Dark Horse

12

Time confirmed Savaric’s worst fears, for the gathering did not survive the night. He argued desperately with every chief except Branth that evening, trying to weld them together against Lord Medb. Unfortunately, the traditions of generations and the stubborn individuality of every clansman were too ingrained. Most of the chieftains turned deaf ears to Savaric’s pleas. The lords vacillated through the night while their clans seethed with emotions. The truth of the Corin massacre and Medb’s sorcery was told and retold, and the stories grew with every telling until fact and rumor were tangled in knots. Fear ran rampant through the camps.

By dawn, Lord Jol pulled the purple banner from the council tent and moved Clan Murjik north toward home.

Lord Medb watched them go with pleasure. He was angry at himself for losing his temper and revealing his power so early. He had planned to rope the council into his control first, then wait to unmask his sorcery when the manuscripts from the Citadel of Krath were in his hands. Not that it really mattered. There was no man who could dispute his rise to overlord now, and if the clans chose to return to their own holdings rather than fight together, then so be it. It would take longer to crush them, but in the long run it would mean a more final collapse. Each clan would be brought to its knees in its own treld and each chief would have to capitulate alone.

Of the twelve clans, only seven presented problems for Medb. The sorcerer counted the clans mentally: he had regained control of the Wylfling after his accident six months ago with the combined weapons of sorcery and fear; the Corin were exterminated; the Geldring were his thanks to the treachery of Branth; Quamar had given him the Ferganan that afternoon; and Ferron would soon come crawling with the Amnok. That left only the Shadedron, Murjik, Reidhar, Dangari, Jehanan, Bahedin, and, of course, the Khulinin. If all went smoothly, the Oathbreakers would soon be eliminated and, by spring, the council of chiefs would cease to exist.

Of course, several of the chieftains were exceedingly stubborn. Lord Caurus of the Reidhar was a temperamental hothead, as well as a ferocious fighter and a man intensely devoted to his clan. And while Koshyn of the Dangari was young, he could not be treated lightly. No, what was needed was a demonstration that would break their spirits and bring the chiefs to heel, a demonstration that would also salve Medb’s pride and give him intense satisfaction: the destruction of the Khulinin. With Savaric dead and the powerful Khulinin weeded down to more manageable numbers, the other chiefs would soon realize their deadly mistake.

Defeating the Khulinin would also enable Medb to finish the destruction of the Corin. That boy, Gabran, was a nuisance and a loose end. Medb did not like loose ends. He planned to have a word about that with the exile leader as soon as they arrived. Such carelessness was unforgivable.

The next morning, the merchants read the signs of war in the clansmen’s faces, packed their goods, and quickly left. That afternoon, the Shadedron gathered their herds to depart.

Lord Malech’s shoulders slumped as he brought down his black banner, and he glanced apologetically at Savaric. Without a word or gesture of farewell, he mounted his horse and led the Shadedron south. Lord Ferron only waited until dark before slipping fearfully into the Wylfling encampment and kneeling before Medb, giving the oath of fealty for the Amnok clan.

By dawn of the second day after the splintering of the council, the remaining clans had separated into armed camps, bristling with suspicion and anger. The Khulinin remained isolated on the far bank of the Isin. Only Athlone and Savaric crossed the river to talk with the other clansmen. They tried desperately to convince Caurus, Sha Umar, Babur, and Koshyn to ally with them, for with the addition of clan Amnok, Medb’s forces were overwhelming. Already there were rumors that Medb was bringing more men to his camp, including the band of exiles.

But Caurus was secretly Jealous of Savaric s wealth and authority. He did not trust the Khulinin to lead the combined forces, nor did he want the responsibility himself. Medb’s magic terrified Caurus more than he cared to admit. Eventually, he too, gathered his caravan, and the Reidhar clan sought ay the familiarity of their own holdings near the Inland Sea of Tannis.

Koshyn refused to commit himself one way or the other. He had only recently become chief, and he could not decide what was best for his clan. He listened and watched and waited for the final lines to be drawn.

Lord Babur, too, vacillated between Savaric’s pleas and Medb’s threats. His illness had grown worse, and he knew didn’t have the strength to fight a long war. But that night he died, some said by his own hand. His young son, Ryne, immediately threw Medb’s emissary out of his tent and went to join the Khulinin. Sha Umar, a long-time friend of the Bahedin chieftains, came with Ryne and pledged the aid of the Jehanan to Savaric.

