Valdemar 05 - [Vows & Honor 02] - Oathbreakers Read online

  “Challenge the current champion of the King’s Guard to combat,” Mertis put in, surprising Tarma considerably. “That’s anyone’s right if they want to get in the Guard. Free swords do it all the time, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. If you do well, you’ve got a place; if you beat him, you automatically become head of the Guard. That would put you at Raschar’s side every day. You couldn’t get any closer to the heart of the Court than that.”

  Stefansen looked doubtfully at the lean swords woman. “Challenge the champion? Has she got a chance?”

  Still not sure you trust us, hmm, my lad? I can’t say as I blame you. I’m still not entirely sure of you.

  But Mertis smiled, and Tarma sensed that the gentle-seeming lady had a good set of claws beneath her velvet. “If half the tales I’ve heard about the Shin‘a’in Swordsworn are true, she’ll have his place before he can blink. And right at Raschar’s side is the place we could best use you, Swordlady.”

  It became evident to Tarma that guileless Mertis was no stranger to intrigue as the evening wore on, and the plan began to look more and more as if it had a strong chance of success. In fact, it was she who turned to Roald, and asked, bluntly, “And what is Valdemar prepared to grant us besides sanctuary ?”

  Roald blinked once, and replied as swiftly, “What will Valdemar get in return?”

  “Alliance in perpetuity if we succeed,” Stefansen said, “My word on that, and you know my word—”

  “Is more than good.”

  “Thank you for that. You know very well that you could use an ally that shares a border with Karse. You also know we’ve stayed neutral in that fight, and you know damned well that Char would never change that policy. I will; I’ll ally with you, unconditionally. More—I’ll pledge Valdemar favor for favor should you ever choose to call it in. And I’ll swear it on the Sword—that will bind every legal heir to the pledge for as long as the Sword is used to choose rulers.”

  Roald let out his breath, slowly, and raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s a lot more than I expected. But you know we don’t dare do anything openly. So that means covert help ...” His brow wrinkled in thought for a moment. “What about this—every rebellion needs finances, and arms. Those I think I can promise.”

  Kethry looked rather outraged; Tarma was just perplexed. Who exactly was this Herald?

  Kethry took the question right out of her mouth.

  “Just what power is yours that you can fulfill those promises?” Kethry asked with angry cynicism. “It’s damned easy to promise things you know you won’t have to supply just to get us off your backs and out of your kingdom!”

  Stefansen looked as if Kethry had blasphemed the gods of his House. Mertis’ jaw dropped.

  I think Keth just put her foot in it, Tarma thought, seeing their shocked reaction to what seemed to be a logical question. Something tells me that “herald” means more than “royal mouthpiece” around here—

  “He—Roald—is the heir to the throne of Valdemar,” Mertis managed to stammer. “Your Highness, I am sorry—”

  Tarma nearly lost her own jaw, and Kethry turned pale. Insulting a member of a Royal House like that had been known to end with a summary execution. “It’s I who should beg pardon,” Kethry said, shaken. “I—I’ve heard too many promises that weren’t fulfilled lately, and I didn’t want Jad—my friends, I mean, counting on something that wouldn’t ever happen. Your Highness—”

  “Oh, Bright Havens—” Roald interrupted her, looking profoundly embarrassed. “ ‘Highness,’ my eye! How could I have been insulted by honesty? Besides, we aren’t all that much sticklers about rank in the Heraldic Circle. Half the time I get worse insults than that! And how were you to know? You don’t even know what a Herald of Valdemar is!” He shrugged, then grinned. “And I don’t know what a Swordsworn is, so we’re even! Look, the law of Valdemar is that every Monarch must also be a Herald; our Companions Choose us, rather like that musical sword of Stefan’s. Both Father and Mother are Heralds, which makes them co-consorts, so until they seek the Havens—may that take decades! —I’m not all that important, and I act pretty much as any other Herald. The only difference is that I have a few more powers, like being able to make promises in the name of the throne to my friend, and know my parents will see that those promises are met. Now, about those arms—”

  Tarma was profoundly troubled; Kethry had thrown herself in with these peole as if she had known them all her life, but it was the Shin‘a’in’s way to be rather more suspicious than her oathsister—or at least more than Kethry was evidencing at the moment. She needed to think—alone, and undisturbed. And maybe ask for some advice.

