spirit. The demon gave her

body to the bandit.

What bandit?

The kyree gave a mental growl. It's too hard to

explain; I'm going to break the trance. Tend to your

she'enedra.

Tarma licked lips that were swollen and bruised.

She'd felt this badly used once before, a time she

preferred not to think about.

There was something missing; something missing—

"No," she whispered, eyes opening wide with

shock, all thought driven from her in that instant

by her realization of what was missing. "Oh, no!"

The stranger's head snapped up; swollen and

red-rimmed amethyst eyes turned toward her.

"T-t-tarma?"

"It's gone," she choked, unable to comprehend

her loss. "The vysaka—the Goddess-bond—it's gone!"

She could feel her sanity slipping; feel herself going

over the edge. Without the Goddess-bond—

Take hold of yourself! the voice in her mind

snapped. It's probably all that damn demon's fault;

break his spells and it will come back! And anyway,

you're alive and I'm alive and Kethry's alive; I want us

all to STAY that way!

Warrl's annoyance was like a slap in the face; it

brought her back to a precarious sanity. And with

his reminder that Kethry was still alive, she turned

back toward the stranger whose tear-streaked face

peered through the gloom at her,

"Keth? Is that you?"

"You're back! Oh, Goddess bless, you're back!"

The platinum-haired beauty flung herself into

Tarma's arms, and clung there. "I thought he'd

destroyed you, and it was all my fault for insisting

that we do this ourselves instead of going for help

like you wanted."

"Here, now." Tarma gulped back tears of her

own, and pushed Kethry away with hands that

shook. "We're not out of this yet."

"T-tarma—Warrl—he's—''

Very much alive, thank you. The great furry shape

on the table outside their cage rose slowly to its

four feet, and shook itself painfully. I hurt. If you

hurt like I hurt, we are all in very sad condition.

Tarma sympathized with Kethry's bewilderment.

"He pulled a kyree trick on us all, she'enedra. He

told me that when the demon's magic hit him, it

sent him into little-death—a kind of trance. He

figured it was better to stay that way until we were

alone." She examined the confused countenance

before her. "He also said something about you trad-

ing bodies with a bandit .. . and don't I know that

face?"

"Lastel Longknife," she replied shakily. "He lived;

he's the one that had Thalhkarsh conjured up, and

I guess he got more than he bargained for, because

the demon turned him into a real woman. He was

the one spreading the rumors to lure us in here, I'll

bet. Now he's got my body—"

"I have the sinking feeling that you're going to

tell me you can't work magic in this one."

"Not very well," she admitted. "Though I haven't

tried any of the power magics that need more train-

ing than Talent."

"All right then; we can't magic our way out of

this cage, let's see if we can think our way out."

Tarma did her best to ignore the aching void

within her and took careful stock of the situation.

Their prison consisted of the back half of a stone-

walled room; crude iron bars welded across the

middle made their half into a cage. It had an equally

crude door, padlocked shut. There was only one

door to the room itself, in the front half, and there

were no windows; the floor was of slate. In half of

the room beyond their cage was a table on which

Warrl—and something else—lay.

"Fur-face, is that Need next to you?"

The same.

"Then Thalhkarsh just made one big mistake,"

she said, narrowing her eyes with grim satisfaction.

"Get your tail over here, and bring the blade with

you."

Warrl snorted, picked up the hilt of the blade

gingerly in his mouth, and jumped down off the

table with it. He dragged it across the floor, com-

plaining mentally to Tarma the entire time.

"All right, Keth. I saw that thing shear clean

through armor and more than once. Have a crack at

the latch. It'll have to be you, she won't answer

physically to me."

"But—" Kethry looked doubtfully at the frail

arms of her new body, then told herself sternly to

remember that Need was a magical weapon, that it

responded (as the runes on its blade said) to wom-

an's need. And they certainly needed out of this

prison—

She raised the sword high over her head, and

brought it down on the latch-bar with all of her

strength.

With a shriek like a dying thing, the metal sheared

neatly in two, and the door swung open.

"You are bold, priest," the demon rumbled.

"I am curious; perhaps foolish—but never bold,"

responded the plump, balding priest of Anathei. "I

was curious when I first heard the rumors of your

return. I was even more curious when the two who

were responsible for your defeat before were miss-

ing this morning. I will confess to being quite con-

fused to find one of them here."

