Dark Horse

9

Gabria rode guard duty that night and, after she had bid good-night to Nara, trudged to Piers’s tent for some welcome sleep. Savaric visited them briefly and told her that the “argument” had gone as planned, with Athlone playing the impatient, disgruntled heir. The next morning passed uneventfully while the clan continued to pack for their summer trek. Savaric acted the congenial host to Medb’s emissary, and Gabria stayed out of sight in Piers’s tent.

The chieftain made no mention of the mock disagreement with his son to anyone to be sure that Medb could have only learned of it through the stone—providing Gabria was right about the spell.

At nightfall, Gabria left for her duties. When she returned, Piers told her that Athlone had requested her for another game in his tent. She went with a curious foreboding in her heart and a chill in her fingers. She found Athlone and Savaric both waiting for her. From the quiet triumph on their faces, she knew she had been right.

“Come in, boy,” Savaric said. “You have not only proved to me that Medb is resurrecting sorcery, but your quick wits have saved us much grief.”

Gabria sat down heavily on a stool and hugged her knees. She was horribly afraid her wits had nothing to do with it.

Athlone removed the sling from his arm and paced back and forth across the deep carpets. He grinned. “Medb heard our fight, every last word of it, and he went for it like a weasel after a mouse.”

“Good,” Gabria said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Is he trying to unseat you?”

Her question was to Savaric, and he answered with a dry laugh. “He offered the world to Athlone in return for my death and the loyalty of the second most powerful clan.” He lapsed into silence and stared at the floor.

Gabria realized that Savaric had moved into a deeper concentration. He was absorbed in his thoughts and his muscles wasted no effort in pacing or excess motion. Only a pan of his mind was answering her, while the greater part wrestled with the problems posed by Medb.

“The world is a large order, even for Medb. Will Athlone be able to control that much holding?” Gabria asked with mild sarcasm.

“Medb plans not, I am sure,” Athlone replied. “We are too close to Wylfling Treld for Medb’s comfort. He will probably try to dispatch both Father and me. Then, with Pazric missing, Medb could put a man of his own over the Khulinin. Only then will his back be safe.”

The three of them fell silent, busy with their own thoughts. Savaric sat on his stool like a priest in contemplation, while Athlone paced noiselessly and Gabria twisted the light fabric of her pants between her fingers and imagined Medb in his tent, congratulating himself for putting a wedge into the all-powerful Khulinin.

Gabria shook her head. This feigned division of father and son was the only leverage they had at the moment, and it was a poor one, for it would only last until Medb put pressure on the Khulinin to accept his rule or he discovered Savaric’s deception. Gabria had found the secret of the jewel, and the gem might help them mislead Medb for a while to gain time, but it would not tell Savaric and Athlone how the other clans received Medb’s ploys or how strong the Wylfling werod was-or how powerful Medb’s arcane skills had grown. The stone would not help Savaric many days hence when the Khulinin were given their ultimatum and had their backs to a cliff.

Gabria knew, as surely as Savaric must, that the clans were being swept into war. Like a game master, Medb had leashed each clan and was drawing them into a confrontation that would tear them apart. If Medb forged his empire, the clans as they had endured for centuries would cease to exist. Instead of autonomous entities of a similar tradition and ancestry, they would become scattered pieces of a monarchy, ruled by one man and bound by one man’s desires.

Yet, even if the clans defeated Medb, Gabria realized that the clanspeople would still lose a great deal. In a war between’ brothers, complacency dies fast, fury burns hot and the flames take longer to cool. The girl couldn’t imagine how the clans would survive the conflagration of this war or what their lives would be like when peace fell on the steppes. She sighed softly, regretting the changes that were coming.

Savaric heard Gabria’s almost soundless breath and raised his gaze to her face. Their eyes met and locked in understanding. Like Piers before him, Savaric recognized the strength behind Gabria’s look. Until that moment, he had only considered his friend’s child to be a stubborn boy, who, like any young, hot-tempered adolescent, demanded to fight for his clan’s revenge because of an overdeveloped sense of outrage. But as he looked into those green eyes, Savaric suddenly understood that Gabria’s determination went far beyond adolescent eagerness, to a calculated, controlled obsession. He knew without a doubt that “Gabran” would do anything to bring down Lord Medb. Inexplicably, the thought frightened him. He was not certain what a boy could do against a chieftain and a professed sorcerer, yet it occurred to him with a great deal of surprise that “Gabran” might succeed. Savaric remembered Piers’s words the night the boy rode into camp and set the clan back on its ear. The healer said that the boy might be the key to unlocking Medb’s doom. Maybe he was right.

