Lightning's Daughter

12

“Piers.” Athlone grabbed the healer’s arm. “What are the chances Branth could Still be alive if he is in those lower storerooms?”

The healer tore a strip off his shirt and tied it over his nose and mouth to filter out the thickening smoke. “None, Lord. The whole corridor was on fire.”

“If the Fon had moved him, where would she have taken him?” Athlone had to shout over the noise of the people and the increasing roar of the fire.

“If there was time?” Piers lifted his hands. “He could be in her apartments or in the guardrooms of the other wing. He could be anywhere.”

The chief thought fast. “Then we’ll have to split up. Search what you can, then get out fast. If anyone finds Branth, either bring him or kill him. Everyone understand?” They nodded. “Piers, you know this place. Take Gabria and Keth. Look where you think he is the most likely to be. Bregan, you come with me. We’ll go upstairs to the Fon’s rooms. Secen, Valar, and Sayyed, you take Tam and the dog and check the other wing.”

They hurried into their groups and started to leave. Only a few of the fleeing palace inhabitants glanced their way before rushing on.

“Don’t wait too long to get out,” Athlone shouted after the men. Gabria was about to follow Piers when the chieftain took her hand. He wanted to say something to her before they parted in the smoke and fire, but sensible words failed to come to mind.

Gabria looked into his face, still bruised, bearded, and smeared with mud and dirt. She pulled off the strip of cloth tied over her nose and mouth and lightly kissed his cheek.

Then she ran after Piers and vanished into the smoke.

Athlone looked after her in surprise before a quirk of a smile touched his mouth. He gestured to Bregan and left the banquet hall to find the stairs leading up to the next floor.

As Athlone and Bregan disappeared in one direction, Piers led Gabria and Keth through a set of doors, down another dim corridor, and into the audience hall where the Fon usually held her large public festivals, court functions, and celebrations. A few lamps were lit in the room despite the late hour, and Gabria looked around in amazement at the rich furnishings.

The walls of the vast room were covered with tapestries, colorful banners, and hangings of silk embroidered with the ship emblem of Pra Desh. Padded benches and chairs lined the walls, and a huge fireplace dominated one end of the room. Gabria noticed the big room was empty and was already filling with smoke.

Piers came to the center of the room and slowed down to get his bearings.

Gabria grabbed his sleeve. “Where are we going?”

The healer continued to study their surroundings as he answered. “The Fon should know where Branth is. If we can find her, maybe . . .” He paused as another crash reverberated through the palace. Screams echoed down the corridor. “Floor gave way,” he muttered. He glanced at the stone walls. “It won’t be long before enough floors collapse to bring down all the walls.”

“Then let’s hurry,” Keth suggested nervously.

“Do you know where she might be?” Gabria asked.

Piers curled his lip. “If I know that woman, she’s in the vaults trying to save the treasury.” He hurried his companions out of the audience hall and into the first of the Fon’s two waiting rooms. These rooms, where supplicants waited for personal interviews with the Fon in her throne room, were even more luxurious than the hall. They were filled with precious rugs, wallcases of delicate porcelain, handsomely carved furniture, and shelves of valuable books.

This room was empty’ of people, so Piers walked through to the next. That room was much like the first. Here, her personal secretaries usually screened the people who would be allowed in the Fon’s presence. At that moment, the only people in the room were two noblemen and one palace guard. The courtiers were older men in various stages of night dress, and they were shouting and frantically pounding on an arched wooden door. The guard was beside them, trying to hack at the door handle and frame with the point of his sword. .

Piers came to a quick halt and cursed under his breath. The men had obviously been there for some time, because the door handle was splintered from the guard’s blows.

“What is it?” Gabria whispered behind the healer.

“The vaults are behind the throne room and that door is the only way in.”

The guard shouted angrily at the clanspeople, “What are you doing here?”

“Quit yelping and help us,” one of the noblemen ordered, ignoring the newcomers.

