Winged Magic

3

The coals were hot, the herbs had steeped, and Gabria and Kelene settled down at last in the empty peace of their tent for the long-awaited cup of tea. The hot drink was a special mixture of Gabria’s made with lemon balm, tea leaves from Pra Desh, a hint of wild mint, and a sweetening of honey. On this chilled, wet clay the tea reminded the drinkers of summer and wild-flowers and simmering afternoons.

Kelene sipped carefully and sighed her pleasure. She made a mental note to ask her mother for some cuttings of lemon balm to grow in her garden at Moy Tura. A smile crept across her face at the thought of her garden. At Khulinin Treld, Gabria’s herbs grew wild in the sun-warmed glades beside the Goldrine River. At Moy Tura, the plants, like the stone, the wood, and the earth, were shaped to men’s will—an accomplishment clanspeople were still learning to perfect.

Kelene’s thoughts were interrupted by Gabria’s gentle laugh. “You and I have been together for days now, and this is the first quiet moment we’ve had alone. Tell me about Moy Tura.”

So, over the tea, Kelene talked about their lives in the ruins. She told her mother about the temple, their house and garden, the guests who came and went so frequently, the numerous underground passages they had found under the city, Sayyed’s excavations, and all the many problems they had had. She talked for a long time while the sleet pattered on the canvas over their heads and the brazier softly glowed.

Gabria listened and asked a few questions and watched her daughter’s face. When Kelene’s words finally dwindled to silence, the older sorceress squeezed her hand and said lightly, “What a tale to tell your children. You should have a bard there to record your adventures.”

Kelene stilled. She had not said a word about her failure to have children or her hope that Gabria could advise her. She looked around at her mother almost apologetically and said, “What if we have no children?”

Gabria’s fingers tightened over Kelene’s. “I was wondering when you were going to talk to me about that. As much as you and Rafnir love each other, your city should be full of babies.”

“I have tried everything I know,” Kelene murmured sadly. “Prayers and gifts to Amara, herbal remedies. I even went to Wylfling Treld last spring for the Birthright to be blessed by a priestess of Amara.”

“You found no help in the healers’ records?”

A few tantalizing records, medicinal recipes, murals, and healing stones had been found under the old Healer’s Hall at Moy Tura, but they had been sadly lacking in pregnancy information.

Kelene wrinkled her nose at her remembered disappointment. “No. Nor have the healers who come to study the old records.” She broke off, feeling a sudden prickle of tears behind her eyes. “Oh, Mother, to be a healer and not know how to heal yourself! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why can’t I have children? Rafnir and I wanted a big family to fill that shell of a city with life! But I feel as empty as the ruin.”

She fell quiet while her own words echoed in her head. Empty. It sounded so final! So pitiful. She shook herself and drove away the threatening tears. Self-pity would get her nowhere; that lesson she had already learned. But as she sipped the last of her tea and smiled wearily into Gabria’s loving face, she had to admit she felt a little better for having poured out her worries to her mother.

Gabria, meanwhile, listened patiently to the silence, knowing for the moment there were no platitudes Kelene would want to hear. Now that the pain was in the open, they could ponder and study and maybe work out a solution. Gabria fervently hoped so. Besides the delight of having grandchildren, she cherished the practical hope for an increase in the number of magic-wielders to carry on the traditions of Valorian’s blood. Kelene and Rafnir were an excellent match, and should they produce children, their offspring would be powerful indeed.

Their companionable silence lasted for a few precious minutes more before the two women heard the sound of running feet. A head hooded in a gold cloak abruptly thrust itself through the tent flap, and a male voice cried, “Come quickly! There’s been an accident by the river.” The speaker vanished just as hastily, and his footsteps pounded away before the sorceresses recognized him or could ask any questions.

“That was helpful,” Kelene grumbled, gathering her healer’s bag and her cloak. “He could’ve stayed long enough to say who or what.”

“He did look very flustered,” chuckled Gabria. She swept on her own gold cloak over her warm split-skirts, leather tunic, and boots. She gathered an extra blanket from the bed and hurried outside behind Kelene. The messenger was nowhere to be seen.

Nara and Demira stood side by side under the slanted roof of their shelter.

“Did you see which way that man went?” Kelene asked, squinting through the cold gloom.

Toward the grove of trees by the river, Nara responded. He was in a hurry.

Without complaint the two Hunnuli left their dry shelter and bore their riders along the faint trail left by the messenger’s footprints down toward the Altai. There was no sign of the chiefs, but neither Gabria nor Kelene worried overly much. They half expected their husbands to be at the scene of the accident.

Both women peered ahead through the gathering twilight and saw little more than dark shapes and shadows. The temperature had dropped further during the afternoon, and now snow mixed with the sleet to form a slushy white coverlet over the freezing mud.

The Hunnuli bore left along the bank and trotted into a grove of cottonwood, wild olive, and shrub oak. The trees, barely budded, cluster thickly along an old bow of the river and formed a dense screen beside the bank.

Gabria glanced around. She could not see very much in the flying snow, and the clan camp was lost from view. “Are you sure he went this way?” she asked her mare.

“Over here!” a voice shouted. “Quickly!”

The two mares thrust their way through the thick undergrowth toward the sound of the voice until they reached the edge of the trees by the water. In the dull light they saw a body lying prostrate on the stony shore, and four or five men in clan cloaks bending over it.

The Hunnuli’s ears suddenly swept forward in a single motion. Their nostrils flared red, and both mares dug in their hooves and slid to a stop. Danger! flared their minds.

Kelene caught a glimpse of two men whirling around and throwing what looked like dark balls at the horses. In the space of a heartbeat, she saw the balls burst into a dense yellowish powder directly in the faces of the mares. Nara trumpeted in rage, but the powder, whatever it was, filled her lungs. She staggered sideways and crashed against a tall tree trunk before Gabria could stop her. Two men immediately dropped from the trees and pulled the sorceress to the freezing mud. Another man roped Nara’s head and neck.

Kelene had no time to react. Desperate to save her rider, Demira flung herself forward to free her wings from the crowded trees. Then the powder took effect, and she lurched and fell to her knees at the edge of the water, her eyes rolling. Kelene fell hard. Pain shot through her right arm and down her back. Fury and fear flamed her blood, but a hand clamped a damp cloth over her nose and mouth. Unable to speak, unable to use her magic, Kelene inhaled foul, metallic fumes from the cloth and felt her body go numb. The dim light faded to gray before it blinked out and was lost.

The men quickly flung their clan cloaks and the dead outrider into the river. Swiftly they blindfolded the dazed mares and roped them side by side. They flung the women’s bodies over the Hunnuli’s backs. Several more men and horses worked their way across the river. With the strength of the additional horses to steady them, Nara and Demira were forced forward across the rising Altai into the darkness on the opposite bank. In less than a moment the river was empty, and Kelene and Gabria were gone.