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.