Valdemar 05 - [Vows & Honor 02] - Oathbreakers (25 page)

All the men I've known,
she thought with a touch of wry humor,
and all the men I've been courted by—it boggles the mind. Mages, fighters
—
some of them damned good looking. Good lord, if you were to count Thalhkarsh, I've even been propositioned by a godling! And who is it that attracts me like no one else ever has? A scholar half again my age
,
who I could probably break in half if I put my mind to it, with no recourse to Need required.

“ ... Like all those weirdling things out of the Pelagirs,” Roald finished, “Except that this thing seems impossible to kill.”

“The
Pelagirs
?” Jadrek exclaimed, perplexed. “But I thought you said this thing was seen north of Lake Evendim?”

“It was—right in the heart of the Pelagir Hills.”

“Wait a moment,” Jadrek said, rummaging in the pile of clutter under his chair, and hunting up a piece of scraped vellum and a bit of charcoal. “All right—here's the lake—your Pelagirs are where?”

“Up here.” The Herald took the charcoal from him and sketched.

“Huh.” Jadrek studied the sketch thoughtfully. “
We
have a range of hills we call the Pelagirs, too—here.”

“Well! I will be dipped for a sheep—”

“Fairly obvious, now that we have the information, isn't it?” Jadrek said with a grin. “Your Pelagirs and ours are the same; except that your inland sea cuts off the tail of the range, leaving it isolated from the rest up in your northwest corner. And now that I know
that's
true, I think I know what your ‘man-beast' is, assuming I've got the description right. Four arms, twice man-height, face like a boar and taloned hands? No sign of genitals, nipples or navel, and the color of clay?”

“That's it.”

“It's a
krashak,
a mage-made construct. Virtually immortal and indestructible.”

“You can name it; can you tell us how to get rid of it?” Roald pleaded.

“Oddly enough, yes; it's a funny thing, but High Magick seems curiously vulnerable to Earth Magick, and with all the mages hanging about Char I took to looking for spell-breakers. It will take courage, but if you can get in close to the thing without it seizing you, and throw a mixture of salt, moly and Lady's Star into its eyes and mouth, it will literally fall apart.” He coughed, coloring a little with embarrassment. “I know it sounds like a peasant superstition, but it
does
work. I found a mage I could trust, and asked him. Now I—I always carry some with me....”

Roald only looked impressed. “Havens, how long did you have to look before you found
that
out?”

Jadrek flushed, this time with pleasure. “Well, I got the first hint of it from a translation of Grindel's
Discourses on Unnatural History
.”

“The Orwind translation, or the Quenta?”

“The Orwind....” Their voices sank again and Kethry lost the thread of their conversation. It didn't much matter; she was more interested in watching Jadrek in an unguarded mood.
Oh, that
mind!
I don't think anything ever escapes him. And, for all that he's been treated badly, he so enjoys people—such a vital spirit in that flawed body. He's so
alive.
And damn it, I—Windborn
,
he makes me so shameless that I feel like a cat in heat around him. I want to purr and cuddle up against him—gods, I am bloody well infatuated. If he so much as raised an eyebrow in invitation at me, I'd warm his bed in a minute!

Unfortunately, he seemed blissfully unaware of that fact, so far as she could tell. Oh well....

As for Tarma, from the moment she had reentered the hall arm in arm with Roald, Stefansen and Mertis accepted her without reservation. And that meant that Mertis was only too happy to let her play nursemaid to little Megrarthon whenever she wished. Which was most of the time.

And which was precisely what she was doing at this very moment.

She's as happy as Jadrek,
Kethry mused.
For that matter, so is the babe. Just look at her—

Tarma was cuddling the happily cooing child in her black-clad arms, her expression a soft and warm one that few besides Kethry had ever seen. The hands that had killed so often, and without remorse, were holding the little one as gently as if he were made of down and spun glass. The harsh voice that had frightened many an errant fighter into instant obedience was crooning a monotonous lullabye.

While she watched, Tarma put the now-slumbering child back in his cradle; rose, stretching like a cat, then began heading for the fire. The two men at hearthside turned at the soft sound of her footstep, and smiled as one. She saw the smiles, and returned their grins with a good-natured shake of her head.

“And what are you two smirking about?” she asked, clasping her hands behind her and detouring slightly to stroll over to them, her lithe, thin body seeming almost to move fluidly, bonelessly.

“Trying to imagine you as a man, Darksib,” Roald teased, using the pet name he'd invented for her. “Put a youngling around you, and you'd give yourself away in a breath.”

“Hah. I'm a better actor than that. But as to that,” she paused before them, crossed her arms, and frowned a little, “you know, we really ought to be getting on with it. Raschar isn't sitting back, not likely. He's consolidating his power, you can bet on it. We had better be safely in place before he gets himself so ensconced on the throne that there'll be no dislodging him without an army.”

Kethry felt the last of her muscles emerge into wakefulness, and began uncoiling from her position in the hearth-corner.

“The sleeper awakes,” Roald noted.

“Not sleeper,” she corrected, imitating Tarma's long stretch. “I've been listening while I was coming out of trance. And, loath though I am to leave, in agreement with Tarma. I'm at full power now; Tarma and Jadrek have recovered. It's time to go.”

She half expected Jadrek to protest, but he, too, nodded. “If we don't go now,” he opined, gravely, “Stefan won't have a kingdom to come back to. But I do have one excellent question—this plan of ours calls for Tarma to replace the champion, and you can bet that Char won't let a Shin‘a'in within a spear's cast of him now. So to truly ensure her safety, that means a full magical disguise. With all the mages in the Court, how are you going to hide the fact that Tarma's bespelled? They won't let anyone with a smell of magic on him compete with the King's champion, you know.”

