Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

Keleios extended her right hand, exposing the palm’s new scar.

“A blood oath, but even they can be broken, safely.”

“Not this one.”

“But...”

“Let me finish, Methia. We swore by the hounds of Verm and the birds of Loth.”

Her face paled, her eyes glittering dangerously. “That is almost unbreakable.”

“It is unbreakable except at the death of one of the oath makers.” She knew her sister and cautioned, “I don’t want anything to happen to Lothor while he is here, sister.”

“I would never do such a thing.”

“No, but these people are loyal to you, and if you happened to mention your dislike, you could get somebody killed trying.”

“Is he that hard to kill?”

“Perhaps, but he will be my consort, not I his. We need never cross the Loltun border. And I raise whatever child, male or female, as I see fit.”

“How did you get him to agree to that?”

“I wouldn’t swear otherwise, for Tobin’s life or anything else.”

“There has got to be a way to break it.”

“There isn’t. Methia, I know the realities of this oath as well he does. I did not go in blind.”

Methia stood and walked to the windows. “And I suppose your knowledge of demonlore is my fault.”

“I have never blamed you for not going after Harque. We were seventeen; neither of us should have done it. You showed good sense. I almost cost Belor his life because he was loyal and went with me. Your being there would not have saved us.”

Without turning around, Methia said, “I am sorry I did not go. I don’t think I could go, even now, but I am sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for. We all have our fears, but if you need forgiveness, forgive yourself. I forgave you long ago. Come sit and don’t take slight references to heart.”

Methia sat with a nervous smoothing of cloth, her hands running along the rich brocade and touching the gold pins, much as Keleios touched her weapons for reassurance.

“What are you smiling at?”

“Oh, differences and likenesses.”

“You can’t join with him; he is a black healer.”

“You joined with Councilman Nesbit. He follows the same gods that a black healer worships. And he left me chained with runes of binding on the Grey Isle, meat for anything that came along.”

“No, he wouldn’t do that.”

“He did do that. How long has it been since he’s seen Llewellyn, his own daughter?” Methia turned away.

“It’s been over two years, Methia. He isn’t coming back, all because of her eyes changing from blue to elfish green, because he thinks she looks like a half-breed and no daughter of his could ever be that.”

“But he’s not a black healer. He can’t bring pain and death with his touch. I remember that it was black healing that killed our mother, black healing that rotted her away before our eyes. What would Mother say about your joining?”

“Mother has been dead a long time. I doubt she will say anything.”

“That was cruel.”

“So is keeping her memory new in your heart. You’ve mourned long enough. Let it go.”

“Who are you to tell me how long to mourn? I remember it all. I am no prophet, but it hangs on like a prophetic dream, vivid and horrible.”

Keleios stood away from her sister, feeling tired and angry. “I remember, Methia, but I don’t torment myself. You think I desecrate her memory by joining with a black healer?”

“Yes, don’t you?”

“All right, Methia, you want to fight. Let us fight. You don’t think I mourned her long enough, that my sorrow is somehow not as great as yours, because I don’t still wail about it.”

“Yes, may Cia forgive me, yes.”

“My mourning was vengeance. I sought it and failed when I was seventeen. I asked you to come with me, but you refused. You said killing Harque would not bring Mother back. Well, neither will mourning forever.”

“Should I give up my sorrow because it is useless?”

“No, because it is a waste of energy and strength.”

Methia rose. “I see we will accomplish nothing here today.” She turned for the door, but Keleios stopped her. Methia stood trembling but did not try to shake off the restraining

hands.

“I watched the light die in Harque’s eyes. I watched life flow out of her in a crimson stream. She died by my hand, and it satisfied me. It won’t undo what happened, but it was enough. Lay it to rest, Methia. Harque has paid with her life, with her soul. Let it go.”

Her voice, when it came, was tight and formal. “You will join with him anyway.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“As soon as the preparations for feasting can be made.”

Methia laughed, and it sounded bitter. “No, a feast is already prepared. It is midsummer festival tonight. Yes, we will have a torchlight procession. I will see you mated in fine style, sister. Let it be tonight; darkness will be better for it.” She shook Keleios’ hands off and left.

Keleios sat down to finish her breakfast, finding her appetite not what it had been.

The armory was close dusk broken only by the glitter of metal as torchlight struck shimmers from the weapons. Old Barrock held the torch in his wizened hand. His long white hair was a soft crown around his bald pate. His blue eyes were still the same clear blue, like deep water where the fish run strong.

Keleios said, “The weapons are in good condition.”

He swelled a little at the compliment. “I try, even though no one comes back for them. I make sure they could have them if they wanted.”

Stacked and hung along the walls were all the weapons of all the fugitives who had been given refuge over the centuries. If one intended to stay on the island, there was no need for anything more than knives. Magic glimmered here, alive and waiting. Keleios stepped into the softly charged gloom with Aching Silver in hand. Her long skirts caught on a pole arm, and she pulled back on the dress, trying not to tear it. She succeeded and used one hand to hold the full dress closer to her body. Barrock found an empty hanging place between a battle-ax and a huge two-handed sword. Keleios hung the sword in place carefully, caressing the fine workmanship. “It’s a pity that the thing is demon touched.”

“Ah, ’tis a pretty piece of work. Some of the best I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot.”

They turned to go. Something fell clanging in darkness. The long sword lay on the floor. Keleios hung it once more, checking that it was secure.

Through the sheath she could feel it pulse, the life beating in the metal. The lives of all that it had consumed coursed through its silver form. She tugged, and it remained. Halfway to the door it fell again.

She stopped Barrock from going back for it and said, “Let it lie there if it wants to play childish games.” They mounted the stairs. Keleios nearly tripped over the sword as it

appeared on the step in front of her. She walked over it, sending Barrock ahead. It reappeared two steps in front of her. Keleios squatted beside it, tugging skirts back and under. “Why won’t you stay in the armory?”

Its voice came muffled and indistinct. She clasped it carefully and unlocked the blade. The sword rose half a blade length from its sheath. “I have waited for someone like you for too long to give you up.”

“How like me?”

“I am elven work that needs an elven hand. I am demon powered that needs a demon hand. I am evil and need a tainted hand. My maker sought to control me by putting restraints upon who could wield me. He was an elf who had been through the pit and survived; it taints the blood.” The sword rose farther until Keleios caught its hilt to keep it from falling. It pulsed and beat up her arm, singing a song of sadness and past ages. “You are half-elf who has been through the pit and survived. Do you know how rare that is? I will not give you up.”