Oathblood (35 page)

Jadrie seemed to understand, and chuckled. “I asked Tarma if I could—she said you'd earned them. I designed the decoration.”

Now at last it was Meri's turn, as Kira held the precious package to her chest, half afraid they would vanish if she turned them loose. This was more than just a set of weapons—this was confirmation of her dream, for a set of knives like this, with the addition of a sword, was
precisely
what a professional bodyguard would sport. So her teacher Tarma agreed with Kira's dream—and so, presumably, did Kira's parents. There would be no separation from her beloved twin when Meri went to marry the Prince of Jkatha.

Meri's exclamation was as surprised and delighted as Kira‘s, as she opened her package with far more decorum than Kira had used with hers. Her box would be perfect for storing her embroidery materials, for it was unlined, and it contained fabric. Kira didn't see what it was that merited such delight—it just looked like white silk to her—

Then Meri took it out of the box, and shook it out—and out—and out—

It must have been a dozen ells of silk so thin it was almost transparent, like mist made into fabric.

Then Meri saw what the folded fabric had hidden, and actually wept with joy.

“I can't believe you found it!” she said over and over, fingering the fabric and the embroidery silks of the purest white, a box of tiny freshwater pearls the size of pinheads, and silver thread as supple as the silk. “I can't believe you found it!”

“Found what?” Kira whispered under her breath to Jadrie, mystified, as Meri picked up each skein of thread and examined every strand with delight.

“It's the makings for a traditional Jkathan royal bridal veil,” Jadrie replied, eyes sparkling. “The bride's supposed to provide the veil, and it's
supposed
to be of silk so fine the veil can pass through her wedding ring, and she's supposed to embroider it herself. Meri wanted to do things right for her Prince, but silk that fine is hard to come by, as Meri's been finding out.” She shrugged, and grinned. “Shin‘a'in connections can get you amazing things—would you believe that Tarma got this from the Hawkbrothers?” She raised her voice. “You'll have to start embroidering that right away, won't you?”

“Absolutely,” Meri said firmly. “I'll want to set the pattern so Mummy's maids can match it on my dress—and then I'll only want to work on it when the light is good and strong.”

“Well, work out the pattern
you
want, and don't worry about using up the pearls and the thread. I've got a good connection, and I can get you plenty more if you need it.” Jadrie's grin got wider, if possible.

“As you well know, it's the veil that's the hard thing to get hold of.”

Meri shook her head, and carefully wiped the tears from her eyes to avoid spotting the silk. “This has been the best Midwinter ever!” she said. “I don't know how anything we get from our parents could be better than this—”

“Then let's celebrate!” Jadrie urged, carefully putting her new outfit on the bed and covering it with the coverlet, just in case. Kira and Meri both put their presents back in their wooden presentation boxes, both with a last pat of satisfaction, and accepted mugs of cider from Jadrie. Kira held hers up in a toast, and they followed her example.

“To the best Midwinter ever,” Kira said firmly, “and to more to come!”

“Best friends and sisters forever!” Meri said, touching mugs with her twin and Jadrie.

“Kal she li de‘gande, orm she li de'gande,”
Jadrie said solemnly.

“What's that?” Meri asked.

Jadrie took a sip of her cider before she answered. “It's something best friends swear in the Clans—‘I swear my sword to you, I swear my hand to you.' It means that if you ever need me, I'll drop everything to come help you.”

“Huh!” Kira said, impressed, and touched her mug again to Jadrie's.
“Kal sheli de‘gande,orm sheli de'
gande,”
she repeated, and Meri did the same, making a better job of the pronunciation than Kira had.

They managed to hold the solemn moment for several heartbeats, until one of the chestnuts jumped on the hearth, its shell splitting with a pop. That broke the spell, and they dove for the hot nuts, laughing and sucking burned fingers as they devoured their little feast.

