Dark Horse

10

The Shadedron and the Ferganan clans arrived that evening amid shouts of welcome and a flurry of speculations. The clansmen were stunned by Savaric’s move to the Corin’s ground. The Khulinin were intentionally reminding the other clans of the massacre and were honoring the dead clan at the same time. The Wylfling had not yet come, and the chieftains wondered how Medb would react to Savaric’s taunt. They were also taken aback by the Khulinin’s disregard of the Geldring’s insult.

Normally such a flagrant offense would precipitate a challenge or a violent protest at the very least. But the Khulinin merely set up their tents by the river and mingled with the other people, blatantly ignoring the Geldring. No one could decide if Savaric was bowing to Branth, and therefore Medb’s superiority, or if he just felt that Branth was beneath his notice. Savaric gave no indication of his feelings.

Intrigue and gossip spread like wildfire through the camps. Rumors blossomed everywhere. The chieftains, when they were not puzzling over the Khulinin, studied each other warily, guessing who supported Medb. Branth strutted through the bazaar like a mating grouse in full feather, secure in his coming authority and power. Tensions, worries, and whispers spread through the encampments like smoke.

When the clanspeople discovered the Khulinin had a second Hunnuli, the smoke thickened. They tried every means to discover the rider, but no one could find the mysterious man who had tamed the spectacular mare, and the Khulinin were surprisingly tight-lipped about the horse and her rider. The black mare remained grazing with Athlone’s stallion, unconcerned by the people who came to stare at her and the conjectures that crowded around her. Meanwhile, her rider stayed out of sight in the healer’s tent.

Late that evening, three chiefs came to give Savaric the customary welcome, then declined his hospitality and quickly left, for they were uncomfortable on the Corin land. Lord Branth avoided Savaric altogether. Only Lord Koshyn, chieftain of Clan Dangari, stayed to share a cup of wine.

The young chief wore his light hair short in the manner of his clan and had a pattern of blue dots tattooed on his forehead. His eyes matched the indigo of his cloak.

Koshyn smiled infectiously and made himself comfortable on the cushions. “You certainly know how to make an impression.” He accepted the cup Tungoli handed him and saluted his companion.

Savaric returned his toast. He liked the younger man and hoped the Dangari would not accept Medb’s bribes. “Dathlar was my friend,” he said simply.

“Yes. I think Branth was secretly relieved to find that you did not make an issue of his choice of camping places.”

“I doubt it was his idea.”

Koshyn stared out the open tent flap for a while, tasting his wine. “Care to make a wager?” he asked, his face crinkling in humor.

“What sort of wager?”

“I’d bet five mares that Medb leaves this gathering with the council in his complete control.”

“Cynical, aren’t you?” Savaric replied.

“I was offered a rich prize if I aided his bid for power. I am not the only one.”

“I know. But what will be stronger: greed, fear, or independence?” Savaric paused. “All right, I accept.” He looked frankly at the Dangari. “Are you going to ally with the Wylfling?”

Koshyn laughed. “That might give away the wager.” He drained his cup, held it up for more, and gave Savaric a long look while the Khulinin refilled the cup. “Was there any truth to the rumor that someone survived the Corin massacre?”

Savaric only lifted an eyebrow and repeated, “That might give away the wager.”

By the next afternoon, three other clans, the Reidhar, the Murjik, and the Bahedin from the north, had set up their camps along the rivers. The gathering went into full swing, and everyone tried to pretend this year was like every other. But the atmosphere among the camps was electric. Although the clansmen tried to appear casual, details, barely noticeable, gave away every person’s true feelings. Hands stayed close to dagger or sword, faces strained into smiles, and chieftains were quick to break up arguments. The women, who knew everything despite the men’s efforts to keep the problems quiet, remained closer to their tents. Even the merchants were nervous and kept most of their goods packed. Two days had passed and the Wylfling still had not arrived. They were the last. Every eye surreptitiously watched the south for any sign of the late clan.

