Dark Horse

6

Rain was falling when Athlone and Gabria left the hall, a cold, steady drizzle that soaked through clothes in minutes and chilled everything into a lethargy. The low-slung clouds moved sluggishly over the mountains, as if they too were reluctant to hurry on. Gabria closed her eyes, not wanting to see the dismal dawn, and leaned wearily into Athlone.

His gesture of help surprised her. She would have expected him to urge her out with the flat of his sword rather than the Strength of his arm.

“The healer was right. Cor beat you badly,” Athlone said, looking at Gabria from only a hand span away.

The girl quickly turned her face away. If he was this close and watching her so intently, he could notice details she did not want him to see, like the smoothness of her cheek. There was no dirt to disguise her skin and not enough tan to hide the softness of her face at such a close range. The bruises helped, but the wer-tain was beginning to look puzzled.

Gabria deliberately stumbled and slammed into Athlone’s calves as she fell. He lost his balance, tripped over a tent rope, and fell on top of her. Gabria froze in fright. His weight crushed her into the mud, but it was nothing compared to the fear of what he might discover as he lay on top of her. She had not meant to bring him down like this!

“I’m sorry, Wer-tain,” she blurted from under a tangle of cloaks and swords. Athlone moved off her. Every bruise and ache in Gabria’s body complained. It took all the willpower she had to control a cry of pain. The warrior stood up and offered a hand to her. Once again the wer-tain surprised her-he was laughing.

She staggered up and looked down at herself ruefully. Athlone would never cease to amaze her. Instead of berating her for her clumsiness, he was laughing like it was a joke. They were both covered with mud—at least she did not have to worry about her face for the moment—yet he was not angry. Thank the gods he had not put his hands in the wrong places.

“Keep this up, boy, and you will not live long enough to claim your weir-geld,” Athlone said.

She smiled shakily at him and replied, “I will have my revenge if I have to crawl to Medb and stab him in the knees.”

“No one has tried that yet.” Athlone took her weight again and his humor disappeared. “You are the most stubborn whelp I have known. That trait is infuriating, but it can be a good advantage.” He lapsed into silence, and they crossed the distance to Piers’s tent in thoughtful quiet.

The healer’s eyes widened as they came in, whether in surprise at Athlone’s action or at their appearance, Gabria could not guess, for he only motioned to a water skin and bent back over his patient.

Gabria felt an unexpected warmth for the wer-tain at her side. It was the first sign of friendship he had offered since she had arrived, and the coldness in her heart retreated a pace as Athlone sat her down on the low stool, poured a bowl of water, and handed it to her with a rag.

Athlone paused at the tent flap before he left. A streak of mud creased his face and dyed half of his mustache. More mud was smeared on his gold cloak and down his legs. His soft boots were caked. “When you are through here, go to the Lady Tungoli. But do not expect to be coddled by her for long. I will be waiting for you.” The wer-tain’s voice turned glacial again.

The veiled threats had returned.

Gabria stared after the warrior as the dark flap closed behind him. It was as if their moment of companionship had never happened. The wer-tain’s suspicions closed around her again like a trap. The girl shivered. For just a moment, she had nourished a hope that he would leave her alone or maybe help her as Nara suggested. But his confusing manipulations leaped ahead of her and blocked her speculation like a granite cliff.

“The wer-tain is an interesting man,” Piers said.

Gabria tore her gaze from the entrance and watched the healer as he worked swiftly over Cor. “Do you always know what I am thinking?”

“It does not take a mind reader to interpret that look on your face. You are overwhelmed by the good chieftain’s son.” He shook his head. “You are not the only one.”

“I noticed you are not comfortable with him,” Gabria noted dryly.

“No. Athlone has a strong presence. Savaric rules the clan, but Athlone is its mettle. Where he goes, the werod follows. Not even Pazric, the second wer-tain, wields the immediate obedience of the riders.”

Gabria stretched her legs out to ease her ankle to a more comfortable position and dabbed half-heartedly at the mud on her face, considering Piers’s words all the while. Cor was lying motionless on the mat she had slept on, his face still captured in pain. Piers was wrapping the warrior’s body in warm blankets.

“Who is Pazric?” she asked when the silence had gone on too long.

“He is Athlone’s second in command,” Pier replied.

“I do not remember him.”