Tarma raised an interrogative eyebrow at her. “The thought had occurred to me, too,” she said. “Every trial-by-combat that
I've
ever seen has specifically forbidden any kind of magic taint, even lucky amulets.”

“Well, I'll answer that in an hour,” Kethry replied.

“Why in an hour?”

“Because that's how long it will take me to try a full Adept manifestation, and see if it succeeds or fails.”

 

Kethry didn't want an audience, not for this. Not even Tarma. So she took one of the fur cloaks and went out into the snow-laden scrub forest until she found a little clearing that was far enough from the lodge that she couldn't see or sense the building or the people within it. The weather was beautiful; the air was utterly still; the sky a deepening blue, the sun beginning its downward journey into the west. There would be no better time than now.

A mage of the White Winds school was tested by no one except himself, with a series of spells marking the rise in ability from Apprentice to Journeyman, from Journeyman to Master, and from Master to Adept. A mage could attempt these spells whenever he chose, and as many times as he chose. They would only
work
when he was truly ready. The series was constructed so that the power granted by each was used to fuel the spell for the next.

A little like priming a pump, I suppose; and if you don't have faith that you're ready, you can't bear to waste the power. I feel ready,
Kethry decided.
Well—

She initiated the Journeyman spell, gathering her own, strictly personal power about her like a cloak, and calling the Lesser Wind of Fire and Earth, the Stable Elements. It chose to come out of the south, always a good omen, and whirled about her three times, leaving more power than it took to call it. She fairly glowed with energy now, even to normal eyes.

Next—the Master Spell, and the Greater Wind of Air and Water, the Mutable Elements—the Muta- bles were much harder to control than the Stable Elements.

She raised her hands high over her head, and whispered the words of the spell as she formed the energy left by the first with her will into the mage shapes called the Cup and the Mill—concentrating with all her soul—calling, but not coercing.

This time the wind came from all four directions and melded into a gentle whirlwind around her, a wind that sang and sparkled with unformed power. When it, too, had circled her three times, she was surrounded by a shell of light and force that shifted and changed moment by moment, opalescing with every color that the mind could conceive.

She drew a deep breath and launched herself fearlessly into the Spell of Adept Manifestation—calling the White Wind itself—the Wind of the Five Elements.

It required the uttermost of any mage that dared it; she must take the power granted her by the first two spells and all of her own, and weave it into an intricate new shape with her will—and the power fought back, resisting the change to itself, twisting and twining in her mental “hands.” Simultaneously, she must sing the words of the spell, controlling tone, tempo, and cadence to within a hairsbreadth of perfection. And she must keep her mind utterly empty of all other thought but the image of the form she strove to build. She dared not even allow a moment to contemplate failure, or fail she would. One mistake, and the power would vanish, escaping with the agility of a live thing.

She finished. She held her breath. There was one moment of utter quietude, as time and all time governed ceased—and she wondered.

Had she failed?

And then the White Wind came.

It fountained up out of the ground at her feet as she spread her arms wide, growing into a geyser of power and light and music that surrounded her and permeated her until all she could see and hear and feel was the light and the force. She felt the power fill her mind and give her soul great wings of fire—

 

It was sundown when she stepped back through the door; Tarma had plainly expected her to be exhausted, and was openly astonished to see that she wasn't.

“It worked,” she said with quiet rapture, still held by the lingering exaltation—and just a little giddy with the intoxication of all that power flowing through her.

“It did?” Tarma asked, eyebrows arching toward her hairline, as Jadrek and Roald approached with avid curiosity plain on their faces.

“I'll prove it to you.” Kethry cupped her hands together, concentrating on the space enclosed there. When the little wisp of roseate force she called into her hands had finished whirling and settled into a steady glow, she began whispering to it, telling it gently what she asked of it in the ancient language of the White Winds sorcerers.

While she chanted, Stefansen and Mertis joined the little group, surrounding Kethry on all sides. She just smiled and nodded, and continued whispering to her sorcerous “captive.”

Then she let it go, with joy, as a child releases a butterfly, and no longer with the wrench of effort the illusion-spell used to cause her. She was an Adept now, and forces that she had been incapable of reaching were hers to command from this moment on. Not carelessly, no—and not casually—but never again, unless she
chose
to, would she need to exhaust her own strength to cast a spell. With such energies at her command, the illusion-spell was as easy as lighting a candle.

The faintly glowing globe floated toward Tarma, who watched it with eyes gone rounds in surprise. The Shin‘a'in's eyes followed it, although the rest of her remained absolutely motionless, as the power-globe rose over her head.

Then it thinned into a faint, rosy mist, and settled over the swordswoman like a veil.

The veil clung to her for a moment, hiding everything but a vague shape within its glowing, cloudy interior. Then it was gone.

And where Tarma had been, there stood a young man, of no recognizable racial type. He had a harsh, stubborn, unshaven face, marked with two scars, one running from his right cheek to his chin, the other across his left cheek. His nose had been broken in several places, and had not healed straight at any time. His hair was dirty brown, shoulder-length, and curled; his eyes were muddy green. He was at least a handsbreadth taller than Tarma had been, and correspondingly broader in the shoulders. And that was a new thing indeed, for before this Kethry had never been able to change size or general shape in her illusion spells. Even Tarma's clothing had changed, from her Shin‘a'in Kal‘enedral silks, to rough homespun and tattered leather. The only similarity between Tarma and this man was that both carried their swords slung across their backs.