Medb, it seemed, was delaying his arrival to let the clans stew. When the huge caravan of the Wylfling was finally spotted early that evening, every man ran or rode out to witness Medb’s coming. It was exactly what he wanted. The Wylfling were the largest and wealthiest clan; they claimed the best land at the gathering for their camp and the richest pasture for their herds. When his caravan rolled into the valley, Medb arrayed his people to remind the clans of his power and might.

Wearing his long, brown cloak to hide his crippled legs and the rope that held him in the saddle, Medb rode at the head of his werod like a monarch. The warriors, over fifteen hundred strong, rode with their lances pointed to the sky and the chain mail of their long-coats polished to a bronze gleam. Their brown hoods covered their leather helmets, and the long, tasseled ends draped over their shoulders. Behind them were the wagons. Countless carts, wagons, animals, and people moved in an orderly procession toward encampments. Another troop of warriors followed, and a vast herd of horses and livestock took up the rear.

The clans greeted the Wylfling with none of their usual enthusiasm. They watched warily as each cart rolled by, and they silently counted each warrior. In a short year’s time, Medb’s clan had ceased to be a part of the whole. It was now a threatening force that loomed over them all and foreboded changes that few welcomed.

Savaric and Athlone stood at the edge of the encampment and nodded civilly when Medb rode by.

“Medb has had a most prosperous year,” Koshyn said, coming up beside them.

Savaric nodded, his face bleak. “The Wylfling women have been most prolific. His werod has increased by several hundreds in a mere winter.”

“The sun must be hotter in the south this summer, too. Did you observe a few of his outriders?” Athlone remarked.

“Even dust and distance cannot hide dark skins,” Koshyn said.

Athlone shaded his eyes against the sinking sun and watched the riders maneuver the Wylfling herds to pastures across the Goldrine. “Turic mercenaries. I’ve seen one of them before.”

Savaric followed his son’s gaze and studied the distant horsemen. “Interesting.”

“Care to increase the wager?” Koshyn suggested.

“Seven mares,” Savaric replied.

Koshyn grinned. “Savaric, I believe you are hiding something.”

The Khulinin chief tried to look astonished. “What have I got to hide?” he asked.

“How about a rider for that Hunnuli mare?”

“Oh, him,” Savaric said casually, scratching his head. “He’s ill.”

Koshyn did not believe him for a moment. “How sad. May he recover soon.”

“He will.”

“I’m sure. Well, whoever he is, this unknown man cannot be the rumored Corin survivor. None of them had a Hunnuli. If there was a survivor, he was probably lost in that spring blizzard.”

“Probably,” Athlone said blandly. He was finding it difficult to keep his expression innocent.

Koshyn shot him a quick look, then shrugged. “Seven mares it is. I’ll be Interested to see who wins. Medb is going to move fast, so if you’re going to pull the rug out from under him, you had better start soon.” He walked off.

“Seven mares?” Athlone asked.

Savaric clapped the wer-tain on the shoulder. “The Dangari have the swiftest horses in the clans. Our stock needs new blood.”

“What if you lose?”

The chief smiled, a slow lift of his mouth that belied the sadness in his eyes. “If I lose, I doubt I will live long enough to regret my debt.”

Athlone chose not to comment on that. Instead he said, “I had heard recently that Medb was injured by a Hunnuli. Did you notice he was tied to his saddle?”

“Hmmm. Medb’s injuries must have been crippling,” Savaric noted. “That puts a different slant on things.”

“I was glad to see it.”

The chief knew what his son meant. “Yes. Gabran’s duel becomes impossible now.”

They walked back toward their own camp, keeping their I heads close and their voices low.

“Why hasn’t Medb tried to heal himself?” Athlone asked. “I thought sorcery could change anything.”

