Winged Magic

2

To everyone’s annoyance, Lord Athlone’s words proved correct. The Turics set up their camp in a wide meadow across the river and forced the clan chiefs to wait for four days before announcing the Shar-Ja was ready to hear their grievances. By that time even Lord Terod, the most complacent and timorous of the eleven chiefs, was swearing under his breath at the delay.

The time, though, gave the lords an opportunity to hear the full accounts of the raids on the southern clans, to plan their strategy, and to agree on their objectives. They kept a careful eye on the big camp across the river and made certain their own defenses were fully prepared.

Kelene, to her amusement, had discovered she and Gabria were the only two women in the entire camp of nearly two hundred men. The absence of other women was not a deliberate exclusion, for by rights established by Gabria many years before, the priestesses of Amara and the wives of clan chieftains were permitted to attend important clan meetings. But the ancient ritual of the Birthright, the women’s festival of fertility and thanksgiving was about to be celebrated by every clan, and the other women had chosen to remain at the trelds for the very important sacred ceremony.

Kelene and Gabria, therefore, assumed the role of hostesses for the whole camp. They treated minor injuries, supervised the cooking, took water and ale to those too busy to stop their work, and settled a number of brief disputes among the proud and free-tongued clansmen. Kelene was so busy she had no time to talk privately with her mother. She contented herself with staying close to Gabria and sharing the older sorceress’s companionship.

The day of the council came cool and windy with a cloudy sky and veiled sun. Soon after the morning meal, horns blew on both sides of the river, calling the start of the meeting.

The island was too small for every man to attend the council, so the ten chiefs and Peoren, with one guard apiece, represented the clans. Rafnir asked if he could represent Moy Tura at the council, and the chiefs, anxious to have as many sorcerers as possible with them, agreed. Kelene quickly offered to serve as wine bearer, for work at negotiating was always thirsty business. She stated boldly that she had been asked to come because of the Shar-Ja’s poor health, and she wished to see for herself how the man fared. Lord Athlone had no objections, and Rafnir, who knew his wife well, merely shrugged his shoulders. Gabria stayed behind with Gaalney and Morad to keep watch from the river’s bank.

In the Turic camp, a similar number of men—priests, counselors, and several tribal leaders—accompanied the Shar-Ja down to the river. The monarch rode in a little chair slung between two horses. He made no move and gave no smile as the entire group rode across their half of the ford.

The two forces met and dismounted on the island without exchanging a word. The clansmen watched as the Shar-Ja was helped from his litter by a solicitous young man and escorted into the big clan tent. Everyone else quickly followed, leaving their weapons at the entrance.

Although the Turics did not generally permit their women to attend councils, no one objected to Kelene’s presence. They knew who she was, the healer, the sorceress, the rider of the winged mare, and Kelene realized their silence was a mark of their respect.

She stood mute beside Rafnir and curiously watched the Turics stride into the tent, their faces dark and taciturn. Everyone wore long robes in subdued colors and burnooses so white they seemed to gleam against the duller blues, browns, and grays of the robes. Only the Shar-Ja wore the pelt of a desert lion over his shoulder as a symbol of his authority, but many of the others wore silver-linked belts, brooches of gold, armbands, and chains of gold or silver. They were handsome men overall, dark-eyed, golden-skinned, with full, even features. They often wore their black hair in intricate knots and plaited their long beards.

Kelene recognized immediately the emissary who had spoken four days before. He stood a head over the tallest Turic in the tent, and his hooded eyes watched everything with a cold, avid gaze. He made no move to help the Shar-Ja but waited with ill-concealed impatience behind the others while the young man settled the Shar-Ja in a heavy wooden chair provided for that purpose and propped him comfortably with rugs and pillows.

Kelene craned around Lord Wendern’s big head to see the Shar-Ja. She frowned when she finally got a close look at the man. Rumors of his ill-health were obviously true.

The Shar-Ja was barely fifty, yet he looked as old as seventy. A gray pallor clung to his face, and his skin hung loose over his shrunken frame. His hands shook as he pulled off his burnoose and revealed a ring of grayish hair that clung to the back of his balding head. Until recently he had been a powerful man, strong, athletic, and known for his just and firm government. In a society ruled by a strict code of conduct, the Shar-Ja was known as an honorable man.

So what, wondered Kelene, had brought on this rapid decline? She glanced at Sayyed, who stood beside her father, and saw that he, too, was frowning. He did not like the appearance of the Shar-Ja either. It seemed odd to Kelene that she had not been invited to attend to the monarch. She had understood that the Turic messenger had specifically asked for her to come to the council, yet sick as the Shar-Ja appeared to be, no one had bothered to request her assistance.

Kelene suddenly realized the tent was very quiet. Every man had taken his seat and was waiting for someone else to make the next move. Her father glanced at her and nodded once. Clan hospitality dictated that guests were sacrosanct and that any gathering, small or large, was always made more pleasant with food and drink. Because the clans had initiated the council, they considered the Turics their guests, even on an island that was essentially a no-man’s-land. A fire had been laid in a central hearth to chase away the morning chill; rugs, stools, and pillows were provided for comfort; and trays of food, pottery cups, and wineskins had been left in the tent for refreshment.

Kelene stepped into the watchful silence and bowed politely to the Shar-Ja. She held herself tall and proud as she walked to the cache of food and wine. She had braided her long black hair in a matron’s braid that hung to her waist and danced with its ties of jaunty green ribbons. Keeping her hands steady, she knelt, laid out the cups and trays, and poured a single measure of the heavy red wine. She paused only when a strong, sour smell reached her nose.

Her eyes narrowed as she tasted the wine and calmly swallowed it. Fools, she thought fiercely to herself. Someone had brought wine without bothering to check if it had spoiled on the journey.