  She let the folds of the eiderdown fall to her sides, and stood up. Four sets of eyes gave her startled glances, Kethry’s included.

  “I need to clear my head,” she said, shortly. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’d like to go outside for a little.”

  “In the dark? In a snowstorm?” Jadrek blurted, astounded. “Are you—” He subsided at a sharp look from Kethry.

  “Swordlady,” the Herald said quietly, but looking distinctly troubled, “you and the others are guests in my home; you are free to do whatever you wish. You willl find a number of cloaks hanging in the entry. And I am certain an old campaigner like you needs no admonitions to take care in a storm.”

  She followed the direction of his nod to the darkened end of the hall; past the door there, she found herself in an entryway lit by a single small lantern. As he had said, there were several cloaks hanging like the shadows of great wings from pegs near the outer door. She took the first one that came to her hand, one made of some kind of heavy, thick fur, and went out into the dark and cold.

  Outside, the storm was dying; the snow was back to being a thin veil, and she could see the gleaming of the new moon faintly through the clouds. She was standing on some kind of sheltered, raised wooden porch; the snow had been swept from it, and there was an open clearing beyond it. She paced silently down the stairs and out into the untrampled snow, her footsteps making it creak underfoot, until she could no longer feel the lodge looming so closely at her back. Trees and bushes made black and white hummocks in front of her and to both sides; fitful moonlight on the snow and reflected through the clouds gave just enough light to see by. She felt unwatched, alone. This spot would do. And, by sheer stroke of fortune, “south” lay directly before her.

  She took three deep breaths of the icy, sharp-edged air, and raised her head. Then, still with her back to the building, she lifted her eyes to the furtive glow of the moon, and throwing the cloak back over her shoulders, spread her arms wide, her hands palm upward.

  She felt a little uncomfortable. This wasn’t the sort of thing she usually did. She was not accustomed to making use of the side of her that, as Kal‘enedral, was also priestess. But she needed answers from a source she knew she could trust. And the leshya’e Kal‘enedral would not be coming to her here unless she called to them.

  She fixed her gaze on that dimly gleaming spot among the clouds; seeking, but not walking, the Moonpaths. Within moments her trained will had brought her into trance. In this exalted state, all sensation of cold, of weariness, was gone. She was no longer conscious of the passing of time, nor truly of her body. And once she had found the place where the Moonpaths began, she breathed the lesser of the Warrior’s true names. That murmur of meaning on the Moonpaths should bring one of her teachers in short order.

  From out of the cold night before her came a wind redolent of sun-scorched grasslands, of endless, baking days and nights of breathless heat. It circled Tarma playfully, as the moonglow wavered before her eyes. The night grew lighter; she tingled from head to toe, as if lightning had taken the place of her blood. She felt, rather than heard the arrival of Someone, by the quickening of all life around her, and the sudden surge of pure power.

  She lowered her hands and her eyes, expecting to see one of Her Hands, the spirit-Kal‘enedral that were the teachers of all living Kal’
enedral—

  —to see that the radiant figure before her, glowing faintly within a nimbus of soft light, appeared to be leshya‘e Kal’enedral, but was unveiled—her body that of a young, almost sexless woman. A woman of the Shin‘a’in, with golden skin, sharp features, and raven-black hair. A swordswoman garbed and armed from head to toe in unrelieved black—and whose eyes were the featureless darkness of a starry night sky, lacking pupil or iris.

  The Star-Eyed Herself had answered to Tarma’s calling, and was standing on the snow not five paces from her, a faint smile on Her lips at Tarma’s start of surprise.

  *My beloved jel‘enedra, do you value yourself so little that you think I would not come to your summons ? Especially when you call upon Me so seldom?* Her voice was as much inside Tarma’s head as falling upon her ears, and it was so musical it went beyond song.

  “Lady, I—” Tarma stammered.