Even with the promised help of two clans, the days were long and bitter for Savaric and Athlone, and the stress began to tell on the whole clan. Pazric was sent to the Hall of the Dead on a funeral pyre, which Savaric lit at night to ensure the entire gathering would witness it. After a violent argument with Athlone about his negligence in telling her about Lord Medb’s crippled legs, Gabria spent most of her time sitting on the banks of the Isin River.

Cor, on the other hand, thrived on the tense atmosphere of the camp, and his verbal attacks on Gabria grew vicious and more cunning. Only Nara kept him at bay, and Gabria wondered how long it would be before he gathered enough courage to change his weapon from his tongue to a sword. It would not be difficult to kill her in the night and blame it on an agent of Medb. She kept her dagger close to her side and stayed within Piers’s tent after dark.

During the day, Gabria had little to do, and time dragged interminably. She lay for hours on the grassy bank of the, in the hot sun and tried to order her thoughts. The shock and disappointment of losing her chance to duel Medb had not diminished and Gabria found herself examining more and more the possibilities of sorcery. Half a year ago, she would have been aghast at the mere suggestion of the arcane, but that short time she had lost her clan and been exposed to more sorcery than she ever dreamed possible. It had gone a long way to changing her views of magic—as evidenced by her willingness to even consider it.

Still, whether or not she had a real talent for sorcery was inconclusive in her mind. Piers had his theories and Gabria had been lucky in guessing the truth of the brooch, but nothing had given her absolute proof. And if she did have a talent, what could she do about it? There was no one to teach her and he she did not have the knowledge to use the Book of Matrah or the manuscripts in the archives of Krath’s citadel. She might have an inherent ability, but if it could not be honed it was useless. Piers could not help her—he knew too little—and Nara was untrained in the rules of sorcery and could only protect her from others. The problem was like a sword in the hands of a woman. Gabria laughed at that analogy; she could handle a sword quite well.

Gabria was still debating the dilemma when she and Nara walked back to the camp for the evening meal. Cor had disappeared, and Gabria was happy for the reprieve as she trudged toward the tents. The camp was unnaturally quiet that evening, and people seemed to move with one eye over their shoulders. Smoke from the cooking fires rose sluggishly and hung overhead in the breathless air. Dogs lay in the tents’ shadows and panted.

To the east, in the distance, two massive thunderheads piled against the hills and rose like twin battlements before a wall of strained steel-gray cloud. The setting sun etched the snowy heads of the thunderclouds with gold crowns and mantles of rose, pearl, and lavender. Deep in the clouds’ cores, lightning flickered endlessly, warning of the violence of the coming storm.

Extra outriders were posted that evening, and the herds were moved closer to the shelter of the valley ridges. Other men tightened tent ropes and checked the stakes. After the evening meal, the fires were putout. As the dusk deepened, the storm front moved closer and the lightning became visible in brilliant flashes or wicked streaks that cracked like an at Oathbreakers whip.

Gabria sat restlessly on the ground before Piers’s tent and watched the approaching storm. Piers was in another part of camp, helping a woman in labor; Savaric was with Koshyn; and Athlone rode with the outriders. Gabria wished that she were out there with the men rather than sitting in camp. Anything would be better than her edgy, frustrating loneliness. The wind sprang fitfully and rugged at her hair. Abruptly, the breeze died.

Before long, the thunder became audible. By the time night her was full, the explosions were incessant. Lightning flared endlessly through the massive sky, pursued by the incessant rumble. Just then, lightning struck an ancient cottonwood tree by the river, splitting it to the ground. Thunder shattered the night, and the first drops of rain spattered in the dust. Gabria fled for the tent.

She sat in the darkness and listened to the tent heave in the wind, struggling against its ropes, and to the sounds of the storm just beyond the thick material. Usually she loved storms and reveled in the wildness of their passing. Tonight though, she huddled on a stool, feeling a strange sense of dread.

The fury of the storm made her nervous. She jumped at every clap of thunder and stared wildly around when lightning illuminated the tent’s interior. Finally, she crawled onto her pallet, pulled a blanket up to her chin, and lay shivering as she tried to sleep.