“Well, Father,” Athlone said, startling both the girl and the chieftain. “Now, at least, we know the rumors of Medb’s heresies are true.” He glanced oddly at Gabria, but continued. “What do we do now that we have him on the wrong trail?”

Savaric broke off his stare and looked at his son. “Keep him there for as long as we can. It will not hurt us to let him think the Khulinin will fall into his grasp.”

“What did he offer you, Wer-tain?” Gabria asked. She was feeling very tired and wanted to return to Piers’s tent, but she wondered what the Khulinin were worth to Medb.

“That crow of an agent came to see me this evening.” Athlone paused and looked thoughtful. “I would like to know how Medb contacted him so fast. Maybe he has a seeing stone, too. He offered me, in Medb’s name, men, gold, land, and the chieftainship in return for obedience and my father’s head.”

Savaric chuckled. “I hope you will not be too free with either.”

“Nothing is worth that price.”

Gabria listened to the brief exchange with a little envy. Despite their differences, the two men were devoted as a father and son and even closer as friends. Only her brother, Gabran, had been that close to Gabria, and his death left a void that would never be filled. Nara helped heal some of the wounds in her soul, but there were a few hollows no one would ever find, hollows still filled with unshed tears. Gabria closed her eyes and turned away. It was still too soon to cry.

Savaric noticed her movement and said, “Daylight will be here soon and we have much to do.”

They said good-night, and the chieftain walked with Gabria as far as Piers’s tent. He hesitated as if he were going to speak, then he changed his mind, nodded, and left. Gabria watched Savaric until he disappeared between the tents. She felt closer to him that night than ever before, and she had the impression something had altered his thoughts about her. The way he looked at her in Athlone’s tent-it was as if he had stripped away everything but her basic strengths and weaknesses and had accepted what he found. She was pleased by his understanding and relieved, too. She had no living family left, and she was beginning to appreciate how much Savaric and his family meant to her. Gabria closed the tent flap behind her.

With a prayer to Amara, she fell asleep.

Like huge butterflies, the black tents of the treld began to fold their wings and disappear. Wrapped around their poles and ropes, the tents were bundled onto large, brightly painted wagons pulled by oxen or horses. Each family’s possessions were packed beneath the tents and protected by carpets. After generations of practice, a clan could often dismantle their treld in a few days and their trail camp in a few hours. Packing the encampment was a fine art, and the women prided themselves on their expertise and speed.

The morning the Khulinin left their treld, the day dawned cloudless and hot. The faint dew quickly dried in the breeze and dust billowed everywhere. The first breaking of camp always took longer than usual, so the clan rose before sunrise to bring down the remaining tents, close the hall, saddle the horses, and bid farewell to those few who elected to remain behind. When the horn sounded at dawn, the caravan was already forming in the work field as each family took its position.

The old people, the sick, and those who remained to care for the empty treld watched sadly and helped as best they could to send the clan on its way. The bachelors of the werod gathered the livestock. The three Harachan herds were mingled into one since mating would begin soon, and those horses that were not being ridden or worked were moved to the entrance of the valley. The mares, foals, and yearlings trotted about excitedly, but the stallion, Vayer, stood at the foot of Marakor and sniffed the wind that blew from the steppes and listened quietly for the signal of the horns.

Savaric himself closed the great doors of his hall and took down the golden banner. He passed it on to Athlone, who held it high and galloped Boreas down the path to the fields where the caravan waited. A shout of joy rose from every throat and echoed through the valley. Horses neighed in reply; the dogs barked frantically in excitement. The chaos of people and animals slowly shifted into a vague pattern of order. Forgotten items were retrieved, last minute good-byes were said, wandering children were found, and the ropes on the carts and pack animals were checked and rechecked.