 

 

Warrl scratched once, very softly, on the door to Tarma's room, and the Shin‘a'in left her comfortable chair to let him in. He'd been making his nightly patrol of the childrens' wing, moving as only he could, so quietly they had no idea he was ever lurking outside their doors, listening with both ears and mind. He was in a very good mood, and grinned up at Tarma, tongue lolling, as he passed her.

“So, what mischief are the youngsters up to?” Tarma asked the
kyree.
He only grinned like that when he'd caught one or more of the children having a romp.

:Everyone is asleep except the girls,:
Warrl replied, curling up on his bed, an enormous, flat cushion near the hearth but out of range of any errant embers. His eyes reflected the flames as he sighed with content.
:As you had thought, they are having a farewell party.:

Tarma chuckled. “Not exactly a big surprise, with Midwinter Gifts all wrapped up and ready to present. I didn't think they could hold out until departure day. Right, then we'll give them a little longer to gossip and giggle, then I'll go make enough noise that they scatter back to their beds. Whose room are they in? Jadrie's?”

The
kyree
nodded.

“I thought she went to bed a little too easily. She must have hidden some goodies under the bed and she didn't want anyone finding them.” There were no rules about taking food from the kitchen at any time—growing, active younglings needed a lot of food. Sweets were generally locked up, but there was always nuts, cheese, bread, fruits and vegetables, and journey-cakes made with enough honey to make the children
think
they were sweets. However, there
were
rules about keeping food in the bedrooms. Once too often in the first year an unpleasant stench or an outbreak of flying pests or mice had been traced to forgotten goodies squirreled away in a chest or wardrobe, or under a bed. Kethry had decided that making it against the rules to have food in the rooms would not stop the children from taking food to their rooms for little “parties,” but
would
ensure that all traces would be erased and all food would be eaten before it could become a problem.

“You can't keep them from it,” Kethry had said philosophically. “Children just like to have secret social get-togethers, and it's no fun for them if they can't nibble on something. Lock up all the food, and they'll get bitten stealing squirrels' hordes, get scratched and punctured picking wild berries, get sick on sour fruit, and get stung stealing honey from forest hives.”

“Or worse,” Tarma had pointed out. “Our brood at least is woods-wise and they know what's not safe to eat, but the same can't be said for our students. And the gods only know what sort of things they'd pick to try and eat. You're right; the rule about keeping food should take care of the problem.”

And it wasn't really
breaking
the rule if the food was eaten immediately, just bending it a little. After all, the rule specifically said
keeping
food in their rooms, not eating it there.

:I wonder why the older boys aren't having a similar—:
Warrl broke off his thought to cock an ear at the door.
:Footsteps on the stair. One of the older boys. Belton, by the footsteps.:

Since the hallway on which the adults had their rooms was dimly lit with a night-lantern, there was no need for a child to stumble through the dark to find any of his teachers. A moment or two later, the expected tap came at Tarma's door.

She opened it; Belton stood there, with a guarded expression, still fully dressed although he should have been in his nightclothes by now.

“Come to say good-bye privately?” she asked, giving him an easy excuse for his presence, so that he could broach the real reason he had sought her out when he felt a little more comfortable. “Please, come in and share my hearth.”

The boy blinked in the fire- and lantern-light, and came hesitantly inside. Tarma waved him to a chair, and took her own seat again. “Tea?” she invited, holding up a pot. He shook his head, and she put it back on the table beside her chair. “I'm glad all three of you boys will be coming back after the holidays,” she said, relaxing into the embrace of her chair. “You are all intelligent and quick, and I think you'll be happy here. I'm happy to have you as students. More than that, well, I like you boys for yourselves.” She smiled at him. “Even when you're all acting like brats, I still like you.”

Belton didn't relax. He stared at his hands, clenched tightly on one knee, then at the fire, then back at his hands, all without saying anything. Tarma waited with infinite patience; she had a fair idea that he was about to tell her the secret she'd sensed in him.

In the meantime, she filled the silence with one-sided conversation, about her own training, about things Belton could expect to learn when he returned, about how
she
had felt at his age when confronted by some of the things she had been expected to learn. Finally, he looked as if he was ready to say something, and she paused to give him a chance.