He cast a meaningful glance at the demon's com-

panion, curled sullenly on the velvet beside him.

The sorceress did not appear to be happy, but she

also did not appear coerced in any way. Come to

that, there was something oddly different about

her... .

"I repeat, you are bold; but you amuse me. Why

are you here?" Thalhkarsh settled back onto his

cushions, and with a flicker of thought increased

the intensity of the light coming from his crimson

lanterns. The musky incense he favored wafted

upward toward the ceiling from a brazier at the

edge of the padded platform where he reclined.

This priest had presented himself at the door and

simply asked to be taken to the demon; Thalhkarsh's

followers had been so nonplussed by his quiet air of

authority that they had done as he asked. Now he

stood before Thalhkarsh, an unimpressive figure in

a plain brown cassock, plump and aging, with his

hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. And he,

in his turn, did not seem the least afraid of the

demon; nor did it appear that anything, from the

obscene carvings to the orgy still in progress on the

platform behind the demon, was bothering him the

slightest bit.

And that had the demon thoroughly puzzled.

"I am here to try to convince you that what you

are doing is wrong."

"Wrong? Wrong?" The demon laughed heartily.

"I could break you with one finger, and you wish to

tell me that I am guilty of doing wrong?"

"Since you seem to wish to live in this world, you

must live by some of its rules—and one of those is

that to cause harm or pain to another is wrong."

"And who will punish me, priest?" The demon's

eyes glowed redly, his lips thinning in anger. "You?"

"You yourself will cause your own punishment,"

the priest replied earnestly. "For by your actions

you will drive away what even you must need—

admiration, trust, friendship, love—"

He was interrupted by the sound of shouting and

of clashing blades; he stared in surprise to see

Tarma—a transformed Tarma—wearing an acolyte's

tunic and nothing else, charging into the room driv-

ing several guards ahead of her. And with her was

the platinum-haired child he had last seen at his

own temple, telling his brothers of the rumors of

Thalhkarsh.

But the blade in her hands was the one he had

last seen in the sorceress' hands.

The woman at the demon's side made a tight

little sound of smothered rage as the demon's guards

moved to bar the exits or interpose themselves be-

tween the women and their target.

"Your anger is strong, little toy," Thalhkarsh

laughed, looking down at her. "Use it, then. Be-

come the instrument of my revenge. Kill her, and

this time I promise you that I shall give you your

man's body back." He plucked a sword from the

hand of the guard next to him and handed it to his

amber-tressed companion.

And the priest stared in complete bewilderment.

Given the weapon, the bandit needed no further

urging, and flung himself at Kethry's throat.

Kethry, now no longer the tough, fit creature she

had been, but a frail, delicate wraith, went down

before him. Tarma tried to get to her, knowing that

she was going to be too late—

But Warrl intervened, bursting from behind the

crimson velvet hangings, flinging himself between

the combatants long enough for Kethry to regain

her footing and recover Need. She fumbled it up

into a pathetic semblance of guard position; then

stared at her own hands, wearing a stupefied ex-

pression. After a moment Tarma realized why. Need

was not responding to her—because Need could not

act against a woman, not even for a woman.

And between Tarma and her she'enedra were a

dozen or so followers of the demon.

But some of them were the ones who had so

lately been sharing her own body with their master.

She let herself, for the first time since her awak-

ening, truly realize what had been done to her—

physically and mentally. Within an eyeblink she

had roused herself to a killing battle-frenzy, a state

in which all her senses were heightened, her reac-

tions quickened, her strength nearly doubled. She

would pay for this energized state later—if there

was a later.

She gathered herself carefully, and sprang at the

nearest, taking with her one of the heavy silken

hangings that had been nearest her. She managed,

despite the handicap of no longer having her right-

ful, battle-trained body, to catch him by surprise

and tangle him in the folds of it. The only weapon

the Shin'a'in had been able to find had been a heavy

dagger; before the others had a chance to react to

her first rush, she stabbed down at him, taking a

fierce pleasure in plunging it into him again and

again, until the silk was dyed scarlet with his

blood—

Kethry was defending herself as best she could;

only the fact that the bandit was once again not in a

body that was his own was giving her any chance at

all. Warrl's appearance had given her a brief mo-

ment of aid when she most needed it. Now Warrl

was busy with one of the other acolytes. And it was

apparent that Tarma, too, had her hands full, though

she was showing a good portion of her old speed

and skill. At least she wasn't in that shocked and

bereft half-daze she'd fallen into when she first

came back to herself.