“I doubt he has reached his full strength yet, so he may not I want to reveal his power.” Savaric slapped his scabbard. “And that, my boy, is our hope. Most of the clansmen do not know for certain that Medb has resurrected sorcery. This is his one chance to gain control of the council, so we must stop him while we can.”

“But even with the mercenaries and the Geldring he does not have enough men to overpower the rest of us.”

Savaric jabbed a finger in the air. “He does as long as we stay separated.

“You mean unite the clans?” Athlone was skeptical. “Has it ever been done?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“How are you going to pull them together? It would take nothing short of a cataclysm to make these chiefs unite against Medb.

“How about the truth?” Savaric said mildly. “An irrefutable revelation of Medb’s sorcery? In front of all the chiefs.”

Athlone stopped dead. He immediately understood what his father was suggesting. “No! You cannot do it.”

“It is the only way the chiefs will recognize their danger.” Savaric stopped, too.

“They will recognize it well enough! They’ll see you goad Medb’s power and die in a blast of arcane fire, then they will run screaming back to their holdings, where Medb will be able to take them at his leisure.” Athlone started walking again, his hands working in agitation. “Father, be reasonable. If you try to force Medb to reveal his sorcery, he’ll kill you. You are the only one who could possibly hold these clans together against him.”

Savaric caught up with his son and took Athlone’s arm. The chief’s eyes burned. “I have to try this. You said ‘nothing short of a cataclysm.’”

Athlone stared at the chieftain for a long moment. He knew the determination that showed on Savaric’s face would not be shaken. They had no real proof that Medb was a sorcerer, nothing tangible to show the council. Now Savaric wanted to provide the council with proof at the risk of his own life. Athlone doubted it would serve to unite the clans. They had been independent too long to see the sense of standing together, even in the face of the resurrection of sorcery. But maybe one or two would join the Khulinin to fight Medb.

“Will you at least talk to the others first?” Athlone asked, although he knew that talking would probably be useless.

Savaric’s eyes softened. “Of course. I do not relish incurring Medb’s wrath.”

“We’ll do that anyway,” Athlone said, “when he finds out I have no intention of bringing the Khulinin to his heel.”

Savaric suddenly laughed. “Then we have nothing to lose.”

With the eleven clans together at last, the priests crossed to the island that evening and, from a secret cavern, brought out the gigantic council tent. In a large space on the bank of the Goldrine, under a few trees that grew by the water the tent was raised with the help of men from every clan. Ten supporting poles on each side stretched the tan material over enough space to accommodate fifty men. Rich carpets were spread over the ground, and a fire pit was unearthed. Sections of the wall were rolled up to allow the breeze off the rivers to cool the interior. Cushions and stools were brought for the men’s comfort.

Early the next morning, the banners of the eleven clans were hung outside the council tent. Dark gold, blue, green, brown, gray, black, purple, yellow, orange, dark blue, and maroon—they unfurled in the wind like flames. Only the scarlet of Clan Corin was missing. Everyone tried to disregard the banners around the tent, but the scene was strange and foreboding council without the familiar splash of red. Time and again, men caught their glance wandering to the poles of the huge tent.

At noon the horns were blown, calling the chieftains council. Forty-four men—eleven chieftains with their sons wer-tains, elders, and priests—gathered within the cool breezy tent. Women passed around flagons of wine and ale, and set bowls of fruit within reach, then they silently withdrew, for no woman was permitted to attend the council. Malech, chief of the Shadedron, called the men to order and the high priest blessed the gathering. The council began.

The first day the men only discussed minor problems. Savaric asked for information about Pazric’s disappearance but received no news. Lord Branth was welcomed into the council and the damage caused by the spring rains was discussed. Every man avoided looking at Medb, who sat ominously quiet with seven of his men. Few outside the Wylfling clan had known the extent of Medb’s crippling injuries and no man dared comment. Crippled or no, it was obvious that Medb still had control of his clan and his power.

