Oathbreaker

Seven

Jadrek tried to return to his book, but it was fairly obvious that he was going to be unable to concentrate on the page in front of him. He finally gave up and sat staring at the flickering shadows on the farther wall. His left shoulder ached abominably; it had been wrenched when the door had been jerked out of his hands. This would be a night for a double-dose of medicine, or he'd never get to sleep.

Sleep would not have come easily, anyway -- not after this evening's conversation. Tindel had been after him for the past several days to talk to the women, but Jadrek had been reluctant and suspicious; now Tindel would probably refrain from saying "I told you so" only by a strong exercise of will.

What did decide me, anyway? he wondered, trying to find a comfortable position as he rubbed his aching shoulder, the dull throb interfering with his train of thought. Was it the presence of the kyree? No, I don't think so; I think I had made up my mind before they brought him in. I think it was the pretty one that made up my mind -- Kethry. She's honest in a way I don't think could be counterfeited. I can't read the Shin'a'in, but if you know what to look for, Kethry's an open book.

He sighed. And let's not be fooling ourselves; it's the first time in years that a pretty woman looked at you with anything but contempt, Jadrek. You're as sus-ceptible to that as the next man. More....

He resolutely killed half-wisps of wistful might-he's and daydreams, and got up to find his medicines.

* * *

Tarma left Warrl watching the Archivist's door from the corridor, just in case. His positioning was not nearly as good as she'd have wished; in order to keep out of sight he'd had to lair-up in a table nook some distance away from Jadrek's rooms, and not in direct line of sight. Still, it would have to do. She had some serious misgivings about the Archivist's safety, especially if it should prove that he was being watched.

Creeping along the corridors with every sense alert was unnervingly like being back with the Hawks on a scouting mission. Kethry had hesitantly and reluctantly tendered the notion of using her powers to spy out the situation ahead of them;

Tarma had vetoed the idea to her partner's obvious relief. If there was any kind of mage-talented spy keeping an eye on Jadrek, use of magic would not only put alerts on the Archivist but on them as well. Their own senses must be enough. But it was tense work; Tarma was sweating before they made it to the relative safety of the guesting section.

They slipped their more ornate outfits back on in the shelter of the same alcove where they'd doffed them, and continued on their way. Now was the likeliest time for them to be caught, but they got back to their rooms without a sign that they had been noticed -- or so Tarma thought.

She was rather rudely disabused of that notion as soon as they opened the door to their suite.

Moonlight poured down through one of the windows in the right-hand wall of the outer room, making a silver puddle on a square of the pale marble floor. As Tarma closed the door and locked it, she caught movement in that moonlight out of the corner of her eye. She jerked her head around and pulled a dagger with the hand not still on the latch in the automatically defensive reaction to seeing motion where none should be. The moon-light shivered and wavered, sending erratic reflections across the room, and acting altogether unlike natural light. '

Tarma snatched her other hand away from the latch, and whirled away from the door she had just locked. Her entire body tingled, from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet -- with an energy she was intimately familiar with.

The only time she ever felt like this was when her teachers were about to manifest physically, for over the years she had grown as sensitive to the energies of the Star-Eyed as Kethry was to mage-energies. But the spirit -- Kal'enedral, her teachers, never came to her when she was within four walls -- and doubly never when she was in walls that were as alien to them as this palace was.

She sheathed her blade -- little good it would do against magic and spirits -- set sweating palms against the cool wood of the door. She stared dumbfounded at the evidence of all she'd been told being violated -- the shadow and moonlight was hardening into a man-shaped figure; flowing before her eyes into the form of a Shin'a'in garbed and armed in black, and veiled. Only the Kal'enedral wore black and only the spirit'Kal'enedral went veiled -- and here, where no one knew that, it was wildly unlikely that this could be an illusion, even if there were such a thing as a mage skilled enough to counterfeit the Warrior's powers well enough to fool a living Kal'enedral.

And there was another check -- her partner, who had, over the years, seen Tarma's teachers manifesting at least a score or times. Beside her, Kethry stared and smothered a gasp with the back of her hand. Tarma didn't think it likely that any illusion could deceive the mage for long.

To top it all, this was not just any Shin'a'in, not just any spirit-Kal'enedral; for as the features became recognizable (what could be seen above his veil) Tarma knew him to be no less than the chief of all her teachers!

He seemed to be fighting against something; his form wavered in and out of visibility as he held out frantic, empty hands to her, and he seemed to be laboring to speak.

Kethry stared at the spirit-Kal'enedral in absolute shock. This -- this could not be happening!

But it was, and there was no mistaking the flavor of the energy the spirit brought with him. This was a true leshya'e Kal'enedral, and he was violating every precept to manifest here and now, within sight of non-Shin'a'in. Which could only mean that he was sent directly by Tarma's own aspect of the four-faced Goddess, the Warrior.