But Kethry had enough to think about; she could

only spare a scant second to rejoice at Tarma's

recovery. She was doing more dodging than any-

thing else; the bandit was plainly out for her death.

As had occurred once before, the demon was merely

watching, content to let his pawns play out their

moves before making any of his own.

Tarma had taken a torch and set the trapped

acolyte aflame, laughing wildly when he tried to

free himself of the entangling folds of the silk cov-

erlet and succeeding only in getting in the way of

those that remained. Warrl had disposed of one,

and was heading off a second. Kethry was facing a

terrible dilemma—Need was responding sluggishly

now, but only in pure defense. She knew she dared

not kill the former bandit. If she did, there would

be no chance of ever getting her own body back.

There was no way of telling what would happen if

she killed what was, essentially, her body. She might

survive, trapped in this helpless form that lacked

the stamina and strength and mage-Talents of her

own—or she might die along with her body.

Nor did she have any notion of what Need might

do to her if she killed another woman. Possibly

nothing—or the magical backlash of breaking the

geas might well leave her a burned-out husk, a fate

far worse than simply dying.

Now Tarma had laid hands on another sword—

one lighter than the broadsword she was used to,

and with an odd curve to it. She had never used a

weapon quite like this before, but a blade was a

blade. The rest of the acolytes made a rush for her,

forgetting for the moment—if, indeed, they had ever

known—that they were not dealing with an essen-

tially helpless woman, given momentary strength

by hysteria, but a highly trained martial artist.

Tarma's anger and hysteria were as carefully chan-

neled as a powerful stream diverted to turn a mill.

As they rushed her, evidently intending to over-

power her by sheer numbers, she took the hilt in

both hands, rose and pivoted in one motion, and

made a powerful, sweeping cut at waist level that

literally sliced four of them in half.

Somewhere, far in the back of her mind, a nor-

mally calm, analytical part of her went wild with

joy. This strange sword was better than any blade

she'd ever used before; the curve kept it from lodg-

ing, the edge was as keen as the breath of the North

Wind, and the grip, with a place for her to curl her

forefinger around it, made it almost an extension of

her hand. It was perfectly balanced for use by ei-

ther one hand or two. Her eyes lit with a kind of

fire, and it wasn't all the reflection of torch-flames.

Her remaining opponents stumbled over the bleed-

ing, disemboweled bodies of their erstwhile com-

rades, shocked and numb by the turn in fortunes.

Just last night this woman had been their play-

thing. Now she stood, blood-spattered and half-naked

as she was, over the prone bodies of five of them.

They hesitated, confused.

Warrl leapt on two from the rear, breaking the

neck of one and driving the other onto Tarma's

waiting blade.

Eight down, seven standing.

Seven? There were only six—

Tarma felt, more than saw, the approach of one

from the rear. She pivoted, slashing behind her

with the marvellously liquid blade as she did so,

and caught him across the throat. Even as he went

down, another, braver than the rest, lunged for her.

Her kick caught him in the temple; his head snapped

to one side and he fell, eyes glazing with more than

unconsciousness; Warrl made sure of him with a

single snap of his massive jaws, then dashed away

again to vanish somewhere.

Five.

I come from behind you.

Tarma held her ground, and Warrl ran in from

under the hangings. The man he jumped had both a

short sword and shield, but failed to bring either

up in time. Warrl tore his throat out and leapt

away, leaving him to drown in his own blood.

Four.

Tarma charged between two of those remaining,

slashing with a figure-eight motion, knowing they

would hesitate to strike at her with the swords

they'd snatched from their sheaths for tear of strik-

ing each other. She caught the first across the eyes,

the second across the gut. The one she'd blinded

stumbled toward her with blood pouring between

his fingers, and she finished him as she whirled

around at the end of her rush.

Two.

Kethry tried to simply defend herself, but the

bandit wasn't holding back.

So she did the only thing she could; she cast

Need away from her, and backed off far enough to

raise her hands over her head, preparatory to blast-

ing the bandit with a bolt of arcane power.