Finally, when all was ready, two outriders carrying horns rode to the mouth of the valley. A silence of anticipation fell over the caravan. Then, in unison, each horn bearer lifted his horn to his lips and blew a great note of music that soared out over the empty plains like a cry of triumph and welcome. The clanspeople roared their approval. Savaric, riding beneath the huge golden banner, lifted his sword to the sky as Vayer neighed.

Like a giant snake, the caravan crawled forward. Gabria sat on Nara’s back and watched with awe-tinged respect as the Khulinin moved out of their valley. It was a sight she would always remember.

From the moment Valorian taught the first clansman the joy of mounting a horse, the clans had been nomads with the wind of the steppes in their faces and the dust of the trail on their clothes. Although the clans had slowed down over many generations and were unknowingly growing roots in the places they had chosen for winter camps, they were still nomads at heart. Wintering was fine for the cold months when the blizzards froze the land, but when the freshness of spring gave way to summer, the clans returned to the old ways and left the trelds behind.

For Gabria and her clan, the packing and preparations for the trek had always been simple. With only twenty-five families, the Corin had been able to move often and with little fuss. They had been more nomadic than the Khulinin and sometimes never bothered to winter in their treld. But this trek fascinated Gabria. The Khulinin, with their numerous families, huge herds, and powerful werod, moved ponderously out of the treld in a wondrously noisy cavalcade.

At the head of the caravan rode the hearthguard and the chieftain. Behind them was the main body of the clan in a procession of wagons, carts, pack animals, people on horseback or on foot, and a vociferous crowd of excited dogs and children. The livestock came next, and in the rear was another troop of warriors. The werod was spread out along the flanks of the caravan, and five outriders kept the horse herd off to the side to prevent mishaps. Gabria marveled at the organization that kept each man in his place and prevented tempers from exploding, but she could not help but wonder how the tremendous caravan traveled very far in a day. At the rate they were moving now, the gathering would be long over before the Khulinin arrived.

To her surprise, the caravan slowly increased its momentum until it was moving at a fair pace along the banks of the river.

Before long, the rich green foliage of the foothills’ brush and trees was left behind. Instead, deep-rooted herbs and grasses, already maturing to a golden green, stretched to the horizon. Old, thickly matted growth cushioned the travelers’ steps as the caravan wove across the grasslands. Beside them, the Goldrine River grew from a foaming, bouncing headstream to a staid, contemplative river that meandered through gravel bars and basked silently in the sun. Ahead of the clan, several outriders rode the point to keep watch for marauders or game. Raiders rarely bothered a clan the size of the Khulinin, but this year Savaric took no chances.

Medb’s emissary rode with them, having blandly explained that the Wylfling were already on their way to the gathering; he would meet them just as fast as if he traveled with Savaric’s clan. Both Athlone and Savaric knew the real reason the agent stayed, and they made a point of waging frequent arguments while Savaric wore the star brooch. Because of the man’s presence, Gabria was forced to ride with the outriders in the caravan’s rearguard.

The days passed quickly under the open skies as the clan traveled east to the gathering at the Tir Samod, the holy meeting of the Goldrine and the Isin rivers. Breaking camp became a habit again and muscles adapted to walking and riding. The heavy winter cloaks were exchanged for lighter, linen cloaks with long hoods that were worn as the occasion demanded: either draped around the head for protection against the sun and wind, or drawn across the face for battle. Clouds rarely marred the boundless expanse of the sky, except for an occasional afternoon thunderstorm.

The summer heat increased and with it, as the time to the gathering shortened, the tensions in the clan grew heavier. Savaric’s eyes constantly roved the horizon as if he were expecting a yelling horde to sweep over his caravan. Arguments flared among the warriors, and even Medb’s emissary lost his aplomb at times and was snappish to the men he was supposed to charm. Messengers, who were usually numerous as the clans grew closer together, were strangely absent this year. No word came from anyone.