Then she saw with mage-sight the veil of sickly white power that was encasing him like a filthy web, keeping him from full manifestation.

"There's-Goddess, there's a counterspell -- "

Kethry started out of her entrancement. "It's preventing any magic from entering this room! He can't manifest! I-I have to break it, or -- "

"Don't!" Tarma hissed, catching her hands as she brought them up. "You break a counterspell and they'll know one of us is a mage!"

Kethry turned her head away, unable to bear the sight of the Kal'enedral struggling vainly against the evil power containing him. Tarma turned back to her teacher to see that he had given up the effort to speak -- and she saw that his hands were moving, in the same Shin'a'in hand-signs she had taught Kethry and her scouts.

"Keth -- his hands -- "

As Kethry's eyes were again drawn to the leshya'e's figure, Tarma read his message.

Death-danger, she read, and Assassins. Wise one.

"Warrior! It's Jadrek -- he's going to be killed!" She reached behind her for the door, certain that they were never going to make it to Jadrek's rooms in time.

But Warrl had been watching her thoughts, probably alerted through the bond they shared to her agitation.

:Mindmate, I go.: rang through her head.

At the same moment, as if he had heard the Kyree's reply the leshya'e Kal'enedral made a motion of triumph, and dissolved back into moonlight and shadow.

While Kethry was still staring at the place where the spirit had stood, Tarma was clawing the door open, all thought of subterfuge gone.

She headed down the corridor at a dead run, and she could hear Kethry right behind her; this time there would be no attempt at concealment.

Warrl's "voice" was sharp in her mind; angry, and tasting of battle-hunger. :Mindmate -- one comes. He smells of seeking death.:

Keep him away from Jadrek!

There was no answer to that, as she put on a burst of speed down the corridor -- at least not an answer in words. But there was a surge of great anger, a rage such as she had seldom sensed in the kyree, even under battle-fire.

Then Tarma had evidence of her own of how strong the mindmate bonding between herself and the kyree had become -- because she began to get image-flashes carried on that rage. A man, an armed man, with a long, wicked dagger in his hand, standing outside Jadrek's door. The man turning to face Warrl even as Jadrek opened the door. Jadrek stepping back a pace with fear stark across his features, then turning and stumbling back into his room. The man ignoring him, meeting the threat of Warrl, unsheathing a sword to match the knife he carried.

Tarma felt the growl the kyree vented rumbling in her own throat as she ran. Felt him leap --

Now they were in the older section -- running down Jadrek's corridor. Kethry was scarcely a step behind her as they skidded to a halt at Jadrek's open door.

There was blood everywhere -- spilling out over the doorsill, splashed on the wall of the corridor. The kyree stood over a body sprawled half-in, half-out of the room, growling under his breath, his eyes literally glowing with rage. Warrl had taken care of the intruder less than seconds before their arrival, for the body at his feet was still twitching, and the kyree's mind was seething with aggression and the aftermath of the kill. His hackles were up, but he was unmarked; of the blood splashed so liberally everywhere, none of it seemed to be Warrl's.

"Goddess -- " Tarma caught at the edge of the doorframe, and panted, her knees weak with relief that the kyree had gotten there in time.

"Jadrek!" Kethry snapped out of shock first; she slid past the slowly calming kyree into the room beyond. Tarma was right behind her, expecting to find the Archivist in a dead faint, or worse; hurt, or collapsed with shock.

She was amazed to find him still on his feet.

He had his back to the wall, standing next to the fireplace behind his chair, a dagger in one hand, a fireplace poker in the other. He was pale, and looked as if he was likely to be sick at any moment. But he also looked as if he was quite ready to protect himself as best he could, and was anything but immobilized with fear or shock.

For one moment he didn't seem to recognize them; then he shook his head a little, put the poker carefully down, sheathed the dagger at his belt, then groped for the back of his chair and pulled it toward himself, the legs grating on the stone. He all but fell into it.

"Jadrek -- are you all right?" Tarma would have gone to his side, but Kethry was there before her.

Jadrek was trembling in every nerve and muscle as he collapsed into his chair. Gods -- one breath more -- too close. Too close.

Kethry took his wrist before he could wave her away and felt for his pulse.

He stared at her anxious face, so close to his own, and felt his heart skip for a reason other than fear. Damnit, you fool, she's just worried that you're going to die on her before you can help her with the information they need!

Then he thought, feeling a chill creep down his back; Gods -- I might. If Char has had a watcher on me all this time, it means he's suspected me of warning Stefan. And if that watcher chose to strike tonight only because I spoke to a pair of strangers -- Archivist, your hours are numbered.

Kethry checked Jadrek's heartbeat, fearing to find it fluttering erratically. To her intense relief, it was strong, though understandably racing.

"I -- gods above -- I think I will be all right," he managed, pressing his free hand to his forehead. "But I would be dead if not for your kyree."