Warrl leaped on the right-hand man; tore at his

thigh and brought him down, then ripped out his

gut. Tarma's final opponent was the first that

showed any real ability or forethought; he was

crouching where Warrl couldn't come at him from

the rear, with a sword in one hand and a dagger in

the other. His posture showed he was no stranger

to the blade. She knew after a feint or two that he

was very good, which was probably why he'd sur-

vived his other companions. Now she had a prob-

lem. There was no one to get in his way, and the

unfamiliar feel of her transformed body was a dis-

traction and a handicap. Then she saw his eyes

narrow as she moved her new sword slightly—and

knew she had a psychological weapon to use against

him. This was his blade she held, and he wanted it

back. Very badly.

She made her plan, and moved.

She pretended to make a short rush, then pre-

tended to stumble, dropping the sword. When he

grabbed for it, dropping his own blade, Tarma

snatched a torch from the wall beside her and thrust

it at his face, and when he winced away from it,

grabbed a dagger from the litter of weapons on the

floor and flung it straight for his throat, knowing

that marksmanship was not a thing that depended

on weight and balance, but on the coordination of

hand and eye—things that wouldn't change even

though her body had shifted form considerably. As

he went down, gurgling and choking, to drown in

his own blood like one of the men Warrl had taken

out, she saw that Kethry was being forced to take

the offensive—and saw the look of smug satisfac-

tion on the demon's face as she did so.

And she realized with a sudden flash of insight

that they had played right into his hands.

"Why do you do nothing?" the little priest asked

in pure confusion.

"Because this is a test, human," the demon re-

plied, watching with legs stretched out comfortably

along the platform. "I have planned for this, though

I shall admit candidly to you that I did not expect

this moment to come quite so soon, nor did I expect

that the beast should regain its life and the swords-

woman her mind. But these are minor flaws in my

plan; however it comes out, I shall win. As you may

have guessed, it is the sorceress' spirit that inhabits

my servant's body; should he slay her, I shall be

well rid of her, and my servant in possession of a

mage-Talented form. Should the swordswoman die,

I shall be equally well rid of her; should she live, I

shall simply deal with her as I did before. Should

my servant die, I shall still have the sorceress, and

her geas-blade will blast her for harming a woman,

even though she does not hold it in her hand—for

she has been soul-bonded to it. And that will render

her useful to me. Or should it kill her, she may

well be damned to my realm, for the breaking of the

oaths she swore. So you see, no matter the outcome,

I win—and I am in no danger, for only my own

magics could touch me in any way."

"I ... see," the priest replied, staring at the

bloody combat before them, mesmerized by the sight.

Tarma realized that they were once again playing

right into the demon's hands. For if Kethry killed

the one wearing her form, she would damn herself

irrevocably, once by committing a kind of suicide,

and twice by breaking the geas and the vow her

bond with Need had set upon her—never to raise

her hand against a woman—three times by break-

ing her oath to her she'enedra.

And by such a betrayal she would probably die,

for surely Thalhkarsh had warded his creature

against magics. Or Need would blast her into death

or mindlessness. Should she die, she could damn

herself forever to Thalhkarsh's particular corner of

the Abyssal Plane, putting herself eternally in his

power. It was a good bet he had planned that she

must slay the bandit by magic, since Need would

not serve against a woman—and certainly he had

woven a spell that would backlash all her unleashed

power on the caster. Kethry would be worse than

dead—for she would be his for the rest of time, to

wreak revenge on until even he should grow weary

of it.

Unless Tarma could stop her before she commit-

ted such self-damnation. And with time running

out, there was only one way to save her.

With an aching heart she cried out in her mind to

Warrl, and Warrl responded with the lightning-fast

reactions of the kyree kind, born in magic and bred

of it.

He leapt upon the unsuspecting Kethry from the

rear, and with one crunch of his jaws, broke her

neck and collapsed her windpipe.

Both Kethry and the bandit collapsed—

Tarma scrambled after the discarded mage-blade,

conscious now only of a dim urge to keep Kethry's

treasured weapon out of profane hands, and to use

the thing against the creature that had forced her

to kill the only human she cared for. Need had hurt

the demon before—

But she had forgotten one thing.

She wasn't a mage, so Need's other gift came into

play; the gift that protected a woman warrior from

magic, no matter how powerful. No magic not cast

with the consent of the bearer could survive Need

entering its field.

The spell binding Tarma was broken, and she

found herself in a body that had regained its nor-

mal proportions.

This was just such a moment that the priest had

been praying for. The spell-energy binding Kethry

into Lastel's body was released explosively with

the death-blow. The priest took full control of that

energy, and snatched her spirit before death had

truly occurred. Using the potent energies released,

he sent Lastel's spirit and Kethry's back to their

proper containers.