“He is in the south, meeting with one of the Turic caravans.”

“Does the werod always follow Athlone without question?” Gabria asked. She was trying to think of some way to lead the conversation around to her dream and Cor’s condition. As repugnant as the answer might be, she had to know if there was any connection. The dream was such a strange coincidence, and only Piers would have the openness of mind to help her understand it.

“I realize you and Athlone do not approve of each other. It takes time to know him.” Piers shrugged as he stood up. “Even that may not help. But don’t ever go against his authority, or the entire werod will tear you to pieces.” The healer removed some items from his chest of medicines and poured a small heap of dark gray grains into a mortar. As he ground the grains, a pungent smell filled the tent. It reminded Gabria of cloves, and she inhaled deeply.

Piers worked for several minutes before he spoke again. “What happened between Cor and you? May I assume he started it?”

“I don’t know,” Gabria muttered, feeling guilty again. “He wanted a fight with me, for what happened in the fields last night.”

Piers added a few dried leaves to his powder and continued grinding, his robe swaying gently with his movements. “You are not accustomed to fighting, are you?”

Gabria stiffened. “What do you mean?” she asked carefully.

“It’s obvious. You are beaten bloody and he does not have a mark on him. You won by luck. . . or something else.” When Gabria did not answer, he laid the pestle down and turned to face her. His pale eyes were sad, but his face had a strange look of wariness. “Do you know what is wrong with this man?” His words were soft, but edged with steel.

Gabria felt as if her mind would shrivel into dust. A cold fear clenched her stomach and her breath failed even as she drew it. Piers obviously thought Cor’s condition was not just a simple illness. All the terrors of her dream surged back in the face of his unspoken accusation. “No,” she whispered. The word escaped her lips and leaped at his silence. “What have I done to him?” she cried, clenching her fists to her sides.

“So you admit this injury was caused by you.”

Gabria stared at the healer miserably. “I don’t know what I caused. I only hit him with a bow. . . but later I had a dream of a blue flame that sprang from my hands and struck a man. I don’t know why I would dream of something like that. All I did was hit Cor to make him stop beating me.” She suddenly stopped the flood of words, then took a deep breath and asked, “What is wrong with him?”

“I am not certain either,” Piers said quietly. “I have a very good idea, if I can only believe it.” Gabria hunched over as if a pain stabbed her stomach. “What?”

“He has suffered a severe shock. He has a high fever and rapid heartbeat. Unusual symptoms for a mere blow to the groin.”

“Will you just tell me?” Gabria cried.

“No,” Piers strode over to her side and leaned over her, no longer hiding his anger. “You tell me, Gabran. You only hit him with a wooden bow, you say, but this man has been wounded by an arcane power called the Trymian Force. Where did it come from?” Abruptly, his hands dug into her shoulder, and he hauled her to her feet. She swayed, staring at him in dumb dismay. “That man may die, and I want to know why. Did your power come from Medb?”

The sound of that name galvanized Gabria like a shock. She wrenched away from the healer and grasped the center tent pole for support. “I received nothing from Lord Medb but death, and that is all he will receive from me,” Gabria gasped, shaking with anger.

Piers eyed her dubiously, his arms crossed. He wanted to believe the boy was not an agent of Medb, yet the Wylfling lord was the only one rumored to be delving into sorcery and Gabran was the only one Piers knew of who had struck Cor in the past day. “Then how is it that Cor suffers from the Trymian Force?”

“I don’t know! I don’t even know what you are talking about.” She leaned into the pole, her eyes beseeching him. “I didn’t want to hurt him. I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

Piers watched her expressions and was satisfied. The boy was telling the truth about this at least. After years at the court in Pra Desh, he had learned to recognize truth and deceit hidden in people’s faces. The green eyes that met his were free of guile. Piers saw only bewilderment and a desperate plea to be believed.

The healer sighed as he stared into those eyes. Before, Piers could not have said what color they were; now he knew they were as green as the sea with the same subtle lights and the same feeling of power. He shook his head, surprised by the depth of Gabria’s gaze. It seemed to the healer that even if the boy did not have a talent for magic, he certainly had the inner strength to wield it.

“All right, sit down,” he ordered. He poured a cup of warm wine into which he added a small dose of poppy extract. “Here, drink this.”

