Winged Magic

Prologue

The meara raised his head, his shapely ears pricked forward, and he turned his nose into the night wind. His nostrils flared wide at the chilled smells on the breeze. The winter camp of the clan lay close by in its sheltering basin between two tall, easy hills. Its heavy odors of leather, smoke, dogs, and humans were clear in every detail to the sensitive nose of the stallion. The humans peacefully slept, except for the outriders who rode guard duty around the scattered herds and the large cluster of tents, pens, small outbuildings, and the chieftain’s timbered hall that marked the treld, or winter camp. The outrider near the meara’s herd seemed to be dozing, too, for his head drooped over his chest and his horse stood relaxed.

The big stallion snorted irritably, his sides rippling like molten bronze from a tension he could not identify.

He had been chosen to be the meara, or king stallion, not only for his conformation, beauty, and speed, but also because of his fierce desire to protect his mares. Some unidentified sense in his mind whispered something was wrong. He could not understand what it was yet, and that disturbed him enough to set him trotting up a gentle slope and away from the treld to a spot from which he could survey the meadows.

Up on a rise, he lifted his head to the cold wind. Spring had come in name only, and the frost hung thick in the air. On the eastern horizon, a pale gold band of light heralded the coming day. The breeze stirred again, riffling the meara’s heavy mane.

He breathed deeply of the biting cold and caught a taste of something new on the edge of the wind. There was a hint of softness, a faint wisp of warmth that hadn’t been there before. The wind had swung around from the south, and its swirling tide bore the spicy scent of the Turic deserts far beyond the Altai River and the Ruad el Brashir grasslands. The stallion felt the coming change in the weather as surely as the cold that tingled in his nostrils.

But he realized the wind was not the object of his unease. Wind was a natural part of his existence; something else out there in the night was not. He inhaled again, and this time he caught another scent. It was faint and south of the treld, but it was unmistakable now: horses, many of them, and all strangers. A low sound rumbled deep in his chest.

His neck arched like a strung bow, he pranced along the edge of the meadow where his herd grazed to another hilltop south of the camp. He stopped there, for the scent was stronger and coming closer. He could smell other things, too: leather, metal, and the heavy scent of humans. Not clanspeople. These men smelled different, spicy like the desert.

The meara could hear them now. The strange horses’ pace abruptly broke into a gallop, and their hoofbeats pounded closer. In the dawning light, the stallion saw the horses rise over a distant slope in a long line and charge down the incline toward the sleeping treld. The soft light gleamed on the blades of many swords and on the polished tips of spears.

Wheeling, the meara bellowed a warning to his mares. He galloped back toward his herd while the strange horses thundered over the frozen grass. Somewhere in the camp, a guard shouted. Then another. A horn blew a frantic high note. More cries rang in the chilled dawn air, and men began to appear among the tents.

All the horses in the meadows were alert now, their heads raised to watch the unknown horsemen approach. The newcomers gave a great shout as their mounts reached the first tents on the southern end of the camp. Suddenly there were screams, and the wind became tainted with the smell of blood. The horses grew frightened. The meara alone paid no heed. His only thought was for his herd. Like a tornado he roared across the pasture, bellowing and snapping at the mares to get them moving.

They needed little urging. Neighing with fear, they cantered ahead of their king, away from the blood and the panic and toward the open grassland. No outrider tried to stop them, for the guards were galloping frantically back toward the treld.

Another horn blast cut across the gathering din of shouts, screams, and the clash of weapons. The meara hesitated, stirred by a faint memory from his younger years when he had been trained for battle. The song of the chieftain’s horn had once been an important signal to his mind. His steps slowed, and he turned once to look back. In the brightening day he saw the treld consumed in chaos. The strangers were everywhere, their swords rising and falling among the struggling clanspeople.

Women and children scattered everywhere, and the people fought fiercely to defend their homes. Already smoke and flames rose from the chieftain’s hall.

The stallion trumpeted a challenge. He waited for the chieftain’s horn to call again, unaware that the horn lay broken in the bleeding hand of the dying chief. The wait became unbearable, the fear for his mares too great. The stallion turned away from the killing and galloped after the fleeing horses, driving them toward safety on the open sweeps of the Ramtharin Plains.

The wind blew from the south for three days, roaring with the first fanfare of spring across the frozen plains. It was a tossing, tumbling, tumultuous wind, a great warm ocean of air that tossed the trees, swirled the winter-cured grass, and swept in an irresistible current over the far-flung hills. Its warmth erased the last of the snow and filled the valleys with the rippling sheen of water.

In the winter trelds of the eleven clans of Valorian, the clanspeople shook out their rugs and bedding, aired their tents, and rejoiced in the change of the seasons. The clans’ horses lifted their muzzles to the rushing wind and filled their nostrils with the warm, dry breath of the deserts far to the south. The mares waited patiently, knowing the Birthing was coming soon, but the youngsters kicked up their heels to race the wild wind.

In the brilliant blue sky above the high plateau of Moy Tura, one horse did more than lift her heels to the wind. A Hunnuli mare, as black as obsidian, raced to the abrupt edge of the highland and launched herself into the skirts of the wind. For a moment she tucked her front legs and dropped toward the rocky base several hundred feet below. Her rider, a young woman with hair as black as her Hunnuli’s tail, gave a sharp cry of elation; then the horse spread her wings and rose high into the currents.