The guard gave a sharp laugh. “You’ll never get that door open. She’s barred it from inside.”

“She?” Piers demanded. “The Fon?”

The guard glared at him. “Who else? Now, get out of here!”

Piers shoved past the guard, ignoring his sword, and shouldered into the group of noblemen. “I’ll help,” he said, adding his weight to the door. The courtiers looked startled but they wanted badly to reach their ruler, so they moved over to include him. All three threw their strength at the door, but the wood did not budge.

One of the noblemen sagged against the door. He was breathing heavily, perspiration dripping down around his round face, and his eyes were wide in fear. “I can’t believe this!” he cried. “A riot in the streets, a fire in the palace, and she hides in her throne room. What are we going to do?”

More crashes sounded upstairs. Cries and screams filled the corridors beyond the audience hall, and the distant rumble of thunder sounded outside.

The frightened nobleman shoved himself away from the door and ran for the other room.

“Wait!” His companion shouted after him.

“You save the shrew,” he cried and dashed out.

The other men looked at one another. The courtier gave Piers an odd glance before turning away.

“There is no other way in?” Gabria asked.

They shook their heads and bent to try again.

“Look out!” the guard bellowed, leaping sideways as a smoldering chunk of the ceiling collapsed where he had been standing. Smoke billowed through the hole, and the room was lit by the lurid glow from the flames in the timbers above the false ceiling.

“We’ll never get this door open this way,” the old nobleman shouted over the crackling of the fire.

“Are you sure she’s in there?” demanded Piers.

The guard replied, “She ran by here a little while ago, before we knew of the fire,” He shivered and gripped his sword. “It was strange. She looked wild! Just slammed the door and barred it.”

Gabria stared at the door while the guard was talking, and in her mind she formed the words of a spell. “Piers, get out of the way,” she ordered.

Before the two Pra Deshians could argue, Piers hustled them aside. Gabria raised her hand and concentrated on focusing her magical energy. In that moment she sensed again the strange feeling of growing power, and this time she recognized what it was: the latent magic in the area was increasing. The phenomenon was still not strong enough that she could identify the cause of the increase, so Gabria set the puzzle aside for now. She spoke the command for her spell. In a breath, the door collapsed into a heap of splinters and wood dust.

“Oh, Elaja!” the guard wailed, and he, too, took to his heels out of the room toward the audience hall.

“Nicely done, Gabria,” Piers said thankfully.

“The sorceress?” the remaining nobleman gasped.

Gabria tried to reassure him. “We’re here for Branth, nothing else. Do you know where he is?”

“Dead, I hope,” the man snarled. He thrust his body into the open doorway and blocked their path. “I thought I knew you from somewhere,” he shouted at Piers. “You’re the healer whose daughter was condemned for sorcery! Well, you helped kill one Fon, but you won’t get this one.”

Keth leaped past Gabria and lifted his sword. Piers held him back. He finally recognized the man. “Ancor, I had nothing to do with the poisoning and neither did my daughter.”

The courtier would not listen. “Her own husband admitted it!” he yelled.

Piers shouted fiercely in reply. “And where is he? Keeping the prince of Calah company in the bottom of the pit?”

The old man blanched as if that thought had occurred to him in the past. “The Fon told us his ship went down with no survivors,” he said defensively.

Another chunk of burning ceiling crashed to the floor, setting rugs and a tapestry alight.

“Healer,” Keth called, “we’ve got to get out of here.”

“Not without the Fon,” Piers answered harshly, and he tried to push past the nobleman.

The danger of the fire and the anger on Piers’s face made the old man frantic. “No! Leave this place,” he shouted. “You are a traitor and your daughter was a murdering heretic!”

Gabria was watching her friend and saw something break in the normally quiet, gentle man. All of the fury, the guilt, and the sense of injustice he had been carrying within him for eleven years had been stirred up by the sight of the dungeon and by the flood of memories that engulfed him. That this insulting old man would dare call his beloved daughter a murdering heretic was more than Piers could bear.