"Who was that?" Kethry asked urgently. "Who -- "

"That ... was a member of the King's personal guard," he replied thickly. "Brightest Goddess -- I knew I was under suspicion, but I never guessed it went this far! They must have had someone watching me."

"Watching to see who you talked to, no doubt," Tarma said grimly, her lips compressed into a thin line. "And the King must have left orders what was to happen to you if you talked to strangers. Hellfire and corruption!"

"Now I'm a liability, so far as Raschar is concerned." He was pale, and with more than shock, but there was determination in the set of his jaw as he looked to Tarma. "Char has only one way of dealing with liabilities ... as you've seen. Lord and Lady help me, I'm under a death sentence, without trial or hearing! I-I haven't got a chance unless I can escape. Woman, you've got to help me! If you want any more help with finding Idra, you've got -- "

Kethry had angry words on her tongue, annoyed that he should think them such cowards, but Tarma beat her to them.

"What kind of gutless boobs do you think we are?" Tarma snapped. "Of course we'll help you! Damnit man, it was us coming to you that triggered this attack in the first place! Keth, clean up the mess. Go ahead and use magic, we're blown now, anyway."

Kethry nodded. "After the visitor, I should say so -- even if there wasn't anyone 'watching,' he'll have left residue in the trap-spell."

"Did you pick up any 'eyes'?"

She let her mage-senses extend. "No ... no. Not then, and not now. Evidently they haven't guessed our identity."

"Small piece of Warrior's fortune. Well, I'm getting rid of the body before somebody falls over it;

it's likely this bastard was the only watcher. Archivist, or you'd have been caught out before this." She paused to think. "If I hide him, they may wait to check things out until after he was due to report. Hell, if they can't find him, they may wait a bit longer to see if he's gone following after one of Jadrek's visitors; that should buy us a couple more hours. Jadrek, are there any empty rooms along here?"

"Most of them are empty," he said dully, holding his hands up before his eyes and watching them shake with a kind of morbid fascination. "Nobody is quartered along here who isn't in disgrace; this is the oldest wing of the palace, and it's been poorly maintained and repaired but little."

"Gods, no wonder nobody came piling out to see what the ruckus was." Tarma's lip curled in disgust. "Bastard really gives you respect, doesn't he? Well, that's another piece of good luck we've had tonight."

And Tarma turned back to deal with the corpse as Kethry began mustering her energies for "clean-up."

* * *

Tarma bundled the body into its own cloak, giving Warrl mental congratulations over the relatively clean kill; the kyree had only torn the man's throat out. The man had been relatively small; she figured she could handle the corpse alone. She heaved the bundle over her shoulder with a grunt of effort, trusting to the thick cloak to absorb whatever blood remained to be spilled, and went out into the corridor, picking a room at random. The first one she chose didn't have its own fireplace, so she left that one -- but the second did. It was a matter of moments and a good bit of joint-straining effort to stuff the carcass up the chimney; by the time she returned, a little judicious use of magic had cleaned up every trace of a struggle around Jadrek's quarters, and Kethry and the Archivist were in the little bedroom that lay beyond the closed door in his sitting room. The mage was helping Jadrek to make a pack of his belongings, and Jadrek was far calmer now than Tarma had dared to hope. Warrl was stretched across the doorway, still growling under his breath. He gave her a gentle warn-off as she sent him a thought, his blood-lust was up, and he didn't want her in his mind until he had quieted himself.

Jadrek had lit a half dozen candles and stuck them over every available surface. The bedroom was as sparse as the outer room had been, though smelling a little less of damp. There was just a wardrobe, a chest, and the bed.

"Jadrek, how well do you ride?" Tarma asked, taking over the bundle Kethry was making and freeing her to start a new one.

"Not well," he said shortly, folding packets of herbs into a cloth. "It's not my ability to ride, it's the pain. I used to ride very well; now I can't stand being in a saddle for more than an hour or so."

"And if we drugged you?"

1He shrugged. "Drugged, aren't I likely to fall off? And you'd have to lead my beast, even if you tied me into the saddle; that would slow you considerably."

"Not if I put you on 'Heart. Or -- better yet, Keth, you're light and you don't go armored. How about if I take all the packs and 'Bane carries double?"

Kethry examined the Archivist carefully. "It should be all right. Jadrek doesn't look like he weighs much. Put him up in front of me, and I can hold him on even if he's insensible."

The Archivist managed a quirk of one corner of his mouth. "Hardly the way I had hoped to begin my career of adventuring."

Tarma raised an eyebrow at him.

"You look surprised. Swordlady, I did a great deal of my studying in hopes of one day being able to aid some heroic quester. After all, what better help could a hero have than a loremaster? Then," he held out one hand and shoved the sleeve of his robe up so they could see the swollen wrists, "my body betrayed me and my dreams. So goes life."

