Oathbreaker

Nine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It was -- right in the heart of the Pelagir Hills."

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

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

"Huh." Jadrek studied the sketch thoughtfully. "We have a range of hills we call the Pelagirs, too -- here."

"Well! I will be dipped for a sheep -- "

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

"That's it."

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

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

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

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

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

"The Orwind translation, or the Quenta?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

She'd be happiest surrounded by a dozen small ones, or two or three dozen. And they know it; children know it, somehow. I've never seen one run from her, not even in the midst of a house-to-house battle. More often than not, they run to her. And rightly; she'd die to protect a child. When this is over -- when this is over, I swear we'll give this up. Win or lose, we'll refound her Clan for her, and to the nether hells with my school if that's what it takes. I'll spend the rest of my life as a hedge-wizard and Shin'a'in horsebreeaer if I have to.

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

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

The rest has done her good, too. She's in better shape than she's been in months -- years --

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

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

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

"The sleeper awakes," Roald noted.

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

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

Tarma raised an interrogative eyebrow at her.

"The thought had occurred to me, too," she said. "Every trial-by-combat that I've ever seen has specifically forbidden any kind of magic taint, even lucky amulets."

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

"Why in an hour?"

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Had she failed?

And then the White Wind came.

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bright Havens," breathed Roald. "How did you do that?"

Tarma studied her hands and arms, wonder in her un-Tannalike eyes. Tiny scars made a lace-work of white across the hands and as far up the arms as could be seen beneath the homespun sleeves. They were broad, strong hands, and as dissimilar to Tarma's fine-boned, long ones as could be imagined.

Kethry smiled. "Magic," she said.

"And how do you keep Char's mages from seeing that magic?" Stephansen asked.

Kethry just smiled a little more. "What else? More magic. The spell only an Adept can control, the spell that makes magic undetectable and invisible even to the best mage-sight."

* * *

Tarma was back to looking like herself again, and feeling a good deal happier as a result, as they rode out me next morning. Jadrek had his own horse now, a gentle palfrey that had belonged to Mertis, a sweet-tempered bay gelding with a gait as comfortable as any beast Tarma had ever encountered. He also had some better medicines; more effective and far less dangerous than his old, courtesy of a Valdemaren Healer Roald brought to the lodge himself after Jadrek had had a particularly bad night.

Kethry had augmented the protection of his traveling cloak with another spell she had not been able to cast until she reached Adept level. Jadrek would ride warm now no matter what the weather.

Tarma had turned down Kethry's offer to do the same for her; she wanted no spells on her that might betray her to a magic-sniffing mage if she needed to go scouting. But Roald had managed to round up enough cold-weather gear for all of them to keep them protected even without spellcasting. They were far better prepared this time for their journey as they rode away from the lodge on a clear, sparkling dawn just before Midwinter.

They felt -- and to some extent, acted -- like adolescents on holiday. If the weather turned sour, they simply put up their little tent, Kethry cast a jesto-vath on it, and they whiled away the time talking. When the weather was fair, while they never completely dropped vigilance, they tended to rely mostly on Warrl's senses while they enjoyed the view and the company. Beneath their ease was the knowledge that this "holiday" would be coming to an end once they broke out of the Comb, and there was a definite edge of "cherish the moment while you have it" to their cheer.

An ice storm had descended on them, but you'd never have known it inside their little tent. Outside the wind howled -- inside it was as warm as spring sunshine. This was a far cry from the misery of their earlier journey on this same path.

Jadrek was still not capable of sitting cross-legged on the tent floor the way the two women were doing, but they'd given him more than enough room to stretch out, and the bedrolls and packs to use as cushioning and props, and he was reasonably comfortable.

Better than I've been in ages, he thought wonderingly. Better than -- than since I took that fever as a child, and started having trouble with my poor bones afterward. That's been twenty, almost thirty years...

He watched his quest companions through slitted, sleepy eyes, marveling how close he had come to them in the space of a few short weeks. Tarma -- the strong arm, so utterly without a conscience when it comes to certain choices. Brave, Lady bless, braver than anyone I could have imagined. As honor-bound as anyone I know. The outside, so cold -- the inside, so warm, so caring. I'm not surprised, really, that once she and Roald got the measure of each other, they hit it off so well that they began calling each other "Darksib" and "Brightsib." There's a great deal about her that is like the Heralds I've known.

The kyree at Tarma's back sighed, and flicked his tail.

Warrl -- if for no other reason than to have come to know something about his kind, I'd treasure this quest. If all kyree are like him, I don't wonder that they have little to do with humankind. There aren't many around like Tarma, and I can't imagine Warrl mind-mating to anyone that didn't have her sense of honor and her profound compassion.