Wheeling, soaring, hearts high with release, horse and rider flew with the spring wind in the bright, clear light of the morning sun. They headed south on the tides of the air for several hours, until the mare was drenched in sweat and the rugged Himachal Mountains rose like a fortress wall to their right. Southward, where the wind continued to roar, the rolling grasslands faded away into the gray-blue horizon.

The young woman, Kelene, realized it was time to return home, but for a while longer she stared south into the wind. To the south lay Dangari Treld and the Isin River, and farther still lay the winter treld of the Khulinin Clan, the home of her parents, Lord Athlone and Lady Gabria.

Kelene shrugged her shoulders somewhat irritably. She had never imagined three or four years ago that she would move so far from home and miss her parents so deeply. As a girl she had avoided her parents’ love and concern, much as a stubborn child would refuse a sour draught. It wasn’t until she married and moved two hundred leagues away to Moy Tura that she realized how much of her mother and father’s time and wisdom she missed.

“It would be nice,” she said, unaware that she had spoken her wistful thought aloud.

The Hunnuli mare, a horse descended from an ancient and revered breed, cocked her ears back. What would be nice? she asked in the silent, telepathic communication that linked all Hunnuli to their riders.

Kelene started out of her reverie and laughed at her own musings. “To see my parents again. It has been so long; I was just thinking how nice it would be to keep flying south and surprise them with a visit.”

The mare, Demira, snorted. That would be a surprise. Especially to Rafnir. He’s expecting you to help with the wells this afternoon.

The reminder brought a grimace to Kelene’s tanned face. Unexpectedly the delight in the morning dwindled, and she muttered between her teeth, “I am getting just a little tired of that ruin.”

As if the words had opened a dam, her frustrations welled up uncontrollably, like gall in her throat. Kelene shook her head fiercely, trying to deny them. What did she have to be angry about? She had the most wonderful horse in the world, a winged mare who could fly her to any place she chose to go. She had a husband who adored her, parents who loved her, and a rare and gifted talent to heal that made her one of the most respected women in the clans. The weather was glorious, spring was on the way, and this flying ride was everything she had ever dreamed. So why, Kelene asked herself, why do I feel so dissatisfied?

She pondered that question while Demira winged her way home on the northern track of the wind. Truth to tell, Kelene decided, her frustration hadn’t been a sudden thing brought on by the thought of her parents or the reminder of unpleasant work. It had been building, layer by thin, brittle layer, for quite some time, and that bothered her.

After all, she knew frustration and setbacks all too well. As a girl she had been crippled and willful, afraid of her own power and too stubborn to ask for help. Then three years ago during the clans’ annual summer gathering, an old evil escaped and a virulent plague struck the clanspeople. In a desperate attempt to help, Kelene, her brother Savaron, his friend Rafnir, and several other magic-wielders journeyed with the sorcerer, Sayyed, to the forbidden ruins of Moy Tura to look for old healing records that could help save the clans.

Through the midst of the monumental tragedy, Kelene grew to become a competent, caring woman. She learned to accept her strengths and weaknesses and to use her gift of empathy and magic to her utmost. With Rafnir’s help, she gave wings to Demira; she befriended the Korg, the sorcerer in the shape of a stone lion who guarded Moy Tura; and she learned to use the healing stones that helped cure her dying people.

When the dead were buried and clan life began to return to some semblance of normal, Kelene and Rafnir took her parents to Moy Tura and made a startling proposal: they wanted to rebuild the city. Kelene still remembered the exhilarating excitement and anticipation of their hopes and dreams. It would be a monumental task, but they had been empowered by their own optimism and newfound maturity.

That had been three years ago.

Demira’s light thought teasingly interrupted her reverie. Do you mean that ruin?

Kelene glanced down and saw they had already reached the huge plateau that bore the ruins of Moy Tura on its flat crown. “Don’t land yet,” she said.

Obligingly the mare stretched out her wings to catch a rising draft and lazily circled the city.

Kelene sighed. From this bird’s-eye view there certainly wasn’t much to see. There wasn’t much to see from the ground, either, even after three years of unending work. Moy Tura had proved to be a tougher problem to crack than either she or Rafnir had imagined.

At one time Moy Tura had been the jewel of the clans’ realm and the center of wisdom and learning.

Magic-wielders, those people descended from the hero-warrior Valorian and born with the talent to wield the unseen, gods-given power of magic, built the city.

But over the years the clans grew fearful and suspicious of the sorcerers’ powers. In one bloody, violent summer, the clanspeople turned against their magic-wielders and slaughtered every one they could find. A few fled into hiding, but Moy Tura was razed to the ground and magic was forbidden on pain of death. So it had remained for over two hundred years.

Until Mother came along, Kelene thought with a sudden grin. She still wasn’t certain how Lady Gabria had done it. Gabria had faced incredible odds, including the massacre of her entire clan and the opposition of a clan chieftain turned sorcerer, and somehow returned magic to clan acceptance. It was her determination, strength, and courage that made it possible for Kelene to be where she was.

“But where am I now?” Kelene asked the sky above.

I believe you are with me above Moy Tura, Demira answered for the cloudless sky. When Kelene didn’t respond to her teasing humor, the mare cast a quick look back. You are certainly pensive today.

Kelene’s hands tightened on the leather flying harness Rafnir had made for her. It was the only tack the Hunnuli wore. “This morning was fun, Demira. I needed it.”

But it has not helped.