Tarma winced in sympathy; her own bones ached in the cold these days, enough that rough camping left her stiff and limping these days for at least an hour after rising, or until she finished her warming exercises. She didn't like to think how much pain swollen joints meant.

"Have you any plan?" the Archivist continued. "Or are we just going to run for it?"

Tarma shook her head. "Don't you think it -- Running off blindly is likely to run us right into a trap. We came out of the south, the Hawks are to the south and west -- I'd bet the King's men'll expect us to run for familiar territory."

"So we go opposite?" Jadrek hazarded. "North?

Then what?"

Tarma folded a shirt into a tight bundle and wedged it into the pack. "North is where Stefansen went. North is where Idra likely went. No? So we'll track them North, and hope to run into one or both of them."

"I know where Stefansen intended to go," Jadrek said slowly, "I did tell Idra before she went missing. But frankly it's some of the worst country to travel in winter in all of Rethwellan."

"All the better to shake off pursuit. Cough it up, man, where are we going?"

"Across the Comb and into Valdemar." He looked seriously worried. "And winter storm season in the Comb is deadly. If we're caught in an ice storm without shelter, well, let me just say that we probably won't be a problem for Raschar anymore."

"This is almost too easy," Tarma muttered, surveying the empty court below Jadrek's window. "Keth, is there anything you can't live without back in the room?"

The mage pursed her lips thoughtfully, then shook her head.

"Good, then we'll leave from here. Nobody's been alerted yet, and evidently Jadrek's in poor enough condition that nobody has even considered he might slip out his window."

"With good reason, Swordlady," Jadrek replied, coming to Tarma's side and looking down into the court himself. "I can't imagine how I could climb down."

"Alone, you couldn't; we'll help you," Kethry told him. "I can actually make you about half your real weight with magic, then we'll manage well enough."

The Archivist looked down again, and shuddered, but to his credit, did not protest.

They'd sent Warrl for a short coil of rope from the stables; there were always lead-ropes and lunges lying around, and any of those would be long enough.

He returned just as Kethry completed her spell-casting; they tied one end around Jadrek's waist, then Kethry scrambled out of the window and down the wall to steady him from below as Tarma lowered him. Before they were finished, Tarma had a high respect for the man's courage; climbing down from the window put him in such pain that when they untied him they found he'd bitten his lip through to keep from crying out.

All their gear was still with the mares. When they'd left Hawksnest, they'd chosen to use a different kind of saddle than they normally chose, one meant for long rides and not pitched battles. Like the saddles Jodi preferred, these were little more than a pad with stirrups, although the pad extended out over the horse's rump. When Tarma carried Warrl pillion, he had a pad behind her battle-saddle to ride on; there was just enough room on the extended body of this saddle for him to do the same. So Kethry had no trouble fitting Jadrek in front of her, which was just as well -- Jadrek had mixed something with the last of his wine and gulped it down before attempting the window. He was fine, although still in pain, when they started saddling up. But by the time the mares were harnessed and all their gear was in place, he was fairly intoxicated and not at all steady.

They did manage to get him into the saddle, but it was obvious he wouldn't be staying there without Kethry's help.

Warrl? Tarma thought tentatively.

:All is well, mindmate,: came the reassuring reply. :There is no one in sight, and I am distracting the gate guards. If you go swiftly, there will be no one to stop or question you.:

"Let's move out now," she told her partner, "while Furface has the guards playing 'catch-me-if-you-can' with him."

Kethry nodded; they rode out of the palace grounds as quietly -- they'd signaled the mares for silence, and now Hellsbane and Ironheart were moving as stealthily as only two Shin'a'in bred-and-trained warsteeds could. They managed to get out unchallenged, and waited outside the palace for Warrl to catch up with them, then put Ironheart and Hellsbane to as fast a pace as they dared, and by dawn were well clear of the city.

"Any sign of tracking?" Tarma asked her partner, reining Ironheart in beside her as they slowed to a brisk walk.

Kethry closed her eyes in concentration, extended a little tendril of energy along the road behind them, then shook her head. "My guess would be that they haven't missed the spy yet. But my guess would also be, that with all the mages I sensed in Raschar's court, they'll be sending at least one with each pursuit party."

"Anything you can do about that?"

"Some." She reformed that tendril of energy into a deception-web that might confuse their backtrail. "Listen, we need supplies; how about if I lay an illusion on you and 'Heart and you go buy us some at the next village we hit?"

"How about if you spell all three of us right now? Say -- old woman and her daughter and son? Nobody knows Shin'a'in battlemares out here, and 'Heart and 'Bane are ugly enough to belong to peasants: you needn't spell them."

"Huh; not a bad thought. What about Warrl?"

:I can seem much smaller if I need to.:

Kethry started. "Furface, I wish you wouldn't just speak into my mind like that -- you never used to!"