With a roar of fury, the healer balled his fist and hit the nobleman in the face. The man fell like a poleaxed cow. Piers sprang over his body and dashed into the throne room with Gabria and Keth close on his heels.

No sooner were they through the door than they all skidded to a halt. Their attention was drawn to a large, canopied throne that sat on a wide dais against the opposite wall. The fire had already reached this small, opulent room through the ceiling.

Sparks and flaming chunks of wood were raining down, starring more fires on carpets, tapestries, and on the red canopy over the golden throne. Beneath the flaming canopy sat the Fon of Pra Desh, her eyes staring horribly at the intruders.

Piers’s fury still burned in his blood. Without a conscious plan, he snarled a curse and ran toward the Fon, ignoring the smoke and flames.

“Piers, no!” Gabria shouted.

The healer lifted his hand as he raced up the marble steps of the dais, and he was about to grab the Fon when she looked up at him.

The healer faltered. He hardly recognized the woman. Her face was twisted into such a mask of horror that he realized instantly she had slipped beyond the edges of sanity. Her eyes were empty of reason and filled with insensible fear. When she saw him, the Fon cowered down into her seat, moaning and trembling in terror.

Piers stared at her with pity and astonishment. What had happened to turn this strong-willed woman into a crazed, fearful wreck?

He was about to take her arm when a large piece of the ceiling crashed down to the floor behind him. Piers whirled around and cried out. The wreckage had fallen on Gabria and the warrior. Frantically the healer ran back, dodging small fires, and dragged Gabria’s body out from under the smoking chunks of timbers and paneling. Keth was still conscious and able to move. He crawled out by himself and dazedly helped Piers smother the smoldering sparks on Gabria’s clothes and drag her to the slim protection of the Stone doorway.

Piers breathed a silent prayer of thanks as he examined the sorceress. She had a bump and a cut on her head and was dazed, but she was already coming around.

“Piers,” Keth yelled, steadying Gabria. “If we don’t go now, we’ll never get out.” The healer agreed. The rooms behind them were already burning, and the throne room was almost intolerably hot.

“I’m going to get the Fon,” he called. He started forward, when something caught his eye. He half-turned, and a man burst through the doorway, slamming into Keth and knocking the warrior sideways. Gabria cried out and fell. The man rushed past Piers, his eyes hooded in smoke and shadow and his mouth twisted in a maniacal smile. He had a large book under his bleeding arm.

There was something familiar about that man, Piers thought, then all sensibilities fled from his mind. Horrorstruck, he stared at the Fon. She had risen from her throne and was watching the stranger, terror warping her face into a hideous grimace. Just as the man reached her, she screamed a heart-tearing wail of despair. Piers saw the flash of a dagger blade in the man’s hand. Before the healer could move, the man had grabbed the screaming Fon by the hair, hauled her off the dais, and slashed her throat. Laughing gleefully, he flung her bleeding body to the floor.

In the waiting room behind the clanspeople, the Pra Deshian nobleman regained consciousness. He gazed at the body of his ruler for one horrified second before he fled.

The murderer saw the movement and raised his head.

“Branth!” Piers whispered, shocked to his soul.

The exiled clansman ignored him. Still clutching his bloody dagger, he bolted past Piers for the door. Keth tried to block him, but the man slashed wildly, cutting through Keth’s tunic into his arm. The warrior fell back, and Branth ran, laughing, out of the throne room.

Piers pulled himself together. There was nothing more to do but get out fast. He and Keth took Gabria’s arms and helped her out of the room. Behind them the blazing canopy collapsed over the golden throne.

Gabria was still woozy from the bang on her head, but she was able to walk. With the aid of Keth and Piers she hurried past the fires in the waiting rooms and into the audience hall. The hall, too, was hot and filled with smoke. They rushed through the hall and entered the corridors. The roar of the fire in the Fon’s wing assailed their ears.