Athlone had Gabria relieved of her duties and spent the warm evenings sharpening her skills with the sword, out of sight of the clan. Most of the warriors ignored Athlone’s curious attention to the outsider, but Cor still nursed his hatred for Gabria. Before the trek, he had been too busy to deal with her as he wanted. Now, he followed her constantly, looking for excuses to repot her to Jorlan or humiliating and insulting her before other clansmen. He pulled petty tricks on her and dogged her like a jackal waiting for a meal. He avoided her when Athlone was near, but the wer-tain was constantly occupied during the day and Gabria was too proud to tell him of the wretched man’s tormenting. She began to detest the sight of Cor.

Gabria tried to reconcile herself to Cor’s hateful presence since she could not avoid him, but his murky eyes and his twisted sneer grated on her and his jibes cut with increasing irritation. There was nowhere she could go during the day to escape him. At night she dreamed of his rude laugh. She slipped around the camp, looking over her shoulder and wincing every time someone laughed. Even with Athlone, she was distracted and nervous. She could only hope to ignore Cor until they reached the gathering. Then, everyone would have more on their minds than petty vendettas.

As the day approached when she would meet Lord Medb face to face, Gabria was beginning to understand more of the ramifications of her demand for weir-geld. One night she was sitting with Athlone in Piers’s tent, listening to the two men discuss the coming council meeting. The healer and the wer-tain had found a common ground in their shared knowledge of Gabria’s secret and had become tentative friends. It dawned on Gabria, as she considered their words, that her claim to Medb was only a small portion of the charges against him. Although she was the only survivor of her clan and could give evidence of Medb’s complicity in the massacre, the other chieftains would probably not allow her to fight him. They had too many other matters to settle with him besides her desires for revenge. Even the destruction of an entire clan paled in the light of Medb’s revival of the forbidden arts of sorcery. She doubted even Savaric would have an influence over the council’s decisions.

The thought that her struggles would be worthless was almost more than Gabria could bear. She was so close, yet Medb could still slip through her fingers. A specter rose unbidden in her mind of the smoking, charred ruins of Corin Treld, and a small moan escaped her. The men’s voices stopped. She glanced up, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and saw Piers and Athlone looking at her strangely. Without a word, she bolted from the tent. Gabria ran blindly through the tents and wagons, pursued by the black phantoms of her memory.

All at once a figure leaped out of a shadow, grabbed Gabria’s arm, and whirled her around. She caught the smell of old leather and wine when the man began to shake her violently.

“It is the wer-tain’s favorite,” Cor’s voice hissed. “And where are you going in such a rush, my pretty little boy?”

Gabria twisted fiercely in his grasp, but his fingers crushed into her elbows.

“Not so fast, Corin. You and I have things to talk about.” Cor dragged Gabria into the shadow of a tent and pushed his face close to hers. His breath reeked of liquor.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Gabria snapped. Her tears were threatening to spill over. She fought him, frantic to escape.

Cor grinned wickedly. “Now, now. Is that any way to treat a friend? I know someone who might be interested in meeting you.”

The mocking triumph in his voice chilled her and she Stopped struggling. “What do you mean?” she whispered.

“That’s better. You’ll like this man. I heard he was a close friend of your father.”

Gabria stared at him in growing alarm. There was only one man in this camp Cor would be pleased to take her to and that was the one man she desperately wanted to avoid. “No. Let me go, Cor. I’m busy.”

“Busy,” he sneered. “Running errands for your precious wer-tain? This will only take a minute.”

Suddenly, Gabria was furious. With a curse, she wrenched away from Cor and swung her fist into his stomach. Then she bolted into the darkness, leaving him doubled over and swearing in futile pain.

She wove through the camp like a fleeing animal, to the dark fields and the comfort of the Hunnuli. Nara came before she whistled. Together they walked along the banks of the river until long after the moon rose. But even the company of the mare did not ease Gabria’s fear and depression. Voices and memories came to haunt her, and Cor’s rude laugh echoed in her mind. She was still frustrated and angry when she went back to camp, her tears unshed. To her surprise, Athlone was waiting for her.

He fell into step beside her as she walked past his tent. “I do not want you disappearing like that,” he said.

Gabria glanced up at him irritably and was amazed to see his face showed worry. “Surely you were not concerned about me. My loss would hardly be noticed.” Her voice was full of bitterness.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said dryly. “Cor would be so bored without you.”

