Valdemar 05 - [Vows & Honor 02] - Oathbreakers (24 page)

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.

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.

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.”

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.

I
t 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 Kethry 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.

Physically he was probably in less pain than he had been for years—which Kethry was quite sure was due to Need's Healing abilities. Need was exerting her magic for a
man
because he was important to Kethry. For Kethry had no doubt as to how
she
felt about the Archivist. If there was
ever
going to be one man for her, Jadrek was that man.