Dark Horse

7

The rains of early spring fell heavy that year. The water filled the streams and rivers, and drowned the low valleys. The rain fell for days in a fitful downpour, until the tents began to rot and the animals sickened and tempers frayed. The Goldrine washed over its banks and threatened the brood mare herd in the valley, so the horses had to be moved to shelters within the encampment. The work fields became a quagmire, and the paths through the treld turned to treacherous gumbo.

Before long, the hall was the only dry place in Khulinin Treld and the floor was crowded with people seeking relief. Around the fires at night, the clansmen drained the last of the wine and whispered of Medb’s heretical practice of sorcery. Could it be, they wondered, that Medb had grown so powerful he could control the weather? Did he hope to demoralize the clans by endangering their herds, ruining their tents, and spoiling their food? Was he trying to prove the strength of his power?

The whispers spread as far as the distant clans, whose chieftains were little concerned with Medb’s plans for dominance. Medb’s name was in every mind, and the influence of his deeds, real or rumored, spread like a thickening mist. The tale of the massacre at Corin Treld was passed from clan to clan.

The first horror and outrage sparked by the news was eventually dampened with excuses. People listened, but no one wanted to accept the fact that the Corin had been slaughtered. Clan fighting was a normal pastime for entertainment, revenge, or profit. But for a clansman to deliberately annihilate an entire clan was inconceivable.

Yet the massacre was a reality, and the chieftains knew in their hearts that something like it could happen again. Unfortunately, no one was certain why the Corin had been murdered in the first place. It was common knowledge that Dathlar loathed Medb. Perhaps the Corin chieftain had angered the Wylfling lord once too often and had received the full force of Medb’s wrath. Several chiefs thought that, if this were true, it would be wise to avoid Medb’s displeasure. Secretly, they began to accept the Wylfling emissaries and to listen to the promises of wealth and power that could be theirs in exchange for alliance.

Lord Branth of the Geldring waited only until the period of mourning for Lord Justar was over before he married the dead chief’s widow and swore allegiance to Lord Medb. Meanwhile, scores of exiles—banded together, well armed, and mounted—began to ride the steppes like marauders. No violence occurred, but often livestock was found slain or horses were missing after the band swept through a clan’s territory.

The clansmen were left furious and alarmed by the depredation, but the band was so large and moved so swiftly, there was little the individual clans could do against them. Only the council of lords who met at the clan gathering each summer would be able to instigate any united action against the exiles. Unfortunately, the council did not meet for another three months.

In his huge hall near the southern fringes of the steppes, Medb gathered the news from spies and messengers and watched with growing pleasure as the fruits of his plans began to fall into his lap. At night, he retired to a hidden chamber and pored over the fragile pages of an ancient tome he had bought from a beggar in Pra Desh. He was still shaken that the fabled Book of Matrah had fallen into his hands. Matrah, the greatest of the clan sorcerers, had died in the destruction of Moy Tura, but despite years of searching, no one had ever found his manuscript. His book held references to three hundred years of arcane study, and many men had coveted its priceless contents. Now, after all this time, the manuscript had been discovered by a ragged man poking through the ruins of the sorcerer’s city, and delivered to Medb as if by divine providence. The book could have so easily been destroyed or given to another man. Instead, it had come to Medb. Now, he had the means to overcome his crippling injuries—caused by an enraged Hunnuli—and the power to fulfill his dreams. No man or army could stand against him while the forces of magic lay within his grasp. An empire would be his.

To Medb’s great amusement, the heavy rains were not of his making, but they fell like another link in the chain of events that was leading irrevocably to his victory. The destruction and unrest caused by the weather further undermined the confidence of the clans, and the constant storms kept them separated while Medb strengthened his hand. Before long, he would be ready to launch the next pan of his plan.

In late spring, the rains finally ended. The Khulinin gratefully set to work repairing the rotted tents, clearing the flood debris, gathering the first fresh food of the season, and caring for the livestock. Many of the shaggy, long-legged goats had sickened in the wet, and too many of the newborn kids died. Days passed before the last goat recovered and the losses were counted. The brood mares fared a little better and, as their valley dried out, they were released to graze on the verdant grass that sprang from the mud like a carpet.