Kelene snorted in disgust. “Moy Tura is still nothing more than a heap of rubble. For every building we clear out or rebuild, there are a hundred more to do. We can’t get enough help. No one wants to leave their comfortable clan to come live in sortie cold, drafty, haunted pile of rock and, since the plague, there aren’t even enough magic-wielders to go around the clans, let alone resettle Moy Tura. The clan chiefs won’t support us. And where in Amara’s name are the city wells? The Korg told us there were cisterns, but he couldn’t remember where.

Why can’t we find them?”

Kelene stumbled to a startled silence. She hadn’t meant to explode with such an outburst; it just came pouring out, probably loosened by the first taste of spring after a long winter’s drudgery.

Actually you have accomplished a great deal, Demira reminded her in a cool, matter-of-fact manner. You learned the craft of healing, you are an accomplished sorceress, and you are the only clanswoman to do an inside loop.

Kelene laughed at that. The “inside loop” was a trick she and Demira had accomplished—once. It had scared the wits out of them and sent Rafnir into fits of rage at their foolhardiness. He had promptly constructed the flying harness to hold Kelene on Demira’s back and forbade them from flying without it. Kelene had to admit it proved very useful.

“Looking at it that way, you’re right,” Kelene conceded.

But Demira knew her rider’s every nuance of speech and character. It is not just the city that bothers you, is it? You have been there only three years. You knew it would not grow overnight.

“No,” said Kelene, her voice flat. “It is not just the city.” She couldn’t go on. There was one fear left she could not put voice to, one emptiness inside her that ached with a cold dread and made every other setback more difficult to face. After all, what good was building a home if there were no children to fill it? She had not said anything to Rafnir about her inability to bear babes, nor he to her, but she felt his disappointment and concern as poignantly as her own.

Perhaps that was why she was struck with such a desire to see Lady Gabria again. Her mother would provide a loving, sympathetic ear for her worries, and maybe she could suggest something Kelene had overlooked. Unfortunately, there was too much to do at Moy Tura to even consider a journey to Khulinin Treld.

The young woman sighed again. The clans would be gathering at the Tir Samod in three months’ time. Maybe Rafnir would agree to go this year. They needed various tools, herbs, and foodstuffs even magic couldn’t supply, and they could use the time to talk to other magic-wielders. Surely there were a few who would be willing to give Moy Tura a helping hand. Kelene could then talk to her mother and share her anxieties. Until that time she would have to be patient. As Demira pointed out, neither cities nor babies grew overnight.

Kelene was about to ask Demira to land when the Hunnuli turned her head to the south. Someone is coming, she announced.

Kelene’s spirits rose a little. It was always pleasant to see someone new. “Who?” she asked.

In reply the mare veered away from the ruins and followed the pale track of the old southern road where it cut across the top of the plateau. At the edge of the highland the trail dropped over to wend its way down to the lower grasslands. He is there, on the lower trail. Coming fast.

Kelene saw him then, a rider on a black horse cantering up to the foot of the plateau. Her heart caught a beat when she recognized the color of his clan cloak. Every clan had its own individual color to identify its members, a color that was always dyed into the comfortable, versatile cloaks the people wore. This rider, who was obviously heading for Moy Tura, wore the golden yellow of the Khulinin.

At Kelene’s request, Demira landed at the top of the trail and waited for the rider to climb the plateau. Kelene tried not to fidget, yet she couldn’t help straining to look over the edge. Her parents did not send messengers often, only when the news was important. She mused, too, over the coincidence of her wish to visit her parents and the arrival of their messenger on the same morning.

The rider came at last, his Hunnuli winded and sweating. He raised his head at Kelene’s greeting and grinned a very tired and dusty reply. The stallion climbed the last few feet of the incline, topped the trail, and came to a grateful halt beside Demira.

“Kelene! I thought I saw a big black vulture hovering over that dead ruin.” The rider’s weathered face crinkled around his green eyes.

Demira snorted indignantly.

“Veneg,” Kelene addressed the Hunnuli stallion. “How do you put up with him?”

He is rude only to people he likes. Everyone else he ignores, Veneg replied with tired good nature.

The young woman laughed. “Gaalney, he knows you too well.” She paused, taking in for the first time the man’s exhausted pallor, his dirty clothes, and the nearly empty travel packs on the Hunnuli’s back. These two had traveled long and hard. “Are my—” she began to say.

Gaalney rushed to assure her. “Lord Athlone and Lady Gabria are fine and send their greetings. My message is ill news, but it is for Sayyed and Rafnir, as well as for you.”

“Then save your words and tell them once before us all.” She gestured north toward the city. “Come. There is food and drink in Moy Tura and a proper welcome.”

Side by side the two Hunnuli cantered slowly along the old road to the city. The pace gave Kelene a little time to study the man beside her. Gaalney was a distant cousin to her father. He was a young man, rash at times, but with a dauntless courage that helped him excel in his studies of magic. He had stiff yellow hair cut much shorter than she remembered, full green eyes, and a thin mouth that always seemed to lift in a quirk of a smile. She also noticed he had a newly healed wound on his neck just below his ear.

They rode in silence until they reached the tumbled walls of the once-great city of the sorcerers. As they approached, Kelene glanced at Gaalney to see what his reaction would be. She was used to the massive entrance by now, but newcomers were always impressed. Gaalney was no exception.