Smoothly she took the cup to Lord Athlone to confirm her findings. His expression did not change at the bitter taste. He only glanced at his daughter and inclined his head as he handed the cup back to her. He had confidence that she would rectify the problem.

Kelene knew every eye was on her by that time. Clansmen and Turic alike were awaiting refreshments. There was really only one thing she could do. Serving the spoiled wine would insult the Turics and cast dishonor on the chiefs. Running back to the camp for more wine would take too long and could irritate the Shar-Ja and his counselors. She would have to use magic.

She knew the Turics did not approve of sorcery. They did not despise it with the fervent zeal of past generations of clanspeople, but like anything not understood, sorcery was condemned in Turic society. In order not to infuriate the already defensive tribesmen, she would have to work surreptitiously and pray no one noticed her spell.

She smoothed all expression off her face and looked about for a useful vessel. Fortunately someone had left a large pitcher with the wineskins, and Kelene carefully Tilled it to the brim with soured wine. With her hand over the pitcher’s mouth, she thought of the finest beverage she could remember: a mead, a cool, light honey wine, delicately sweet as spring flowers, as golden as morning light, fermented from honey harvested from a bee colony she and Demira had found in the southern cliff face on Moy Tura’s plateau. No one outside of Moy Tura had tasted that wine yet, but if she could duplicate ii with magic, she was sure her father would approve.

Kelene concentrated on what she wanted. She felt the magic around her in the earth, the grass, the stone of Council Rock, and with her mind she pulled the magic into her will, shaped it to her design, and silently whispered her spell to clarify exactly what she wanted. When she pulled her hand away, the red wine was gone, replaced by a crystal yellow liquid that smelled of honey and spices.

Kelene tasted a little from her father’s cup. The resulting mead was not as full-bodied and rich as the original, but it was delicious enough to be served to the clan chiefs and the Turic nobles.

She served her father first, to reassure the Turics that the wine and the food were not poisoned; then she swiftly and efficiently served the Shar-Ja. his men, the chieftains, and the clan warriors. That her mead was appreciated quickly became apparent by the low hum of conversation, the occasional quiet laughter, and a more relaxed atmosphere.

Besides Sayyed and Rafnir, a few clansmen from Clan Shadedron and Clan Wylfling could also speak Turic, and several Turics could converse in Clannish. Before long the two groups were passing plates of dried fruit and sweetcakes and exchanging wary compliments.

Kelene looked on with satisfaction. She quickly converted all the spoiled wine to mead, placed filled pitchers within reach of the men, and wordlessly sat beside Rafnir. Her husband took her hand and gave her a wink.

Finally the Shar-Ja raised his hand for quiet, and one by one the men fell silent. The clanspeople leaned forward, waiting for the Shar-Ja to speak and open the negotiations.

Instead he inclined his head to the young man beside him, relinquishing his authority. The man approached the stand, a square of space between the two groups where a person had the right to speak. In his midtwenties, he was a good-looking man with strong cheekbones and a thick cap of black hair tied in a single plait. He bowed to the clan chiefs. “I am Bashan al Rassidar, the Shar-Yon, eldest son of my father. In the name of Shar-Ja Rassidar, I welcome the Lords of the Eleven Clans,” he began. His voice, firm and assured, spoke in credible Clannish and went on to greet each chief and apologize for the delay.

While she listened, Kelene stared intently at the Shar-Ja, who was watching his son with obvious pride—the father grooming his heir to assume the throne. Sooner than later, Kelene judged. There was too much gray shadow in the old man’s face, too much lassitude in his body. If only she knew what was wrong.

A quiver of awareness ran up her backbone, a cold, trickling feeling that lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. She tensed, her eyes wide and her nostrils flared, her senses as alert as a wary deer’s. She felt something odd, a surge of intensity in the air around her. Normally she could sense emotions only if she was in physical contact with a person, but she had honed her empathic talent until once in a while she could sense strong feelings from someone close by.

She concentrated all her ability on the strange tingling, and like a form taking shape in the mist, the emotions clarified in her mind: greed that shook her with its need and hatred as cold and implacable as a glacier. The focus of those feelings was not clear, only their intensity. Heat and ice raged unseen in a man’s heart, and no one but she was the wiser.

Slowly she lifted her eyes and found herself drawn into the bitter, dark gaze of the man named Zukhara. He stared full into her face, devouring every detail of her features. Then he deliberately lifted his cup to salute her, and his thin mouth lifted in a smile that pulled his lips back from yellowish teeth, like the snarl of a waiting wolf.

Kelene’s eyes flashed a bright and steely challenge.

Still smiling, Zukhara turned his gaze away from her, dismissing her as obviously as a master sends away a slave. Almost immediately the powerful sense of emotions faded from Kelene’s mind.

She sat, feeling cold and oddly disturbed. The strength of the counselor’s mind, the intensity of his emotions, and the unshakable presence of his arrogance were all enough to cast a gloomy shadow over her thoughts. None of the clansmen seemed to know who Zukhara was or where he came from, and Kelene began to seriously wonder why he had come to the council. Whom did he hate with such intensity?

She slowly sipped her drink and decided to forget her worries for now. She determined to keep an eye on Zukhara in the future, but at that moment the Shar-Yon was talking favorably of peace and the council was off to an auspicious beginning. Better to help the peacemakers build their bridges than fret over one individual.

There is a storm coming.

“What?” Kelene muttered from somewhere under Demira’s belly. She gave the mare’s front leg one last swipe with the brush and moved to the hind leg where reddish mud had caked into the ebony hair.

There is a storm coming, Demira repeated patiently. From the north.