Cor recovered and returned to duty, although it was clear to everyone that Gabria’s blow had destroyed more than his chances for fatherhood. He was surly and withdrawn and nursed a hatred that ate at his soul. When the hills finally dried enough to resume the hunt for the lion, he went out alone and after five days returned with the lion’s body slung across his saddle. He ignored the cheers and congratulations and Savaric’s gifts of thanks, and dumped the dead cat at Gabria’s feet.

“Your servant,” he snarled at her and stalked away.

Gabria did not need to look in his eyes to know this was not the last word she would hear from him. She was only relieved that Cor had moved his belongings out of the hall to his father’s tent and, for the time, was leaving her alone.

Life slowly returned to normal. The goats were sheared and new felt mats were made for new tents. The women spun and wove. The men and horses returned to training. There was too much for every person to do to worry about phantoms. Medb dwindled to a distant irritation and the thought of war was pushed aside by the demands of life.

The only blight in the pleasure of spring was Pazric’s disappearance. The second wer-tain had not returned from the desert, and Savaric worried about his absence. It was not like Pazric to not send a message or be gone so long. Still, the clan had other things to worry about. The Foaling time was coming and all had to be prepared. Excitement grew with the length of . the days. Many people silently prayed to the gods that the Corin’s bad fortune would not affect the coming event.

Then, one night, Nara sensed the stirring among the mares. Gabria woke the clan, and by morning the first foal was born.

Wet and clumsy, he struggled to his feet while the Khulinin watched in silent awe and thanksgiving. By all the signs, the Foaling would be good: the firstborn was a bay colt as strong as a lion. .

As if to make up for the disastrous rains, the following days were gorgeously warm and dry. The brood mares responded eagerly and a night did not pass without the birth of a foal or two. In the burgeoning meadows, the babies capered by their dams’ sides, little knowing they were the continuation of the clan’s existence.

Gabria took little joy in the time of Foaling. Her heart was wrapped in her own thoughts and desires as she grappled with her changing belief in magic. The growth of the Khulinin herd meant little to her, except for the lessening animosity toward her. She was glad for Savaric’s sake, because she had become fond of him, but the affairs of the clan seemed distant and unimportant to her at the time.

Athlone, still suspicious of the Corin, sensed her detachment and kept a close watch on her. Their training times grew longer and more strenuous as Athlone sought to break her guard. Gabria disliked him intensely, and it frustrated her endlessly that she could do nothing to avoid him.

In spite of Athlone’s temper, Gabria had to admit that he taught her well. The wer-tain was quick to find fault, but he was highly skilled and fair in his judgment. The girl understood why he earned the unhesitating loyalty of the werod. Athlone was fiercely proud, courageous, and dedicated, and he received in full measure what he gave.

By the time early summer came, Gabria felt a grudging respect for the wer-tain. Because of his meticulous training, her muscles were tough, her balance and coordination were improved, and she could wield her sword like an extension of her arm. He gave her no mercy—and she knew Medb would have none—nor friendship. Rarely, Athlone would give her brief encouragement, urging her on to greater efforts. Gabria knew that she would never have attained such proficiency as a warrior without his help. If only he would forget his suspicions.

Gabria had little time for relaxation during the Foaling and even less as the Birthright approached. The Birthright was the celebration of thanks to the forces in the spiritual world that bestowed fertility on the clans and their herds. The-predominating spirit of life was Amara, the mother goddess. It was for her that the Birthright was celebrated. She was the giver of life, the power that preserved it, and the guardian of the clans’ continuance.

However, Amara was only half of a greater whole. While Amara was the positive side of life, her sister, the goddess Krath, was the dark side. Krath was the ruler of unbridled passion and secrecy, violence and jealousy. She had the power to destroy, not as her brothers, the two gods of man who commanded the forces of war, but in subtle ways that were slow and unnoticeable. Together Krath and Amara formed a whole that was embodied by the clanswomen.

Paradoxically, women were considered physically inferior to men. But because women had the ability to sustain life, they were endowed with potentially more spiritual power. The clansmen believed that a woman’s smaller, weaker form was a compensating balance for the inner strength the life force gave her. Therefore, it was only natural that the women, the true beneficiaries of Amara’s grace, should perform the ritual of thanksgiving in the Birthright.

Before the massacre, Gabria had enjoyed the Birthright. The secret rites of the fertility ceremony and the prayers for the herds were the first words she had learned, and the joyous celebrations that lasted through the night were the happiest times of her year. But this year she dared not even hum the chants. When the last foal was born and the procession of red-robed women gathered by the hall, Gabria hid in Piers’s tent. She could not risk the slightest slip of the tongue this night.