The horses slowed to a walk, and Gaalney ran his eyes over the repaired stonework, whistling in appreciation. Kelene smiled. She, Rafnir, and the Korg had worked very hard to restore the old gateway. Although it was one of four entrances into Moy Tura, it was the only one they had repaired so far. Most visitors came on the southern road to this gate, and Rafnir wanted to give them a good first impression. The gate was a huge, arched opening between two powerful towers. Both towers had been rebuilt down to the decorative stonework around the defensive crenellations. The road was repaired and repaved with new stone slabs, the archway was cleaned of several hundred years’ worth of grime and old debris, and a golden banner hung above the arch.

The best touch of all, to Kelene’s mind, was the restoration of the two stone lions that had once guarded the gateway. Crouched in perpetual attention, the beasts stood to either side of the road and fixed their red-jeweled eyes on travelers who approached the city.

Gaalney looked at both lions and shook his head. “They’re magnificent.” The horses walked together through the gateway, and the young man waved a hand at the stone arch. “Is this any indication of your progress in the city?”

Kelene reached out to run her fingers along the cold, smooth stone. The old wards in the gates were still intact—they had saved her life once—and she felt their ancient potency tingle on the tips of her fingers. She drew strength from their presence, a power that had endured for generations, and she drove her own frustrations and worries back into the dark recesses of her mind from where the wind had shaken them loose. Smiling now, she rode Demira out from the shadow of the stone into the sunlight and pointed to the city walls that still lay in tumbled ruins.

“Well, no,” she acknowledged. “That is more like the rest of the city. We’ve had some problems the past few years. Clanspeople have lost the art of working stone.”

She did not elaborate further, allowing Gaalney to see for himself. The outlying areas of the city along the walls were as yet untouched. The buildings lay in crumbled heaps where the attackers and the elements had left them. In this part of Moy Tura only the main road was cleared and repaired. The rest of the wind-haunted ruins remained as they had since the Purge.

Gaalney was quiet as they rode. His eyes tracked back and forth over the devastation and slowly filled with wonder. “How can you live here?” he questioned. “All this would depress me too much.”

His choice of words startled Kelene, and she freely admitted, “It depresses me, too, sometimes.”

“Then why do you stay here? Why don’t you come home?” Gaalney asked, voicing a question Kelene was certain a number of people had wondered.

Before she would form a sensible reply—if there was one—Gaalney’s face transformed into a picture of delight. They had been riding along one of the major roads that led to the inner heart of the city where the primary public buildings had once stood. One such edifice sat to the left of the road in grand, shining eminence among the destroyed bones of its neighbors.

It was a temple, built three hundred years before to the glory of the holy quartet of gods worshiped by the clans. The Korg, before he died, had restored the temple as his gift to Kelene and Rafnir. With the last of his strength, before his worn and aged body had faded, he used his knowledge and magic to return the large temple to its previous magnificence. Now, shining in the sun, the white marble building sat as a fitting monument to the Korg and his wish to protect and restore his city. When he died, Kelene and Rafnir buried him at the foot of the large altar that graced the central sanctuary.

“And I thought all you had fixed was the gate,” Gaalney laughed, obviously impressed.

Kelene, observing her cousin’s delight, looked at the temple anew for the first time in a long while. She had been so used to working on other ruined buildings, she had momentarily forgotten how lovely this one was. She nodded and thought of her friend, the Korg. Two years after his death she still missed him deeply. “That is the Temple of the Gods,” she explained. “The Korg hoped they would bless our efforts here in the city if we restored their sacred temple.”

“And have they?”

“More or less,” Kelene replied dryly. “Come on, Rafnir should be back at our house by now.”

Gaalney made no reply but followed Kelene and Demira along the road, past a stone wall and several piles of rubble, to the wide central square of the city. The huge open space in the very heart of Moy Tura had once been a market and gathering place for the entire community. Its broad expanse was paved with slabs of granite, and at its center, where the four main roads of the city converged, a tall, black obelisk towered nearly twenty feet into the air. Atop the obelisk hung a golden rayed sun, the emblem of the goddess Amara.

Kelene watched the Khulinin sorcerer gaze around at the city of his ancestors, and she saw the subtle shift of expression on his face, from awe to anger. It was a change she had witnessed on many magic-wielders’ faces. It would have been very difficult not to feel anything. The rage that had massacred an entire population still lay mutely evident in the shattered wreckage of the old square, where skeletons of walls and hollow foundations lined the open space.

The grand Sorcerers’ Hall showed the worst of the attackers’ fury, for its desecrated remains still had unmistakable signs of heat fractures and scorch marks from a large fire. It was known from the Korg’s tale that the attackers had thrown hundreds of bodies into the burning Sorcerers’ Hall—and Kelene believed it. Two hundred years had not been enough time in this semi-arid land to totally erase the bits of ash, remnants of bone, and the black stains of soot that still lay in the cracks and crevices of the ruined stones of the hall. She and Rafnir had made no attempt to restore any part of the old foundation.

But if the square had been the scene of tragedy, it was also the center of returning life—little to be sure, but life nonetheless. Turning away from the dead hall, Kelene pointed Gaalney toward a side street where he could see several restored buildings just off the square. At the corner of the street and facing the square was a house of some dignity, completely rebuilt, and gleaming in the sun like a pearl among dross. It was the house Kelene and Rafnir had chosen when they moved to Moy Tura. Broad, open, and airy, it was a comfortable abode for people used to living in cramped, movable tents. It had taken Kelene some time to adjust to the differences in housekeeping, but now she loved the house and called it home.