Kethry was unbraidmg and combing out her amber hair; it caught the light of the jesto-vath on the tent walls and glowed with the warmth of a young sun. Jadrek felt his heart squeeze. Keth, Kethry, Kethryveris -- lady, lady, how is it you make me feel like a stripling again? And I have no hope, no right to feel this way about you. When this mad scheme of ours is over, some stalwart young Warrior will come, and your eyes and heart will kindle, and he'll carry you off. And I'll never see you again. Why should you find a mind attractive enough to put up with a crippled, aging body? I'm half again your age -- why is it that when we're talking you make me feel no age at all? Or every age? How is it that you challenge my mind as well as my heart? How did you make me come alive again?

He stifled a sigh. Enjoy it while it lasts, old man, he told himself, trying not to be too bitter about it. The end is coming all too soon.

As it happened, the end came sooner than they had anticipated.

Kethry frowned, and broke off her teasing in mid-sentence.

"Keth?" Tarma asked, giving Ironheart the signal to slow.

"There's -- oh Windborn! I thought I'd thrown that bastard off!" Kethry looked angry -- and frightened. A gust of wind pulled her hood off and she didn't even bother to replace it.

"The mage," Tarma guessed, as Jadrek brought his horse up alongside theirs.

"The mage. He's better than I thought. He's waiting for us, right where the path breaks out of the hills."

"Ambush?"

Kethry frowned again, and closed her eyes, searching the site with mage-senses. "No," she said fi-nally. "No, I don't think so. He's just -- waiting. In the open. And he's got all his defenses up. He's challenging me."

Tarma swore. "And no way past him, as he probably damn well knows."

Kethry looked at her soberly, reining in Hellsbane.

"She'enedra, you aren't going to like this -- "

"Probably not; what if we charge him? You mages seem to have a problem with physical opposition to magical defenses."

"On that narrow path? He could take us all. And in no way are we going to be able to sneak past him, not with Jadrek. I'm going to have to challenge him to a duel arcane."

"What?"

"He's an Adept, I can tell that from here. If I issue Adept's challenge he'll have to answer it, or lose his status."

"And you've been Adept how long? He'll eat you for lunch!"

"Better he eats me alone than all of us. We can't just think of ourselves now, Stefan is depending on us. If -- Tarma, he won't take me without a fight, and if I go down, it won't be alone. You can find another mage to disguise you. Once we get into Rethwellan, I become the superfluous member of the party."

"You're not going down!" Tarma choked, as Jadrek tightened his mouth into a thin line.

"I don't plan on it," Kethry said wryly. "I'm just telling you what to do if it happens. Contract, my love."

Tarma's face went cold and expressionless; her heart stopped. "This is professional, right?" They lived by the mercenary code and would die by it, probably -- and by that code, you didn't argue with the terms or the contract once you'd agreed to it.

Kethry nodded. "This is the job we've contracted for. We're not being paid in money -- "

"But we've got to do our jobs." Tarma nodded. "You win. I stopped trying to keep you wrapped in wool a long time ago; I'm not going to start up again. Let's do it." And she kicked Ironheart into a canter, with Kethry, Warrl and Jadrek following behind.

I've got to do this, Kethry thought, countering her fear with determination. If I don't, he'll kill them. I might escape, but I could never shield all four of us, not even at Adept level. I haven't tapped into enough of the shielding spells to know how, yet. But he doesn't know I'm Adept, and there aren't that many White Winds mages around. I might well be able to surprise him with a trick or two.

She kicked Hellsbane and sent her galloping past Tarma, up the slope of the barren hill before them, knowing that she would have to reach the waiting magician first and issue her challenge before he caught sight of the others. Otherwise he would blast first, and ask questions after.

Her move took both Tarma and the mage by surprise, for she was able to top the rise and send up the challenge signal before either Tarma or her foe had a chance to react.

The mage waiting below her was one of the ones she'd seen wandering about Raschar's court; a thin man, dark of hair and eye. He was clean-shaven, which made it all the easier to note his sardonic expression, and he wore his hair loose and shoulder length. Now he wore his mage-robes; whatever his school was, it was one Kethry didn't recognize. The robes were a dull red, and banded and embroidered in dark brown. Like hers, they were split front and back for ease in riding. The chestnut gelding he straddled appeared tired and drained, and stood quietly with head down as he sat with his reins loose.

"A challenge?" he called incredulously. "You'd challenge me? Why in the Names of the Seven should I even bother with you, girl?"

