Gail Martin - The Sworn

“But Nameless didn’t destroy all of the followers of the Shrouded Ones,” Talwyn added. “For centuries, in the far country, or up in the mountains, there were those who remembered the old ways and kept their rituals secret. Each time plague or famine would rise, the followers of Shanthadura, the Durim, would come to the fore again. And when the dark times passed, they would disappear once more. And now, plague, war, and famine have swept across the Winter Kingdoms. And like the pox, the Durim return to shed more blood.”

Jair sat in silence, letting the story sink in. “What do the Durim think will happen if they free whatever is down in the Abyss?”

Pevre shrugged. “We don’t know for certain. They won’t tell their secrets, and no one leaves the cult of Shanthadura alive. But I suspect their motives are simple. They would turn the monsters on their enemies and reinstate the worship of the Shrouded Ones.” He met Jair’s eyes. “And if that day comes, the Winter Kingdoms will fall into darkness. I’ve heard stories from some of the old vayash moru about how the Black Robes terrorized the people, about the human sacrifices and the ritual deaths. We can’t allow those times to return.”

“What now?” Jair looked from Talwyn to Pevre. “Can we renew the warding that was broken on the barrow they desecrated?”

Talwyn avoided his eyes. “Yes.”

“Yes… but?” Jair probed, getting the feeling that he was not going to like the full answer.

“I have to spirit walk into the barrow. My magic isn’t strong enough by itself to reinstate the wardings. I have to ask the Dread for help.”

“They’re neutral in this, right?” Jair asked, fearing for Talwyn’s safety. “You’ll be able to return when you’re through?”

Talwyn took a deep breath. “I’ll need an anchor. I’m not a summoner, so my soul doesn’t actually leave my body, but my consciousness-my spirit-does. Sometimes, when the spirit walks, it can lose its way, especially in the dark places. Normally, I’d ask Father to anchor me, but I need him to work some of the wardings.” She reached out to take Jair’s hand. “We’re oath-bound. You can anchor me. I’ll see the light of your spirit to find my way back to my body.”

“And if you can’t?”

Talwyn looked away again. “Then my body remains, but without consciousness. It will sleep without waking until it dies from hunger or thirst, but my spirit will be lost.”

“I don’t like this,” Jair said, looking from Talwyn to Pevre. “Surely there’s another way.”

“There’s no other choice,” Pevre said, and his tone gave Jair to know that Pevre did not like Talwyn’s plan, either.

Jair could see in Talwyn’s eyes that she understood the risk, to herself, to the Sworn, and to the Winter Kingdoms should she fail. And Jair knew that he could not refuse her, even though his fear for her chilled him to the bone. “Then you know I’ll be your anchor. You knew before you asked.”

Talwyn gave him a wan smile. “I believed you would do what must be done.”

The moon was rising as Talwyn, Pevre, and Jair went to the barrows. With them went four of the Sworn’s warriors, to assure that the working would be uninterrupted. Jair knew that tonight, the stelian that hung from his belt would be useless. Tonight’s battle would be decided by Talwyn’s magic and the cooperation-or lack thereof-of the Dread.

He watched nervously as Talwyn and Pevre made their preparations. Magic was widely practiced in Dhasson, but unlike his cousin, Tris Drayke, Jair had no magical power of his own. He hoped, and feared, that Kenver would inherit his mother’s power. His own lack of magic left Jair feeling helpless as the others prepared for the confrontation. Talwyn wore the robes that were a mark of her role as shaman and as the daughter-and heir-of the chief. Talwyn’s robes were woven in rich shades of ochre, sepia, and hues of green, the colors of the ground and the plants from which the Sworn called their power. Embroidered into the robes were symbols and runes as well as a complex pattern that seemed to brighten and dim with every breath Talwyn took.

Pevre, also, was dressed to work magic. Tonight, Pevre wore the ceremonial regalia of a Sworn chieftain, and the mantle of a shaman. A breastplate of leather set with runes in carved bone and precious stones covered his chest and back. Leather vambraces set with silver covered his forearms. A tunic woven in shades of blue, green, and brown extended beneath his breastplate, matching his trews, and a mantle that matched the robe Talwyn wore lay across Pevre’s shoulders. From his belt hung tokens of favor from the Consort Spirits: the claw of a stawar, the eyetooth of a bear, a charm made with the fur of a wolf, and two wing feathers from an eagle.

Jair came dressed to fight. He wore the leather battle armor of the Sworn warriors, and his stelian hung close by his side, along with an array of knives and throwing blades sheathed in a baldric across his chest. On his right hand, he wore the signet ring of the heir to the throne of Dhasson, and on his left palm, the tattoo that marked him as one of the trinnen. Though he would have been well-armed for any mortal battle, tonight, Jair felt at a decided disadvantage.

Talwyn raised her arms to signal that she was ready to begin the working. Pevre began a steady rhythmic beat on the hand drum he had carried from the village. Talwyn started to chant in the language of the Sworn, and Jair followed along, swaying to the rhythm of her words.

“Faces of the Sacred Lady, turn to me. I am your daughter. Honored dead, protect me. We are kin. Consorts, I ask you to accompany me. Spirits of the Dread, permit me to enter.” As Talwyn spoke, her form began to shimmer. And as she called to the spirits, a mist rose from the land around her, and as Jair watched, shapes began to appear in the mist, only to vanish like smoke a moment later. Jair thought he glimpsed the ghosts of Sworn warriors, still bearing their death wounds, and the wizened faces of long-dead ancestors. The figure of a woman with long, black hair turned to face Jair, and for an instant, he thought he had come face-to-face with Istra, the Dark Lady. The image vanished as quickly as it came, and Jair saw new shapes coalesce in the mist. Beside Talwyn were a bear, a large wolf, and a large, black predatory cat that was as big as the wolf. Jair recognized it as a stawar, one of the most feared hunters of the Eastern plains. Talwyn took a deep breath, and her robes fell away, leaving her skyclad. From the mist above her head, the figure of an eagle landed on her outstretched forearm.

Talwyn’s body collapsed atop her discarded robes, and a spirit image stepped away from her still form. The spirit image gave one glance back toward Jair and then moved to the crude doorway the Black Robes had erected over the hole they had dug into the side of the barrow. Darkness extended down into the tomb. Talwyn’s spirit image paused at the entrance and she bowed, and then her lips moved, but Jair could not hear her words. Accompanied by the spirits of the Consorts, Talwyn vanished into the darkness.

“How will I know if she needs me?” Jair asked, when Pevre slowed his drumming.

“You’ll know. It’s not unlike the bond between a healer and his assistant. It’s your life energy that her spirit will follow back to you and back to her body.”

Jair looked toward the place where Talwyn’s body lay crumpled and still surrounded by her robes. Everything in him wanted to run to her and gather her into his arms, but both Talwyn and Pevre had warned him to disturb nothing. Instead, he stared into the darkness of the shaft Talwyn had entered, straining to see a glow or a wisp that might give him any hint of what was going on.

Jair felt suddenly off balance, as if someone had shoved him hard from the side. He opened his eyes, and everything around him changed as quickly as if tapestries with a different landscape had been unfurled all around him. Distantly, he heard Pevre’s voice.