There were still other energies being released;

those binding Lastel's form into a woman's shape,

and those altering Tarma. Quicker than thought

the priest gained hold of those as well. With half of

his attention he erected a shield over the swords-

woman and her partner; with the other he sent

those demon-born magics hurtling back to their

caster.

Kethry had been stunned by Warrl's apparent

treachery; had actually felt herself dying—

—and now suddenly found herself very much

alive, and back in her proper body. She sat up,

blinking in surprise.

Beside her on the marble floor was a dead man,

wearing the garments she herself had worn as Lastel.

Warrl stood over him, growling, every hair on end.

But her mage-sense for energy told her that the tale

had not yet seen its end. As if to confirm this, a

howl of anguish rose behind her

"Noooooooooooo...."

The voice began a brazen bass, and spiralled up to

a fragile soprano.

Kethry twisted around, staring in astonishment.

Behind her was Thalhkarsh—

A demon no longer. A male no longer. Instead,

from out of the amethystine eyes of the delicate

mortal creature he had mockingly called his toy

stared Thalhkarsh's hellspawn spirit—dumbfounded,

glassy-eyed with shock, hardly able to comprehend

what had happened to him. Powerless now—and as

female and fragile as either of the two he had thought

to take revenge upon—and a great deal more helpless.

"This—cannot—be—" she whispered, staring at

her thin hands. "I cannot have failed—"

"My poor friend."

The little priest, whom Kethry had overlooked in

the fight, having eyes only for the demon, his ser-

vants, and Lastel, reached for one of the demon's

hands with true and courageous sympathy.

"I fear you have worked to wreak only your own

downfall—as I warned you would happen."

"No—"

"And you have wrought far too well, I fear—for

if I read this spell correctly, it was meant to be

permanent unto death. And as a demon, except

that you be slain by a specific blade, you cannot

die. Am I not correct?"

The demon's only response was a whimper, as

she sank into a heap of loose limbs among the cush-

ions of what once had been her throne, her eyes

fogging as she retreated from the reality she herself

had unwittingly created.

Tarma let her long legs fold under her and sat

where she had stood, trembling from head to toe,

saying nothing at all, a look of glazed pain in her

eyes.

Kethry dragged herself to Tarma's side, and sat

down with a thump.

"Now what?" Tarma asked in a voice dulled by

emotional and physical exhaustion, rubbing her eyes

with one hand. "Now what are we going to do with

him?"

"I—I don't know."

"I shall take charge of her," the priest said, "She

is in no state to be a threat to us, and we can easily

keep her in a place from which she shall find es-

cape impossible until she has a true change of heart.

My child," he addressed himself to Tarma, concern

in his eyes, "what is amiss?"

"My bond—it's gone—" she looked up at the

priest's round, anxious face, and the look in her

eyes was of one completely lost.

"Would you fetch my fellows from the temple?"

he asked Kethry. "That one is locked within her-

self, but I may have need of them."

"Gladly," Kethry replied, "but can you help her?"

"I will know better when you return."

She ran—or tried to—to fetch the little priest's

fellow devotees. She all but forced herself past a

skeptical novice left to guard the door by night; the

noise she made when she finally was driven to lose

her temper and shout at him brought the High

Prelate of Anathei to the door himself. He was

more than half asleep, wrapped in a blanket, but he

came awake soon enough when she'd begun to re-

late the night's adventures. He snapped out a series

of orders that were obeyed with such prompt alac-

rity that Kethry's suspicions as to their friend's

true rankings were confirmed long before three nov-

ices brought her his robes—those of an arch-priest—

and half the members of the order, new-roused

from their beds.

Though simple, hardly more ornate than what he

had worn to the inn, the robes radiated power that

Kethry could feel even without invoking mage-senses.

A half-dozen other members of his order scurried

away from the convocation at the cloister door and

came back wearing ceremonial garments and carry-

ing various arcane implements. Kethry led the pro-

cession of cowled, laden priest-mages through the

predawn streets at a fast trot. The night-watch took

one look at the parade and respectfully stepped

aside, not even bothering with hailing them.