While the women walked silently to the clan burial mounds, far from the treld, to perform the rituals in the presence of their ancestors, the men remained behind, waiting for the full moon to reach its zenith and the rituals to end. They were apprehensive of the mysteries of the Birthright, but they enjoyed the wild abandon of the celebrations after the rites. As long as the goddess blessed the clan, the women could do as they pleased this one night.

It was a beautiful evening for the Birthright. The moon hung like a pearl on the breast of night. The music of drums and pipes grew louder as the breeze died, and the torches danced around the distant mounds. A silence intense with expectation held the encampment. Even the animals were quiet. The horses watched the flickering flames warily, and the dogs stayed close to their masters.

In Piers’s tent, Gabria heard the music crest the silence of the camp like the wind over the earth. It tugged at her mind, urging her to move, to sing the familiar words. The drumbeat lured her memories back to Corin’s field, where she had drunk the wine of fertility and danced to please the goddess. The girl clasped her arms around her knees as the chants sang in her mind. It took every cord of her willpower to hold her body still and to stay seated at the fire like a disinterested boy. Piers was gone, but he could return at any time, and she would not betray herself now.

When the music reached its climax and the women shouted in triumph, Gabria sighed deeply. The final words of the ritual’s benediction ran through her mind. It was over. Now the women would return to bless the herds and the firstborn colt would be sent to Amara with gratitude. Soon the clan would celebrate.

Gabria could already hear the musicians warming their instruments and the excited talk of the waiting men. For a while she considered joining them, but now she was as tired as if she had just completed the ritual herself. She did not want to face the boisterous gaiety. Instead, she curled up in a blanket and stared at the flames of the dying fire in Piers’s hearth. The girl sensed rather than heard his coming. She was instantly alert.

“You are welcome to join us,” Athlone said softly from the entrance.

Gabria looked at his shadowy form standing on the edge of the firelight. Like Nara, she thought with surprise, that night in the gully. Even his eyes gleamed in the flickering light as he watched her, wary but not threatening.

“I cannot,” she said, hoping he would understand and leave.

The wer-tain was quiet for a breath, then he said, “You have served my father well these past days. Continue to do so.” The tent flap settled back and he was gone.

Gabria stared at the black wall long after he left.

By dawn the clan was asleep, tired and content with the Birthright. Gabria woke early and slipped out of Piers’s tent.

The healer had come in very late, reeking of wine, and had collapsed on his bed. She doubted he had seen her. The encampment was quiet for this hour of the morning, and Gabria was relieved to see no sign of Athlone. The sun was barely above the horizon, but already the heat was building and the flies were starting to stir.

She decided to snatch the opportunity and spend some time alone. Solitude was a rare gift in a large treld, and Gabria did not want to lose this chance. She found Nara and they slipped out of camp and cantered into the mountains. Only Nara was aware that they were being followed.

High above Khulinin Treld, Nara found a stream that fell rumbling at her feet into the gorge and the Goldrine River. She starred upstream. The mare forced her way through the heavy underbrush, following trails only she could see, past tiny marshes and through thickets of brambles and deer brush. Gradually, the low growth gave way to scattered trees and copses, and the water’s voice was stronger as it fell over its rocky path. Nara climbed higher and deeper into the mountains as the sun warmed Gabria’s back.

Finally, the mare was stopped by a steep rock wall over which the stream spilled in a cascading spray. Jutting rocks, cushioned with dark green moss, separated the falling water into thin streams veiled in mist and bejeweled by beams of sunlight. The water was collected in a deep, foaming pool before it continued down to meet the river. Moist gray-green lichen draped the pine and juniper that grew nearby. A thin undergrowth of grass, herbs, and wildflowers carpeted the sun dappled ground. A squirrel chattered above them, and a dragonfly skimmed the water.

Gabria slid off the mare and dabbled her fingers in the cool water. “I am going for a swim,” she said, looking at the pool happily.

Nara glanced back the way they had come. Her nostrils flickered in a gentle whicker. Be careful. I will be back soon.

Gabria started. “Wait. Where are . . .” But Nara was already gone. The girl was rather surprised by the Hunnuli’s quick departure, but maybe the mare wanted to graze in a nearby meadow. Gabria shrugged. All that mattered now was the cold, glassy water that waited for her beneath the sparkling mist.