Nor did anyone mention the issues that were uppermost on every man’s mind: the Corin massacre, Medb’s unlawful bribes to the chiefs, the banding of the exiles, and the rumors of Medb s heretical practice of sorcery. The men were not ready yet to broach those explosive subjects. Instead, they talked everyday events and watched each other, waiting for someone else to make the first move.

Medb said nothing. He sat on his litter within the half-circle of his most trusted guards and watched the chiefs with hooded eyes, like a lion eyeing his prey. They had nowhere else to go but down his path and they knew it. Let them leap and feint away. In the end they would come to him. Then his crippled legs would make no difference; when he unleashed the full power of his magic, every man would fall to the earth and worship him. Or die.

When the council ended for the day, the men thankfully quit the tent to go to their own camps. After a night of feasting and dancing, in which the Wylfling took no part, the Council reconvened the following morning.

The meeting was the same as the day before. Yearly business to was transacted, a few major punishments were meted out, and several grievances were smoothed over. Again Medb sat in his place and said little. The tensions mounted like a tightly lidded pot set too near the fire.

Savaric wore his star brooch to the council on both days, although he said nothing to Medb about an alliance, and he covertly watched the responses of his companions. The stone drew many looks and comments, some envious, some admiring, but it was obvious where the stone had originated and many men wondered what Savaric had done to earn it.

Yet the Khulinin chief said little to anyone at the council. He watched and waited with the rest of the chiefs. Savaric was biding his time. He was waiting for the right moment, when the tensions were at their highest, before he made his move.

When the second day’s council was over, Savaric nodded to full Athlone. “Tomorrow,” the chief said. “Tell the boy.”

“What boy?” Lord Koshyn asked as he stepped up beside on the Khulinin. He grinned at Savaric and Athlone. “Is your mystery man finally going to make an appearance?”

Savaric picked up his cloak from the cushion he had been sitting on. “The Hunnuli’s rider has recovered from his illness,” he replied.

Just then, Lord Sha Umar, chief of Clan Jehanan, strode over to join the three men. The frustration was plain on his handsome face. “Savaric,” he said with annoyance, “the council cannot go on avoiding Medb’s criminal behavior. Someone has to prod these chiefs into action.”

Koshyn nodded. “We were just discussing that. I believe the Khulinin have a plan under their cloaks.”

Sha Umar looked relieved. “I don’t mind telling you, Savaric, Medb scares me. He is a menace to us all.”

The Khulinin chief looked at the Jehanan thoughtfully. “Are you thinking of allying with him?”

Sha Umar snorted. “I am frightened, but I’m not stupid. I would rather have my clan die as the Corin did than live under his rule.” He glanced at the entrance where Medb’s men were carrying the chief’s litter out of the tent. The three other men followed his gaze.

“We have to deal with him,” Savaric said quietly. “Before he grows too strong.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. You can count on me to help.” Sha Umar nodded to the men and left with his warriors.

“Do you want to change your wager?” Savaric asked Koshyn.

The younger man shook his head. “It would be worth seven mares just to be wrong. I will be looking forward to tomorrow.” He, too, left the tent.

Savaric and Athlone, and their accompanying guards, walked back to the Khulinin camp. Neither man had much to say, for their thoughts were on the coming morning. When they reached the camp, Savaric retired to his tent and Athlone went to talk to Gabria.

During the two days of council meetings, Gabria had been fretting in Piers’s tent. The waiting was interminable. Savaric had ordered the girl to remain out of sight, and Gabria knew that his plans would be destroyed if she were recognized prematurely. But this did little to alleviate her frustration. That hard-won, longed for moment, when she could confront Medb and fling his crimes in his face, was so close. Soon, she would see him broken and bleeding, dying in pain—as her family had at the treld.

Gabria savored the image. Oh, she might die in the attempt, but now death had no fear for her. She would be victorious and her clan would live forever in the glorious tales that would be told about her. Nothing would stop her. Gabria might wait now and cooperate with the chief’s plan, but when the time carne, she would fight Medb with every weapon she had. Not even the council would be able to stop her. The weir-geld would be paid.