:My pardon. I grow forgetful of courtesy. How does the Wise One?:

Jadrek was three-quarters asleep, slumped forward in Kethry's hold, his head nodding to the rhythm of Hellsbane's hooves. Kethry touched his neck below his ear lightly enough not to disturb him. "All right; his pulse is strong."

:If you would have my advice?:

When the kyree tendered his opinion, it was worth having. "Go ahead."

:Rouse him up and make him speak with you. He will do his body more harm by riding unconscious.:

"On that subject," Tarma interrupted, "how long can you keep our illusions going? What kind of shape are you in?"

Kethry shrugged. "I've been mostly resting my powers so far. I can keep the spell up indefinitely. Why?"

"Because I want to stay under roofs at night for as long as we can. Rough camping is going to be hard on our friend at best -- be a helluva note to save him from assassins and lose him to pneumonia."

Kethry nodded, thinking of how much pain the Archivist was already in. "What kind of roofs?"

"In order of preference -- out-of-the-way barns, the occasional friendly farmer, and the cheapest inns in town."

"Sound, I think. Pull up here, I might as well cast this thing now, and I can't do it on a moving horse."

"Here" was a grove of trees beside the road; they got the horses off and allowed them to browse while Kethry concentrated.

Warrl flung himself down into the dry grass, and lay there, panting. He was not built for the long chase. Before too very long, Tarma would have to bring him up to ride pillion behind her for a rest.

Kethry got Jadrek leaning back against her, then spread her hands wide, palms facing out. A shell of faint, roseate light expanded from her hands outward, to contain them and their horses. Tarma could see her lips moving silently in the words of the spell. There was a tiny "pop" like a cork being pulled from a bottle; then Tarma felt an all-too-familiar itching at the back of her eyes, and when she looked down, she saw that she was wearing a man's garb of rough, brown homespun instead of her Kal'enedral-styled black silks. So Keth was going to disguise her as a young man; good, that should help to throw off nonmage spies.

Jadrek was now an old, gray-haired woman with a face like a wrinkled apple, and a body stooped from years of hard work. Behind him, Kethry was a chunky, fresh-faced peasant wench; brown-cheeked, brown-haired and quite unremarkable.

"Huh," Tarma said. "This's a new one for you. You look like you'd make some dirt-grubber a great wife."

Kethry giggled. "Good hips. Breed like cow, strong like bull, dumb like ox. Hitch to plow when horse dies." As Tarma stifled a chuckle, she turned her attention to her passenger. "Jadrek, wake up, there's a good fellow." She shook his shoulder gently. "Open your eyes slowly. I've put an illusion on us all and it may make you dizzy at first."

"Huhnn. I... thought I heard you saying that...." The Archivist raised his head with care, and opened eyes that looked a bit dazed. "Gods. What am I?"

"A crippled-up old peasant woman. Warrl says you'll do yourself more harm than good by riding asleep; he wants you to talk to me."

"How ... odd. I thought I heard him speaking in my head again. I seem to remember him saying just that...."

The partners exchanged a startled look. Evidently Jadrek had a mage-Gift no one had ever suspected, for normally the only folk who heard Warrl's mind-voice were those he intended to speak to. That Talent might be useful -- if they all lived to reach the Border.

"Let's get on with it," Tarma broke the silence before it went on too long, and glanced at the rising sun to her right. "We need to get as far as we can before they figure out we've bolted back there."

They stopped at a good-sized village; there was a market going on, and Tarma rode in alone and bought the supplies they were going to need. By mercenary's custom, they'd kept all their cash with them in moneybelts that they never let out of their sight, so they weren't short of funds, at least. Tarma did well in her bargaining; better than she'd expected. Even more encouraging, no one gave her a second glance.

Poor Jadrek had not exaggerated the amount of pain he was going to be in. By nightfall his eyes were sunken deeply into their sockets and he looked more than half dead; but they found a barn, full of new-cut hay, dry and warm and softer than many beds Tarma had slept in. The dry warmth seemed to do Jadrek a lot of good; he was moving better the next morning, and didn't take nearly as much of his drugs as he had the day before.

And oddly enough, he seemed to get better as the trip progressed. Kethry was wearing Need at her side again, after having left the ensorcelled blade with her traveling gear in the stables. Tarma was just thanking her Goddess that they hadn't ever brought the blade into their quarters -- no telling what would have happened had it met with the counterspell on their rooms. Of a certainty Raschar would have known from that moment that they were not what they seemed.

Fall weather struck with a vengeance on the sixth morning. They ended up riding all day through rain; Rethwellan's fall and early winter rains were notorious far and wide. Jadrek was alert and conversing quietly and animatedly with Kethry; he seemed in better shape, despite the cold rain, than he'd been back at the palace. Now Tarma wondered -- remembering the enigmatic words of Moonsong k'Vala, the Tale'edras Adept -- if Need was working some of her magic on Jadrek because Kethry was concerned for him. It would be the first time in Tarma's knowledge that a male for whom Kethry cared had spent any length of time in physical contact with the mage while she was wearing the blade.