Gabria glared at him and did not move. “What is it, a truth drug? ”

“No, boy. Now sit down. It will dull the pain so I can examine your ankle.”

Gabria hesitantly accepted the cup and returned to the stool. Piers’s attitude had changed. The suspicion was gone from his voice and had been replaced by a tone of resignation. She wondered what conclusion he had reached. It was difficult to read this city-bred man, for he kept himself behind an unbreakable façade—motionless features, still eyes, and a modest manner. He had none of the unrestrained character of the steppe clans. The endless, wild, easily given emotions of the clanspeople were alien to Piers’s way of life. Nevertheless, the healer had abandoned his lifestyle and sought a new life on the plains. Whether he did this to forget his past or to find a new existence, Gabria did not know, but she wished she knew what had made him leave Pra Desh. The answer might explain much.

Gabria left her drink on the table for the moment and watched as Piers continued grinding the powder. Neither spoke. The healer seemed content to let the problem settle for a while and rationality return before taking the next leap. Gabria was relieved by his silence. The acknowledgment of the possibility of sorcery was made. But now that it was said, she was not sure she wanted to know if she was the source of that magic. It was enough to have to bear the weight of her grief and the need for revenge, without the fearsome burden of a heretical power she did not even want. No, she implored silently, gripping her hands. It had to be impossible. Sorcery was learned, not an inherent talent.

Piers laid aside the bowl and opened his medicine chest again. The large wooden chest, the only thing he had brought from Pra Desh, was filled with a myriad of drawers and trays. Gabria noticed each one was crammed with packets, bags, vials, bottles, boxes, wrapped bundles and scraps of paper, all clearly labeled. The healer poked through several drawers, then, from one of the smaller trays, he drew out a smooth red stone the size of an eagle’s egg. He juggled it several times before he spoke.

“Forty years ago, when I was an apprentice to the senior physician of the Fon of Pra Desh, I met an old man in the market square. He claimed he was the son of a clansman and had been exiled because he accidentally murdered a cousin with sorcery. He had escaped death only by fleeing before anyone caught him.”

Gabria stared at the stone in the healer’s hand. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because the man was a Corin.”

She came alert. “You lie,” the girl snapped, though she said it with more hope than conviction.

Piers shook his head. “My master was a fancier of magic and studied the history of its use. He thoroughly examined this man and confirmed the truth. The Corin, who had no training and had never witnessed a performance of sorcery, had been born with a talent to call the powers to his bidding.”

Gabria felt numb. Whether she wanted it or not, the truth was coming out. Somewhere she would have to find the strength to face the awful possibility that she could be a sorceress. “What is the Trymian Force?” she asked. The fear in her voice threatened to spill into tears.

Piers saw the tense lines that altered the boy’s face. There was a stubborn dimension to that face that showed his strength and will to survive. He had noticed it before, and now it was very apparent in the clenched jaw, the tight muscles around the mouth, and in the way the boy did not hide from the truth. It was good. Gabran would need every advantage to live to the next wintering. The healer knelt by Cor and stared at the warrior. A tremor moved beneath Cor’s jaw where the blood raced under the skin, and the heat of his fever beaded into sweat on his forehead.

“The spell,” Piers said slowly, as if remembering a long forgotten passage, “is the marshaling of the different flows of energy that constitute magic into one destructive force that can penetrate most defenses. It often appears as a blue flame. It is only as strong as the person who wields it, but if it is not controlled, it can appear as an automatic reflex in times of intense emotion.”

“I do not understand. Do you believe this force came from me?” Gabria asked quietly.

“It’s possible that it originated from someone else in the room, but that is unlikely,” he replied.

“Piers, I know nothing about this sorcery. How could I have cast a spell of any kind?” Piers looked straight at Gabria and said, “There are only two ways. If Medb did not give the ability to you, then your ancestors did.”

“No, it cannot be,” Gabria cried, her voice edged with fear.

Piers gripped the stone and rubbed his chin with his free hand. “I am a stubborn old man, Gabran. I see something I do not understand and I try to force an answer because I am afraid. You are the only answer I see. If you did not use the Trymian Force, even inadvertently, than the alternative is beyond my understanding. I am not certain there was sorcery. Only this can tell us.” He held up the stone to the firelight and watched the warm glow of color spread over his hands like blood.