When she got them as far as the open door of the

temple, her own strength gave out, and she stopped

to rest, half-collapsed against the smiling image of

the rain-god. By the time she reached the inner

sanctum, they had the situation well in hand. The

bodies had been carried off somewhere, the obscene

carvings shrouded, a good deal of the blood cleaned

up, and—most importantly—Thalhkarsh placed un-

der such tight arcane bindings that not even a demi-

god could have escaped.

"I believe I can restore what was lost to your

friend," the priest said when Kethry finally gath-

ered up enough courage to approach him. "But I

shall need the assistance of both yourself and the

kyree."

"Certainly, anything—but why? It will help if I

know what I'm supposed to be doing."

"You are familiar with her goddess, and as

Shin'a'in adopted, She shall hear you where she

might not hear me. You might think of yourself as

the arrow, and myself as the bow. I can lend your

wish the power to reach the Star-Eyed, but only

you of all of us know Her well enough to pick Her

aspect from all the other aspects of the Lady."

"Logical—what do I do? Warrl says—'whatever

you want he'll do'—"

"Just try to tell her Warrior that the bond has

been broken and needs to be restored—or Tarma

may well—"

"Die. Or go mad, which is the same thing for a

Shin'a'in."

Kethry knelt at the priest's feet on the cold mar-

ble of the desecrated temple floor, Warrl at her

side. Tarma remained where she was, sunk in mis-

ery and loss so deep that she was as lost to the

world around her as Thalhkarsh was.

Kethry concentrated with all her soul as the priest

murmured three words and placed his hand on her

head and Tarma's in blessing.

Please Lady—please hear me, she thought in de-

spair, watching Tarma's dead eyes. I've—I've been

less understanding than I could have been. I forgot—

because I wanted to—that I'm all the Clan she has left.

1 only thought of the freedom I thought I was losing. 1

don't know You, but maybe You know me—

There was no answer, and Kethry shut her eyes

in mental agony. Please, hear us! Even if You don't

give a damn about us, she pledged herself to You—

Foolish child.

The voice in her mind startled her; it was more

like music than a voice.

I am nothing but another face of your own Lady

Windborn—how could 1 not know you ? Both of you

have been wrong—but you have wrought your own

punishment. Now forgive yourselves as you forgive each

other—and truly be the two-made-one—

Kethry nearly fainted at the rush of pure power

that passed through her; when it ebbed, she stead-

ied herself and glanced up in surprise.

The little priest was just removing his hand from

Tarma's bowed head; his brow was damp with

sweat, but relief showed in the smiling line of his

mouth. As Tarma looked up, Kethry saw her ex-

pression change from one of pathetic bereavement

to the utter relief of one who has regained some-

thing thought gone forevermore.

A heavy burden of fear passed from Kethry's

heart at the change. She closed her eyes and breathed

her own prayer of thanks.

So profound was her relief that it was several

moments before she realized Tarma was speaking

to the priest.

"I don't know how to—"

"Then don't thank me," he interrupted. "I sim-

ply re-opened what the demon had closed; my plea-

sure and my duty. Just as tending to the demon as

she is now is my duty."

"You're certain you people can keep him—or

should I say her?—from any more trouble?" she

asked doubtfully of her erstwhile debating partner

as Kethry shook off her weariness and looked up at

them. To the sorceress' profound gratitude, Tarma

looked to be most of the way back to normal—a

rapid recovery, but Kethry was used to rapid recov-

cries from the Shin'a'in. The face she turned to

Kethry was calm and sane once again, with a hint

of her old sense of humor. She reached out a hand,

and Tarma caught it and squeezed it once, without

taking her attention from the priest.

"Sworn One, we are placing every safeguard

known to mortal man upon her and the place where

we shall keep her," the little priest said soberly.

"The being Thalhkarsh shall have no opportunity

for escape. Her only chance will be to truly change,

for the spells we shall use will not hold against an

angelic spirit, only one of evil intent. Truly you

have given us the opportunity we have long dreamed

of."

"Well," Tarma actually grinned, though it was

weakly. "After all, it isn't every day someone can

present you with a captive demon to preach to. Not

to put too fine a point on it, we're giving you folk a

chance to prove yourselves." She managed a ghost

of a chuckle. "Though I'll admit I had no notion

you were capable of restraining demons so handily."