Sometime later, Gabria woke with a start of terror. Lying motionless and trying to control her gasping breath, she every sense to catch what had frightened her: a faint sound or movement or smell that was out of place. She realized that she had been asleep for a while, because the storm had settled down to a steady rainfall and the thunder was more subdued.

Then, in the corner of her vision she saw the half-drawn curtain move, as if nudged from behind. She gently eased her hand toward her dagger, her heart hammering madly in her throat. But before her fingers found the blade, a dark shape sprang from behind the curtain, just as lightning flashed outside. In the instant illumination, Gabria saw a man lunge her and she caught the flash of steel in his upraised hand. Her immediate thought was of Medb. He was trying to fulfill his promise with an assassin.

“No!” she screamed in fury and tried to roll off the pallet, but she was hindered by her blanket. The knife missed its mark and slashed down her right side, skittering off her ribs. The man grunted in anger and furiously pulled his weapon back for another blow. Gabria felt the wound like a firebrand as she struggled with the blanket and her tangled clothes, and her rage increased with the pain. Medb would not dispose of her this easily. She yanked off the blanket, threw it at the dark figure, and scrabbled for her dagger. The man cursed as the blanket tangled his aim, then he threw it aside.

“I’ll get you, you little coward,” he snarled and grabbed her shoulder.

Cor. It was Cor, not an agent of Medb. Gabria was so surprised, she missed her dagger and knocked it aside. The warrior dropped his weapon and yanked her around to face him. She fell with her dagger underneath her back. Gabria stopped struggling and stared at Cor’s blurred face in the darkness. The whites of his eyes glimmered and his teeth showed in a grimace of hate.

He shook her. “I knew you were a coward deep down; you won’t even fight to save your worthless skin. Well, I’ve waited a long time to do this. You thought you were so smart, turning me into half a man, useless for everything!” He leaned over her, his breath reeking of strong wine.

Gabria squirmed, trying to keep her dagger hidden behind her back. The guilt and pity she had felt for Cor died completely, and she stared back at him, matching his loathing. Cor pulled Gabria to her knees and forced her head back to expose her throat.

“I’ve been watching you and waiting. Now there’s no one to save your neck.” He pulled her head farther over his bent knee, until her spine creaked and her neck screamed in protest. “You see, with one quick snap, I could break your back and leave you dead, or better yet, just like that Wylfling,”

Before Gabria could react, Cor jerked her up and punched her in the face. His fist exploded into her eye and she fell back on the pallet in a daze of pain and surprise. She closed her eyes and swallowed convulsively. Her dagger lay beneath her buttocks.

Cor slapped her. “Look at me, you pig-faced coward. I want to see you plead before I break you.”

Gabria tossed her head up, her pain forgotten in a surge of rage and disgust at the madman who had beaten, ridiculed, insulted, and threatened her once too often. Her green eyes ignited and her hand curled over the dagger’s hilt. “Go crawl in a hole, eunuch.”

Cor snarled. His dark shape swayed, then savagely he grabbed Gabria’s throat with both hands, his dagger forgotten in the urge to kill the Corin with his bare hands. His fingers dug into her windpipe and his nails tore her skin. Gabria felt her breath burning in her lungs as she tried to wriggle her dagger out from under their thrashing bodies.

Moaning incoherently, Cor squeezed harder and grinned maliciously. Gabria tore at his iron grip with one hand. But Cor didn’t see her other hand. With desperation and fury, she lifted the blade and rammed it into his stomach. This time, there was no doubt of the presence or the origin of the blue flare.

In the darkness, Gabria saw the aura build in her arm and flow up the dagger into Cor’s body. He jerked violently and clutched at the knife, his face a mask of hate and disbelief. His eyes rolled and he sagged on top of her. Gabria gasped and fainted.

The first thing Gabria became aware of was light. A small globe of yellow light intruded through her partly open lids into her darkness and drew her from unconsciousness. The second thing she noticed was pain. Then the pain rushed into her head and down her neck and side, until every bruised muscle and laceration throbbed madly. The heaviness she remembered across her chest was gone, and she heard someone moving around her. Gabria tensed, thinking it was Cor, but someone gently raised her head and a cup was pressed to her lips. She smelled the sweetness of Piers’s own wine and relaxed. The wine warmed her bruised throat and settled gently in her stomach, where it spread with a healing heat through her body.