Gaalney’s tired face lightened when he saw it.

“There is a guest hall down that street,” Kelene told him. “You may leave your things there and clean up if you wish while I find Sayyed. Rafnir should be at outhouse for his midday meal. Join us there. If Veneg would like to rest, there is a stable by the guest hall or he can join the other horses out in the fields.”

Gaalney’s mouth lifted in his quirky smile. “Guest hall, huh? How many people do you have here?”

“Not enough,” Kelene replied honestly. “We built the guest hall for the people who visit but don’t want to stay. At the moment we have three historians from the Five Kingdoms, an architect from Pra Desh who is helping us learn to build, two bards, two healers, several exiles who are trying to earn their way back into the clans, and a priest from Clan Dangari. The rest of our residents, the permanent ones, equal all of eighteen.”

Gaalney grimaced at the cold numbers. Even he as a newcomer could see eighteen permanent residents—no matter how many guests they might have—were not nearly enough to make a viable colony. He spoke his thanks for her information and turned his stallion down the road to the guest hall.

Demira trotted across the square toward the Sorcerers’ Hall. Kelene did not need to tell her where to find Rafnir’s father. Sayyed had been going to the same area almost every free moment since he’d arrived nearly two years ago. The mare bypassed the old foundations, walked up the main road, and turned left into the ruinous streets west of the hall.

Before the Purge the area had been one of the finer residential neighborhoods in the city. While a few of the houses had been destroyed in the fire that consumed the hall, many other homes had simply been plundered and left to rot.

One day, out of curiosity, Sayyed decided to see what he could find in the crumbled ruins. Beneath the decay and rubble, he was fascinated to discover a wealth of artifacts from the golden age of Moy Tura, and most important of all, a few precious relics and scrolls left by the magic-wielders themselves. He had been excavating ever since.

While some visitors thought Sayyed’s work was rather frivolous compared to the rebuilding and everyday chores, Rafnir and Kelene found his self-appointed task invaluable. Useful items were kept by the colony, the magic relics were sent to Gabria, and the jewelry and rare items unearthed in good condition were readily traded by numerous clanspeople interested in their past or sold to merchants from Pra Desh who detoured from the main caravan routes to pay a visit to the city that had once been forbidden. The coin Sayyed raised went in turn to buy livestock and needed supplies for the tiny colony.

Magic-wielders though some of them were, the inhabitants of Moy Tura could not use magic to provide everything they needed. Living creatures like wool-bearing sheep or work horses could not be created, and unfamiliar things, such as carpentry tools or masonry equipment, could not be duplicated until they had some in hand to study. They also knew they could not function effectively if they used magic all the time. The gift of the gods was infinite, but mortals’ ability to use it was not. Wielding magic was exhausting and sometimes dangerous, and the sorcerers had long ago learned that physical labor combined with a judicious use of magic was the safest and most effective way to get a job done.

That morning Sayyed was relying on simple muscle to accomplish his task. Kelene and Demira found him in the roofless room of a once-luxurious house. Sunlight poured into the ruin, washing the fallen rock and rotting floor timbers with a warm, golden light. The young woman slid off her horse and poked her head through a large gap in the wall. She saw Sayyed carefully lifting chunks of stone one by one from a pile by the far wall. Hot from his labor, Sayyed had removed his tunic and wore only his leggings and leather boots.

Kelene grinned at his bronzed back. Still slim, erect, and vigorous at forty-four, Sayyed was handsome enough to attract most women. Just below middle height, he had a short, neatly trimmed beard and sharp, piercing black eyes.

Once his face and eyes had been filled with gaiety and mischievous good humor, until the plague struck the clans and claimed his beloved wife, Tam. Unable to bear the memories and sadness of her passing, he had left the Khulinin to live with his son and Kelene in Moy Tura. He had brought only Tam’s animals, his Hunnuli, and a fierce desire to bury his grief in hard manual labor. He had found plenty to do in the ruins of the city.

Several dogs and one white cat lounged around Sayyed, patiently waiting for his attention. The dogs wagged their tails in greeting to Kelene; the white cat lifted her head with its jewel-green eyes and meowed softly.

The sorcerer turned his head to welcome Kelene. They had grown close since she saved his life three years before, but Kelene sensed a deep, aching loneliness in her father-in-law that nothing yet had filled.

“Kelene, you’re back!” he exclaimed in a voice rich with excitement. “Come see what I found.”

The woman held on to her message a moment more and hurried to see what he had discovered.

“There’s an old chest under this pile,” Sayyed explained. “A good one from what I can see. It’s still intact.” He smiled, a flash of white beneath the dust and the black beard. The value of the objects did not interest him. He enjoyed uncovering the mysteries, learning the secrets of the past, discovering new items that might be useful. He had no idea what was in the chest he’d found, and he could not wait to find out.

Kelene hated to disappoint him, but the exhaustion and urgency in Gaalney’s demeanor forced her to say, “I’m sorry, but Gaalney is here with a message from Father to you and Rafnir.”

Sayyed slowly straightened, the anticipation fading from his face. Without further question, he reached for his tunic. The dogs jumped to their feet. He scooped up the cat, then quickly followed Kelene and Demira back to the square, the dogs close at his heels.

When they reached the house, they found Gaalney, looking somewhat cleaner, and Rafnir standing in the garden behind the house. Nothing was blooming in the garden this early in the season, but on this warm, windy day, it was a pleasant place to sit, eat, and talk.