"As you yourself pointed out, Sworn One, when

one goes to preach to demons, the preacher had

best be either agile or a very fine magician." The

balding priest's brown eyes vanished in smile wrin-

kles. "And as your partner has rightly told me,

while Thalhkarsh seems helpless now, there is no

guarantee that she will remain so. We prefer to

take no chance. As you say, this is our unlooked-for

opportunity to prove the truth of our way to the

entire world, and as such, we are grateful to you

beyond telling."

With that, the little priest bowed to both of them,

and his train of underlings brought the once-demon

to her feet, bound by spells that at the moment

were scarcely needed. She was numbly submissive,

and they guided her out the way they had come,

bound for their own temple.

Kethry got to her feet and silently held out her

hand to Tarma, who took it once again with no sign

of resentment, and pulled herself to her feet by it.

They left the scene of slaughter without a back-

ward glance, moving as quickly as their aching bod-

ies would allow, eager to get out into the clean air.

"Warrior's Oath—how long have we been in

there?" Tar ma exclaimed on seeing the thin sliver

of moon and the positions of the stars.

"About twenty-four candlemarks. It's tomorrow

morning. Is—that's not your sword, is it?" Kethry,

lagging a little behind, saw that the shape strapped

to Tarma's back was all wrong.

" 'No disaster without some benefit,' she'enedra,"

Tarma lifted a hand to caress the unfamiliar hilt.

"I've never in my life had a weapon like this one.

There's no magic to it beyond exquisite balance,

fantastic design, and the finest steel I've ever seen,

but it is without a doubt the best blade I've ever

used. It acted like part of my arm—and you're

going to have to cut off that arm to get it away from

me!"

Briefly alarmed by her vehemence, Kethry stretch-

ed weary mage-senses one more time, fearing to

find that the blade was some kind of ensorcelled

trap, or bore a curse.

She found nothing, and sighed with relief. Tarma

was right, there was no hint of magic about the

blade, and her partner's reaction was nothing more

than that of any warrior who has just discovered

her ideal dreamed-of weapon.

They limped painfully back to their inn with

Warrl trailing behind as guard against night-thugs,

stopping now and then to rest against a handy wall

or building. The night-watch recognized Kethry and

waved them on. The cool, clean air was heavenly

after the incense and perfume-laden choke of the

temple. When they finally reached their inn, they

used the latchstring on their window to let them-

selves back inside and felt their way into their

room with only the banked embers of the hearth-

fire for light. Kethry expended a last bit of mage-

power and lit a candle, while Tarma dropped her

weapons wearily. Beds had never looked so inviting

before.

And yet, neither was quite ready to sleep.

"This time we've really done it, haven't we?"

Tarma ventured, easing her "borrowed" boots off

her feet and pitching them out the open window

for whoever should find them in the morning to

carry away. She stripped as quickly as her cuts and

bruises would permit, and the clothing followed

the boots as the Shin'a'in grimaced in distaste;

Kethry handed her clean breeches and an undertunic

from her pack and Tarma eased herself into them

with a sigh and numerous winces.

"You mean, we've locked him up for good? I

think so; at least insofar as I can ever be sure of

anything. And we aren't going to make the mistake

of forgetting about him again."

"Lady Bright, not bloody likely!" Tarma shud-

dered. "We'll be getting messages from the Temple

every two months, like clockwork; that was part of

the agreement I made with little Nemor. Huh, think

of him as archpriest—seems logical now, but he

sure doesn't look the part."

"Until he puts on the authority. I could almost

feel sorry for old Thalhkarsh. I can't imagine a

worse punishment for a demon than to have sweet-

ness-and-light preached at him for as long as he

lives—which might well be forever."

"And besides—" Tarma smiled, getting up with

a muffled groan and another grimace, and walking

over to the window. She leaned out, letting the

breeze lift her hair and cool her face. "Who knows?

They might succeed in redeeming him...."

"Tarma—all this—we both nearly died. I would

have died with a broken promise to you on my

soul."

Kethry paused for a long moment, so long that

Tarma was afraid she wasn't going to finish what

she had begun to say.

She turned from looking out the window to re-

gard her partner soberly, knowing that Kethry had

something troubling her gravely. Even Warrl looked

up from where he lay on Tarma's bed, ears pricked

and eyes unfathomable. Finally Kethry sighed and

continued.