Kelene did not doubt her. The Hunnuli’s weather-sense was as infallible as their ability to judge human character. The sorceress continued brushing and asked, “Can you tell what it is?” A thunderstorm would be a pleasant change. The turbulent lightning storms provided a phenomenon for magic-wielders by enhancing the magic already present in the natural world. The increased power energized the magic-wielders by strengthening their spells and increasing their endurance to wield magic. She was disappointed, though, and a little alarmed when Demira answered, Snow. It is already snowing beyond the Goldrine River. It will be here in a day or two.

Kelene straightened and stared up at the huge arch of the sky. A solid, featureless sheet of cloud moved overhead, pushed by a steady wind from the north. The afternoon air was still mild, almost balmy, but Kelene knew that could change very quickly. This time of year, when winter and spring vied for rule of the plains, storms could be tricky and often treacherous.

“That’s just what we need,” she said irritably, stretching back under the mare to reach her inner hind leg.

“What’s what we need?” asked a different voice.

Kelene glanced around Demira’s leg and saw a familiar pair of boots and a red split-skirt, a red the same scarlet as that of the long-dead Corin clan. “A storm,” she called out to Gabria, then popped up and flashed a grimace at her mother over the mare’s folded wings. “Demira tells me a storm is moving this way.”

Picking up another horse brush, Gabria began to polish Demira’s other side. “Nara said the same thing. It will probably turn to sleet or freezing rain by the time it reaches us . . . which will make things only slightly more chilly and uncomfortable around here than it already is.”

Kelene grunted in agreement. “I don’t understand what’s the matter with the Turics. There’s a strong undercurrent of tension in their midst that has nothing to do with us. We’ve had two days of meetings and have accomplished nothing. It’s almost as if the Turics are afraid of saying much for fear Of spooking someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” Kelene replied. “It isn’t the Shar-Ja. He almost never reacts. He sits in his chair and dozes half the time. Bashan, the Shar-Yon, is doing his best to push a settlement through, but the others keep blocking him with petty gripes and details.” She paused. She had not mentioned her misgivings about Zukhara to anyone, but perhaps her mother could give her a different perspective on the counselor. “There is one man . . . even the Shar-Yon treads carefully around him.”

“The emissary Zukhara?” Gabria guessed.

“You know of him?”

“Sayyed and Rafnir told me about him,” Gabria hesitated, then added, “Sayyed said this man stares at you during the meetings.”

To that Kelene shrugged. She hadn’t realized anyone else had noticed. “He stares, but he says nothing. Perhaps he is only curious—and ill mannered.”

He is not just curious, Demira put in. There is a taint about him I do not like. He will not come near the Hunnuli when we wait on the island for the council to end. The other Turics have spoken to us; the Shar-Ja has patted my neck. But this Zukhara stays away from us.

Kelene’s brows lowered. “I didn’t notice that. I wonder why?”

Gabria leaned against Demira’s warm wing and turned a concerned eye on her daughter. “Have you heard the Tunes speak of the Fel Azureth?”

It seemed a simple question, but Kelene caught a distinct note of worry in her mother’s voice. She shook her head, the horse brush forgotten in her hands.

“The Azureth have surfaced only recently. It is a fanatical religious group sworn to the overthrow of the Shar-Ja’s throne and a return to the ancient practices of the Prophet Sargun.”

“Why hasn’t the Shar-Ja done anything about them?”

“I don’t think he can,” Gabria said sadly. “He’s too sick. His son has been handling many of his responsibilities, but he is too inexperienced to deal with such organized fanatics. The Azureth are very secretive. Even their leader, whom they call Fel Karak, is unknown to all but a few of the most trusted members. They are well organized, well supplied, heavily armed, and very dangerous.”

Kelene was both fascinated and alarmed. “But I thought the Shar-Ja was respected by his people. Have the tribes done anything to stop these rebels?”

“Our sources tell us the tribes are too busy trying to survive themselves.”

“Our sources?” Kelene chuckled. “Sounds so mysterious.”

Gabria’s fair face lit with a gleam of humor. “It’s amazing what you can learn from caravan drovers, traveling bards, merchants, and traders. They love to talk when you bring them in off the cold plains and give them a hot meal and a dry bed. We learned much this winter about the Fel Azureth and the tribes’ troubles.” She shook her head, and the humor faded from her green eyes. “They haven’t had good rain in two years. The land is dry, and the rivers are low. The Shar-Ja has clone little to help. The tribes grow so desperate, even this extremist group looks promising to some.”

“And you and Father think this Fel Azureth may have something to do with the attacks on our people?” Kelene suggested shrewdly.

Gabria nodded. “That was one reason why he asked for this council, to spur the Shar-Ja into some sort of action against these fanatics before their raids lead us into war.”

“Then perhaps we’ll see some reaction today at council,” Kelene said. “Peoren is going to have his say about the attack on his clan. He has been very patient so far, but I think he’s about to explode.”

“Just be careful of Zukhara,” said Gabria with motherly fervor.

Kelene’s eyes narrowed as a new thought occurred to her. “Do you think he has some connection with the Fel Azureth?”

“No one knows. But as Demira pointed out, there is a taint about him.”

Across the river a horn blew a sonorous note to call the clans and the tribes to council. Another meeting was about to begin. Demira’s ears swept forward as Eurus, Tibor, and Afer cantered by to meet Lord Athlone, Rafnir, and Sayyed. The little Hunnuli nickered impatiently while Kelene gathered her combs and brushes, restored them to the carry bag, and handed them to Gabria.

Kelene took leave of her mother and trotted Demira down to the river to join the clan chiefs. This time she paid close attention to Counselor Zukhara when he arrived with the Turic delegation. Just as Demira described, while other Turics admired the magnificent Hunnuli, Zukhara held well back, keeping the Shar-Ja and Bashan between himself and the black horses.