She came to a stop. “You know about him?”

“He is one of my men.” Athlone leaned back against a tent pole and watched her in the dim moonlight. Somewhere nearby, a woman was playing a lap harp and singing softly. Her music filled the darkness around them like a distant lullaby. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly.

“Cor is my problem.”

“He is a self-serving, weak bully who is harassing and distracting one of my warriors from training. That makes him my problem,” Athlone replied tightly.

Gabria crossed her arms and said, “I am not one of your warriors.”

“While I train you, you are.”

Unexpectedly, Gabria laughed. “Do you realize what a strange remark that is to say to me?”

Athlone was about to say more, but he changed his mind and laughed with her. “I never believed I would be telling a girl this, but you are getting quite good with your sword.”

Gabria laughed again, this time with resentment and anger. “Little good it will do me, Wer-tain. I will not be able to fight Medb. The chieftains will not let me near him. There will be too long a line.”

“Perhaps you’re right. But watch and wait. Your opportunity may come when you least expect it. Just continue your training.”

“May I practice on Cor?” Gabria asked irritably.

Athlone glanced at her, a strange, thoughtful look in his eyes. “Maybe you already have.”

Her fingers clenched at her sides and she took a deep breath. What did he know? She searched his face for any indication of his thoughts, but his features were impassive and his dark eyes glimmered without guile.

Athlone returned her look. He was intrigued by the play of shadows on her face. Fascinated, he reached out and pulled off her leather hat. The shadows vanished, and her visage was bathed in moonlight. He wished he had not done that, for the moon stole the colors from her face and transformed her into a pale ghost. There was nothing to show the deep feelings and desires that moved beneath the surface of that pallid flesh. Her skin looked so cold in the silver gleam; he wanted to touch her cheek to see if it was soft. His hand twitched, but he held it out of sight.

This girl was unreal to him. She had more determination and courage than many of his warriors and a way of meeting one’s eyes that was disconcerting. She did not meekly submit to the laws governing women, nor did she bow to the devastating events that changed her life. Although Athlone did not admit it aloud, he was glad she was not submissive. Her stubbornness and strength of character made her unique.

Briefly, Athlone tried to imagine her as his lover. He did not remember very much of their fight at the pool, yet he did recall her body was too shapely to be called boyish. Nevertheless, he could not reconcile the image of a warm, passionate woman with this stiff-backed, sword-wielding, fierce-eyed girl. He decided that she would probably never make any man a good wife—if she lived long enough for any man to offer.

Unexpectedly, the thought of Gabria dead made Athlone queasy. He had grown to like her, despite her strange behavior, and he was horrified when he fully recognized what the consequences of her actions would probably be. Even if the council refused her challenge to Medb, the Wylfling lord would mark her for death. If she fought him, the end would be the same, for Gabria had no chance to kill Medb in a fair duel.

Bitterly, Athlone tossed her hat to the ground. If the girl chose to revenge the murder of her clan, then so be it; he honored that choice. But that did not mean he had to like the price of her decision. He brushed past her without another word and went back to his tent. .

Gabria stared at her crumpled hat in dismay. Something had upset Athlone. She thought back over their conversation to see if she had said something to anger him. She picked up the cap. It could have been her remark about practicing on Cor. Maybe Piers had told Athlone of Cor’s injury and the healing powers of the red stone. Maybe Athlone, too, thought she was a sorceress and was trying to dissuade himself. Or perhaps he just did not appreciate her remark.

She hoped that was all it was. Gabria desperately needed the wer-tain to continue her training and further her cause at the council. She also didn’t know if Cor was serious about taking her to the Wylfling emissary, but she would take no chances. She would tell Savaric about Cor’s threat in the morning so the chief could keep the emissary distracted with other matters.

Gabria crumpled her hat in her hand and moved slowly back to Piers’s tent. For the first time in her life, she prayed to Surgart, the warriors’ deity, to guard her and give her strength for the challenges that lay ahead.