She tore off her clothes—the boy’s pants, tunic, and the leather hat she had come to loathe—and dove naked into the pool. It was delicious. She swirled through the water like an otter. The bubbles tickled her skin, and the water flowed over her body like a sensuous massage, washing away tension and weariness. Gabria scrubbed off the dust and sweat, and combed her fingers through her hair, then she relaxed and basked in the mottled sunlight.

It was so good to forget about everything, to be herself without the guilt or the duplicity to encumber her. There were no eyes constantly watching her, no evil, no pretending, no remembering. She was a woman again. Gabria giggled as a water weed brushed her thigh, then she stretched luxuriously and swam to the waterfall.

Suddenly, over the noise of the fall, Gabria heard a Hunnuli neigh. Nara. Then another answered and her heart stopped. There was only one other Hunnuli . . .

“Oh, gods,” she muttered and started to stand up.

“Hello, Gabran.”

Fear jolted through Gabria’s stomach. She fell back into the water and edged against the rock wall by the falls. Athlone stood on the bank by her clothes. Lazily, he nudged her sword with his foot and removed his own sword belt.

“How is the water?” he asked casually.

She only stared at him in wordless horror. He pulled off his tunic and unlaced his boots. “I followed you to be sure you did not have any trouble. These mountains can be treacherous.” His pants joined the heap of clothes, and he stretched in the warm sunlight. His body was lean and muscular and traced with white scars. “A swim is an excellent idea. I think I will join you.”

Gabria watched him dive into the pool and buried her face in the moss. “Oh, goddess,” she pleaded. “Help me now.”

While he swam toward her, the Corin bolted away toward the opposite bank in the vain hope that she could hide before the wer-tain saw her body. But the crystal water betrayed her. There was nothing to hide her curved hips or the swell of her breasts.

Athlone abruptly stopped dead in the water. He stared at her, and his eyes froze in astonishment and stunned realization.

Gabria stopped swimming, stood up in the shallow water, and faced him, her chin tilted up and the water running down her breasts. “Now what, Wer-tain?” she challenged.

Without warning, he lunged at her and his hands clamped her arms before she could move. Her eyes were pinned by his gaze of erupting fury. “By the gods,” he snarled. He dropped her in the water, grabbed her hair with one hand and felt her breasts as if he could not believe his eyes. Gabria’s skin crawled at his touch, and she closed her eyes. He shook her, nearly snapping her neck.

“A woman,” he spat. “Are you Medb’s little spy?” He pushed her underwater and held her, struggling, until her lungs burned, then he hauled her out like a gasping fish. “Who are you?” Athlone thrust her under again without waiting for an answer.

Gabria’s fingers tore at his wrists, but she could not loosen his grip on her hair. She would have given almost anything for her sword at that moment. Inexplicably, she began to feel more anger than fear, and resentment surged through her.

Once more Athlone dragged her head out of the water. “Defiling pig!” he cried. “Who sent you to spread your lies in my father’s treld?”

Gabria shrieked in fury and lashed out at his stomach. He dodged and shoved her under for the third time. She fought his merciless hold with frantic strength until her lungs were bursting and the blood pounded behind her eyes. Despite her training, she was no match for the wer-tain in unarmed combat. He was stronger, heavier, and more skilled. But maybe she could surprise him.

Unexpectedly, the girl went limp and let a few bubbles trail out of her mouth. Her head hurt horribly, but she concentrated on relaxing every muscle and floating as if dead.

Athlone loosened his grip on her hair. As she felt his hands relax, Gabria drew her legs up, shoved violently against the bottom of the pool, and rammed her head into Athlone’s stomach. He doubled over, cursing and gasping. Gabria fled for the bank. She scrambled over the damp rocks and moss as he came after her. The girl glanced back and saw the wer-tain plunging through the water like a furious stallion, his face twisted in rage and his eyes murderously dark. Frantically, Gabria ran for her clothes. Her fingers found her dagger, and she whirled to face Athlone as he lunged out of the pool.

“Keep away, Wer-tain,” she cried, backing toward a tree.

Athlone paused for a moment, his eyes on her face. “Show your tooth, viper. Even Medb’s snakes can be stepped on.” He edged nearer.

Gabria’s eyes flared with green fire, but she stayed with her back to the tree.

“Medb’s whore,” he taunted. “Is that how you survived the Corin’s massacre? Did you spread your legs for him—and his exiles, too?”