As answer, she called up her Adept Manifestation. From her body rose the misty golden form of a hawk, twenty feet tall, with fiery wings; a hawk that mantled at him and opened its beak in a silent screech of defiance. "I challenge you, Adept to Adept," she called coldly. "You will answer such a challenge; you have no choice."

He called up his Manifestation; a winged snake, with scales and wing membranes that glistened in shades of green and blue. Calling it was his formal answer to her formal challenge; now they were both bound to the duel. "You're a fool, you know that," he said matter-of-factly, dismounting, and letting his Manifestation fade away. "You can't have been an Adept for very long; I've been one for ten years. You can't hope to beat me."

By this time Tarma, Jadrek and Warrl had reached her on the crest of the hill. Kethry unbuckled Need, feeling strangely naked without the blade, and passed her to Tarma. "Hold her for me. Nothing's allowed in the circle but ourselves," she said, watching as the other mage took up a stand near the center of the tiny, barren, windswept valley and put up his half of the magical dome that would only be dispelled by the death or defeat of one of them. Then she allowed her Manifestation to dissipate, and leapt down from Hellsbane's saddle, striding purposefully to take her stand opposite him. "That remains to be seen," she answered him, locking all emotion down, and replying with absolute calm. "So -- let it begin!"

With those words, the dome of mage-power sealed, leaving the others helpless witnesses outside.

For a long moment, the combatants stood, simply watching each other. Tarma took advantage of the lull to order Jadrek to station himself and Warrl on the dividing line between the two mages, and on the side of the dome opposite hers. "Warrl has some tricks -- I expect you might, too," she said distantly, trying to think like a mage. "I don't trust this bastard not to cheat. Well, Keth won't either; I don't doubt she's expecting something. But if anything should happen -- "

"I'll do what I can," Jadrek promised anxiously, taking out his little bag of herbs and salt from his pocket, then replacing it. "It-it isn't likely to be much, but -- "

"Jadrek, I've seen a slung stone bring down a king." She frowned in thought. "We should split up; if something does go bad, you and Warrl go for Keth, I'll go for the mage. He can't know how Need works, he can't know that in my hands she protects from sorcery. I'll be safe from anything he can throw, and I'll keep him off your tail. Now, quick, before they start to do anything -- "

He limped to the opposite side of the dome; Tarma could see him dimly through the red energy-haze. Warrl crouched beside him, ready to spring in an instant.

Tarma unsheathed the bespelled sword called Need and took her own stance; blade point down in the earth, both of her hands resting on the pommel, feet slightly apart. She was ready.

Just in time, for within the dome of hazy red, the battle was joined in earnest.

From the body of the stranger came a man-sized version of his Manifestation, flying upward to the top of the dome; Kethry's met it halfway. Serpent struck at hawk and was deflected; hawk tried to seize serpent in its talons, but the serpent wriggled free, then the snake tried to wrap itself around the hawk's body and neck. The hawk struck with beak and talon; the serpent let go. Both buffeted each other with punishing wing-blows. The battle rained glowing scales, feathers, and droplets of fluid, all of which vanished before they touched the ground.

Both Manifestations froze for an instant, then plummeted groundward; hawk with eyes glazing and fang marks in its chest, serpent with one wing ripped from its body.

Both thinned to mist and were gone before either struck the ground. Round one: a draw, Tarma thought to herself, shifting her weight to relieve muscles that had tensed, and feeling a tiny pebble roll out from under her foot.

Within the dome appeared two smaller domes, each covering a mage. Then all the fury of all the lightning storms Tarma had ever witnessed rolled into one broke loose within the greater dome. Lightning struck again and again on the two shields, seeking weak spots; it crawled over the surface of the little domes or rolled itself into balls that circled the perimeters without finding entrance. And all in complete silence; that was the truly frightening and eerie part. Tarma's eyes were dazzled to the point of having trouble seeing when the lightning finally died to nothing, and the lesser domes vanished. As Tarma blinked away the spots interfering with her vision, she tried to assess the condition of both Kethry and her erstwhile rival. They both seemed equally tired.

Round two; another draw.

Kethry might have looked tired, but she also looked slightly pleased. Maybe a draw is good -- Warrior bless, I hope so --

Even more encouraging, the other mage looked slightly worried.

Kethry initiated the next round; throwing (literally) daggers of light at the red-robed sorcerer, daggers which he had to deflect, dodge, or absorb. He returned in kind, but he was not as good in this contest as Kethry; his blades tended to go awry. Hers never failed to reach their mark, and frequently hit.