“This way,” Piers said, and he led them away from the sweeping flames. There was no sign of Branth or anyone else. The people had long since fled that part of the palace. Bending low, the two men and Gabria ran, coughing and gasping, along the dark corridors to the spacious front entrance hall in the center of the palace.

The huge double doors were open, and a strong draft blew in through the hall. Outside, Gabria could see hundreds of people milling around the gates and the wall, watching the great fire.

She and the men were about to go to the doors when a new sound caught their attention over the roar of the fire and the crack and groan of the dying palace. They heard a thud and a clash of blades by the opposite wall in the shadows of a broad staircase.

“Branth!” someone shouted in fury.

Gabria’s heart froze. It was Athlone’s voice.

The sorceress and Keth leaped forward at a run to find the source of the noise. They dashed across the wide, dark hall and found three men locked in battle in the shadows at the foot of the stairs.

Just as Keth shouted the Khulinin war cry, one figure broke away from the other two and raced for the door. What looked like a large book was tucked under his arm. A pale flash of lightning filled open doors, and the light revealed the man’s face for only an instant. In that instant, Gabria recognized him.

“Branth!” she hissed furiously. Her hands rose instinctively, and she fired a bolt of the Trymian Force at the fleeing man. The blue bolt seared toward him, but Branth dodged around the door. Gabria’s arcane force exploded on the wooden frame.

The gorthling’s step hesitated when he realized a magic-wielder had attacked him. Unfortunately, it was too late to do anything about it. The gorthling’s new powers were untried and there were too many people around. He had to get away from this place as quickly as possible.

By the time Gabria reached the door, Branth had already disappeared into the crowd of onlookers.

“Gabria!” Sayyed shouted behind her. She turned to see the Turk and his group running into the hall from a corridor in the south wing. She went to join them, and the whole party converged at the base of the stairs.

Gabria took one look at Athlone and Bregan and stifled a cry. Bregan lay on the bottom step, a bloody dagger buried to the hilt in his chest. Lord Athlone was leaning against the wall, coughing and groaning. No one said a word. Sayyed and Valar picked up Bregan, Secen put his arm under Athlone, and the whole party fled the burning palace.

They crossed the courtyard and took shelter on the far side of the wall. Somewhere in the north wing, a section of the roof collapsed and a huge portion of the front wall slowly crashed into the raging inferno. Sparks and flames soared high on the night wind.

For a moment, Gabria leaned gratefully against the cold stone and gulped in the clean night air. She was sick, dizzy, and utterly exhausted. Her head felt as if a stone mason was pounding on her temples. She ignored the curious onlookers and wished desperately for a drink. Tam pressed against her, trying hard not to cry.

Beside her, Athlone had sagged against the wall and was taking deep racking breaths to expel the smoke in his lungs. She reached over and clasped his hand.

“What happened?” she asked.

For a long time he could not answer. Finally, he croaked, “We searched upstairs as far as we could and found nothing. The palace was a bonfire.”

Gabria took a close look at him and winced. His face was black with soot, his clothes were riddled with bums, and the soles of his boots were charred.

“We came down the stairs to get out and saw Branth in the hall.” The chief struggled to stand straight. “We tried to stop him, but he was . . .” Athlone tried to find the right word. “Wild. He just leaped at us like a mad wolf. Bregan saw his dagger and threw himself in front of me.” The chief’s voice cracked, and he shook his head in grief and anger.

Gabria glanced at Piers, who was bending over the old warrior. The healer caught her eyes and shook his head. Gabria wanted to weep.

At that moment, Khan’di came through the crowd. The nobleman’s clothes were spattered with blood, and his face was strained with worry and weariness. His smile lit up when he saw the travelers by the wall. “Praise Elaja, you are safe,” he cried. His expression fell when he saw Bregan, but he had little time for sorrow then. Urgently he turned to Gabria. “Sorceress, we desperately need your help.”