“My master told me once the steppe clans long ago produced the greatest sorcerers because they were empathetic to the primal forces that govern magic. He believed whole heartedly that the ability to draw on that power was an inherited talent.” He paused and then said, “Unfortunately, the legends of those years are hazy with time and prejudice. After the destruction of the city of Moy Tura and the persecution of the sorcerers, no one wanted to remember where the talent came from.”

In Piers’s hand, the large stone began to flare suddenly. For a moment, Gabria thought it was just the flicker of firelight reflected in the gem’s opaque interior. But the radiance brightened, driving out the opacity until the stone shone with a scarlet luminosity and crowded out the light of day and fire. The entire tent filled with the ruddy gleam.

“Now we know. Fasten the tent flap,” Piers ordered. He held the stone gingerly over Cor’s face as brilliant flashes flared out of the stone in radial bursts.

Gabria limped to obey and tied the fastenings tight with trembling fingers. She moved to the healer’s side and watched in fearful awe. The rays of light from the stone seemed to probe into the warrior’s head. “What does that stone do? What is it?” she whispered.

Piers answered slowly. “I do not know exactly what it is, only what it does.” A weak smile touched his mouth. “I have never had to use it before.”

“Will it help him?”

“I hope so. My old master gave it to me before he died. He said it was a healing stone that could only be activated by the presence of magic. The stone is supposed to remove all traces of magic from an injured person.”

Piers laid the stone on Cor’s forehead, and they watched in silence. The direction of the light beams focused into a downward spray that danced over Cor’s face. Gabria noticed in amazement that the rays did not illuminate his skin, but sank into it like bright needles. She felt she ought to be horrified by this display of blatant heresy and leave before she was tainted further, but she held back and watched the light with an unacknowledged fascination.

The stone was beautiful and, if it could heal, it was a positive good—a denial of everything she had been led to believe about magic. Maybe sorcery was more complicated and multifaceted than she had imagined, with aspects both good and evil and every shade in between. Her mind boggled at such a revelation. Sorcery was supposed to be totally evil, a dark power that corrupted men into acts of hideous cruelty and depravity. It hardly seemed possible magic could also be helpful. She pushed the uncomfortable thoughts away and wondered instead how a healer could tell when the stone had finished its work.

As if to answer her question, a blue haze—the remnants of the Trymian Force in Cor’s body—began to form around the warrior’s head. The glow was pale at first, as indistinct as cold breath, then it brightened and thickened. The red stone blazed fiercely. The bloody light spread out over the blue haze and immobilized it in a prison of beams. Gradually, the red light began to recede into the stone’s core, pulling the haze with it. The blue force seemed to struggle, bursting through its bonds with tiny blasts of purple. The red light grew stronger, and it finally dragged the last tendrils of the blue haze into the stone. There was a flash of violet and the light snapped out.

The stone rested, dull and opaque, on Cor’s forehead. His body shuddered and relaxed into sleep, and the grimace of pain on his face slackened into peace. Piers picked up the stone and gently wiped the sweat from his patient’s skin.

“What happened?” Gabria breathed. She was shaken by the display. Until that moment, magic had been so vague to her, something obscure, something she could only guess at. Now, it was a tangible truth. Its power, whether good or evil, did exist.

“The stone seems to have worked,” Piers replied. He could not hide his intense relief. “Cor is resting peacefully. His fever is down, too.”

Gabria abruptly sat down on the stool. She could hardly believe what had just taken place. Her throat was dry, and, without thinking, she gulped down the contents of the wine cup on the table. In just a moment, a dull heat crept out of her stomach and slowly seeped into her limbs. She grew very sleepy. She had forgotten about the poppy extract.

The girl squinted woozily at Piers. “Will Cor be all right?” she asked thickly.

“He should recover. What he needs now is sleep.” Piers returned the stone to its wrapping and placed it back in the chest. “I hope I never have to use that again.” He did not look at Gabria, but gathered the contents of his mortar into a small bowl and added hot water to make a tea. He gently spooned the liquid down Cor’s throat. When he was satisfied with the warrior’s comfort, he opened his tent flap and turned to Gabria.