As for Kethry caring for him -- they were certainly hitting it off fairly well. Tarma was growing used to the soft murmur of voices behind her as they talked for the endless hours of the day's ride. So maybe -- just maybe -- the sword was responding to that liking.

As the days passed: "Keth," she asked, when they'd halted for the night in the seventh of a succession of haybams. "Do you remember what the Hawkbrother told you when we first met him -- about Need?"

"You mean Moonsong, the Adept?" Kethry glanced over at Jadrek, but the witchlight she was creating showed the Archivist already rolled up in a nest of blankets and hay, and sound asleep. "He said a lot of things."

"Hai -- but I'm thinking there's something that might be pertinent to Jadrek."

Kethry nodded, slowly. "About Need extending her powers to those I care for. Uh-huh; I've been wondering about that. Jadrek certainly seems to be in a lot less pain."

Tarma snuggled into the soft hay, sword and dagger within easy reach. Behind her, Warrl was keeping watch at the door, and Ironheart and Hellsbane were drowsing, having stuffed themselves with fresh hay. "He's not drugging himself as much, either. And ..."

Kethry settled into her own bedroll and snuffed the witchlight.

"And he's not the bitter, suspicious man we met at the Court," she said quietly in the darkness. "I think we're seeing the man Idra knew." Tarma beard the hay rustle a bit, then Kethry continued, very softly, "And I like that man, she'enedra. So much that I think your guess could be right."

"Krethes, ves'tacth"

"Unadorned truth. I like him; he treats me as an intellectual equal, and that's rare, even among mages. That I'm his physical superior ... doesn't seem to bother him. It's just ... what I am. He'll never ride 'Bane the way I do, or swing a sword; I'll never be half the linguist he is, or beat him at chess."

"Sounds like -- "

"Don't go matchmaking on me, woman!" Kethry softened the rebuke with a dry chuckle. "We've got enough on our plate with tracking Idra, the damned weather, and the mage we've got on our backtrail."

"So we are being followed."

"Nothing you can do about it; my hope is that when he hits the Comb he'll get discouraged and turn back."

Tarma nodded in the dark; this was Keth's province. She wouldn't do either of them any good by fretting about it. If it came to physical battle, then she'd be able to do some good.

And for whatever the reason, Jadrek was able to do with less of his drugs every day, and that was all to the good. They were making about as good a headway with him now as they would have been able to manage alone. And maybe...

She fell asleep before she could finish the thought.

Now they were getting into the Comb, and as Jadrek had warned, the Comb was no place to be riding through with less than full control of one's senses.

The range of hills along the Northern border called the Comb was among some of the worst terrain Tarma had ever encountered. The hills themselves weren't all that high -- but they were sheer rock faces for the most part, with little more than goat tracks leading through them, and not much in the way of vegetation, just occasional stands of wind-warped trees, a bit of scrub brush, rank grasses, and some moss and lichen -- enough browse for the horses -- barely, and Tarma was supplementing the browse with grain, just to he on the safe side.

It had been late spring, still winter in the mountains where Hawksnest lay, when they'd headed down into Rethwellan. It had been early fall by the time they'd made it to the capital. It had been late fall when they bolted. Now it was winter -- the worst possible time to be traveling the Comb. Now that they were in the hills the rains had changed to sleet and snow, and there were no friendly farmers, and no inns to take shelter in when hostile weather made camping a grim prospect. And they no longer had the luxury of pressing on; when a suitable campsite presented itself, they took it. If there wasn't anything suitable, they suffered.

They'd been three days with inadequate camps, sleeping cold and wet, and waking the same. Kethry had dropped the illusions two days ago; there wasn't anybody to see them anymore. And when they were on easy stretches of trail, Tarma could see Kethry frowning with her eyes closed, and knew she was doing something magical along the backtrail -- which probably meant she needed to hoard every scrap of personal energy she could.

Jadrek, predictably, was in worst case. Tarma wasn't too far behind him in misery. And sometimes it seemed to her that their progress was measured in handspans, not furlongs. The only comfort was in knowing that their pursuers -- if any -- were not likely to be making any better progress.

Tarma looked up at the dead, gray sky and swore at the scent of snow on the wind.

Kethry urged Hellsbane up beside her partner when the trail they were following dropped into a hollow between two of the hills, and there was room enough to do so. The mage was bundled up in every warm garment she owned; on the saddle before her the Archivist was an equally shapeless bundle. He was nodding; only Kethry's arms clasped about him kept him in the saddle. He had had a very bad night, for they'd been forced to camp without any shelter, and he'd taken the full dosage of his drugs just so that he could mount this morning.