A searing rage tore away Gabria’s sensibilities and, like a catalyst, sparked the blue fire of her arcane power. “Curse you!” she stormed, unaware of the magic building within her. “You know nothing. You are as bad as Medb, rooting through corpses for a shred of self-esteem. You snap and snarl like a toothless dog.”

Athlone laughed. “Far better to be an equal of Medb’s than his whining cast-off. Will you grovel in the dirt to save your life again?”

Gabria leaped at the warrior like a cornered lioness. Her attack was so fast it took him by surprise and, when she stabbed at him, her dagger found the hollow of his left shoulder. The blade went deep, embedding in the muscle and ligaments. Even as the dagger sank in. the blue aura rose from Gabria’s hand and raced down the jeweled hilt and silver blade into Athlone’s body.

Her force was stronger this time and would have killed the wer-tain, except that the magic met a strange resistance. Instead of destroying Athlone, the attack only weakened him.

He gasped and went pale. He flung her violently away and stood rigid, staring stunned at the blood that trailed down his chest. The warrior hissed. “Sorceress! What have you done to me?” Then his strength failed and he collapsed unconscious.

Gabria stood for a long time, her body shuddering in the release of her rage. She closed her eyes and forcibly controlled her wild panting. The beast. He deserves to die, she thought triumphantly. How dare he call her Medb’s whore. She leaned over and wrenched her dagger loose. The blood surged out of the wound and flowed down the wer-tain’s side.

Gabria held the point of the weapon against the hollow of his throat, where life lay just below the skin. It would be so easy. One simple thrust. Then the wer-tain would be dead and his suspicions with him. It would be the first time she killed a man, but it would be wonderful to start with this one. She could still feel his hands pawing her body and hear his unspeakable insults. The knife dug into the skin as her anger rekindled. A bead of blood glistened on the dagger point.

Kill him, her mind said. He’s dangerous. He will betray you if he lives. The blade eased deeper. More scarlet beads welled up.

Red, Gabria mused as she watched the blood stain the tan of Athlone’s neck. As red as the blood on the grass at Corin Treld.

In disgust, Gabria threw down the dagger and squatted on the grass beside him. She hated herself for her weakness, but she could not kill Athlone in cold blood. She had seen enough blood to last a lifetime, and, as her rage cooled, she realized that she did not really want the wer-tain’s murder on her hands. Besides, he did not deserve to die like this. His wound was payment enough for his insults.

However. that still left the monumental problem of what Athlone would do to her if he recovered. Gabria had little doubt he would expose her disguise and have her killed immediately. But maybe, just maybe. he would wait long enough to talk to her. Perhaps she could convince the wer-tain to help her. Nara did tell her Athlone could be trusted. Gabria hoped the mare was right—it was Gabria’s only chance.

The girl sighed irritably. If Athlone was going to live, she would have to bind his wound and take him to Piers quickly. But what would she tell Savaric? Unhappily. she dressed and cleaned the wer-tain’s wound and bound it with strips from his own tunic.

Just as she finished clothing him. Nara and Boreas trotted through the trees to the pool. Gabria backed away, eyeing the huge stallion warily. She wondered if he would be angry at her for his master’s injury.

Boreas sniffed Athlone and snorted softly. I see you two have settled your differences. His thoughts, lower and more masculine than Nara’s, rang richly in her head. Gabria stared at him.

Nara nickered, obviously pleased. We waited for this, Gabria. You need him.

“I need him like a broken leg,” she said vehemently. “Where were you two?”

Boreas nuzzled Nara’s neck, and she nipped playfully at him. We were occupied.

“Why did you leave me alone?” Gabria demanded. “You knew Athlone would find me.”

Of course, Nara told her.

Athlone is bleeding. We must take him to the healer. Boreas nudged Gabria.

The girl glared at them both, feeling furious, hurt, and annoyed. Nara had left her intentionally, knowing Athlone would come to the pool. Why? The mare knew that the wer-tain was dangerous. Although the Hunnuli accepted him, how could Nara risk leaving her rider to face Athlone alone and virtually defenseless? In his rage, Athlone had nearly killed Gabria, and it was only through luck she had escaped. Yet both Nara and Boreas had anticipated the outcome of the confrontation.

Hesitantly, Gabria picked up Athlone’s gold belt and weighed the heavy metal in her hands. There must have been something that told the Hunnuli that Athlone would not or could not kill her at that time. Her hands tightened around the belt. Perhaps their intuition had something to do with the incident with Cor. Gabria had tried to forget the fight, her dream, and Piers’s accusations, but the memories replayed in her mind time and again.