Rafnir, Kelene was pleased to see, had already provided bread, cheese, a bowl of fruit, and a pitcher of ale. Gaalney helped himself with a gusto.

Abruptly the young man broke off his meal and stared in astonishment at Kelene. “You’re not limping!” he sputtered through a mouthful of bread.

“Of course, I’m not—” Kelene broke off and beamed. She hadn’t seen Gaalney in three years. How could he have known what she had done to her crippled foot? “I used a spell similar to the one Lord Medb used and straightened the bones in my ankle and foot. It’s not perfect, but I can walk now without pain.”

Gaalney’s surprise turned to delight, and he made her walk back and forth so he could admire her graceful stride. “Why didn’t someone try that spell sooner?” he asked.

“No one had the skill to work on such complex bones until we found the healers’ records here in the city, and Mother didn’t want to risk experimenting on her own daughter.” She stopped by Rafnir’s side to give him a quick hug. His arm went around her waist and stayed there, strong and comforting against her back. “Rafnir gave me the strength to try,” she went on, and her tone turned teasing. “He needed someone whole to climb those high towers since he’s afraid of heights.”

Rafnir chuckled and handed Kelene a mug of ale. The four made themselves comfortable on low seats, and while the others ate their meal, Gaalney gave them his message.

“How much news from the south have you heard up here?” he asked first.

“Little enough,” Rafnir replied. “Most of our visitors have either been here for a while or are from northern clans.”

“Then you haven’t heard the rumors of war with the Turics.”

Sayyed straightened in his seat, his dark eyes sharp as dagger points. He was a half-breed, raised by his Turic father until the father rejected him because of his inborn talent to wield magic. Although he had lived with his mother’s clans for over twenty-five years, he was still Turic in the far corners of his heart.

“The trouble started along the border last autumn,” Gaalney went on. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and all humor fled his face. “It was mild at first—a few horses stolen, travelers robbed—nothing out of the ordinary and no one was hurt. We thought it was just a few brigands, but the raids did not stop in the winter as they usually do. They got worse and more deadly. Wylfling Treld, Ferganan Treld, and Shadedron Treld have all suffered serious depredations from a large and well-organized band. Just last month a caravan returning north over the Altai River was ambushed. Everyone in the party was killed. The raiders have even reached as far north as the Khulinin grazing lands.”

Kelene stirred. “Is that how you were wounded?”

Gaalney automatically touched the new scar on his neck. “I was in a group of outriders taking a yearling herd to the Blue Mountain meadows when we were attacked. An arrow pierced my neck. Veneg saved me, but we could not save the other men or the horses.” His eyes burned darkly as he said, “Lord Athlone is furious. He has called for an emergency gathering of the council and has petitioned the Shar-Ja to meet with the clan leaders at Council Rock to settle these border clashes before emotions get out of control.”

“Have the other chiefs been called?” Rafnir asked.

“I have already been to the Bahedin, Amnok, and Geldring. They are coming. You are my last stop.”

Rafnir and Sayyed exchanged glances. The Shar-Ja was the ruling head of the Turic tribes. If Athlone felt it necessary to meet with him, the situation in the south was grim.

“Has the Shar-Ja agreed?” Sayyed inquired. The present Shar-Ja had held the throne of the Turics for nineteen years, and in all that time there had never been any serious trouble between tribe and clan. Sayyed found it rather odd that trouble was brewing now.

Gaalney answered, “We had not yet received a message when I left, but the Shar-Ja has always been steadfast in his friendship to the clans. The chiefs think he will come. That is why Lord Athlone requests that you three join him for the council. He wants your expertise and, as he said, ‘the presence of three more powerful magic-wielders won’t hurt.’”

Kelene remained silent and pondered the emotions that flew through her mind on the wind of Gaalney’s news. Most of all she felt outrage at the Turics’ greed and audacity. Peace with the Turics had always been tricky, but it was generations old and to risk it for the sake of livestock and plunder was folly. What was the point? The Turics were a numerous and thriving people. Their realm stretched for hundreds of leagues, from the Absarotan Mountains across the flat Ruad el Brashir grasslands to the Sea of Tannis, from the Altai River to the Kumkara Desert far, far to the south. The clans had very little the Turics did not have. So why would the tribesmen want to antagonize their neighbors? Were the raiders from a few disgruntled tribes along the boarder, or was the entire Turic nation preparing to sweep over the Ramtharin Plains?

Kelene’s eyes turned to Rafnir. Even with a husband who was part Turic and a father-in-law who was half Turic, she knew very little about the southern tribes. The emotions on Rafnir’s open face were clear enough though. There was still too much to do here: the cisterns had to be found, the few broodmares they had would foal soon, the herb and vegetable gardens Kelene had planned needed to be tilled and planted, and the new forge was about to be put into operation. How could all this be left for a journey that would take at least several months?

Kelene felt his frustration, too, but deep within her heart, in a small space reserved for herself, she found a pleased relief that she might be able to see Lady Gabria after all. Then her thoughts paused, and she asked Gaalney, “Why does Father want me to come? I do not speak Turic as Rafnir or Sayyed do, nor am I really needed at a council.”

“Your reputation as a sorceress healer has spread beyond our borders,” Gaalney replied. “It is rumored the Shar-Ja is ill from an unknown malady. His ambassador, who received our message, hinted the Shar-Ja might come to a meeting if you are there to examine him.”