Gabria’s moods shifted restlessly from boundless rage to nervousness to irritation and impatience. She could not stand still. Her hands fretted at everything, and her body flinched at sudden noises. To make matters worse, Cor had taken to lounging outside the tent. When he was not working or eating, he was lolling in the shade of a tree near the healer’s tent, making crude comments about Gabria to anyone who would listen, or taunting her through the felt walls. Gabria didn’t know what Cor would do if she stormed out and confronted him, but both of them knew Savaric had forbidden her to leave the tent. Cor was making the most of it.

Piers tried time and again to force him to leave, but Cor kept returning to sit under the tree and taunt the Corin. Gabria tried to ignore Cor, for his disembodied voice sounded eerie in the dim interior and his insults only added to her agitation. In the brief silences when he was gone, she tried to calm her taut nerves. But very little helped. Cor’s voice would soon abruptly Cut through the quiet of the tent and send her clawing at the walls.

By sunset of the second day, Gabria was nearly out of her Wits with tension and frustration. When Athlone strode in to talk to her, he startled her. She grabbed a knife and nearly stabbed him before she recognized him in the half-light of evening.

“I’m sorry,” she said shakily. “I thought you were Cor.”

Athlone took the knife out of her hands and set it on Piers’s medicine chest. “He is elsewhere. I apologize to you. I should have dealt with Cor sooner.” He watched as she paced back and forth on the rugs. “Father plans to take you to the council tomorrow,” he said at last. ”

Gabria glanced up and her lips curled in a feral smile. “I will be ready.”

“Gabria, don’t get your hopes up,” Athlone tried to explain. “There are too many things you do not know about.”

The girl shook her head. “Do not worry about me, Wer-tain. I am fine.”

Athlone watched her and knew she was not, but there was nothing more he could do then. No one had had the heart, or the courage, to tell Gabria that Medb was too crippled to fight a personal duel. No one knew how she would react or if she would even accept the truth. Athlone started to tell her, then he decided not to. In her frame of mind, she would never believe him.

The warrior bid her good-night and went outside. Piers met him near the tent. The healer was carrying a full wine skin and a blanket.

Piers held up the skin and shook the contents. “Would you believe it’s water?” he asked. “I don’t think I will sleep well tonight. Would you care to join me?”

Athlone agreed and the two men made themselves comfortable under the nearby tree. Together, they sat guard on the tent and its seething occupant through the night. Cor stayed well away.

Gabria slept badly that night. The shadows that haunted her after the massacre returned in strength and hovered around her as she drifted in and out of sleep. Her frustration from the two days of waiting boiled in her stomach, and her throat was tight with unshed tears. Tomorrow it will be over, she kept reminding herself. In the morning, she was going to the council with Savaric and, by sunset, the ordeal would be ended. As if to mock her ignorance, her dreams crowded in and the circling phantoms laughed at her with the voices of her brothers. Soundlessly, she cried out to them.

Then, from the void of ghosts and memories, came a dream as clear as the vision she had seen in the fire that night in the Khulinin hall. Corin Treld. Gabria saw herself standing on a hill, looking down at the remains of the once busy camp. The sun was high and warm, and grass grew thick in the empty pastures. Weeds sprawled over the moldering ashes and covered the wreckage with a green coverlet. A large mound encircled with spears lay to one side, its new dirt just now sprouting grass. The darkness of her grief receded a little when she saw the burial mound. Someone had cared and had shown their respect by burying the clan with honor. It was an act she had been unable to do, and she gave her thanks to whomever had buried the Corin.

All at once the dream vanished and Gabria came awake. She lay on her pallet, staring at the darkness and wondering if the dream had been a true vision or merely her own wishful imagination. Then again, the source of the dream did not really matter. The image of the burial mound gave her peace and remained with her through the darkest hours of the night, helping to ease her terrible tension.