Where they hit, they left real wounds, wounds that smoked and bled. The red mage managed to keep from being hit anywhere vital, but the daggers were taking a steady toll.

After being hit one too many times, he suddenly threw up his hands, and a wall of flame sprang up in front of him, a wall that devoured the daggers when they reached it.

The fire grew until it reached the top of the dome, cutting him off from Kethry. Arms of flame began to lick from the wall, reaching toward her.

Fighting fire with fire might not work, here, Keth, Tarma thought, biting her lip a little. You could both end up scorched by your own powers --

But Kethry chose not to fight with fire, but with air; a whirlwind, a man-high tornado of milky white sprang up in front of her, sucking in those reaching arms of flame. And every time it ate one of those arms, it grew a little larger. Finally, it reached nearly to the top of the dome -- and it began to move on the red-robed mage and his fiery protective wall.

Star-Eyed. If it got bigger just by eating a couple of licks of flame, what'll it do when it hits the fire-mother?

Evidently the same thought occurred to the mage, for his eyes had gone white-rimmed with panic. He backed into the restraining wall of the protective dome, then began shouting and waving his hands wildly.

And a twice-man-sized thing rose from the barren earth behind Kethry.

No -- oh no -- that bastard, he had that thing hidden there; he's had this planned from the start! Tarma recognized the krakash, the mage-construct, from Jadrek's descriptions. She started to sprint for the edge of the dome, even knowing she wouldn't be able to pass it.

Kethry turned to meet it, first making frantic motions with her hands, then groping for a blade she did not have. The thing reached for her with the two upper arms, missing, but raking her from neck to knee with its outsized talons. She collapsed, clutching herself with pain; it seized her as she fell with the lower two of its four arms. It lifted her as she fought to get free -- and broke her back across its knee, as a man would break a dry branch.

"No.'"

Tarma heard her own voice, crying the word in anguish, but it didn't seem to belong to her.

The whirlwind died to a stirring of dust on the ground; the dome thinned to red mist, and vanished.

Tarma's mind and heart were paralyzed, but her body was not. She reacted to the disaster as she had planned, charging the mage at a dead run, while Jadrek sprinted fearlessly for the thing.

The startled wizard saw her coming, and threw blasts of pure energy at her -- spheres of blinding ball-lightning which traveled unerringly toward her, hit, and did nothing, leaving not even a tingle behind as they dissipated. The mage had just enough time to realize that she was protected before she reached him.

While part of her sobbed with anguish, another part of her coolly calculated, and brought Need about in a shining, swift arc, as she allowed her momentum to carry her past him. She saw his eyes, filled with fear, saw his hands come up in a futile attempt to deflect the sword -- then felt the shock along the blade as she neatly beheaded him, a tiny trail of blood-droplets streaming behind the point of the sword as it finished its arc.

Before his body had hit the ground she whirled and made for Jadrek, cursing the fate that had placed mage and construct so many paces apart. The old man hadn't a chance.

As she ran, she could see that the Archivist had something in his hands. He ducked under the grasp of the horrid creature's upper two arms with an agility Tarma never dreamed to see in him. And with the courage she had known he possessed, came up in the thing's face, casting one handful of powder into its eyes and the second into its mouth.

The thing emitted a shriek that pierced Tarma's ears --

Then it crumbled into a heap of dry earth before she had made more than a dozen steps in its direction. As it disintegrated, it dropped Kethry into the brown dust like a broken, discarded toy.

Tarma flung herself down on her knees at Kethry's side, and tried to stop the blood running from the gashes the thing's talons had left. Uselessly -- for Kethry was dying even as she and the Archivist knelt in the dust beside her.

Jadrek made a choking sound, and took Kethry into his arms, heedless of the blood and filth.

Tarma rumbled the hilt of Need into her hands, but it only slowed the inevitable. Need could not mend a shattered spine, nor could she Heal such ghastly wounds; all the blade could do was block the pain. It was only a matter of time -- measured in moments -- before the end.

"Well ..." the mage whispered, as Jadrek supported her head and shoulders in his arms, silent tears pouring from his eyes, and sobs shaking his shoulders. "I... always figured ... I'd never ... die in bed."

Tarma clenched both of her hands around the limp ones on Need's hilt, fiercely willing the blade to do what she knew in her heart it could not. "Damn it, Keth -- you can't just walk out on us this way! You can't just die on us! We -- " she could not say more for the tears that choked her own throat.

"Keth -- please don't; I'll do anything, take my life, only please don't die -- " Jadrek choked out, frantically.

"Don't... have much choice ..." Kethry breathed, her eyes glazing with shock, her life pumping out into the dust. "Be brave ... she'enedra ... finish the contract. Then go home ... make Tale'sedrin live ... without me."