"Snow?" Kethry asked unhappily.

"Hai. Damnitall. How much more of this is he going to be able to take?"

"I don't know, ske'enedra. I don't know how much more of this I'm going to be able to take. I'm about ready to fall off, myself."

Tarma scanned the terrain around her, hoping for someplace where they could get a sheltered fire going and maybe get warm again for the first time in four days. Nothing. Just crumbling hills, over-hangs she dared not trust, and scrub. Not a tree, not a cave, not even a tumble of boulders to shelter in. And even as she watched, the first flakes of snow began.

She watched them, hoping to see them melting when they hit the ground -- as so far, had always been the case. This time they didn't. '*0h hellfire. Keth, this stuff is going to stick, I'm afraid."

The mage sighed. "It would. I'd witch the weather, but I'd do more harm than good."

"I'd rather you conjured up a sheltered camp."

"I've tried," Kethry replied bleakly. "My energies are at absolute nadir. I spent everything I had getting that mage off our trail. I'd cast a jesto-vath, but I need some kind of wall and ceiling to make it work."

Tarma stifled a cough, hunched her shoulders against the cold wind, and sighed. "It's not like you had any choice; no more than we do now. Let's get on. Maybe something will turn up."

But nothing did, and the flurries turned to a full-fledged snowstorm before they'd gone another furlong.

"We've got to get a rest" Tarma said, finally, as they gave the horses a breather at the top of a hill. "Jadrek, how are you doing?"

"Poorly," he replied, rousing himself. The tone of his voice was dull. "I need to take more of my medicines, and I dare not. If I fell asleep in this cold -- "

"Right. Look -- there's a bit of a corner down there." Tarma pointed through the curtaining snow to a cul-de-sac visible just off the main trail. "It might be sheltered enough to let us get a bit warner. And the horses need more than a breather."

"I won't argue," Kethry replied. "I can feel 'Bane straining now."

Unspoken was the very real danger that was in all of their minds. It was obvious that the snow was falling more thickly with every candlemark; it was equally obvious that unless they found a good camp-site they'd be in danger of death by exposure if they fell asleep. That meant pressing on through the night if they didn't find a secure site. This little rest might be the closest to sleep that they'd get tonight.

And when they got to the cul-de-sac, they found evidence of how real the danger was.

Huddled against the boulders of the back was what was left of a man.

Rags and bones, mostly. The carcass was decades old, at least. There were no marks of violence on him, except that done by scavengers, and from the way the bones lay Tarma judged he'd died of cold.

"Poor bastard," she said, picking up a sword in a half-rotten sheath, and turning it over, looking for some trace of ownership-marks. "Helluva way to die."

Kethry was tumbling stones down over the pitiful remains, Jadrek was doing his best to help. "Is there any good way to die?"

"In your own bed. In your own time. Here -- can you make anything of this?"

Jadrek dug into his packs while the women were occupying themselves with the grisly remains they'd found. He was aching all over with pain, even through the haze of drugs. Worse, he was slowing them down.

But there was a solution, of sorts. They didn't need him now, and if the weather worsened, his presence -- or absence -- might mean the difference between life and death for the two partners.

So he was going to overdose. That would put him to sleep. If they did find shelter, there would be no harm done, and he would simply sleep the overdose off. But if they didn't --

If they didn't, the cold would kill him painlessly, and they'd be rid of an unwieldy burden. Without him they'd be able to take paths and chances they weren't taking now. Without him they could devote energy to saving themselves.

He swallowed the bitter herb pellets quickly, before they could catch him at it, and washed away the bitterness with a splash of icy water from his canteen. Then he pressed himself up against the sheltered side of Kethry's mount, trying to leech the heat from her body into his own.

Kethry took the sword from her partner, and turned it over. The sheath looked as if it had once had metal fittings; there were gaping sockets in the pommel and at the ends of the quillions of the sword that had undoubtedly once held gemstones. There was no evidence of either, now.

"Poor bastard. Might have been a merc, down on his luck," Tarma said. "That's when you know you're hitting the downward slide -- when you're selling the decorations off your blade."

Kethry slid the sword a little out of the sheath; it resisted, with a grating sound, although there was no sign of rust on the dull gray blade. Tarma leaned over her shoulder, and scratched the exposed metal with the point of her dagger, then snorted at the shiny marks the steel left on the metal of the sword.

"Well, I feel a little less sorry for him," Kethry retorted. "My guess is that he was a thief. This was some kind of dress blade, but the precious metal and the stones have been stripped from it"

"Have to be a dress sword," the Shin'a'in said in disgust. "Nobody in their right mind would depend on that thing. It isn't steel or even crude-forged iron. You're right, he must have been a thief -- and probably the pretties were stripped by somebody that came across the body."