Gabria slowly opened her eyes—or eye since one was so swollen she could barely crack the lid. The orb of light wavered for a moment and settled into focus, revealing a small lamp hanging on its pole. She squinted at the light and looked higher into Piers’s face. The healer appeared strangely upset, and Gabria smiled weakly at him. Outside, the wind had died and the rain was falling in a steady drizzle.

Piers let the girl finish her wine and then helped her lie down on the pallet before he spoke. “The evil fortune that fell to your clan does not seem to include you.”

“Where is Cor?” she mumbled.

Piers glanced behind him. “He’s dead.” There was no condemnation in his voice, only sadness and regret that she had been forced to act.

The light and the effort of keeping her eye open was too much for Gabria, and her lids settled shut. She sighed deeply, wondering what Piers was thinking. After sharing his tent for so long, Gabria had come to like the healer and she hoped that the affection was mutual. Her hand groped for his. “I saw it, Piers. This time I saw it. As blue as Medb’s bolt that killed Pazric.”

Piers’s hand caught hers and gripped it tightly. He looked down at the girl’s battered face unhappily. She looked so young, too young to bear such burdens. The healer stood up and fetched his supplies from the wooden chest, poured more wine, and carried the things back to Gabria’s pallet. Piers carefully moved her tunic and examined the long, ragged tear down her side.

Gabria held the wine cup and listened as he worked. She was puzzled that he said nothing. Maybe this time his disapproval outweighed his acceptance of her, and he had decided not to risk his life to protect her. Gabria would not blame Piers if he exposed her: sorcery was a serious crime to conceal.

Strangely, however, Gabria did not feel horrified any more by the reality of her ability. Now that it was confirmed by her own eyes, she faced it like some incurable disease that had to be accepted if her sanity were to be preserved. A small part of her quaked in terror at the truth of being a sorceress, but she imprisoned that part behind a wall of desire for self-preservation. Gabria found it difficult to believe that she could be so callous about such a heretical ability, but perhaps the months of secret fear and debate had strengthened her for the final acceptance.

“You’re not saying much,” Gabria finally said to Piers.

He was cleaning her wound and trying to work gently. “It is one thing to suspect sorcery; it is another for you to face it.”

She sighed again and said, “I am not certain I want to. I seem to be like Medb. Does this mean I’ll be twisted by the powers of magic into something cruel and depraved? Am I going to become an evil queen at Medb’s side?”

“Magic is not an evil unto itself. It is only as good or as wicked as its wielder,” Piers -replied softly.

“That’s not what my father’s priest delighted in telling us. He used to recite countless incidents of the corruption of magic.”

“Magic can be corrupting. It is a tempting power,” Piers said, trying to be casual. “My daughter was tortured and killed for allegedly killing the Fon of Pra Desh with sorcery.”

Gabria gasped, “Why?”

Piers looked away into the distance. “My daughter married the Fon’s youngest son, against my wishes. The Fon was the ruler of Pra Desh, but his family was a vicious, backstabbing pack of thieves. About a year after the marriage, the Fon’s wife poisoned him and needed a scapegoat when he died. Her. youngest daughter-in-law was available, so the wife fabricated some evidence and accused my daughter of killing the Fon with sorcery.”

Piers explained his daughter’s fate quietly, but Gabria could hear the undying rage still in his heart. “You said I reminded you of her. Was she a sorceress?”

“No.” He spat the denial vehemently.

“But I am.”

“So it would seem.” Piers said nothing more and finished bandaging her side. She watched him worriedly.

Just then, Athlone burst into the tent, shaking off rain and splattering mud from his caked boots. “What’s the problem, Piers?” he asked. He unwrapped his soaked cloak and did not seem to notice Cor’s body lying to one side of the tent. Then he looked up. “Oh, gods. What happened now?”

Piers tossed a curved dagger to him. He caught it and turned’ it over in his hands. A wolfs head was carved on the butt of the handle.

“Cor was trying for a little revenge of his own,” the healer said.

“Neat. Kill the last Corin and blame it on the Wylfling. Is she hurt?”

“Not seriously.”