A sickening feeling grew in her stomach. This incident with the wer-tain was too horribly familiar. Oh, gods, she thought, looking at Athlone, what if I have done it again? Maybe the Hunnuli knew she had a hidden defense, one that could defeat even Athlone.

That idea was more than Gabria wanted to think about then, so, for the moment, she pushed aside the fears forming in her mind and wordlessly helped Nara lift the wer-tain onto Boreas’s back. Gabria wrapped the golden cloak around Athlone’s bare back and threw away the remains of his tunic.

They traveled slowly back down the mountain, Boreas stepping carefully to keep Athlone balanced. Gabria spent the time thinking of something to tell Savaric. She wondered if she should flee before Athlone regained consciousness. Even slow starvation would be better than the death Savaric would give her for impersonating a warrior and attacking a wer-tain. Her life could be over the moment Athlone recovered, and no power on earth could save her.

But where could she go? Gabria would be permanently exiled and marked for death. Any clansman who saw her would be obligated to kill her. She would have no clan, no honor, no hope to kill Medb. Yet if she stayed, she was risking her life on the insights of two Hunnuli. Somehow, Nara and Boreas had realized that Athlone was not a danger to her. Otherwise they would not let her return to the treld. Nara had said Athlone could be her best ally. Maybe it was true.

Perhaps if Nara and Boreas supported her, she could convince Athlone to help her. The wer-tain’s willing skill and influence would be invaluable in the battle against Lord Medb.

Gabria was beginning to realize that there was far more to killing a chieftain like Medb than a simple challenge and a duel.

Athlone’s help would greatly improve her chances. Unfortunately, she doubted she would be able to convince the wer-tain before he exposed her to Savaric. The wer-tain’s rage would undoubtedly wake with him.

Give him time to think, Boreas told her, breaking her preoccupation.

Gabria started. She had the uncomfortable feeling that the Hunnuli could understand her thoughts, despite what Nara told her. “What?” she asked.

The man is not always impetuous. Give him time and he will understand.

“May I stake my life on that?” Gabria asked hopefully.

Yes. The stallion was adamant.

Gabria robbed her hand down Nara’s neck and sighed. “I hope you will move fast if Savaric orders me killed.”

Nara shook her mane. There will be no need.

An outrider saw them as they walked down the hill, and he galloped back to the treld to find Piers. Gabria watched him disappear among the distant tents ,and steeled herself to meet Savaric. She would have to control her every movement and reaction for fear of the chieftain seeing through her feeble story. She just hoped he would not look too carefully at Athlone’s wound beneath the makeshift bandages.

A crowd met them at the edge of the treld, and gentle hands lifted Athlone down and carried him to Piers’s tent. Gabria did not try to hide her relief. But other clansmen watched her with open hostility. The hearthguard came and unobtrusively circled around her. Savaric stood before her with his arms crossed. His face was expressionless.

“How did this happen?” the chief demanded.

Gabria dismounted and met his gaze levelly. “Athlone followed me this morning when I went for a swim in the stream above the Goldrine. While Nara and Boreas were grazing, he climbed a rock wall by the pool and fell on a broken branch.”

“Why?” The word was an accusation.

“I don’t know,” she said as innocently as possible. “Maybe the rocks were slippery. I only saw him fall.”

“Why did he follow you?”

She glanced at Boreas and patted the horse’s neck. Too many details could sound contrived, so she replied, “I guess he wanted to go riding.”

The chieftain looked at the two Hunnuli standing protectively beside the girl and then considered her for an excruciating moment. She could feel the eyes of the other warriors boring into her back as everyone waited for Savaric to guide them. A minute passed and Gabria quelled the desire to bolt for Nara’s back.

“Thank you for bringing him back,” Savaric said at last.

The ring of men visibly relaxed. The watching clansmen began to drift away, but Gabria still stood her ground. “It was my duty.”

Savaric smiled, a knowing lift of his thin lips that held no humor. “Sometimes duty is not taken into account.” He turned on his heel and left her, gesturing to his warriors to follow.

When she was alone with the horses, Gabria leaned back on Nara’s shoulder and took a deep breath. “That is a dangerous man. Savaric sees many things people try to hide. Even Medb would do well to stay out of his way.”