Five days later, the Khulinin reached the junction of the two rivers. By this time, the Goldrine had widened into a broad waterway. It wound through a wide, level valley and converged with the Isin, which flowed down from the north. An arrow-shaped island, named the Tir Samod, had formed long ago at the junction of the two rivers. On the island, in a circle of standing stones, was the only sacred shrine dedicated to all four of the immortal deities. It was a holy place, filled with the magic of spirits and the powers of the gods who protected it. Even in the years of heavy rains or snowfall, the shrine had never been flooded. Only priests and priestesses were allowed to set foot within the circle of stones. But on the last night of the gathering, every man, woman, and child came to the island to worship in a ceremony of thanksgiving to all the gods.

Around the island, on the banks of both rivers, gathered the clans. The gathering was the only place and time in the span of the seasons when all the clans were together. In that short time, the business of many thousands of people was dealt with.

The clans as a whole had no leader. Each clan was led by an independent ruler who was accustomed to being a law unto himself. These men did not easily yield to a greater authority, save tradition and the laws of the gods. But the clans liked to maintain their ties and traditions, and so once a year the chieftains met in council. The council had the power to alter laws, punish certain criminals, settle arguments or feuds between clans, establish new holdings, accept new chiefs, and continue the traditions handed down from their fathers.

Clan gatherings were also a time to reestablish old acquaintances, see relatives from other clans, and exchange gossip, stories, and songs that would enliven many cold winter nights to follow. Young people, unable to find mates within their own clans, vied for each other’s attentions. Games and contests were held, horses compared, and races run every day on the flat stretch of the valley.

Merchants from the five kingdoms to the east and the desert tribes to the south arrived early and quickly set up shop to trade with the enthusiastic clanspeople. A huge bazaar sprang up even before the last clan arrived. There, people could barter for anything their hearts desired: rich wines from Pra Desh, fruits, nuts, grain, salt, honey, sweets, figs, jewelry, perfumes, silks from the south, salted fish, pearls, metals of all grades, medicines, livestock, and rare spices. Besides the foreign merchants, each clan fostered its own group of artisans who specialized in particular crafts and always displayed their work at the gathering. The foreign merchants had a ready market for the clan wares and bartered hotly for everything they could get.

When the Khulinin arrived at the Tir Samod late in the afternoon, four clans—the Geldring, the Dangari, the Amnok, and the Jehanan—had already encamped along the rivers. After countless gatherings, the clans had unwritten rights to their preferred areas. These grounds were blessed with the clan’s particular tokens and were considered inviolate. The Khulinin’s place was on the west bank of the Goldrine, not far from the site of the giant council tent.

But this year, as the head of the Khulinin caravan crested the ridge that overlooked the valley, Savaric saw the green banner of the Geldring floating above Lord Branth’s tent in the place where Savaric’s tent should be. Savagely, he reined his horse to a halt and stared down at the offending clan in astonished fury. The hearthguard and several outriders gathered about him, their outrage plain on their faces. The caravan ground to a halt. No one behind Savaric could see over the hill, but word of the Geldring’s insult flew down the line of wagons until the warriors in the rear began to edge toward the hilltop.

Gabria watched Athlone gallop Boreas to Savaric’s side and, even from her distant position, she could see him explode in anger. Watching his Hunnuli prance in agitation, she wondered worriedly what he might do. If Athlone had his way, the Khulinin could sweep down on the Geldring and begin a war before Medb arrived. Savaric might even decide to turn the caravan around and leave the gathering in a fit of honor. Lord Branth’s move was a grave insult, but there were more important problems brewing at the gathering that required the Khulinin’s presence.

Gabria pulled her hat low over her forehead and urged Nara up the slope. A short way behind the warriors, she slipped off the Hunnuli and ran the last few yards into the crowd of milling riders. The chieftain, Athlone, the Wylfling emissary, and the guards were all watching the encampments below, where warriors were suddenly swarming at the sight of the Khulinin. With a cautious look at the emissary, Gabria squeezed among the horses and heard Athlone’s disgusted voice.

“If that conniving snake thinks he can do this . . .”

“Obviously, he already has,” the emissary interrupted, trying to hide his amusement.

Athlone drew his sword and crowded near the Wylfling. “One more word, and I will relieve you of your duties as the Mouth of Medb.”