Gabria groaned. She did not feel well enough to help herself, let alone Khan’di. Nevertheless she stood up, hanging on to Tam for support, and followed the noblemen back around the wall to the entrance gate.

For a long time they simply stood and stared at the monstrous fire that was consuming the Fon’s magnificent palace.

The city’s fire brigade was frantically trying to protect what was left of the central block and the south wing, but the blaze was too much for their bucket lines.

Khan’di cleared his throat. “Sorceress, the fire is far beyond our control. Is there any way you can put it out?”

Gabria was stunned. The fire was so big, so powerful, she had never considered such a thing. It was easy to form globes of light or make a door turn to dust, but to quench such a vast inferno? She doubted that she had the skill or the strength.

Lightning flickered overhead, and she looked up at the sky. “There’s a storm coming. The rain will put it out.”

Khan’di followed her gaze. “I know,” he said, “but it’s moving too slowly. Right now the wind is whipping up the fire.” He pointed to the burning roof where a strong gust swept sparks and burning debris into the air. “If any of that lands in other parts of the city, it could start more fires. Some areas are so old and full of wood that a single spark could Start a conflagration that even a hurricane could not put out.”

Gabria understood his fear, but still she hesitated. “Isn’t sorcery still against the law in Pra Desh? What will all of those people do if I start using magic?”

The nobleman tapped his sword. “You still have my promise of protection. No one will dare touch you as long as you are under my care.”

Gabria was silent. If there was only something she could do! She pushed her weariness and headache aside and tried to think. How does one put out a fire? Water was the obvious answer and water was coming, but not fast enough. She knew from her teacher, the Woman of the Marsh, that human magic-wielders were not strong enough to control something as powerful and unpredictable as the weather, so she could not manipulate the Storm. Nor did she think she should try to direct the tremendous fire itself. What she needed was a spell that was uncomplicated and foolproof that she could keep under control, even in her weakened state.

The sorceress rubbed her temples with one hand and held on to Tam with the other. What was another way to put out a fire? Blow it out with a great wind. Dump dirt on it to smother it. . . .

Her mind focused on an idea. She knew fire needed air in order to burn. If the air was cut off by dirt or a wet blanket, the fire died out. Gabria realized she did not need dirt, all she needed was an airtight, arcane shell over the fire. The flames would fade, the sparks could not fly, and the city would be protected. All she would have to do is hold the shield until the storm broke.

The storm.

Gabria stared up at the black sky, and the strange feeling of growing power that she had sensed earlier burst into understanding. The thunderstorm was enhancing, the powers of magic!

Magic existed in every person, animal, and thing. It lay everywhere to be tapped by a human with the talent to utilize the power. Gabria realized, as the thunderstorm bore down on the city, that the magic around her was intensifying as if the vast forces of the storm were heightening the magical energy already present.

She looked back at the walls of the palace and wondered if she could make use of this increased power. She would need a lot of strength to hold a shield so big—strength she did not want to needlessly waste with Branth still on the loose.

“All right,” she said forcefully and dropped Tam’s hand. She heard Athlone and Sayyed come up behind her as she faced the palace and concentrated on the enhanced magic around her. The splinter in her wrist suddenly blazed with a ruby light from the power that coursed through her body.

Slowly Gabria formed her spell.

She began her shield on ground level, at the corners of the two four-Story wings on the north and south sides of the palace. Using every fiber of her skill and concentration, she created a protective arcane ward at each corner and carefully lengthened the wards up until they resembled glowing pillars of red light. She raised them higher—past the first floor; past the second; up to the eaves of the palace. Gradually the wards arched upward and joined over the center of the roof. Their red light was almost lost in the fiery glow of the inferno.

The crowd behind Gabria stood in amazement arid watched the scene in awe. Sayyed’s mouth hung open, and Tam stared wide-eyed in fascination.