Piers was surprised to see her sitting on the stool again, leaning against the center tent pole. Her legs were thrust out in front of her and her eyes were dulled with drug and exhaustion. Without speaking, the healer eased the laces of her boot and carefully removed it. He tried not to jar the puffy flesh of her injured ankle. The joint was purple and red, and still tainted green from the original injury. He twisted it slowly, feeling the tendons and tom muscles beneath the soft skin.

Piers glanced up at his patient’s face. The drug had relaxed Gabria’s muscles, so her expression was slack and unwary. At that moment, the sun came out from behind the clouds, and the bright light poured through the open tent flap and illuminated her face.

Piers’s hands froze; his body stiffened. Unbelieving, he wrenched his eyes from the face to the slim ankle in his hands, and the realization hit him like a blow. Gabria was gazing into the distance and did not see his horrified recognition. The medicine had dimmed her awareness and was carrying her to sleep. She did not even remember he was there.

Piers rocked back on his heels and wondered why he, of all people, had not seen it before. This enigmatic “boy” with the uncanny talent for magic and the companionship of a Hunnuli, was now even more inexplicable. A thousand questions hid her background, and Piers was only now beginning to understand a fraction of them. He thought back upon some of their previous conversations and the information he had heard from other clan members. He marveled at her skill in acting. It was a miracle of the gods’ hands, if he cared to admit it, that this girl had survived so long undetected.

The healer considered telling Savaric, even though he knew the penalty for the girl’s transgressions would be death. Gabran, or whatever her name was, had committed one of the most serious crimes in clan law by entering a werod in disguise, and, if the incident of sorcery were to be known, there would be no mercy. As a Pra Deshian, however, Piers did not share the clans’ hatred for magic. Nevertheless, he had lived with the clans for ten years and their laws and customs were his. If he failed to reveal this girl’s crimes, he would be just as guilty as she and would suffer the same punishment.

Piers began to move toward the tent flap. There would be warriors nearby who could fetch Savaric. In a few moments it would be over. With luck, Gabran would die before the poppy wore off. Then, the Corin would be gone, the Hunnuli would -leave, and the magic would be ended. Piers’s duty to his people would be fulfilled. The healer’s hand felt for the opening.

“Father?” a weak voice whispered.

Piers stopped, and he realized with surprise that he was shaking.

“Father, don’t go. I’m so afraid.” The voice came again like a frightened child. A familiar echo of grief and despair woke memories Piers thought he had banished. Aching, he turned around, half expecting to see another girl with long blond hair and pale blue eyes, instead of a tall, dirty figure slumped on the stool. Gabria’s eyes were closed and her head had fallen forward. Her cloak was on the floor, and her bare foot looked incongruous against the rest of her clothing. She was shivering.

“Father, what is all this blood?” she whimpered. Her fingers twitched as if she had touched something repulsive. “It is allover everything. Father, please don’t leave me!”

Piers picked up the cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. She cuddled into it and sighed. “I’m so cold. Where is Gabran?”

The healer listened sadly as she mumbled on, about her family and the scenes she remembered of their murders. The images of their deaths mingled with his own memories of another painful death. Long ago he had run away from Pra Desh, carrying his unpurged grief and rage with him-and the guilt that he had failed his own daughter. He looked down at the girl, the last Corin in the clans, and wondered if he was being given a chance to atone for his failures. Ten years ago, he had been weak and had followed his lord’s command, against his better judgment. As a result, his daughter had died, and he had done nothing to save her. Now he had a chance to save this girl.

He picked her up and laid her gently on his mat behind the curtains. He bound her ankle in cold cloths and went to heat water for a hot pack. Piers could understand why the Khulinin had accepted the exile, despite their reluctance. There were too many conflicting sides to the Corin’s tale. Now, he added his own motives. The girl was an outcast, like himself, yet she had survived so much with courage and intelligence. She deserved a chance, not a betrayal. He would simply take his chances with Savaric’s wrath if-no, when-the Khulinin discovered the girl’s secret.

It was late in the afternoon when Gabria awoke. She lay on the warm bed, feeling more comfortable and peaceful than she had in many days.

Then she heard pots rattling, and she opened her eyes. Cream curtains met her startled gaze. The memories of the past days returned in a deluge. It was all true-the massacre, the search for the Khulinin, Nara, the death of the mare, and the fight with Cor were all painfully real. She sighed.

“Piers?” Gabria called.