Tarma turned back to her inspection of her mare's condition, and Kethry nodded, shoving the blade back into its sheath. "You're right about this thing," she agreed. "Metal that soft wouldn't hold an edge for five minutes. Damn thing is nearly useless. That pretty much confirms it. The departed wasn't dressed particularly well, I doubt he'd have much use for a dress-sword." She started to stick the thing point-down into the cairn they'd built -- then, moved by some impulse she didn't quite understand, put it into her pack, instead.

There was something about that sword -- something buried below the seeming of its surface, something that tasted of magic. And if there was magic involved, Kethry thought vaguely, it might be worth saving to look into later.

Neither Tarma nor Jadrek noticed; Tarma was checking Ironheart's feet. and Jadrek was pressed up against Hellsbane's side with his eyes closed, trying to absorb some of the mare's warmth into his own body.

Tarma straightened up with a groan. "Well, people, I hate to say this, but -- "

Kethry and Jadrek sighed simultaneously.

"I know," Kethry replied. "Time to go."

Darkness was falling swiftly, and the snow was coming down thicker than ever. They'd given up trying to find a campsite themselves; Tarma had sent Warrl out instead. That meant they had one less set of eyes to guard them, but Warrl was the only one who stood a chance of finding shelter for them.

Tarma was leading both horses; on a trail this uncertain, she wanted it to be her that stumbled or fell, not the mares. She was cold to the point of numbness, and every time Hellsbane tripped on the uneven ground, she could hear Jadrek catching his breath in pain, and Kethry murmuring encouragement to him.

Tarma was no longer thinking much beyond the next step, and all her hopes were centered on the kyree. If they didn't find shelter by dawn, they'd be so weary that no amount of will could keep them from resting -- and once resting, no amount of fore-knowledge would keep them from falling asleep --

And they would die.

Tarma wondered how many ghosts haunted the Comb, fools or the desperate, lured into trying to thread the rocky hills and falling victim to no enemy but the murderous weather.

She half-listened to the wind wailing among the rocks above them. It sounded like voices. The voices of hungry ghosts, vengeful ghosts, jealous of the living. The kinds of ghosts that showed up in the songs of her people, now and again, who sought only to lure others to their deaths, so that they might have company.

How many fools -- how many ghosts --

A white shape loomed up out of the dusk before them, blocking the path. A vague, ivory rider on an ethereal silver horse, appearing suddenly and soundlessly out of the snow, like a pallid harbinger of cold death.

"Li'sa'eer!" Tarma croaked, and dropped the reins of both horses, pulling the sword slung at her back in the next instant, and wondering wildly if Goddess-blessed steel could harm a hungry ghost.

:Mindmate, no!:

Warrl jumped down from the hillside to her right to interpose his bulk between her and the spirit. :Mindmate -- this is help!:

"Peace upon you, lady." The voice of the one astride the strange white beast was not that of a spirit; nor, when Tarma allowed a corner of herself to test the feel of him, was there any of the tingle she associated with magic. The man's voice was not hollow, as a spirit's normally sounded; it was warm, deep, and held a tinge of amusement. "Your four-footed friend came looking for aid, and we heard his calling. I did not mean to startle you."

Tarma's arms shook as she resheathed the blade. "Goddess bless -- warn a body next time! You just about ate six thumbs of steel!"

"Again, your pardon, but we could not tell exactly where you were. Your presences seem rather ... blurred."

"Never mind that," Kethry interrupted from behind Tarma, her voice sharp. "Who are you? What are you? Why should we trust you?"

The man did not seem to be taken aback by her words. "You're wise not to take anything on appearance, lady. You don't know me -- but I do know you; I've talked to your friend mind-to-mind, and I know who you are and what you wish. You can trust me on three counts." He and his horse moved in to stand nose to nose with Ironheart. Tarma saw with no little surprise that even in the fading light the beast's eyes were plainly a bright and startling blue. "Firstly -- that you are no longer in Rethwellan; you crossed the Border some time back, and you are in Valdemar. The enemy on your backtrail will not be able to pass the Border, nor would I give you to him. Secondly, that the man you seek, Prince Stefansen, is Valdemar's most welcome guest, and I will be taking you to him as quickly as your tired beasts can manage. And thirdly, you can trust me because of my office."

"Look -- we're tired, we don't know anything about your land, and our friend, who might, is not even half-conscious."

So that was what was making Keth's voice sound like she was walking on glass.

"I seem to be making a mess of this," the man replied ruefully. "I am Roald. one of the Heralds of Valdemar. And you may believe your large, hairy friend there, that any Herald is to be trusted."

:They are, mindmate,: Warrl confirmed. :With more than life. There is no such creature as a treacherous Herald.:

All right, Tarma thought, worn past exhaustion. We've got no chance out here -- and you've never been wrong before this, Purface.

"Lead on, Herald Roald," she said aloud. And wearily hoped Warrl was right this time, too.