Winged Magic

7

That night at the second oasis, called the Tears of Al Masra, the evening was much the same. The caravan halted in a level field and set up camp beside the string of shallow pools that formed the oasis. After prayers, food was prepared, the horses were herded out to graze under the watchful eye of mounted herders, and the travelers relaxed. Sayyed and Rafnir walked about, observing the activity and looking for something that would lead them to the missing women.

They saw little to help them. The Shar-Ja remained in seclusion. The counselors kept to themselves, and the tribesmen ate and rested. Tassilio seemed to be the only one in camp with a light heart. He ran with his dog, laughing and barking and chasing imaginary prey.

As night settled on the oasis, Sayyed saw seven more men slip out of the darkness and mingle in with the camp’s inhabitants. They were like the first group, totally unremarkable except for their full complement of weapons. When Sayyed tried to approach one, a lean wolf of a man with a mole on his cheek, the tribesman glared at him and hurried away.

At last, exhausted. Sayyed and Rafnir sought shelter in a quiet place under the tall, slim trunk of an oasis willow. They slept undisturbed until morning, when they woke to horns calling the faithful to prayer.

That day followed much like the last. Three days were gone, and there was still no word or clue as to the whereabouts of Kelene and Gabria. That evening the caravan traveled late into dusk to reach the next oasis on the Spice Road, one unimaginatively called Oasis Three.

“There’s one place we haven’t tried yet,” Sayyed told his son as they ate their meal. “The baggage train. We’ll take a look in some of the bigger vans and wagons.”

They waited until the night was late and the camp had settled into subdued nocturnal peace. The enormous dome of the sky arched over their heads, clear and afire with countless stars. In the pale starlight, the sorcerers crept to the supply wagons and began a slow, methodical search of the interiors of each one, large or small. Soft-stepping, they checked the first row then moved to the next.

Sayyed put his foot on the wheel of a large covered vehicle and was about to lift himself up to see inside when he heard the faint crunch of soft boots on sandy soil. He turned to warn Rafnir and glimpsed several shadows spring around the corner of the wagon. Balanced on one foot and with his hands on the wagon sides, he could not react fast enough to defend himself. He fell sideways, hoping to throw off the attackers long enough to form a defensive spell. Something flashed in the starlight, and a brilliant pain exploded in his head. He heard a muffled thud beside him, and as he collapsed he felt the body of his son fall silently on top of him.

Sayyed hung suspended in a black pitiless limbo somewhere between consciousness and oblivion. He could not see or move or speak; he could only dwell in the pain that racked his body. He thought at first the pain was only in his head, in a blinding crack behind his ear that threatened to split open his entire skull. But as he concentrated on that agonizing sensation, more of his senses became aware, and other parts of his body began to complain. His neck, shoulders, and arms ached for some reason he did not yet understand, and his shins and ankles felt battered. Confused at this unknown assault, Sayyed’s mind scrambled farther out of the black fog to seek a way to end the pain.

He became aware of several things at once. First, although he knew his eyes were open, he could not see. Fabric had been wrapped around his head, effectively blinding and gagging him. Second, he realized his arms and shoulders hurt because someone had roped his arms up over his head and was dragging him, facedown, over ground rough with short shrubs, rocks, and small prickly cactus.

Groggily he struggled against the tight bonds on his arms, but his efforts brought only a vicious kick that landed on his ribs. He groaned and stayed still while he forced his mind to full alertness.

He briefly considered summoning magic to break his ropes; then he set that idea aside for the moment. He was still too groggy and could neither speak nor use his hands. Without those guides and the strength to control the powerful energy, he could cause more trouble for himself than he was in now. The magic could burst out of control and destroy all who were in the vicinity.

Instead, he let his body hang limply in his captors’ hands and listened to the sounds around him, hoping to learn more about the men who held him and what had happened to Rafnir. As he concentrated, he discerned more footsteps, perhaps five or six pairs, and what could be the sound of another body being dragged close by.