Gabria smiled painfully at the wer-tain. “They can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“What about Cor?” Athlone asked.

Piers nodded to the body on the floor and Athlone moved to examine it. He checked the wound, then rocked back on his heels and stared thoughtfully at the dead man. “Your dagger must carry quite a punch,” he remarked.

Gabria tensed. She wondered if Athlone suspected anything. He could accept her wielding a sword and wearing a boy’s disguise, but she knew he would never condone sorcery.

“I’m sure it did. So would yours if you were being strangled,” Piers said.

“If I were being strangled,” Athlone returned, “I would make damn sure of a killing stroke. This underhanded pin-prick wouldn’t have killed a goat.”

Piers looked irritated. “It punctured his stomach, Wer-tain. It is a slower way to kill, but it’s just as effective as a slit throat.”

Athlone met the healer’s gaze skeptically and was about to reply when he saw Gabria wince and noticed for the first time the extent of her injuries. He changed his mind and nodded before standing up. It had not occurred to the wer-tain until that moment just how close Gabria had come to death. The realization shook him more than he believed possible. Athlone looked away. “I will tell Father what happened,” he muttered and hurried out of the tent.

Piers began to wrap hot cloths soaked in salt water around Gabria’s neck.

“My dagger did not pierce his stomach,” Gabria whispered.

“Athlone would not be pleased to hear the truth.”

“Neither would Savaric.”

“Then we won’t bother them with the truth.” Piers tilted his head back and took a deep breath. “Sorcery is a thing little understood in this age, and, despite the clans’ efforts to forget it, it will keep cropping up at the most inopportune times to wreak havoc. I believe the time has come to change that.”

Gabria’s green eyes opened wide. “Are you appointing me?”

“I am merely giving you a chance to do as you see fit.” For the first time, Piers relaxed and looked at Gabria fondly. “I don’t think you have the makings of an evil queen.”

“Thank you,” she said, grateful as much for his compliment as his protection.

“Thank my daughter. In a roundabout way, you are my revenge on the stupidity of her judges.”

A short time later, Athlone returned with Savaric from the Dangari camp, where the chieftain had been arguing fruitlessly with Koshyn. Savaric’s look was grim and his eyes, burning like dark coals, seemed to gaze elsewhere as his mind roved many paths. He glanced at Cor’s body and Gabria’s injuries and shook his head regretfully, his thoughts obviously already passing on to something else. He gestured to his son and left.

Athlone paused by the entrance and, for a moment, his eyes met Gabria’s. To his relief, her gaze was as clear as spring water; the awful brilliance he had seen in them the morning of the council was gone. But her face looked so sad. There was something in the unspoken pain in her eyes that pierced the wer-tain to the heart. Unhappily, he said good-night and closed the tent flap behind him.

After the storm, the morning came on fresh winds from the north. The sky was cloudless and clean, and the rivers flowed high between their banks. The ground was muddy after the rain. Before long, the hot sun dried the foliage and the tents, and the reddish soil returned to dust. The clanspeople recovered their herds from the shelter of the hills and set about repairing the damage caused by the storm.

Savaric made no attempt to return to the other camps. Instead, he stayed in the background and unobtrusively watched the happenings across the river. He judged the wind and eyed the far skyline and kept his own counsel. Cor was quickly buried beneath a cairn of rocks with none of the honor or grief that accompanied Pazric to his grave.

Savaric passed a quiet order that the Khulinin should pack to move under the guise of mending and cleaning. They did so, hiding most of their gear in the covered carts and keeping the pack animals close at hand. They would be ready to leave at a moment s notice.

Across the river, Sha Umar and the Bahedin’s new chief, Lord Ryne, quietly prepared their clans to move. Koshyn still kept his clan isolated, while Branth readied his werod for war and Ferron quailed at the terms of his “alliance” with Medb.

Lord Medb, meanwhile, awaited his approaching reinforcements, kept track of the fleeing clans, and counted the days until Savaric’s mangled corpse would lie at his feet. He learned of Cor’s death from a spy in the Khulinin camp. No one seemed to know how the man died, but it was well known he had intended to kill the Corin. Medb considered this information carefully and filed it away. The boy was becoming more fascinating every day. Maybe he would wait a while before killing the brat. It might prove more interesting to study him.