Interesting, thought Kelene. Was he afraid of them? Or was he just not interested? Did he know of the Hunnuli’s intuitive ability to read human character?

Keenly aware of Zukhara, Kelene followed the men into the council tent. She noted that he seemed to avoid the Shar-Ja and his son, as if he did not want to associate with them. He refused to sit but stood aloof, his hands clasped behind his back, his long legs apart and braced for a lengthy wait. The other tribal leaders were deferential to him, yet Kelene saw many of them eye him with subtle wariness or shift their gaze away from him completely.

The sorceress pursed her lips in thought while she poured and served refreshments as usual. The wine was good this time, a light crisp fermentation from the Khulinin’s own reserves, and the Turics appreciated it.

Only Zukhara turned it down. When she came to him, he grasped her tray in both hands, forcing her to stop in front of him. He was so tall she had to lift her eyes to see his face, and when she did so, with a bold, angry glare, he curled his lips in that condescending smile that so rankled her.

“What, no mead today, my lady?” he said softly. “Not even for me?” His long fingers suddenly grasped her right wrist and twisted it upward to expose the diamond splinter that lay beneath the skin of her forearm. He studied it, tracing his finger along its glowing length.

The splinter was a slender sliver of diamond, embedded in the wrist of a magic-wielder when he or she completed training. It was a powerful emblem, and to Kelene, a personal one that should not be revealed and examined without her consent. Her face flamed red at the man’s audacity, but she controlled her famous temper for the sanctity of the council and deftly twisted her arm out of his grasp. “Not today, Counselor Zukhara,” she replied with frosty calm and turned away before her father or her husband came forward to protest the man’s rudeness. It wasn’t until she finished serving the refreshments and sat down that she realized Zukhara had spoken to her in perfect Clannish.

She was still inwardly seething when Peoren took the stand before the council to describe the surprise attack on his treld. Eight days of rest, Kelene’s gentle ministrations, and his own youthful energy had worked wonders on the boy’s battered countenance and his sense of maturity. Although only sixteen, he had left his boyhood behind on the bloodied fields of Ferganan Treld, and he stood before the gathered chiefs and tribesmen with the determination and authority of an adult. Knowing he had the support of the ten chieftains, he launched into a passionate and detailed description of the tragedy. Sayyed translated for him and did not change or leave out a single word.

At first there was little reaction from the Shar-Ja or his nobles—which little surprised the clansmen. The Turics had shown almost no emotions to any of the previous complaints. But as Peoren continued with the account of his father’s last stand and the bravery and sacrifice of his hearthguard, the Turics began to grow restive and visibly upset. Their impassive faces darkened in anger; their heads turned toward one another to exchange agitated whispers.

Kelene, her attention still centered on the tall counselor, noticed Zukhara was the only one who remained unmoved. In fact, his expression had the look of a man who had heard the tale before and lost all interest.

“Your Highness,” Peoren was saying to the Shar-Ja, “to my knowledge, our two peoples have not declared war upon one another, nor has there been a state of animosity between us. My father died not understanding why his neighbors and those he called friends were killing his people.” The young man took a step forward and held out the bloodied scrap of blue cloak sent to Lord Athlone. His pale gray eyes flashed like steel. “There was no reason for your people to attack mine, Highness. Therefore I demand weir-geld, blood money to be paid for the deaths in our clan. Thirty-six people were dead when I left and several more were badly wounded. If we are not recompensed as stated by our clan laws, we the Ferganan will wage a blood feud until every Turic in that raiding party is dead.”

The Turics were silent now, their faces grim and intent. They knew Peoren was deadly serious. Blood feuds were sacred to clan society; revenge was a survivor’s right and honor.

Kelene held her breath while she waited for the Turics’ response. How they dealt with Peoren’s demands would tell a great deal about who was truly responsible for the raids across the border. If the tribal leaders were softening the clans for war, they would brush over the Ferganan’s claims as unimportant. But if Lady Gabria was right and the rebel extremists were attacking the southern clans, then the Turics would respond with honor and, Kelene hoped, with action.

The Shar-Yon started to stand, but his father gestured to him to remain seated. Slowly the Turic overlord pushed himself to his feet and drew up to his full height. Some measure of his old vigor and spirit still remained in his beleaguered body, and he drew on that now to address Peoren and the clan chiefs.

“Young man, it is my deepest grief that this tragedy has come to pass,” the Shar-Ja spoke. Although his hands trembled with the effort of standing upright, his glance was clear and his voice was still steady and powerful.

While Sayyed translated, the clansmen and Kelene gave the overlord their full attention, for this was the first time the Shar-Ja had spoken at the council.

“I did not know of the disaster,” said the Shar-Ja, “and judging from the expressions of my advisors, I believe it is the first time many of them have heard of it, too. We knew a banc! of malcontents and rebels was marauding along the border, and men were sent to end these raids. But, to my disgrace, I did not follow through to be certain the raiders had been stopped. Obviously, my troops failed me.” He paused there and cast a cold look of disapproval at Counselor Zukhara before turning back to the chiefs. “You must understand, difficulties have arisen from the two-year drought that has stricken our realm. My people grow desperate as we face another year of crop failure and dry wells. But it was never my intention that our problems would spill over onto you. My lord chieftains, I shall pay your weir-geld out of my own coffers, and any damages resulting from earlier raids will be paid by the marauders themselves or by the northern tribes who have harbored these thieves.”

Several Turic nobles looked shocked, but the others inclined their heads in agreement. Whatever had held them back before had apparently been put aside for the moment, because most seemed to agree that a settlement was necessary.