“Is revenge wrong?” he finally blurted, looking up urgently into her eyes. “Not for something petty, not a stupid argument or something. Serious revenge, grown-up revenge.”

Interesting question.
“Are you asking the teacher or the Shin‘a'in?” she replied.

“Both. Either.” He shook his head, clearly confused. “I don't know what I want to hear—”

“Well, the teacher would say—‘yes, of course, revenge is wrong, doing something terrible to revenge yourself is creating a second wrong on top of the one that was done to you.' But the Shin‘a'in has a different way of looking at things than the teacher who has to live in civilization.” She smiled slowly. “The Shin‘a'in would say that it depends on what you expect you're going to get out of the vengeance—and it depends on what the vengeance is going to do to you.”

“What I'm going to get out of it? Don't you mean, what I'm going to accomplish?” Belton looked puzzled at her wording, and she wasn't surprised. She was about to introduce him to some complicated thinking, but she thought he could grasp it.

“No, that's not what I mean. The Shin‘a'in are not at all against vengeance, or against blood-feuds. In fact, I'm here now because of an oath of vengeance.” She nodded at his look of surprise. “For us, the key difference is that in order to swear an oath of vengeance, or take on a blood-feud, you have to swear yourself to the Warrior-Goddess, and that means giving up
everything.
Family, Clan, love, marriage—all of it.”

“Why?” Belton wanted to know.

“In part, to make sure that revenge is the act of last resort—that it is kept for very specific purposes.” She wound a strand of hair around one finger. “We don't allow people to declare blood-feuds just because they can't get along with another person in their Clan, and we don't let Clan declare blood-feud with Clan. Very far back in the past, our people separated into two groups, one of whom became the Shin‘a'in, because of a difference of opinion. That separation came out all right, but it isn't something we want to happen again.”
How much to tell him? I can't give him the whole history of the Clans in one night!

But the boy did look intent on her words, so she continued. “That's why someone who needs revenge that badly gives up everything, and becomes an instrument of the Shin‘a'in as a whole. The Shin‘a'in take revenge
very
seriously, and only someone who is acting for the People of the Plains rather than himself is permitted to take it. We believe that if you aren't serious enough about revenge to be willing to give up everything in order to have it, then you aren't going after revenge for the right reasons.”

Belton chewed on his lower lip for a long time before answering her. “What are the right reasons?”

“I can't give you all of them, but I can tell you mine—and as to how I know they were right, well, the Goddess accepted my oath, so they must have been.” She took a sip of her warm tea and let the taste of honey and flowers linger on her tongue for a moment. He continued to watch her face intently. “Bandits had slaughtered my entire Clan. I wanted to wipe them off the face of the earth—but not because killing them would bring any of my people back. Yes, I wanted to kill them because they had killed everyone I cared about. But I also knew that if they got away with the murders, others would try to emulate them—and the People
could not
have that happen.”

“What if you'd gotten killed yourself?” Belton asked.

“If I had failed, there would have been other Shin‘a'in who would have come after me who would have succeeded where I failed. I just had the right to try to do the job first.” She nodded as his eyes widened. “I also knew that they had probably murdered plenty of other people in the past, and would do so again in the future—and there is one sure thing you can say about destroying a murderer, and that's that he won't be around to kill again.”

Belton pondered her words silently; she waited for him to say something, but he remained silent.

“However—” she held up a cautionary finger “—revenge for an insult, for a purely personal wrong—that's no reason for revenge. And I'll tell you why; you don't teach a piece of scum a lesson by serving out to him what he served out to you, all you do is give him a reason to heap your plate with more of the same. Slime doesn't learn lessons; it just stays slime.” She took a long, deep breath. “Don't fool yourself, don't try to tell yourself you intend to teach your enemy a lesson. You won't. Revenge on slime is not education, it's got to be eradication—or at the very least it has to accomplish the task of making absolutely sure that the slime can't ever commit that particular act again.”