"No!" Tarma cried, her eyes half-blind with tears. "No,'" she wrenched her hands away, leaping to her feet. "It's not going to end this way! Not while I'm Kal'enedral! By the Warrior, I swear NO.'"

Thrusting a blood-drenched fist at the sky, she summoned all the power that was hers as Kal'enedral, as priestess, as Swordsworn Warrior -- power she had never taken, never used. She flung back her head, and screamed a name into the uncaring, gray sky, a name that tore her throat even as her heart was torn.

The Warrior's Greater Name --

The harsh syllables of the Name echoed and reechoed, driving her several paces backward, then sending her to her knees in the dust. Then -- silence. Silence as broodingly powerful as that in the eye of the hurricane. Tarma looked up, her heart cold within her. For a moment, nothing changed.

Then everything ceased; time stopped. The very tears on Jadrek's cheeks froze in their tracks. Sound died, the dust on the breeze hung suspended in little immobilized eddies.

Tarma alone could move; she got to her feet, and waited for Her - to learn what price she would be asked to pay for the gift of Kethry's life.

A single shaft of pure, white light lanced into the ground, practically at Tarma's feet, accompanied by an earsplitting shriek of tortured air. Tarma did not turn her eyes away, though the light nearly blinded her and left her able to sec nothing but white mist for long moments. When the mist cleared from her vision, She was standing where the light had been, Her face utterly still and expressionless, Her eyes telling Tarma nothing.

They faced one another in silence for long moments, the Goddess and her votary. Then She spoke, Her voice still melodious; but this time, the music was a lament.

*That you call My Name can mean only that you seek a life, jel'enedra,* She said. *The giving of a life -- not the taking.*

"As is my right as Kal'enedral," Tarma replied, quietly.

*As is your right,* She agreed. *As it is My right to ask a sacrifice of you for that life.*

Now Tarma bowed her head and closed her eyes upon her tears, for she could not bear to look upon that face, nor to see the shattered wreck that had been her dearest friend lying beyond. "Anything," she whispered around the anguish.

*Your own life? The future of Tale'sedrin? Would you release Kethry from her vow if I demanded it and have Tale'sedrin become a Dead Clan?*

"Anything." Tarma defiantly raised her head again, and spoke directly to those star-strewn eyes, pulling each of her words out of the pain that filled her heart. "Keth-she's worth more to me than anything. Ask anything of me; take my body, make me a cripple, take my life, even make Tale'sedrin a Dead Clan, it doesn't matter. Because without Kethry to share it, none of that has any meaning for me."

She was weeping now for the first time in years; mostly when she hurt, she just swallowed the tears and the pain, and forced herself to show an impas-sive face to the world. Not now. The tears scalded her cheeks like hot oil; she let them.

*Do you, Kal'enedral, feel so deeply, then?* Tarma could only nod.

*lt-is well*, came the surprising answer. *And what price your obedience?*

"I put no price on obedience, I will serve You faithfully, Lady, as I always have. Only let Kethry live, and let her thrive and perhaps find love -- and most of all, be free. That's worth anything You could ask of me."

The Warrior regarded her thoughtfully for an eternity, measuring, weighing.

Then -- She laughed --

And as Tarma stared in benumbed shock. She held out Her hands, palm outward, one palm facing Tarma, one Kethry. Bolts of bunding white light, like Kethry's daggers of power, leaped from Her hands to Tarma, and to the mage still cradled in Jadrek's arms.

Or, possibly, to the ensorcelled blade still clasped in the mage's hands.

Tarma did not have much chance to see which, for the dagger of light hit her full in the chest, and suddenly she couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't breathe. She felt as if a giant hand had picked her up, and was squeezing the life out other. She was blind, deaf, dumb, and made of nothing but excruciating pain --

Only let Keth live -- only let her live -- and it's worth any price, any pain --

Then she was on her hands and knees, panting with an agony that had left her in the blink of an eye -- half-sprawled in the cold dust of the valley.

While beside her, a white-faced Jadrek cradled a dazed, shocked -- and completely Healed -- Kethry. Only the tattered wreckage of her traveling leathers and the blood pooled beneath her showed that it had not all been some kind of nightmare.

As Tarma stared, still too numb to move, she could hear the jubilant voice of the Warrior singing in her mind.

*lt is well that you have opened your heart to the world again, My Sword. My Kal'enedral were meant to be without desire, not without feeling. Remember this always: to have something, sometimes you must be willing to lose it. Love must live free, jel'enedra. Love must ever live free.*