As Sayyed finished translating the Shar-Ja’s speech, a murmur of approval ran through the ranks of clansmen, and a feeling of relief, too. Now they finally knew they were dealing with outlaws, not the entire Turic nation. Perhaps the Turic tribesmen, in spite of their overwhelming numbers, knew they had enough problems in their own land without incurring the wrath of the Dark Horse Clans and their magic-wielding sorcerers.

Peoren threw the scrap of cloak into the fire and bowed slightly to the Turic in acceptance. Lord Athlone and Lord Fiergan, the fiery, red-haired chief of Clan Reidhar, joined the youth. Sayyed accompanied them, as well, and as Lord Athlone made his reply, he translated the fluid, rolling tongue of the clans into the more abrupt and literal speech of the Turics.

The lord of the Khulinin formally thanked the Shar-Ja for his generosity and presented the Turic scribe with a complete list of damages, stolen property, and lives lost among the four clans hit by the rebel marauders.

“Shar-Ja,” Athlone continued civilly, “we did not come to this council just to make demands. We offer a renewal of peace, a treaty of cooperation between our peoples. Let us offer vows of alliance, if not friendship, to you and your nation. We are not rich in goods or many in numbers, but what we have we share with our neighbors.”

Kelene lifted her chin, her senses suddenly attuned to those around her. She felt that strange tingling in her spine again, the furious hot and cold emotions of a man with a powerful mind. Immediately her eyes sought Zukhara, and although he had not moved or changed expression, she knew the rage came from him as surely as heat emanated from a fire.

“What in Sorh’s name is he so angry about?” she murmured to herself.

Whatever infuriated the tall man, he did not make any indication or show any obvious sign of his fury to the rest of the council. Like a statue he stood aside from the proceedings and merely watched. Only Kelene had an inkling of the volcano behind his deep-set eyes.

Kelene studied him worriedly and wondered if she should warn Rafnir or her father. But what could she tell them? That the counselor was rude to her and angry about something? That was less than useful. Not every Turic was as diplomatic as the Shar-Ja or likely to be happy about a peace treaty. A few of the tribal leaders were sure to be disgruntled about the Shar-Ja’s decision to make the northern tribes responsible for the damages to the clans. Perhaps Zukhara was one of those. Whatever his problem, he did not seem inclined to make trouble at this meeting, and because of that, Kelene decided to keep her peace—at least until she had a clearer cause to speak up. The Shar-Ja was speaking to her father again, so Kelene set her unproductive thoughts aside and turned her attention back to him.

“The present Treaty of Council Rock is thirty years old. It was signed, in fact, by your father, Lord Savaric, and by the lord of the dead Corin clan, Lord Dathlar.” A ghost of a smile flitted over the old man’s face. “Much has changed in thirty years, Lord Athlone. Your powers have become accepted above the Altai River and your magic-wielders work wonders. Perhaps it is time we craft a new treaty of peace. Magic such as yours would be a better ally than enemy.”

The tremor in the Shar-Ja’s hands became more pronounced, and his face faded to a bloodless pallor. He sank back into his chair, his strength gone.

Kelene jumped to her feet, deeply concerned by his appearance, but before she could get close to the Shar-Ja, Counselor Zukhara moved to block her path to the chair. He paid no attention to her, only gestured to the litter-bearers, who came instantly to the monarch’s side.

“Forgive me if I do not stay to finish this,” the Shar-Ja managed to say. “My son will speak for me, and you may write the treaty with him.”

The chiefs bowed as the Shar-Ja was carried from the tent. Kelene did not know whether to feel annoyed that Zukhara went with him, preventing her from slipping out and trying to visit the overlord alone, or relieved that the counselor had gone. Without his imposing, negative presence, the whole tent seemed lighter, as if a dark cloud had moved from the face of the sun.

Maybe the other delegates felt it too, or maybe they were simply anxious to end the council. Whatever the reason, the afternoon flowed productively until dusk, when the clan chiefs and the Turic tribesmen called a halt to the meeting. Both sides had a copy of the rough draft of their treaty, hastily written by scribes and witnessed by all there. A final draft was to be completed and signed the next day.

As the chiefs left the tent, Lord Fiergan slapped Peoren on the back. “Good job, boy,” he said gruffly. “Your father will rest at ease.”

“Do you really think the Shar-Ja will pay?” Peoren asked anxiously, retrieving his short sword from the weapon rack by the front entrance.

“The overlord is a man of his word,” Lord Athlone assured him.

“If he’s allowed to keep his word,” Kelene interjected.

The Amnok, Lord Terod, hoisted his eyebrows toward his thinning hair. “What do you mean by that? Who would prevent the Shar-Ja from fulfilling his promise?” he asked sharply.

Lord Bendinor, walking beside Athlone, jerked his head toward the Turic camp across the water. “If I had to make a guess, I’d say that rock-faced counselor, Zukhara. He hasn’t done much talking during these meetings, but everyone walks on nails when he’s around. He would bear watching.”

Kelene hid a smile. She was beginning to like this shrewd and sensible Dangari.

The clansmen reached their horses and mounted for the return ride to camp.

Rafnir looked up at the sky that had darkened to a deep blue-gray. “Here it comes,” he said and wiped off several wet splatters from his face.

More raindrops pattered on the rocks and speckled the water. The north wind freshened and roared among the trees, tossing their branches and making the trunks creak and groan. It pulled at the riders’ cloaks and chilled man and horse with its sudden damp cold. Across the river, only a few small fires fought bravely against the wind and coming rain. The riders said no more but hurried back to the shelter of their tents and the hot meals awaiting them.

The rain fell through the night in steady sheets that swayed and danced in the wind. Lightning crackled a few times, and the magic-wielders felt their blood stir and the energy sing in their heads. But the storm cell moved in harness with the wind and was gone as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind the steady rain and slowly dropping temperatures.