The attackers moved swiftly and silently up an easy slope, then down a long, gentle incline to a hollow lined with gravel and short spindly plants that crackled under Sayyed’s weight. There the unseen men stopped and dropped their captives on the ground.

“By the Path of Sargun, these brigands are heavy!” one voice complained. “Why did we have to drag them out here?”

A second, harsher voice answered, “He said no more killing in the camp. It’ll start to be noticed.”

Sayyed bit his lip to stifle a moan of pain. His arms were still up over his head and felt as if they had been racked from his shoulders. He felt the other body rolled over beside him, and to his relief, he heard a third voice say, “This one’s still alive.”

“Anyone know these two?” demanded the second voice, probably the leader.

Sayyed felt himself pushed onto his back, and the fabric was yanked away from his face, jarring his aching head. The groan he tried to stifle slipped out of his clenched teeth.

Six faces peered down at him, smirking and merciless. “He’s Raid tribe, that’s all I know,” one dark face said. “He was probably looking for things to steal.”

“Raid,” another sneered. “Nothing but thieves and brigands. No wonder they do not follow the Path of Light and Truth.”

“Kill them,” ordered die leader.

Sayyed frantically tried to lick his lips, to swallow past a dry and bitter mouth. He had to take action now before the assassins slit his throat. Using all his will, he drew on the magic in the earth beneath him. He felt it surge into his body, a furious, energizing power that flowed through bone and muscle as easily as his own blood. He formed the magic into the only weapon he could use instinctively without forming a specific spell: the Trymmian force.

He saw the thugs draw their knives, the long, fat-bladed weapons the Turics often used, and he pulled his arms down to his chest. His muscles tensed; his heart beat hard against his ribs. One man stepped close to grab Sayyed’s hair.

“Oh! Excuse me,” a boyish voice called cheerfully.

Every man whirled and looked up to see a short figure standing halfway down the hill.

“Excuse me,” the voice cried again. “I was just looking for my dog. He is big and brown and looks as ugly as you!” Swift as a hunter, the figure drew back his arm and fired a rock from a slingshot at the man closest to Sayyed. The missile struck the man’s temple with such a crack, he fell sprawling, dead before he knew what hit him.

The leader yelled a curse and sprang up the slope after the boy.

“Tassilio!” a new voice bellowed and, to the astonishment of everyone, a black-clad warrior lunged down the hill, his tulwar drawn and ready. He charged past the boy into the midst of the surprised men and swung his curved sword with both hands into the belly of the leader. The assassins hesitated only a heartbeat; then the four still on their feet drew their own blades, circled around their lone attacker, and rushed in like wolves.

Sayyed struggled desperately to sit up and free his hands. A pale blue aura formed around his fists from the power of the Trymmian force, and he made use of a fraction of its searing energy to burn through the ropes on his arms.

In that instant he heard the boy cry out and a dog bark. Looking around, he saw the boy run furiously down the hill toward the warrior with the sword. The black-clad man had injured a second thug, but the others had pressed him so closely he tripped over an outcropping and lay sprawled on his back. The assassin’s swords rose over his head.

Sayyed had lifted his hand to fire a blast of magic when suddenly horses’ hooves pounded on the hillside, and the enraged scream of a stallion interrupted the thugs’ intent. Two huge horses blacker than night, their eyes like moons of green fire, rushed into the three remaining attackers. The men screamed in fear and flung themselves away, but only one escaped the horses’ trampling hooves. That man tried to break past Sayyed to escape to the relative safety of the distant camp.

A blast of the Trymmian force shot from the sorcerer’s hand, flared a fiery blue path through the darkness, and scorched into the chest of the last assassin. The thug crashed on his back, his robe smoking.