Overall, Medb thought that events were proceeding well. The only ugly incident that marred his pleasure was the betrayal of the bard, Cantrell. The old singer had lived with the Wylfling for a year and brought status and honor to the clan with his skills. Many chiefs had tried to lure Cantrell away, but he seemed content to remain with the Wylfling.

Medb knew of Cantrell’s ability to read men’s fortunes; it was a talent the bard little enjoyed and tried to avoid. But after Lord Ferron had come to capitulate, Medb had felt invincible. The night of the storm, he had called for Cantrell to foretell his doom. The bard had reluctantly agreed, and for his pains had been properly punished and cast out. It was regrettable, but no man could threaten Medb with impunity. Not even a master bard.

Later that day, just after noon, the Khulinin were still packing and cleaning their camp. Gabria had slept most of the morning and, after a light meal, she went outside for a breath of fresh air. Her side hurt abominably, despite Piers’s medicines, and her throat and head felt worse. To avoid attention, she wore her hat pulled low over her eyes and stayed in the shadows of Piers’s tent. She could see Nara standing in Isin’s rapids, pawing playfully at the water. Boreas stood nearby, watching her. For a moment, Gabria thought of calling Nara, then changed her mind. The Hunnuli were enjoying each other too much for Gabria to consider interrupting them.

Besides, Gabria didn’t really want company. All morning she had mulled over the tragedy of the night before. She could hardly believe that she had killed a man with an arcane power that she knew nothing about. It was a terrifying truth to face. She could deal with her family’s murders, her exile, and her unlawful acceptance into Savaric’s werod, because those things were external. Sorcery was far different. It affected her being and nothing short of death would ever change her or take away this heretical talent. Dispiritedly, she pulled her hat lower over her face and wondered what she should do. Medb was so far beyond her reach.

Something caught Gabria’s attention just as Nara neighed. She looked toward the other camps and saw an old man working his way hesitantly through the ford in the river toward the Khulinin camp. He almost fell in the water. She walked curiously toward the river bank, thinking the man might be drunk. His head was down, almost as if he were having trouble seeing where he was going, and he leaned heavily on a staff.

Gabria stopped a few paces from the water and called, “Do you need help?”

Startled, the old man raised his head, and Gabria gasped in dismay. A bloody bandage was wrapped around the man’s face, covering his eyes, and on either side of his nose, dried blood was caked in patches and matted in his beard. Horrified, Gabria clambered down the bank into the water and caught the old man’s arm. He gratefully leaned on her and followed her guidance toward the tents. Several guards came running to help. They led the wounded man into Piers’s tent, where he sank thankfully onto a stool.

“Get the healer quickly,” Gabria whispered to one of the guards. He nodded, his mouth tight with anger. They all recognized the bard and were stricken by his hideous injury. The the warrior dashed out and the other guard stepped outside to watch the tent’s entrance.

“Thank you,” the bard murmured. “I was beginning to think I would never cross the river.”

Gabria looked at the bard unhappily. He was a distinguished man, and he wore a dark blue robe cut in an ornate pattern popular among the Wylfling. He wore no cloak and had no weapons. His hands were long and supple. He carried himself well despite the agony of his wound, but she saw that his skin was gray beneath the dried blood, and he gripped his knees with the effort of hiding his pain.

“Why did you come here?” she asked, kneeling by his feet.

“I was not welcome elsewhere.” He pointed to his crude bandage. “I also hope to see your healer.”

“Of course. He’s on his way.” Gabria leaped up to see if Piers was coming.

“Wait. Sit a minute. He will be here soon enough.” The old man felt for Gabria’s arm and pulled her gently to the ground by his side. “I am Cantrell.”

“I know,” she mumbled. Although Clan Corin had not been able to afford a bard, Gabria had heard this man many times at past gatherings and had loved his soaring tales and sweeping music. “You were with the Wylfling.”

“Until recently. Medb took offense to one of my riddles,” he replied calmly.

“Medb did this to you?”

He nodded. “And you are the Corin who tongues are wagging about?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“By the inflection in your voice. The Corin always rolled their R’s as if they appreciated the sound.” He cocked his head in puzzlement. “But you are a woman. That is interesting.”