Lord Athlone stood transfixed by the spell Gabria was creating. He knew she could draw on the invisible magic around her and shape it to her will, but this was the first time he could clearly see and understand what she was doing. To his amazement, none of his old fears and superstitions rose to hinder him. Instead, he was filled with a budding fascination and a desire to reach out and test the magic with his own hands. He could feel the power around him and within him; it coursed through his veins as naturally and cleanly as his own blood.

The Khulinin chieftain stared at the sorceress and felt the grip of his doubts and reluctance for his own talent begin to weaken. Without intending to, Athlone edged forward until he was standing just behind Gabria.

Meanwhile, Gabria spoke quietly to herself to fix her intent in her mind. She raised her hands to complete the spell. The red pillars of energy began to glow brightly. They spread out, wider and wider from top to bottom, rapidly stretching out to encase the entire palace in an airtight, glowing veil of magic.

In a matter of moments the shell was complete. The edges joined, overlapped, and sealed, and suddenly the noise of the fire was gone. The shell began to fill with smoke.

The courtyard, streets, and gardens around the walled palace erupted with noise as everyone began talking and gesturing at once. Ignoring the uproar, Gabria fought to concentrate and maintain her spell. Even with the help of the increased magic of the storm, she could feel her strength slowly draining away. She held on and prayed the rain would come soon.

Time dragged by. Although the trapped smoke made it difficult to see within the shield, it soon became obvious that Gabria’s spell was working. No sparks or burning debris escaped, and, without fresh air to feed its monstrous energy, the fire was dying. Little by little the flames sank down and went out as the air within the shield burned away.

Gabria closed her eyes and forced her concentration to hold steady. She was growing weaker by the moment; the red light of the splinter in her wrist wavered.

Lightning burst overhead, and the thunder boomed only a heartbeat later. The wind gusted, the smell of rain heavy upon its blast.

“Here it comes,” Khan’di said with a quiet note of triumph.

A raindrop spattered on Gabria’s nose. More drops fell, and lightning seared the sky. The sprinkle soon turned to a deluge.

Khan’di shouted in glee and raised his fist to the pouring rain. Slowly, so as not to restart the fires with a burst of air, Gabria dissolved her shield, allowing the rain to wet the red-hot stone walls. Steam boiled out of the wreckage where the rain drenched the remains of the fire. The light and the intense heat were gone. Gabria took a deep breath of the cold, wet night air. She did not care if she was soaking wet, she was only thankful to be cool and alive.

All at once her dizziness and exhaustion caught up with her. She sagged into Khan’di and felt his arms catch her. She heard Sayyed and Athlone around her and managed a weak smile before her eyes closed and she sank into welcome sleep.

Gabria woke up suddenly and bolted upright on the bed. Something was wrong. Her heart was racing, and her eyes stared wildly around the room. Nothing about this place was familiar. It was big and airy and comfortably full of dark furniture, elegant wall hangings, and thick rugs. An embroidery stand sat by the far window, where sunlight poured into the room. A table near the bed was covered with bottles of perfume, combs, and boxes of jewelry. Even the big bed Gabria was in was different from anything she was used to. This room was obviously not in a treld.

Gabria took a deep breath. Wherever she was, she could not help herself by panicking. She tried to think. The last thing she could remember was the storm. She had no idea how she came to be in this strange place or how long she had been there.

She was about to get up when a small girl and a large dog burst through the door. They saw Gabria was awake and threw themselves at the bed in delight.

Gabria, laughing with relief, grabbed them both in a hug. “Hello, you two! Where is everyone?”

Treader barked, They’re eating. They say if Gabria awakens, she should come eat, too.

Gabria thought that eating sounded like a wonderful idea. She hopped out of bed and looked down at herself in surprise. Her dirty, burned, wet clothes had been replaced by a soft nightdress, and her body and hair had been washed.

Tam bounced off the bed and twirled around to show Gabria the blue dress she was wearing, then she danced to a chair where a red outfit was draped over the padded leather arm. She brought the dress back to Gabria.