The thunder had faded and the lightning passed to the south when Gabria rose from her blankets beside Athlone and quietly stirred the embers in her small brazier back to life.

Kelene, wakeful beside Rafnir, saw the dim light beyond the sleeping curtain in the tent they shared with her parents, and she slipped out to join Gabria. The older sorceress silently brought out a second glazed mug, poured water for two into her pan, and spooned several heaps of her favorite tea into a teapot.

They huddled together around the small warmth of the brazier while the tent around them heaved in the blustery wind and the rain beat on the waterproofed fabric. They said nothing until the water boiled and Gabria poured it into the pot to steep.

Kelene saw with alarm that her mother’s hands were trembling. “What’s wrong?” she whispered, conscious of the men sleeping behind the curtains.

Gabria’s eyes were huge in the dim light and rimmed with shadows. She shakily set her pot down and pulled her arms tight about her. She nodded gratefully when Kelene brought her gold cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“Something has happened,” she said in a soft tone that was terribly certain.

“What?”

“I don’t know. I had a dream as dark and foreboding as this night, but nothing was clear.”

A dream, Kelene thought, feeling the first stirrings of dread. Gabria’s talent for magic sometimes manifested itself in prophetic dreams and visions. The problem was the dreams were not always clear enough to understand until it was too late. She thought about her mother’s words and asked, “You said has happened. It cannot be stopped?”

“I fear not. I sense the Harbingers are near,” Gabria replied in a hollow voice.

Kelene’s heart turned cold. The Harbingers were the messengers of Lord Sorh, god and ruler of the Realm of the Dead. If the Harbingers had entered the mortal world, someone or several someones had died.

Already forewarned, neither she nor Gabria were surprised when a distant horn suddenly sang in the storm-wracked night. Somehow they had been expecting it.

It blared again, insistent and furious, until it was joined by others that blasted their warnings into the dark.

Gabria heaved a deep sigh and stood, ready to face what would come. The horns were Turic, and in her deepest sense of the unseen world she knew the Harbingers had arrived.

Behind her, Athlone and Rafnir sprang from their pallets, pulled on their boots, and reached for their swords. There was some advantage to sleeping in one’s clothes, for the two men were racing for the tent flap before the horn blasts had ended.

“Wait,” Gabria called. She and Kelene hurried into (heir boots and joined their husbands, cloaked and ready to go. Just outside under a canopy their four Hunnuli stood ready. The horses tossed their heads in agitation, and their star-bright eyes rolled in anger. Their breath steamed in the cold air.

Someone has used magic across the river, Eurus’s deep masculine thoughts reached the four people.

“Oh, gods,” groaned Athlone.

The Hunnuli carried their riders at a canter through the rain-soaked darkness to the river. Activity already stirred the clan camp, but Lord Athlone refused to wait. He urged Eurus on across the Altai. Water fountained beneath the Hunnuli’s hooves as they charged through the ford to the opposite bank. Abruptly they came face-to-face with a solid phalanx of Turic guardsmen.

The guards lowered their spears to face the magic-wielders, forming a deadly barrier across the road. Their actions were swift and angry, and their faces were cast in rage. Behind them, the Turic camp was an uproar of shouting voices and running men. Torches flickered everywhere in the rain, and armed guards rushed to defend the perimeters.

“Stop there, infidels!” a commander bellowed in credible Clannish.

Eurus slid to a halt, his hooves sliding in the muddy earth. Lord Athlone carefully unbuckled his sword and held it out to show he came in peace. “I am Athlone, Lord of the Khulinin. I came only to learn of your trouble and offer our help.”

“I know you,” the officer snapped. “You are one of those sorcerers, so you already know what disaster has overtaken us. Begone from here before I have your horses brought down.”

Kelene felt her fury rise. Hunnuli were impervious to magic, but not to normal weapons. To her, the Turic’s threat was underhanded and unwarranted. She opened her mouth to say so when another figure appeared on the path behind the guards. The tall form stopped when he saw the clanspeople and shook his fist at them.

“You!” he bellowed over the sounds of the storm. “Curse you for your deeds! What you have clone this night will plunge our people into war!”

It took the magic-wielders a moment to recognize Zukhara in the wild night; then Athlone raised his voice. “Whatever has happened, Counselor, we have had no part in it. We came only to give our aid to the Shar-Ja.”

“He will not see you,” Zukhara answered wrathfully. “He lies crashed in grief. His eldest son, the Shar-Yon, is dead.”

A small, heartsick moan escaped Gabria’s lips, and she leaned over Nara’s neck. Her dream had been right.

At that moment Sayyed galloped up on Afer, his head bare to the pouring rain. He had heard the counselor’s last words, and his hand clenched tight on his stallion’s mane. Like most clansmen, he was unafraid to speak his mind before his chief or any other figure of authority. Immediately he shouted back, “Prove it, Counselor! Show us the Shar-Yon’s body that we may see you do not lie for your own devices!”

A roar of dissension burst from the guards, but Zukhara raised his hand to silence them. “I grant the Khulinin that right. Lord Athlone, you and your guard may enter if the others remain here. I want your word that you will keep your people under control. No weapons, no magic while you are in this camp.”

Although the clanspeople could not see it, Zukhara’s mouth twisted into a smile of satisfaction while Lord Athlone gave his bond. “I must attend the Shar-Ja,” Zukhara called. “Officer, take the infidels to the Shar-Yon, then escort them off our land.” He turned on his heel and strode out of sight, his cloak snapping in the wind.

The commander of the guards looked as if he would hurst with outrage, but the Turics were more reserved and strict in their ranks, and he managed to stifle his objections to trusting a clansman. Grudgingly the guards parted before the Hunnuli.