  *Peace, Sword of My forging. I know that your failure to call upon Me is not out of fear, but out of love; and out of the will to rely upon your own strength as much as you may. That is as it should be, for I desire that My children grow strong and wise and adult, and not weakly dependent upon a strength outside their own. And that is doubly true of My Kal‘enedral, who serve as My Eyes and My Hands.*

  Tarma gazed directly into those other-worldly eyes, into the deep and fathomless blackness flecked with tiny dancing diamond-points of light, and knew that she had been judged, and not found wanting.

  “Bright Star—I need advice,” she said, after a pause to collect her thoughts. “As You know my mind and heart, You know I cannot weigh these strangers. I want to help them, I want to trust them—but how much of that is because my oathsister comes to their calling? How much do I deceive myself to please her?”

  The warm wind stirred the black silk of Her hair as She turned those depthless eyes to gaze at some point beyond Tarma’s shoulder for a moment. Then She smiled.

  *I think, jel‘enedra, that your answer comes on its own feet, two and four.*

  Two feet could mean Kethry—but four? Warrl?

  Snow crunched behind Tarma, but she did not remove her gaze from the Warrior’s shining face. Only when the newcomers had arrived to stand shoulder to shoulder with her did she glance at them out of the tail of her eye.

  And froze with shock.

  On her right stood—or rather, knelt, since he fell immediately to one knee, and bowed his head—the Herald, Roald, his white cloak flaring behind him in Her wind like great wings of snow. On Tarma’s left was the strange, blue-eyed horse.

  Tarma felt her breath catch in her throat with surprise, but this was only to be the beginning of her astonishment. The horse continued to pace slowly forward, and as he did so, he almost seemed to blur and shimmer, much as Tarma’s spirit-teachers sometimes did—as if he were, as they were, not entirely of this world. Then he stopped, and stood quietly when the Warrior laid Her hand gently upon his neck. He gleamed with all the soft radiance of the hidden moon, plainly surrounded by an aura of light that was dimmer, but not at all unlike Hers.

  *Rise, Chosen; it is not in Me to be pleased with subservience,* She said to the Herald, who obeyed Her at once, rising to stand silently and worshipfully at Tarma’s shoulder. *Vai datha—so, young princeling, your land forges white Swords that fit the same sheath as My black, eh?* She laughed, soundlessly, looking from Roald to Tarma and back again. *Such a pretty pair you make, like moon and cloud, day and night, bright and dark. How an artist would die for such a sight! Two such opposites—and yet so much the same ! *

  It was only then that Tarma saw that the white clothing she had been wearing had been transmuted to the Warrior’s own ebony, as was proper for Kal‘enedral.

  *And you, My gentle Child—∗ She continued, caressing the white horse’s shining neck, *—are leshya‘e Kal’enedral of another sort, hmm? Like My Hands, and unlike. Perhaps to complete the set I should see if any of My Children would become as you. What think you, should there be sable Companions to match the silver?* The look the horse—no. Companion—bent upon Her was one of reproach. She laughed again. *Not? Well, it was but a thought. But this is well met, and well met again! This is a good land, yours. It deserves good servants, strong defenders—vigilant champions to guard it and hold it safe as My Hands hold Mine. Do we not all serve to drive back the Dark, each in his own fashion? So I cry—well met, Children of My Other Self!*

  She turned that steady regard back to Tarma. *Are you answered, My cautious one?*

  Tarma bowed her head briefly, filled with such relief that she was nearly dizzy with it. And filled as suddenly with an understanding of exactly what and who this Herald and his Companion were. “I am answered, Bright Star.”

  *Then let white Sword and black serve as they are meant—to cleave the True Darkness, and not each other, as you each feared might befall.*

  There was another breath of hot wind, a surging of power that left Tarma’s eyes dazzled, and She was gone.

  The Herald closed his eyes briefly, and let out the breath he had been holding in a great sigh. As the horse returned to stand beside him, he opened his eyes again, and turned to face Tarma.

  “Forgive me for doubting you, even a little,” he said, his voice and the hand he extended to her trembling slightly. “But I followed you out here because—”

  “For the same reason I would have followed you had our positions been reversed,” Tarma interrupted, clasping the hand he stretched out. “I wasn’t expecting Her when I called, but I think I know now why She came. Both of us have had our doubts settled, haven’t we—brother?”