Gabria bolted upright and stared at him. “How—”

“Don’t worry. I know you are trying to pass as a boy, but you’ cannot hide the telltale characteristics of your voice from a trained bard.” He smiled wanly. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help showing off a little.”

Gabria moved stiffly away from the old bard, her heart in her throat.

But Cantrell reached out for her. His hand found the girl’s shoulder and groped down her arm to take her hand. His skin was cold and clammy, but his grip was strong. “Do not fear for your secret,” he said gently. “I have heard a great deal about you at this gathering. I simply had no idea you were a woman. It makes your survival more intriguing. I—”

Without warning, the bard straightened. He gripped Gabria’s hand tighter, and his ravaged face grew still. He sat for a long time, quietly rubbing her palm with his thumb, lost in deep concentration. Gabria watched him curiously; Cantrell sighed and his chin sank to his chest. She waited for him to speak. After a while he dropped her hand.

“I was right. You are intriguing. Seek the Woman of the Marsh, child. Only she will be able to help you.”

“Who is she?”

But Cantrell shook his head slightly, and, at that moment, Piers and Savaric came into the tent. Puzzled, Gabria moved to the rear of the tent to keep out of the way while Piers unwound the blood-stained bandages. When the dirty material fell away, revealing the slashed, oozing remains of the bard’s eyes, Gabria looked away. Savaric blanched at the sight and his face paled under his tan. With gentle hands, Piers tended to the hideous wound.

Cantrell sat like a statue during the operation, as if his face were carved of wood. Only when the healer finished wrapping new bandages around the bard’s head did Cantrell allow his shoulders to sag and the breath to escape his lungs in a ragged sigh. The men remained quiet while Cantrell drank a cup of wine laced with a mild dose of poppy.

The bard was the first to speak. He felt for the table by his side and laid the cup down. “Thank you, Piers. You have well earned your reputation as the gentlest of the clan healers.” Piers glanced questioningly at Savaric, then replied, “You are welcome, Bard. You should have come to us sooner.”

Cantrell leaned toward the chieftain. “There were many interesting things to hear in Medb’s camp. Unfortunately, he wanted to listen to me as well, and he did not like what I told him.”

“Which was what?” Savaric asked.

“A riddle.”

“Oh?”

The bard tilted his head. “You keep your curiosity in check.

That’s good because I doubt you will understand the riddle any more than I did. My riddles, like most prophecies, are very confusing. If they were clear to us, they would negate the future they were created for. All I can do is give a man a riddle to accept as he wishes. Medb did not accept his.

Gabria turned her head and stared at the old man’s face, engrossed in his words.

Cantrell said softly:

“And for that Medb blinded you,” Piers said in disgust.

“He took offense at the implications.”

Savaric smiled ruefully. “Is there a meaning in that riddle that holds anything for us?”

Piers said, “I don’t like that part about no man will kill him.”

“And no war will destroy him,” Savaric added. He moved to the tent flap. “Medb has heard his doom and we are well aware of ours. Flower or no, we will have to fight.”

Cantrell reached carefully for his staff. “Lord, it would be wise to move soon. Lord Medb is bringing in more mercenaries, and the exile band has been called. He plans to destroy the Khulinin first.”

The chieftain and Piers exchanged glances, then Savaric said, “I was afraid of that.” He called to the guard outside by the tent entrance. “Tell Athlone, Jorlan, and the elders that I want to see them in my tent. And send for Lord Ryne and Sha Umar. Now.” The guard dashed away. “Cantrell, do you feel up to attending me a very short while longer?”

The bard nodded. “I am grateful for your hospitality.”

“We are the ones who are grateful. Piers, we will be leaving tonight.” With the bard leaning on his arm, Savaric walked out. The healer sat down and stared morosely at the pile of filthy bandages and the bowl of blood-stained water. Gabria came to stand beside him.

“Piers, who is the Woman of the Marsh?”

The healer started out of his musings and said, “What? Oh, a fable, I guess. She was supposed to live in the marshes of the Goldrine a long time ago.”

“Is the woman still alive?”

“Still? I doubt she ever was.” He looked at her strangely. “Why?”

“Cantrell told me a riddle, too.” She stared at the leather chest where her scarlet cloak had been neatly packed away and thought of the gold brooch that her mother had given her many years ago: a golden buttercup, the flower that was her namesake.