Kelene’s dark eyes widened. “The tribes do not have skilled healers of their own?”

“Dozens of them,” Sayyed said, suddenly rising to his feet. “But none like you.” He offered his hand to her. “Will you come with me? You and Rafnir? Come see my father’s people.”

She gazed up at him and recognized a flicker of bright interest in his face that she had not seen in years. Rafnir must have noticed it too, for he stood and clasped his father’s arm.

Kelene had no premonition of the coming events, no vision of disaster or pricking of the thumbs to warn her. She felt only the need to serve —and the anticipation of a journey to the Khulinin. She took Sayyed’s proffered hand and said to Gaalney, “We will come.”

It took two days for Kelene, Rafnir and Sayyed to pack and settle their immediate duties in Moy Tura. The residents and some of the guests were dismayed by their departure and the reasons for it, but the three vowed to return as soon as possible and left leadership of the tiny community in the capable hands of Bann, a middle-aged widower, sorcerer, and the builder of the new forge. Sayyed also very reluctantly left his dogs and Tam’s cat in the care of Bann’s delighted son.

With Gaalney accompanying them, the three magic-wielders mounted their Hunnuli in the dim light of a chilly dawn and left Moy Tura for the journey to the Goldrine River, where they would meet Lord Athlone and the Khulinin delegation.

The warm, tumbling wind from the south had ended the day before, leaving the way open for a change of weather. The air had turned damp and cool; the great arch of open sky became a leaden ceiling of low-hanging clouds. There was no rain yet, but the horses smelled it, heavy and close in the morning air.

The riders pulled their golden cloaks close as the Hunnuli cantered across the plateau toward the road that led down to the plains. At the edge of the tableland, the other three horses slowed for the descent on the steep trail, while Demira sped forward alone. Like a huge black eagle, she launched herself over the sharp edge and soared into the air. She could not canter hour after hour with the endless ease of the other Hunnuli, for her lighter legs and body and her large wings made long runs too difficult. Yet, borne on the air’s invisible hand, she sped far swifter than any land creature over the rolling plains.

Casually she wheeled overhead, waiting for the others to reach the lower trail. When the three stallions broke into a gallop on level ground, the winged mare turned south and led the way with the north wind at her tail.

They reached the Goldrine River three days later, after an uneventful though wet journey. Under a clearing sky, twilight deepened into night and a full moon sailed into the east.

Although the moon was full, Demira did not like to fly at night, so as soon as she spotted the fires of the Khulinin camp on the southern bank of the river and located a passable ford nearby, she joined the others on the ground.

Warm weather had begun melting snows in the Darkhorn Mountains, but the high waters and the swelling rains of late spring had not yet affected the Goldrine. Its waters ran shallow in the ford, making it easy for the four Hunnuli to cross. They trotted up the southern bank, swung left, and broke into a trot along the grassy, rolling valley toward the horseshoe-shaped bend in the river where the Khulinin camped.

They had not gone far when all four Hunnuli perked their ears forward. Soon, everyone could see the glow of the cooking fires and the solid shapes of the clan’s small traveling tents.

Kelene tensed and leaned forward. Even from this distance out in the night, she could see the camp was in an uproar. Men ran back and forth, dark shapes darting through the dancing firelight. Horses neighed, and the harsh sound of raised voices mingled with the quieter noises of the river and the night insects.

Kelene heard a pounding of heavy hooves, and two more Hunnuli galloped out of the darkness to meet them. Nara, Gabria’s beloved mare, and Eurus, Lord Athlone’s proud stallion, neighed a strident call of both welcome and urgency then turned on their heels and escorted the newcomers rapidly into camp. Activity, light, and noise surrounded them as they rode in among the tents.

Kelene noticed the unexpected haste was not confused chaos, but alarmed organization as people moved rapidly to tear down the camp. Tents collapsed around her, packhorses were loaded, and supplies were repacked as quickly as possible.

In the midst of the frantic labor stood Lord Athlone, rigid with fury, a rolled scroll in one hand, a tattered scrap of fabric in the other. His dark hair was grizzled now, and deep lines etched his weathered face. Tall, strong of body and mind, he wore the authority of a clan chieftain with ease and passionate ability. Although forty-nine years of life and a close brush with the plague had slowed his endurance and stiffened his joints, his strength of command was unabated, and his eyes still studied the world like those of a vigilant hawk. He spotted Kelene and her companions, and his anger receded before his pleasure when he came to greet them.

Sayyed dismounted and, as senior clansman, saluted the chieftain. “Hail, Lord Athlone, we of Moy Tura answer your summons.”

A smile broke over Athlone’s face, warming his eyes from stone to brown earth. He returned the salutation and embraced his friend, his son-in-law, and last of all his only surviving daughter. Kelene returned his hug fiercely and let it linger for a moment longer before she let him go.

Like most magic-wielders, Kelene had certain abilities that were more developed than others. Her talent for healing came not only from a natural desire to ease pain, but also from a unique ability to sense other people’s feelings. While she could not understand their thoughts, she could feel their emotions through the touch of her skin on theirs. During the past few years she had learned to control this gift until she could use it at will.

In the grip of her father’s embrace, she opened her mind to his emotions for just one beat of her heart and felt his fury and sense of injustice. To her silent relief, there was no personal grief or the stunned shock of loss. “What happened, Father?” she asked worriedly.

Athlone stepped back, his hands clenched around the objects he carried. He lifted the scrap of fabric in one fist. In the firelight, they could all see the cloth was a piece of a light blue cloak splattered with darker smears and spots.