The emissary shrank away from the sword poised near his throat and glared fearfully at the wer-tain. “My master will hear of this.” Savaric glanced down at the brooch on his cloak. “He probably already has,” he said resignedly.

The emissary froze. His eyes narrowed to slashes, and his face seemed to shrink around his skull as he analyzed the meaning of Savaric’s remark. He was shaken, but he rearranged his demeanor and hoped he had misunderstood the chieftain. “I am sure word has already reached my master of Lord Branth’s petty attempt at insult. However, it appears it is too late to do anything but accept the situation. The council must convene.”

Athlone slammed his sword back into its scabbard. “I will see Branth dead before he gets away with this.”

Savaric shook his head. His initial wrath was cooling and tempering into a more devious anger. “He will not get away with anything. But now we have to move carefully. He is testing us. Somehow, we need to draw his teeth without drawing our swords.”

Gabria smiled to herself. She had misjudged Savaric. She knew that she should stay behind the men and out of sight, but she was curious to see the camps. She wriggled past a guard’s horse and stood by Athlone’s heel, where Boreas’s bulk hid her from the emissary.

Gabria looked down at the two rivers, where the tents of the four clans lay stretched out like dark birds. To the north of the island, in a wide, quiet bend of the Isin, was the ground where her clan would settle. The area was far from the bazaar and the council tent, and rather isolated from the rest of the encampments, but the Corin had always used it, preferring the convenience of water and pasture. Now it was empty, and Gabria knew that the other clans would avoid it like a curse. If the Khulinin took it, they would pay an honor to the dead clan as well as irritate Medb’s faction. She grinned at her idea.

The Khulinin men were deep in consideration of their next move. No one knew she was there. “You could camp on the Corin’s land,” Gabria suggested into the tense quiet.

Athlone turned furiously, taken by surprise. “Get back to the caravan. Now!” The emissary was looking curiously over his shoulder so Athlone nudged Boreas into his way.

“What did you say, boy?” Savaric was more startled by her suggestion than her presence.

“Why don’t you camp in the Corin’s place?” Gabria repeated.

A slow, devious smile curled Savaric’s mouth, and he chuckled appreciatively at the thought of the other chiefs’ reactions. He said, as if to himself, “Dathlar would be pleased.”

The wer-tain leaned over and hissed at Gabria, “Get out of sight, you fool!” She ducked behind a guard’s horse just as the emissary pushed around Boreas.

“Who was that boy?” the agent asked suspiciously.

Savaric replied blandly, “My brother’s son. He sometimes forgets his place. Athlone, what do you think of his suggestion?”

“It has merit,” the wer-tain said, studiously ignoring the emissary’s frown.

“I agree.” Savaric turned to his men. “Jorlan, we will camp by the Isin where the Corin once camped.” The chieftain disregarded the astonished looks of the riders and added, “There will be no reprisals against the Geldring. We will behave as if nothing has happened. Is that understood?”

Jorlan and the warriors saluted. They were appalled at the whole notion, but their lord’s word was law. Jorlan, who was filling in as second wer-tain, gave the necessary orders, and the caravan began to move reluctantly down the hill. Gabria ran back to Nara and returned to the end of the procession. It had been foolish to risk exposing herself to the emissary, but it had been worth it. She released Nara to run with the other horses and went to hide in Piers’s wagon until the clan was settled.

The outriders moved the herds to the distant pastures while the wagons rumbled down the hill. A few shouts of welcome met the caravan, and clansmen rode out to escort them. Yet few of the greeters showed their usual excitement. They were waiting nervously to witness the Khulinin’s reply to the Geldring’s insolence. A few Geldring, too, were watching from the edge of their camp; the rest were out of sight.

Then the clansmen stilled and gazed at the Khulinin, astounded at what they were seeing. The wagons turned off the main path and crossed the Isin, coming to a stop at the wide, grassy bend everyone had hitherto fearfully ignored. The other clans had expected anything but this. Savaric, as he watched the carts unloaded and the tents lovingly constructed, smiled to himself. He wished that he could see the look on Medb’s face when the Wylfling saw the Khulinin camp on the Corin’s land.