"I guess what I want to ask you is this. Do you

want me—us—to stop this wandering? To go back

to the Plains? After all, it's me that's been keeping

us on the road, not you. I—haven't found any man

I'd care to spend more than a night or two with, but

that really doesn't matter to my promise. It doesn't

take liking to get children. Oh, hell, there's always

Justin and Ikan, I do like them well enough to share

a bed with them for a bit. And once we had some

children, I could keep myself in practice easily

enough. I could establish a White Winds school

even without the cash—I'm getting close enough to

Adept to do that now. I'd rather have better cir-

cumstances to do that than we have right now, but

I could scrape along. We certainly have the reputa-

tion now to attract good pupils."

Tarma turned back to gaze up at the waning

moon, troubled. It was true that the most important

thing in the world to her was the re-founding of her

slaughtered Clan—and they had nearly died with-

out being any closer to that goal.

There were times when she longed for the tents

of her people and the open Plains with all her soul.

And there were other negatives to this life they

were leading. There was no guarantee something

like this couldn't happen again. Being gang-raped,

or so she suspected, had been the least of the un-

speakable things she'd suffered unaware in Thalh-

karsh's hands.

Far worse was the absence of the Star-Eyed's

presence in her soul when she'd returned to her-

self. And when her goddess had not returned to her

with Thalhkarsh's transformation, she'd been afraid

for a moment that the Warrior would not take her

back with her celibacy violated.

That had turned out to be a foolish fear, as her

priest-friend had proved to her. No sooner had he

cleansed her of the last of Thalhkarsh's magic-

bindings, then she felt the Warrior's cool and sup-

portive presence once again in her heart; the asexual

psychic armor of the Sword Sworn closed around

her again, and she could regard the whole experi-

ence as something to learn and benefit from. She

was heart-whole and healed again—in spirit if not

in body.

Still, none of this would have happened if they'd

returned to the Plains; in the very home of the

Goddess of the Four Winds the demon would have

been powerless, no matter what he had claimed;

the bandit would never have made his way past the

Outer Clans. And—Warrior's Oath, how Tarma

longed to see the Tale'sedrin banner flying above a

full encampment, with bright-faced children within

and fat herds without. Kethry's wandering feet had

nearly caused their deaths this time, and Tale'sedrin

had nearly died with them. And her Clan, as for

any Shin'a'in, was the most important thing in

Tarma's life.

But no, it wasn't the most important thing, not

anymore. Not if Kethry was going to be made a

captive to see that dream achieved. A willing cap-

tive she would be, perhaps, but still a captive.

Kethry had been right—she had been stifling her

friend, and with the best of intentions. She had

been putting invisible hobbles on her, or trying to.

Her Shin'a'in soul rebelled at the notion—"You

do not hobble your hound, your horse, your hawk,

your lover, or your she'enedren," went the saying,

"love must live free." A prisoner was a prisoner, no

matter how willingly the bonds were taken. And

how truly Shin'a'in could Kethry be, bound? And if

she were not Shin'a'in in her heart, how could her

children follow the Clan-ways with whole spirits?

And yet—and yet—there remained Kethry's oath,

and her dream. If Kethry died .. .

She closed her eyes and emptied her heart, and

hoped for an answer.

And miraculously, one came.

A tiny breath of chill wind wafted out of the

north, and coiled around her body, enclosing her in

silence. And in that silence, an ageless voice spoke

deep in her soul.

What is your Clan but your sister? Trust in her as

your left-hand blade, as she trusts in you, and you shall

keep each other safe.

Tarma's heart lifted and she turned back to face

her partner with a genuine smile.

"What, and turn you into 'another Shin'a'in brood

mare'? Come now, she'enedra, we treat our stock

better than that! A warsteed mates when she is

ready, and not before. Surely you don't reckon your-

self as less than Hellsbane!" Tarma's smile turned

wicked. "Or should I start catching handsome young

men and parading them before you to tempt your

appetite. . . ?"

Kethry laughed with mingled chagrin and relief,

blushing hotly.

"Perhaps I ought to begin a collection, hmm?

That's what we do for our warsteeds, you know,

present them with a whole line of stallions until

one catches their fancy. Shall I start a picket line

for you ? Or would you rather I acquired a house of

pleasure and stocked the rooms so that you could

try their paces at your leisure before choosing?"

Kethry rolled up into the covers to hide her

blushes, still laughing.

Tarma joined the laughter, and limped back to

her own bed, blowing out their candle and falling

into the eiderdowns to find a dreamless and heal-

ing sleep.

For there were going to be tomorrows, she was

sure of that now—and they'd better be in shape to

be ready for them.