“This was brought to me just before you arrived,” he said, darkly smoldering. “A large force of Turics attacked Ferganan Treld five days ago. Lord Tirek was killed, along with twenty-eight of his hearthguard and warriors, when he tried to protect the fleeing women and children. The raiders devastated the treld.”

Kelene, Rafnir, Sayyed, and Gaalney stood shocked by the ghastly news. The Hunnuli gathered around them, still and silent. Ferganan Treld, the winter camp of Clan Ferganan, sat in the fertile valley of the Altai River just north of the Turic realm. Of all the eleven clans, the Ferganan had the most amiable relationship with their Turic neighbors—in part because the Raid tribe that lived in the vicinity was ruled by Sayyed’s father, the man who had married a Ferganan woman. That the raiders had turned so viciously on Lord Tirek’s people was a betrayal of the worst sort to the generous, proud clanspeople. The rage on Lord Athlone’s face was mirrored in the expressions of every chieftain in the clans when they heard the news.

At that moment Gabria and Savaron hurried through the fevered activity to the small group by the fire. The sorceress’s face was troubled, yet she welcomed her friends with genuine delight and gathered her daughter close.

Kelene smiled, silently pleased to see how little her mother had changed the past few years. Gabria was still lithe and straight-backed, with clear green eyes and the hands of a young woman. True, the lines were etched deeper on her forehead and around her mouth, and her braided hair was more gray than gold, but what did that matter when the spirit was still resilient and the heart still sang with gratitude to Amara, the mother of all and the source of all bounty?

“What about me?” chided Kelene’s brother.

Savaron, wearing the gold belt of a wer-tain, hugged her too. Tall, muscular, dark-haired and, to Kelene’s eyes, handsome, her older brother had been leader of the clan warriors, the werod, since the plague when Wer-tain Rajanir had died. Savaron was married now, with two little boys and a wife he adored. Kelene marveled how much he had come to resemble their father as the years passed.

He held her out at arm’s length. “Mother told me you had healed your ankle, but she failed to mention how beautiful you’ve become.” He let her go and playfully punched his friend, Rafnir, on the arm. “You two had better quit playing in your ruins and get to work on a family.”

Kelene bit her lower lip to stifle a retort that she knew in her heart to be unnecessary. Savaron was always teasing her, but he would never deliberately hurt her if he knew the extent of her concern.

She was relieved when the levity in Savaron’s eyes died, and he returned to the subject at hand. “The riders are ready to return to the treld,” he informed the chieftain. “We leave at your command.” He spoke reluctantly, plainly showing he was not happy with the decision.

Lord Athlone nodded once and turned to Sayyed. “You gave up your place in my hearthguard, but will you accept it again for as long as I need you? After this raid, I have decided to send Savaron back to reinforce the guard on the clan and the treld. I still need a strong arm by my side and a translator I can trust. We heard this morning the Shar-Ja has accepted our invitation to meet at Council Rock in ten days’ time.”

Sayyed’s eyes glittered. His grim expression was yellow-lined in the firelight. Half Turic though he was, the Ferganan were his mother’s kin, and many of them had become his friends over the years. His hand tightened on the hilt of his curved tulwar, a prize won during his rites of manhood in the Turic tribes. He bowed before the Khulinin. “I accept with honor,” he said.

Rafnir, too, grasped his sword. “Lord Athlone, I have never taken the rites of the hearthguard, but I ask to be allowed to join your guard while you attend the council.”

His request pleased the chieftain. “Granted,” said Athlone with the hint of a smile. “And you may start tonight. We ride to meet the Dangari. Lord Bendinor passed lis yesterday, but he is waiting for us so we may-ride to Council Rock together. I intend to be there before the Turics, so they cannot have any nasty surprises ready for us.”

The last of the tents had been packed already, and the warriors doused and buried the fires. In moments Savaron and half the troop of mounted warriors—eighty in all—cantered west toward Khulinin Treld, their pack animals and supplies close behind. In the darkness the magic-wielders mounted their Hunnuli and joined the remaining guard of clan warriors. At Athlone’s quiet command, the Khulinin delegation set out, riding south and east to meet the contingent from Clan Dangari.

The Dangari chief, a middle-aged warrior of courage and sense, had sent the messenger bearing the news of the Ferganan attack to Lord Athlone. He had also suggested they travel together to Council Rock. Athlone readily agreed under the premise that no Turic, no matter how greedy, well armed, and vicious, would dare attack a large troop of clan warriors containing several trained magic-wielders. The addition of Lord Bendinor’s men gave him the excuse he needed to send Savaron and half the werod guard back to the clan despite his son’s arguments. The safety of the Khulinin was more important than a show of strength at the peace council.

The Khulinin met Lord Bendinor near dawn after a long, chilly, damp night. He led them to his temporary camp, fed them well, provided a tent for Lord Athlone, Gabria, and Kelene, and patiently waited while the Khulinin rested and cared for their horses.

Bendinor was a quiet man, capable, efficient, and well liked by his people. He had little of the charm and charisma of his predecessor, Lord Koshyn, but he and Lord Athlone respected each other, and even if friendship had not come yet, they had a useful working relationship. With unspoken consent, they had their clans ready to leave shortly after noon. Beneath their blue and gold banners, the two chiefs led their warriors south toward the Altai River and the meeting with the Turic tribes.