The woman was astonished. “For me?” She ran her hand down the fine, soft red wool. The dress was fashioned in a style she had never seen before: it laced at the sides so the bodice fit tightly over her figure, then fell from her hips in a loose, swirling skin.

Delighted, she slipped the dress over her head and pulled the lacings tight. The dress fit her well. When she was ready, she followed Tam and Treader along a passage past more rooms and down a staircase to the main hall.

Unlike the Fon’s palace, which had a separate dining hall, most of the houses in Pra Desh were built with a large central room that was used for dining, entertaining, and family gathering. At that moment, Khan’di, Athlone, Sayyed, two of the hearthguard, Sengi, and several members of the Kadoa retinue were sitting at a large table, eating what Gabria guessed was the midday meal. Everyone sprang to their feet when she came down the stairs. She was secretly pleased to see Sayyed’s grin of pleasure and Athlone’s open look of relief and admiration.

Tam and Treader ran over to join Sayyed, while Khan’di strode forward to escort Gabria to his table.

“Gabria, I am pleased to welcome you to my house.”

She could not help but twirl around to display her dress. “Do I thank you for this? It’s lovely.”

Khan’di smiled in paternal appreciation. He had not realized until now how pretty this woman could be. “We had to throw out your singed clothes. I merely replaced them. It was the least I could do.” He led her to a chair and heaped her plate with spiced meat, cheeses; fruit, and fresh bread. Sengi poured a cup of light, fragrant wine.

Gabria waited until she had eaten her fill before she asked any questions. The men were glad to answer.

“Much has happened the past two days,” Khan’di began.

“Two days!” Gabria exclaimed. “I slept two days?”

“A day and a half really,” Sayyed corrected. “It was almost dawn when the storm came. You slept yesterday, and it is noon now.”

The sorceress was amazed. She had not known the spell would exhaust her so much. “What about the palace?”

Khan’di said, “The fire is out completely. The north wing is totally destroyed. The south wing has smoke and water damage, and the roof has been burned in places, but it is salvageable. We plan to rebuild.”

Gabria caught a note of suppressed excitement in his voice. “We?” she repeated pointedly.

Athlone replied for his host. “Khan’di Kadoa has been chosen by the guilds and the noble families of Pra Desh to be the new Fon.”

Gabria’s face lit with a smile. “That’s wonderful!”

Khan’di’s satisfaction showed in every movement of his body and in every line of his face. “We are going to rebuild the palace as soon as the economy of the city has recovered. The Fon’s army has been disbanded, and her supporters are in prison. Luckily, her treasury was still intact in the vaults. We have already sent peace delegations to the other kingdoms. And-” he leaned forward and his hand slapped the table in glee, “we found the prince of Calah unharmed in the dungeons.”

“How is that possible?” Gabria asked in surprise.

“The Fon must have been too cautious to kill him immediately, so she kept him handy.”

“But what about the fire?”

“The fire did not reach down very far. The doors protected the underground levels and enough air leaked in from the cracks and fissures in the dungeon to keep all the prisoners alive.”

Sengi added proudly, “The prince will be restored to his rightful throne.”

“And the feuding will begin again,” one of the other noblemen chuckled.

Gabria took a sip of her wine. “What about the Fon?”

“The courtier, Ancor, and Piers told us what happened.” Khan’di curled his lip in distaste. “The remains of the Fon’s body were found in the throne room. She and her monstrous tools of torture were dumped in the pit. The dungeons have been emptied and sealed.”

“What of Bregan?” she asked softly.

Athlone frowned. The loss of his friend still pained him deeply. He could hardly believe the old warrior was gone. “He will be buried this afternoon. He has won back his status and honor as a Khulinin warrior.”

She nodded and looked away to hide the blur of tears in her eyes. “Has anyone found Branth?”

There was a long silence; Gabria guessed the answer.

