“Your oath, shaman. I cut you loose and you come with me. No tricks.” “So you give me to the little people?” he snorted. ”You’re my prisoner. The Vani won’t hurt you.” ”Your oath, human?” “By the blood of my family.” ‘qhat is good. I give you my oath, human—but only until we reach your valley.” “Only if you swear by Gorellik, your god.” Martine bit her lip. Krote scowled. Martine was getting better at reading the gnoll’s expressions. “Gorellik sees all and knows Krote gives his word. We will travel in peace, Martine of Sembia.’ “Praise to Mielikki,” Martine added, beseeching in her heart the blessing of the Lady of the Forest. It might mean everything or it might mean nothing, but Martine instinctively believed the WordMaker’s oath to be valuable. Now that she had it, the Harper cut the bonds with some sense of confidence. The pair started the day’s march without delay. To an untrained eye, it would have seemed as if they were traveling through More of the same as yesterday—the same gray pines, the same dazzling whiteness, the same rocks, the same streams—but to Martine’s practiced eye, there were important differences.