The curtains were thrown back and the healer stood beside her. “Good afternoon, Gabran,” Piers said, his face carefully masked.

Gabria’s eyes widened. “Afternoon? How long have I slept?”

“Only a few hours.”

“Oh, no. Lady Tungoli—”

“She is the one who ordered me to let you sleep as long as necessary. Athlone led another hunting party after the lion.”

Gabria carefully sat up and gingerly moved her ankle. It was tightly bound, but the swelling was noticeably less and she could move it some without pain. Piers gave her a hand and she stood up. She hobbled to the stool. The healer gave her soup, bread, and cheese. The girl inhaled the rich smell of the soup and suddenly realized how hungry she was.

When Gabria was finished eating, she pushed the plates away and relaxed with a full stomach. She looked over to the pallet to see Cor still sleeping comfortably under the blankets. His face seemed free of pain, and there was no sign of the incredible magic that had invaded his body.

“How is Cor?” she finally asked.

Piers was cutting a slice of bread for himself and he glanced over at the warrior. “I am sure he will live, but he will never take a wife.” He felt pity for the young man. The blow from Gabran’s bow and the arcane force had probably ruined Cor’s sexual manhood. The man was an ill-tempered fool, but he did not deserve the stigma of impotency.

Gabria stared at the ground for a long while. She had so many thoughts and memories and emotions raging inside her mind, she could not think. She had no idea what to do next.

After a time, Piers came over and sat on another stool by the table. Gabria looked up at him. “What will you tell Savaric?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

The healer’s long hands played with a crust of bread. His face looked old and tired. “I have been trying to think all afternoon of what I will say.”

Gabria was pale, for she knew at this moment her life was in the healer’s hands. By law, Piers must accuse her of sorcery to the clan chieftain and leave her fate to the chief and his elders. But if he did so, Piers would risk himself, for he had used the magic in the healing stone. It was a ticklish decision, and Gabria could not even guess what the healer would do. “Have you thought of something?” she inquired as calmly as possible.

“At the moment, I will simply tell him Cor was ill from complications of his injury from the fight, but that he is recovering now.” Piers lifted an eyebrow. “Will that be sufficient?”

A faint sigh escaped Gabria’s lips. She nodded quickly. “Thank you.”

Piers leaned forward, his hands on the table edge. “But we still have to face the fact that Cor was struck by a magic power.”

Gabria tensed. “I know!” she said. “I agree he was injured by something more than my bow. But you have no proof! did it! I do not know where the power came from and neither do you.”

“I know, but—”

Gabria jumped up, knocking over the stool. Her fears and emotions crowded in on her until she wanted to scream. She had to get out of the tent, go somewhere and collect her wits. She had to think. “No. Enough. Whatever happened, it will never happen again.”

Piers came around the table and grasped her arm. “You don’t know that,” he exclaimed. “If you have this talent for sorcery, it will not go away. It will always be there, waiting for some spark to set it off again.”

“If. You only say if,” Gabria shouted. “You do not know for I certain. Even if I had this ability, what could I do about it?” She limped to the entrance, hoping to escape before the healer could say any more.

“Gabran,” Piers said quietly.

Gabria cut him short. “Thank you for your help, Healer. I am grateful.” Then she ducked out and fled.

The rain had stopped some time earlier, and the clouds were breaking into huge, fluffy islands. The sun poured through every rent and covered the hills with moving patches of light I and shadow. A fresh breeze blew up to Gabria from the steppes beyond Khulinin Treld. She took a deep breath. The invigorating coolness relaxed her a little and helped her sort out her thoughts enough to know what she wanted to do that moment. She wanted to find Nara.

The girl pushed her shorn hair back and hobbled down the path between the big tents, toward the far pastures. Nara was probably out there, grazing, and Gabria wanted desperately to be near the comforting strength of the Hunnuli.

Most of the men were gone from the treld, hunting the lion, but many of the women were out of the tents, enjoying the bright sun. No one acknowledged Gabria as she passed, so she I hurried on, trying not to feel the loneliness and self-pity that reared up inside of her.

By the time she reached the picket lines at the edge of the treld, she was limping badly again. She stopped to rest. In the fields before her, several men were training young horses. Another group of warriors was practicing archery. Gabria balked at the thought of crossing to the pastures, because she would need agility and speed to pass through all of the activity without getting in the way. At the moment, she had neither.

