Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound

by The Oathbound [lit]

  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

  wa
s 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