Savaric is no longer a match for the sorcerer, Nara told her.

“What?” Gabria was stunned. “That is impossible.”

Medb has powers now even he does not understand. But he is learning fast.

Gabria ground her heel into the dirt and said, “I am such a fool to think I can kill him.”

Boreas flicked an ear at her. Yet you do not give up.

“I cannot. By clan law, he owes me recompense.” She looked at both horses. “I admit, though, I need help. Will you and Boreas support my plea to Athlone?”

Nara answered, Of course. But we do not think you will need us.

The two Hunnuli trotted off to the pastures, and Gabria walked up the path toward the hall. The encampment was swarming with activity as the women began the monumental task of packing and the men made preparations for the summer trek. All signs of the celebration were gone. The Birthright was over, gone with the rain and snow of the winter. Now the plains beckoned to the camp-weary clan and the sun burned hot on their backs. They would be leaving soon for the clan gathering at the Tir Samod, the meeting place of the Isin and the Goldrine rivers.

Lord Medb and the Wylfling clan would be there, as well as Lord Branth and his Geldring and the other clans who vacillated under Medb’s increasing influence. Gabria thought that Medb would probably make a move at the council, when the chiefs of the clans were all together. One decisive attack could do irreparable damage to clan unity and reinforce his bid for supreme rule. But Gabria hoped to ruin his plan, whatever it might be, by challenging the chief to a duel. A duel to the death was her right under the rules of the weir-geld. Even if she could not kill Medb, maybe she could spoil his plots before he plunged the clans into war.

“Gabran!” Piers’s voice stopped her cold. She saw him standing by his tent and her heart lurched. His face was grim, his hand gripped the tent pole like a crutch, and his pale eyes spoke to her as clearly as his words.

Wordlessly, she followed him into the tent. Piers said quietly, “This is the second time.” He moved aside and she saw Athlone lying unconscious on the pallet. His wound had not been tended yet, and the bloody bandages lay like dark stains on his skin. She started to say something when she noticed the healing stone resting on the wer-tain’s forehead. A stray gleam of purple still flickered in the core.

“Oh, Piers,” she breathed.

“Athlone has been struck with the Trymian Force,” Piers said with controlled calm. “And this time you were the only one with him.”

“You still cannot prove that. How do you know I did not find him like this?” Gabria demanded. She was grasping at straws and they both knew it.

“You said you were with him.”

“Not the entire time.”

“You were not there?” Piers picked up the red stone from Athlone’s forehead and put it back in its wrappings.

Gabria shifted nervously. “I brought him home.”

The healer returned the stone to its tray and slammed the chest door shut, then turned back to Gabria. “Granted. But should I tell Savaric the injury in his son’s shoulder is a knife wound?”

Gabria stared at the healer in alarm. She had forgotten that Piers would recognize the cause of the wer-tain’s injury. If the healer told Savaric the truth, no one would believe it was only self-defense. Savaric would kill her. Of course, if Athlone’s rage recovered with him, her fate would be the same.

“Tell me the truth, Gabran,” Piers prompted. “I think you did this, however unintentionally.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” she mumbled.

“And the Trymian Force?”

Suddenly, Athlone’s last words began to pound in Gabria’s head. “Sorceress, what have you done to me?” He had felt it! Somehow he had realized that she had struck him with something more than a dagger. Her fear and confusion closed in as the truth came crashing down around her.

“But I don’t know how to cast a spell,” she cried.

“You have to face the truth, Gabran,” Piers demanded. “You have the power and Athlone nearly died of it. The next time, you might kill someone.”

“You are wrong. I am not a sorceress!” She flung the last word at him and fled from the tent. She ran furiously through the treld, dodging dogs and children, but the word followed her like a curse. Sorceress. A creature despised. It could not be true. She had never felt this arcane power and, the gods knew, she did not want it. Piers has to be wrong, Gabria concluded desperately. He’s only a foreigner and knows nothing about me.

Gabria nearly slammed into an old woman carrying an armload of newly dyed wool before she regained her composure. With a quick apology, she helped the woman with the heavy wool, then she walked tiredly to the hall. Sorceress or not, it would hardly matter if Piers or Athlone revealed the truth. Her punishment for anyone of her crimes would be irrevocable.

The cool gloom of the hall was comforting, and, luckily, the long room was empty. Gabria poured a cup of wine and sat in a corner by the main door to wait. There was nowhere else to go.