She watched the archers for a moment as they sent their mounts in a full gallop across the grass. As one, they roared a ferocious cry, wheeled their horses, fired a barrage of arrows over their backs at a target, and retreated, whooping with glee, to the starting point. Gabria watched the strange maneuver in surprise. It was a difficult one, requiring skill with horse and bow, and timing. The warriors had performed it flawlessly, and the target was riddled, witnessing to their accuracy.

“They are getting good,” someone said behind her.

Gabria turned her head and saw Jorlan, the night commander of the outriders, standing beside the farrier’s tent a few paces away. He was holding the halter of a snappish filly. The farrier, a burley man with huge hands, had the filly’s foreleg clamped between his thighs and was trimming a hoof.

“Where did they learn to do that?” she asked.

“It is part of some new tactics Athlone is teaching. He learned it from the Turic raiders, who are masters of the hit and run,” Jorlan replied.

Gabria glanced back at the archers who were lining up for another run. “Why should a clan this size have to worry about raiding tactics?”

Jorlan pursed his lips and patted the filly’s neck. “Lord Medb is growing very powerful. He is pulling other clans to him or dealing with them as he did the Corin. We are not invincible. Before summer is out, I believe there will be war.”

The farrier snorted, a sound not unlike his horses’. “Lord Medb is a fool. He cannot hope to control the entire grasslands or the clans. He will burn out soon.”

“Maybe,” Jorlan said thoughtfully. “As long as he does not scorch us in his passing.”

The farrier laughed, startling the filly. “Stand still, you girl,” he soothed. “You fret more than my wife.”

“Have you seen the Hunnuli?” Gabria asked. She did not want to discuss Medb. The treld was closing in on her and she wanted to run.

Jorlan gestured to the river. “I think she is by the river. You did well last night. I am sorry about Cor,” he added as an afterthought.

“So am I,” Gabria shot back, irritated by the reminder of that incident. She did not want to think about last night until she was clear of the treld. She swung around, put her fingers to her lips, and gave a piercing whistle. She waited for a moment wondering if Nara had heard.

Then came a thundering neigh in answer to her summons. The call reverberated through Khulinin Treld like the horns of a battle charge. Everyone in the treld paused in their tasks and listened again for the neigh of joy and pride. Movement ceased in the fields. Men and horses alike watched as Nara appeared on the crest of a distant hill. She neighed again, this time in greeting, and Gabria, feeling the mare’s delight, laughed in pleasure.

The girl whistled once more. Nara leaped down the hill, her tail unfurled, and galloped toward the treld. Her mane whipped out like grass before a tornado; her hooves flashed as she flung her legs forward. Like a black cornet, she burst onto the crowded field and swept through the men and horses. They parted before her power and grandeur. She thundered up the slope and skidded to a halt, inches away from Gabria. The mare snorted delicately.

Gabria laughed again, hearing the excited shouts of the men around her. She grabbed for the Hunnuli’s mane and hauled herself up. “Go, please!” Nara spun around and ran to find the wind on the plains.

Jorlan watched them disappear and grinned. “I would give my best mares to do that.”

The mare carried Gabria along the banks of the Goldrine River to the entrance of the valley, and swiftly passed between the two guardian peaks to the plains.

Beyond Marakor and its twin, the foothills fell away to the steppelands of Ramtharin. The semi-arid grasslands rolled out of the mountain’s shadow and away into a dusky horizon. The plains were endless leagues of land that awed men by their sheer vastness and a subtle intensity, traits not found anywhere else in the land inhabited by the clans. The character of the high steppes was found in the ceaseless winds that shaped the rocks and bent the long grass, in the rough colors that blended in a myriad of shades, in the pungent aroma of the tough shrubs that grew in every gully, and in the bitterness of a winter blizzard or the heat of a summer drought. The steppes were an empty land that did not invite easy acceptance, yet the land suited the clans and their restless herds, and was beloved by them.

Nara galloped east, following the Goldrine River. She sensed something was worrying Gabria, but she kept her thoughts to herself and waited for her rider to speak of it.