“The city guard did not recognize him in time,” Khan’di said heavily. “He stole a horse and slipped out of the city. He was seen riding north.”

The sorceress leaned back in her chair and stared at the far wall. Her responsibilities to Khan’di and Pra Desh were fulfilled with Branth’s departure from the city. Everyone would have preferred to have him in chains and ready to face the city’s judges, but despite their best efforts, the man had slipped away.

Gabria chewed her lip as she thought. She had two choices now: she could let Branth go and return home in time for the clan gathering, or she could pursue him and run the risk of missing the important council of chieftains. Her first inclination was to let Branth escape. She was tired of traveling and ready to go home. She wanted to settle her problems with Sayyed and Athlone, then attend the council and persuade the chiefs to change the laws against magic. The clan gathering was the only time in the year that all eleven chiefs met to create or change the laws that governed the clans. If she was not at the gathering this year, the chiefs could easily ignore the matter of sorcery or even vote against it.

Unfortunately her better judgment disagreed with her first inclination. The King Stallion had warned her that someone was experimenting in evil magic, and her vision had confirmed it was Branth. Back in the caves two nights ago, when she had sensed that great terror, she felt Branth had done something horrible. But what? A fearful, nagging doubt pricked her mind, and she remembered the look of bestial cruelty on his face in the throne room. The exiled chief was gone from Pra Desh, but he still had the Book of Matrah and was still very dangerous.

Gabria swallowed her disappointment. She rose and said to Athlone, “My lord, I have to go after him.”

For a moment, the Khulinin chief did not answer. He had already guessed how she would choose. Although he was proud of her determination and courage, a small cloud of foreboding darkened his thoughts. The feeling of terror he, too, had sensed in the cave had lodged in his mind, and he was badly frightened for Gabria. Worse, he knew that the only way he could help her against Branth was to learn sorcery himself.

To Athlone’s surprise, the idea did not unsettle him. When he had watched Gabria standing alone, smothering the fire and protecting Pra Desh, he had realized that he had made a mistake. Athlone had known for a year that he had the talent to wield magic, a talent that could be used for great good, and he had ignored it.

The chieftain stood and bowed slightly to their host. “Thank you for your earlier invitation, but we will be leaving as soon as possible.”

Khan’di’s shrewd glance went from the chief to the woman as he said, “I did not expect anything less.”

They buried Bregan that afternoon in the hills above the City. The travelers and the new Fon escorted the warrior’s body up the steep trail to a high peak that overlooked the grasslands far away in the purple haze.

They built a bier of logs and arrayed the warrior’s body in his mail shirt, his golden clan cloak, and his finest clothes. The hearthguard laid his weapons by his side; Lord Athlone put a gold armband on his forearm as a symbol of Bregan’s restored honor, and Gabria and Tam brought the bag of salt, the loaf of bread, and the water bag that the warrior would need for his journey to the realm of the dead.

They doused the bier with oil and set it ablaze. As the flames climbed toward the sun, Gabria sang the women’s prayers for the dead. It took several hours for the fire to die to embers. Only then did they cover the ashes with a high mound of dirt and mark the grave with a spear and helmet as befitting an honored clan warrior.

It was almost dark when the party rode back down through the hills, leading Bregan’s horse. Halfway to the city, they paused while Gabria slipped off her horse and walked ahead a few paces into the twilight. She put her fingers to her lips to whistle a piercing call, but Tam’s shrill call sounded before Gabria had drawn a breath.

The little girl’s whistle was enough. Three Hunnuli cantered out of the darkness. They gathered around Gabria, nickering their pleasure, then Eurus went to greet Athlone and the colt trotted to Tam.

“It is safe to come to the city,” Gabria told Nara. “Khan’di has granted us safe passage.” She clambered up onto the mare’s back and threw her arms around her neck. “I missed you,” she murmured.

And I you, Nara replied. But it’s not over, is it?

“No,” Gabria answered sadly. “Not yet.”