Athlone glanced apologetically at Gabria before jerking his head to Sayyed. The two men slid off their Hunnuli and followed the fuming commander. Five guards fell in behind them and followed them into the heart of the camp to the Shar-Yon’s large tent.

On the riverbank, Gabria, Kelene, and Rafnir waited in growing impatience. The rain soaked them quickly in a cold, drenching downpour, and the Turic guards made no move to offer them shelter. The guardsmen simply stared balefully at them and kept their spears lowered. A long time passed before Athlone and Sayyed came trudging down the slope to rejoin them.

Both men were speechless with anger and frustration. Curtly they took leave of the Turics, remounted their Hunnuli, and trotted down to the ford. Kelene, Gabria, and Rafnir traded glances, but they would not ask any questions until Athlone was ready to talk. They fell in behind and thankfully recrossed the river.

As soon as they reached the opposite bank, Gaalney, Morad, and several chiefs came running to meet them. Athlone spoke a vehement curse and slid off Eurus. His anger smoldered in his movements and in his words. “The Shar-Yon is dead,” he told the listening people.

“How did it happen?” Rafnir demanded.

The reply came hard and dagger-sharp. “The Turics think we did it.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Fiergan snarled. “They can’t think we’re that stupid. That boy’s the best thing they have.”

Rafnir looked searchingly at his father-in-law. “Something made them think it was us. What was it?”

Athlone clenched his fists as if he were trying to crush his impotent wrath. “Oh. there was something all right. Something only seven of us here can use. Sorcery. The Shar-Yon was killed by the Trymmian force.”

“Bad news comes in threes,” the clanspeople often said, and the second piece of ill-tidings came at dawn on a frigid wind from the north. The temperatures, which had been falling steadily throughout the night, took a plunge, and the rain gradually slowed to a heavy drizzle and began to freeze. The sunrise came reluctantly, lightening the darkness to a gloomy morning heavily cloaked in cloud and mist that showed no signs of thawing the building ice.

The clansmen cursed and struggled against the freezing sleet to reinforce their tents, bring the horses into shelters hurriedly erected in the lee of the tents, and gather up any firewood that was not already encrusted in sheets of ice. Ice storms were rare on the northern plains, which made them that much more dangerous, and the clanspeople hated them almost more than the blinding blizzards that often swept the grasslands.

Across the river there seemed to be a furious swarm of activity in the Turic camp. Tents were coming down, wagons were being loaded, and horses were being saddled in spite of the weather. A constant, heavy guard patrolled the banks, and no one would answer Lord Athlone’s frequent requests to meet with the Shar-Ja or any of his counselors.

The chiefs, meanwhile, tried to solve the mystery of the young Shar-Yon’s death. He had been, Athlone reported, burned almost beyond recognition by a blast of the Trymmian Force, a power used only by magic-wielders.

“But that’s impossible,” Rafnir said for the third time. “We were all in our tents. Gaalney and Morad have witnesses to their whereabouts, Father was on watch, and the four of us were asleep.”

The other chiefs, who had crowded into Athlone’s spacious tent for a quick council, looked at one another in grim confusion. There were only seven known magic-wielders in their midst. Three of them had excellent alibis and the other four, while not necessarily witnessed by other clan members to be in their tents, were too well-known to be conceivable murderers.

“That leaves two possibilities,” said Athlone. “There is either a clansman with the talent to wield magic whom we have not yet detected, or there is one we do know who is hiding close by.”

Sayyed glanced up, his eyes unreadable in the dim light. “There is one other possibility, my lord.” He paused and held up his own hands. “Another Turic half-breed with clan blood.”

“Now how could any untrained Turic use the Trymmian force to kill?” Lord Terod wanted to know. Terod, chief of Clan Amnok, had no magic-wielders in his clan and little practical knowledge of magic.

Lord Sha Tajan of Clan Jehanan, on the other hand, knew sorcery well. “The Trymmian force is easy to use, especially during a thunderstorm. It wouldn’t take much skill to blast the unprotected Shar-Yon.”

“There certainly wasn’t much skill involved,” Athlone growled. He remembered the seared corpse vividly. “Bashan was struck by an uncontrolled blow.”

“Then, too, there is the question of why,” said Bendinor the Dangari. Like most of his clan, he had a blue-dotted design tattooed along his forehead and down his left cheek. Unconsciously he rubbed at the dots as he deliberated aloud.

“We have no real motive to dispose of the most capable son the Shar-Ja has; that would be harmful to our own cause. But what if Sayyed is right? What if there is a Turic with enough talent to wield the Trymmian force and enough ambition to use it? Why kill the heir? Why make it look as if we did it? Perhaps someone wants to interrupt succession to the high throne, cause further trouble with the clans, or open the way for a new leader.”

“The Fel Azureth have been threatening to do that for almost a year,” Lord Athlone pointed out. “Maybe they found a way.”

“So what do we do?” Rafnir grumbled. “We’re in the middle of an ice storm, the Turics are preparing to leave without the treaty, the Shar-Ja won’t speak with us, and the Turic nobles think we killed their heir.”

“Short of attacking their camp and forcing our way in to the Shar-Ja’s presence, the only thing we can do is keep trying to talk to someone in authority and make them see reason,” suggested Bendinor reluctantly.

Cursing at the sleet, the ten chieftains, Sayyed, and Peoren mounted their horses, called the hearthguard warriors, and rode to the river ford. The Altai ran fast and turgid, swollen by the earlier rains. The ford was still serviceable, but the clansmen rode warily across, watchful of the current that now reached their legs.

On the southern bank, the tribal guards eyed the riders suspiciously and stood in ranks across the road with their hands on their sword hilts. A row of archers stood in the line of trees by the bank and held their crossbows ready to fire at a second’s notice. The Turics waited silently while the clansmen drew to a halt at the water’s edge.