By the time the light of dawn leaked through the tent, Gabria was composed. The shadowy phantoms were gone; her nervousness had passed. The tension had drained from her mind and body. There was nothing left but a single, clear flame of resolution. Only the memory of the burial mound remained to remind her of her duty.

Gabria straightened her clothes and drew on her boots. Her weapons, now a part of her, were gently laid aside for the time they would be needed. The sword was already honed to a killing edge and her father’s dagger glistened from constant rubbing. She folded her gold cloak and surprised herself by running a regretful finger over the light linen. She had grown comfortable with the Khulinin. It would be hard if, for some reason, she had to leave them, too.

Turning her back on the gold cloak, Gabria drew her scarlet cloak out of a leather chest and shook out the folds. The red wool cascaded to the ground. Such a true color, she mused, clear and pure like a gemstone; not muddied like blood. She swung the cloak over her shoulders and pinned it in place with the brooch her mother had given her. She smiled to herself. Medb was in for a surprise.

Piers watched her worriedly as she finished dressing. He wanted to say something to ease his own tension, but he could, find no words. The healer recognized the look of intensity that altered Gabria’s face. Her eyes glowed with an untarnished light, and the dark circles that ringed her eyes made them look enormous. Her skin was flushed, and her movements were brief, as if she were preserving all her strength. Piers wanted to tell her, to warn her that her hopes of fighting Medb were in vain, but when he looked into her face, he could not find his voice. The girl was too withdrawn to listen. Only the sight of Medb and his crippled legs would convince her that her challenge for a duel was impossible.

Piers hoped that the realization would not break her. Gabria had survived so much and planned for so long to destroy the Wylfling lord in a duel that it might be difficult for her to see other possibilities for revenge.

When Gabria was ready, she sat silently with Piers and waited. The council was to begin at midday, so she had some time before Savaric came for her. She could not eat and she tried not to think, so she detached herself from everything except her resolution. Piers respected her solitude and simply sat with her in wordless support.

Earlier that morning, Savaric and Athlone had risen before the dawn. A messenger found them as the moon was setting and he bid them follow. To their astonishment, he carried a thin, long whip with a silver death’s head crowning the butt. Only one small group of men bore such strange weapons and they had not come to the gathering for untold years.

Bridling their curiosity, the two Khulinin belted on their swords and walked soundlessly past the guards, toward the two rivers and the sacred island. The flow of the rivers made the only sound in the cool night, and a short breeze tugged at their clothes. The messenger stopped them at the water’s edge and whistled softly. Three figures detached themselves from the shadows of the standing stones and waded across the rapids. Each wore no cloak, only a simple tunic and an ankle-length robe belted with leather. They carried no visible weapons except for whips, which hung curled at their waists. Behind them, the dark gray stones waited like sentinels, watching but not listening. Athlone shivered under their gaze.

One of the men came to Savaric and held up his hand in a gesture of peace. “Good hunting, Brother,” he said. He was the same height as the Khulinin, and they eyed each other for several minutes.

Savaric tilted his head to one side. A slow smile spread across his face. “Seth. You are most welcome.”

The strangers with the newcomer seemed to relax. They remained as stiff as statues, but they tucked their hands into the sleeves of their robes and moved back to give the chief and his brother more room.

Seth nodded imperceptibly. “I am glad to hear you say that. Does your hospitality extend to us all?”

The chieftain’s glance swept over the four men, then returned to his brother’s face. “Are all of you here?”

“No. Only the four of us. We need your help.”

Savaric’s eyebrows lifted. “Since when do the men of the lash need help?”

“Since the clans named us Oathbreakers. We wish to attend the council.”

“What?” Athlone gasped.

Seth raised an eyebrow much like his brother. “What is the matter, Nephew? Has the council passed a law forbidding us entry to the gathering?”