When Marakor dwindled behind them and Gabria could no longer feel the eyes of the Khulinin watching her, she relaxed and settled down on Nara’s broad back. The Hunnuli slowed to a walk, and they wandered quietly along the shallows of the broad river. The wind breezed by them, cool from the morning rain and heavy with the smell of wet land. Ducks paddled in the backwater and several antelope watched them curiously from a safe distance.

Gabria breathed a long sigh. “He accused me of sorcery, Nara,” she said at last.

Who?

“The healer. He thinks I used some form of power to strike down Cor in a fight last night. The worst of it is, I do not know if Piers is right.”

Why did the healer think you had used magic?

Gabria shook her head despairingly. “Cor was injured by this power called the Trymian Force. Piers says I was the only one who could have struck the man. He feels I have an inherited ability to use magic . . . but he has no proof.” She was silent for a while, then added, “I did have a dream last night. It was horrible.”

About sorcery?

“Yes. Oh, Nara, I have been told since I was born that magic was something foul and corrupting. But I am not like that. I can’t be,” Gabria flung her arms around the Hunnuli’s neck and held on. The girl wanted to believe in herself, in the inherent good that was a part of her and her beloved family. If she did have a talent for sorcery, she hoped that her beliefs about magic were wrong, for she could never accept that she was evil.

Nara stopped. She swiveled her head so her lustrous black eyes were staring into Gabria’s unhappy face. How do you think the Hunnuli became as they are?

Gabria’s throat tightened. “They were created by the gods. Amara shaped the first mare, and Surgart, in the shape of a Storm, bred her.” She spoke hesitantly, as if uncertain.

That part is true, but our creation goes farther. In the dawn of the world, we and the Harachan horses were as one.

Gabria took a deep breath. She felt as though she was standing on the edge of a crevasse. To her back lay her life, its basic beliefs and morals unchanged. Before her lay new concepts and strange truths, the strangest of which being the idea that magic was not an evil power. All she had to do was jump the crevasse and ask the Hunnuli the rest of the unspoken question. The girl already divined the gist of the answer, but the unknown realms that the knowledge might lead her to frightened her more than anything she had ever faced. It could mean a total disruption of her entire way of thinking and living. It could mean that, for two hundred years, the clans had believed in a lie.

Nara remained still, her gaze compassionate, while she waited for Gabria to speak. Gabria slowly traced her finger along the white lightning mark on Nara’s shoulder and tried to find the courage to even form the words of the question in her mind.

The jagged streak, she thought, was the mark of the gods on an animal they, too, loved. The Harachan did not have the lightning mark, yet Nara said they and the Hunnuli were born from the same source. So why did the Hunnuli have the mark of favor and the Harachan did not?

“What happened?” she whispered so softly even Nara barely heard it.

But the Hunnuli understood the depth of the question. In your legends, you have a tale of Valorian in which he rescues the crown of Amara from the demons of Sorh. In his escape he was helped by a black stallion. The horse was badly wounded by a bolt of fire, and, after Valorian returned the crown to the goddess, he nursed the horse back to health. In gratitude for his help, the goddess decreed the stallion would forever be Valorian’s mount and that his offspring would always bear the white scar to honor him. After that, Valorian taught the horse to communicate and to protect him. He made the stallion invulnerable to magic and to evil. With his sorcery. the hero gave the Hunnuli a new existence.

The chasm had been leaped. Gabria felt her body grow hot and her hands began to shake. “Valorian was a sorcerer?”

There are many things your priests neglect to tell.

“Nara, I think I want to go back to the treld.”

The Hunnuli nickered softly and complied. She trotted easily back to the encampment to give Gabria time to consider the information that was now shaking her belief. It would take days before the girl could fully accept the magic that was a part of her—Nara had known the truth from the first day she had seen Gabria—and many more days before she would understand the reality of her power. But it would happen. Gabria would have to break her bonds of prejudice and accept her talent to wield magic if she hoped to fight Lord Medb and survive.

On the edge of the treld, Gabria slid off and stood for a moment, fighting back the tears that balanced on her lids. She rubbed her fingers over the ebony hair on Nara’s withers. “I have despised sorcery all my life.” She paused and swallowed hard. “You tell me you are a creature of magic, but I can’t hate you. You are my friend.” Gabria clenched her jaw and marched up the hill to the hall. Nara watched her for a moment, then she neighed and returned to the quiet pastures on the outskirts of Khulinin Treld.