This time the Lords Fiergan and Sha Tajan approached the guard together. The big, red-headed Reidhar and the tall, cool-eyed Jehanan presented an attitude of determined commitment as they spoke to the guards’ commander.

This man was a different officer from the belligerent one of the night before, and though he gave no orders to move his ranks, he sent a man to deliver the chieftains’ message.

With nowhere else to go, the clansmen sat on their restive horses and waited impatiently in the steady, freezing drizzle. They drew their hoods low over their faces, but it did not seem to do much good. The wet sleet soaked through their cloaks to their clothes, trickled down their boots, and spattered on their hands and faces until all but the sorcerers were chilled and miserable. Athlone, Sayyed, and Rafnir were slightly drier and warmer from the vibrant, glowing warmth exuded by their big Hunnuli.

Finally a lone figure followed by a large and shaggy brown dog wandered down the path to the guard post. The person looked like a boy of twelve or thirteen, well dressed and fine-featured, with thick black hair and an irrepressible grin. He greeted the commander of the guards with cheery enthusiasm. The officer saluted him peremptorily and promptly ignored him.

Undaunted, the boy patted his dog and studied the uncomfortable chieftains for a moment; then he called, “Hello!” in a merry voice.

Sayyed lifted his head, surprised that the boy spoke Clannish. He glanced at Athlone, who gave a nod, and returned the greeting in Turic.

“Oh, please, speak in your tongue,” the boy insisted. “I’m trying to learn it.” He had a pleased, open expression that paid no heed to the weather or the tension around him.

Sayyed grinned. “What is your name?” he called back, raising his voice to be heard over the ranks of soldiers.

“Tassilio. Are you a chieftain?”

The sorcerer’s grin grew wider. “No. They won’t let me.” Several guffaws came from the men around him, and Sayyed pushed himself a little higher on Afer’s neck to see the boy better. “These men,” he explained, pointing to the lords beside him, “are chieftains. They’re waiting to see the Shar-Ja.”

The light abruptly faded from the boy’s face. He tilted his head as if listening to something beside him and shook it fiercely. “Tell them? Of course I can’t tell them!” he shrilled.

The officer of the guard rolled his eyes.

“I can’t take them to see him either, you know that!” Tassilio said forcefully to the empty air. “He’s very sad. He won’t talk to anyone. Why? I don’t know why! No one ever tells me anything!” He suddenly turned on his heel and stamped back the way he had come, the dog close to his heels.

The clansmen watched him go in surprise, the boy’s unhappiness obvious even from a distance. The Turics paid no attention.

When Sayyed asked the officer about the boy, the man shrugged and answered indifferently, “The Shar-Ja’s son by a concubine. But he’s a sandrat and a simple one at that.”

Most of the northern chiefs looked blank when Sayyed translated that bit of news, so he explained. “A sandrat is another name for a bastard.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “The concubine was probably not his own, but the Shar-Ja was honorable enough to accept the child.”

“Too bad he’s a simpleton,” growled Fiergan.

To everyone’s relief, a small contingent of counselors arrived at that moment led—to no one’s surprise—by Zukhara. The elegant counselor tried to look apologetic for the first time since they’d met him. He marched his companions just to the first rank of guards and there stopped, once again keeping his distance and forcing everyone to shout.

“My lords,” he called, “we have received your message. Unfortunately, the Shar-Ja is unable to accept visitors. His grief has taken a serious toll on his stamina and has forced him into seclusion.”

“I’d like to bet on that one,” muttered Fiergan.

“Then perhaps we can talk to you, Counselor,” Sha Tajan shouted back. “The treaty we worked so hard to bring about is at risk. Grant us, we ask, time to work through this tragedy. We can prove to you that none of our magic-wielders is responsible for the murder of the Shar-Yon.”

Zukhara replied, his words crisp and forceful. “I’m afraid that is impossible. The Shar-Ja is leaving tonight to return to Cangora for the burial of his son. His only words to me were that he would not sign the treaty until the murderer of his son was found and brought to justice.”

The chiefs slumped in their saddles, discouraged and cold. They were at an impasse, and no one knew yet how to get around it.

“Counselor,” Athlone tried again, “I give you my word that the magic-wielders in our camp had nothing to do with—”

“So you say, Lord Athlone,” Zukhara interrupted through a thin veneer of civility. “But only clan blood carries the talent to wield magic, and magic killed Bashan. If you wish to make peace with us, you must find the killer! So the Shar-Ja has spoken.” He sketched a bow to the clansmen, turned his back on them, and led his followers away.

Fiergan made a disgusted noise somewhere between a grunt and a snort. “So that’s that.”

A blood-red look of fury crept over young Peoren’s face, and the Ferganan reached for his sword. Shaking with emotion, he kicked his horse past the chieftains and wheeled it around in front of the officer of the guard. The archers in the trees raised their bows, but Peoren, if he saw them, paid no attention. He flung his sword to the earth point-first, where it stuck upright in the mud, an emphatic confirmation of his outrage.

“The Ferganan called the Turics ‘friend.’ We have given your people our hospitality; we traded on good terms. We dealt with them honorably, and they slaughtered my family!” he shouted with all his despairing fervor. “Until the Shar-Ja fulfills his vow to pay the weir-geld, our clan will seek our revenge in Turic blood!”

The tribal guards surged forward to unhorse the boy, but their officer roared, “Stand off!” and thrust himself between Peoren and the angry men. “Be off, boy,” he snarled to the Ferganan, “before your blood is spilled.”

Not the least bit daunted, Peoren reined his horse around and galloped it back to the Ramtharin shore. The older men, subdued and grim, followed close behind.