Savaric put his hand on Athlone’s shoulder. He shared his son’s surprise. The men of the religious cult of the goddess, Krath, had shunned the gatherings for generations. Savaric wondered why, of all times, the men of the lash chose this year to come. Then he remembered that they were in sight of the guards and the camps, and he gestured to his brother. “Perhaps it would be better if we talked in my tent.”

Seth agreed. He said something in a low voice to his companions and they disappeared into the darkness.

Savaric, Athlone, and Seth skirted the encampment and slipped into the chieftain’s tent unseen. Tungoli was waiting for her husband and she nodded politely, barely hiding her surprise, as Seth entered. She fetched wine before retreating behind the sleeping curtain. The three men squatted by a small lamp and watched each other thoughtfully. In the dim’ light, Athlone recognized a strong resemblance between the two brothers.

The Oathbreaker was younger than the chieftain, but years of rigorous training, self-denial, and life in wild lands had aged him. His skin was dark beneath his thick beard. His eyes were carefully deadpan. It was said the followers of Krath could look into men’s hearts and reveal the hidden evils that lurked there; they pried into secrets and opened guarded hatreds that were buried beneath facades. Because of this, few men dared to look an Oathbreaker in the eye and they themselves kept their eyelids half-closed as if to contain the horrors they had seen.

Savaric was the first to break the silence. “Maybe now you will tell us why you have come.”

Seth leaned back on his heels and wrapped his robe carefully around his knee. “Medb.”

“I did not realize he took an interest in Krath’s cult,” Savaric said.

“He has the Book of Matrah.”

Athlone and Savaric were badly shaken. The wer-tain paled. He looked at his father, for the first time showing real fear.

“We suspected that he was reviving the black arts, but we never imagined he had such help.” The chieftain stared into the flame of the lamp, his face grim.

“He asked us to translate passages for him,” Seth continued. “The library in the Citadel of Krath contains the only sources available for such an undertaking.”

“What was your answer?” Athlone’s voice was harsh.

A glint of irritation escaped Seth’s eyes and his mouth tightened. “We said no.”

Savaric looked up. “I’m surprised. I thought Krath would have appreciated Lord Medb’s methods.”

“Our ways may be different from the men of horses and iron, but we do not sit lightly by when threatened by the likes of a miserable chieftain.”

Savaric ignored the insult. Despite his blood kinship to an Oathbreaker, he could not understand what turned a man from the ways of the clans to the dark secrets of a bloodthirsty goddess. Seth was beyond his comprehension, and, because of that, Savaric took a perverse pleasure in cracking his brother’s shell whenever possible. “You’re skittish tonight, Seth,” he retorted.

The Oathbreaker’s expression went deadpan again. Even after years of training, he still could not maintain complete control before his brother. “We need you to take us to the council. Clan sentiment has never been with us and, without your endorsement, we would not be permitted to enter the council,” he said in strict formality.

Athlone slammed his wine cup down. “You still haven’t told us why.”

“Medb promised to destroy our citadel if we do not help him.”

“And you want our help defending that nest of assassins?” Athlone cried.

Seth stiffened. The mask in his eyes slipped slightly and, for a moment, Athlone fancied he saw the glow of a raging inferno in the depths of those black orbs. The wer-tain tore his gaze away and stared at the floor.

“You would do well to learn tact, Athlone. You are stirring embers that are best left alone.” Seth paused. “We came to warn the council of Medb’s book and his growing powers-and to ensure that he does not threaten us again.”

Savaric nodded. Only the men of Krath’s cult knew what was in the library of their citadel, but if the Oathbreakers wanted to break their self-imposed exile to warn the clans, it would be best if someone listened. “You may come.” He paused and smiled at Athlone. “We will have several surprises for Medb in the morning.”

“I hope he has none for us,” Athlone muttered. “Father, you are not going to go through with your plan after hearing this.”

“We will see. Perhaps, with the right bait, Medb will trap himself.”

Seth drained his wine and said, “Only fools believe in an easy road.”