  His hold on her hand was warm and steady, and his smile was unwavering and equally warm. “I think, more than settled, sister.”

  She caught his other hand; they stood facing each other with hands clasped in hands for a very long time, savoring the moment. There was nothing even remotely sexual about what they shared in that timeless space; just the contentment and love of soul-sib meeting soul-sib, something akin to what Tarma had for Kethry—

  —and, she realized, with all the knowledge that passed to her from her Goddess in her moment of enlightenment, what this Herald shared with his Companion. For it was no horse that stood beside Roald, and she wondered now how she could have ever thought that it was. Another soul-sib. And—how odd-even the Heralds don’t know exactly what their Companions are—

  It was Roald who finally sighed, and let the moment pass. “I fear,” he said, dropping her hands reluctantly, “that if we don’t get back to the others soon, they’ll think we’ve either frozen to death, or gotten lost.”

  “Or,” Tarma laughed, giving his shoulders a quick embrace before pulling her cloak back around herself, “murdered each other out here! By the way—” She stretched out her arm, showing him that the tunic she wore was still the black of a starless night. “—I wonder how we’re going to explain what happened to the clothing I borrowed?”

  He laughed, long and heartily. “Be damned if I know. Maybe they won’t notice? Right—not likely. Oh well, I’ll think of something. But you owe me, Swordlady; that was my second-best set of Whites before you witched it!”

  Tarma joined his laughter, as snow crunched under their boots. “Come to the Dhorisha Plains when this is over, and I’ll pay you in Shin‘a’in horses and Shin‘a’in gear! It will break their artistic hearts, but I think I can persuade some of my folk to make you a set of unadorned Kal‘enedral white silks.”

  “Havens, lady, you tempt my wandering feet far too much to be denied! You have a bargain,” he grinned, taking the porch steps two at a time and flinging open the door for her with a flourish. “I’ll be at your tent flap someday when you least expect it, waiting to collect.”

  And, unlikely as it seemed, she somehow had the feeling that he would one day manage to do just that.

  Nine

  It was difficult, but by no means impossible, to pull energies from the sleeping earth in midwinter. All it took was the skill—and time and patience, and Keth
ry had those in abundance. And further, she had serious need of any mote of mage-energy she could harbor against the future, as well as any and all favors she could bank with the other-planar allies she had acquired in her years as a White Winds sorceress. She had not had much chance to stockpile either after the end of the Sunhawks’ last commission, and the journey here had left her depleted down to her lowest ebb since she and Tarma had first met.

  So she was not in the least averse to spending as much time in the hidden lodge with Stefansen and Mertis as the winter weather made necessary; she had a fair notion of the magnitude of the task awaiting them. She and Jadrek and Tarma might well be unequal to it—

  In fact, she had come to the conclusion that they would need resources she did not have—yet.

  On a lighter note, she was not at all displeased about being “forced” to spend so much time in Jadrek’s company. Not in the least.

  She was sitting cross-legged on the polished wooden floor next to the fireplace, slowly waking her body up after being in trance for most of the day. Jadrek was conversing earnestly with Roald, both of them in chairs placed where the fire could warm him, and she could study him through half-slitted eyes at her leisure.

  Jadrek seemed so much happier these days—well, small wonder. Stefansen respected him, Mertis admired him, Tarma allowed him to carry her off to interrogate in private at almost any hour. She was willing to answer most of his questions about the “mysterious” (at least to the folk of Rethwellan) nomad Shin‘a’in. Roald did him like courtesy about the equally “mysterious” Heralds of Valdemar. Both of them accorded him the deference due a serious scholar. Warrl practically worshiped at his feet (Jadrek’s ability to “hear” the beast being in no wise abated), and he seemed to share Tarma’s feeling of comradeship with the kyree. Being given the respect he was (in all sober truth) due had done wonders for his state of mind. As the days passed, the lines of bitterness around his mouth were easing into something more pleasant. He smiled, and often, and there was no shadow of cynicism in it; he laughed, and there was no hint of mockery.