A strange stillness sank over the hollow. The dead lay motionless in the settling dust. The warrior leaned on the hilt of his sword and gasped for breath. His small companion stood just above him on the hill, his mouth open and his eyes bulging. His dog pressed close to his knees. The two black horses sniffed the dead men lying at their feet, then swung their great heads to look at Sayyed, who bent over his son.

“By all that’s holy,” a wondering voice said softly. “Sayyed. It is you.”

The sorcerer lifted his head. The voice, once familiar and remembered with pleasure, put a name to the unknown warrior. In the pale light of the icy stars, he saw a face he had not seen in twenty-six years: his brother Hajira, one year older than himself, the sixth son of the Raid-Ja and his wife, the clanswoman from Clan Ferganan.

They built a small fire in the hollow out of the way of the cool night wind. While Sayyed tended Rafnir, Hajira dragged the bodies out of sight into a thicket. Tassilio raced off to the distant camp and soon returned carrying a wedge of cheese, a box of sweet oatcakes, and a jug of firza, a drink made from fermented grain and dates. Rafnir was conscious by that time and nursing his pounding head by the fire. The two brothers sat on either side, unsure yet of what to say.

Grinning like a conspirator, Tassilio laid out his offerings with several plates and a pair of matching flagons.

Hajira rolled his eyes when he saw the things. “Tassilio may be son of the Shar-Ja, but he steals like a street urchin,” he said as the boy sat close beside him.

The boy grinned and winked at Sayyed with such intelligent mischief that the sorcerer began to seriously doubt the general belief that Tassilio was “simple.” Up close, the Shar-Ja’s son was rangy, athletic, and the image of his father, with a straight nose, strong jaw, and two huge, wary eyes that stared unwaveringly at the two sorcerers.

“You’re clansmen, aren’t you?” the boy said to Sayyed in Clannish. “Yet you speak Turic, ride with the caravan, and look like Hajira.”

“You don’t miss much, do you?” Rafnir said, offering him a weak smile.

To the clansmen’s surprise, the boy slouched forward. letting his hair fall over his eyes. His mouth slackened into a loose-lipped grin, and the bright glint of awareness in his eyes dulled to a blank stare. He looked so much like the simpleton people thought him to be, Sayyed simply stared.

“It’s amazing what you can hear when people pretend you don’t exist,” Tassilio laughed. He straightened and as quickly snapped back into his alert, cheerful self.

Hajira stirred for the first time. “Tassilio was the one who saw the thugs jump you at the baggage wagons. He came to get me.”

Sayyed sipped his wine, letting the tart liquid soothe his dry and aching throat. He wondered where to go with this conversation. How far could he trust even a brother he had not seen in so long? Hajira knew him for what he was, and when they were boys Hajira would have died before betraying his brother. But what would this man do? Who was he now?

“How did you know I was here?” he asked Hajira after a short pause.

“I recognized you from that day on the riverbank,” Tassilio answered for his companion. “So I told Hajira you were in the caravan, and he told me to keep an eye on you.”

The Turic warrior lifted an eyebrow at this enthusiastic speech. He seemed to be as quiet and taciturn as the boy was voluble. “We’ve heard many tales about a half-breed sorcerer who rode with the Lady Gabria,” he said finally. “But Father would never allow your name to be spoken after you left. I did not realize it was you until tonight. We always thought you were dead.”

Sayyed shook his head at the memory of his father. A stern, unrelenting man, the Raid-Ja believed that as leader of the Raid tribe he had to follow the exact letter of the law. When his youngest son revealed the unexpected and forbidden talent to wield magic, Dultar sadly but mercilessly disinherited him and exiled him from the tribe. The hurt of that rejection had dulled over the years, and after a time Sayyed accepted the results of that exile with gratitude. If he had not fled to the Clans, he would not have met Gabria and Athlone, nor his beloved Tam, nor would he have his handsome, if rather battered-looking son. In gratitude to the Living God who had watched over him so well, he leaned over and affectionately squeezed Rafnir’s shoulder.

“Your son?” Hajira asked, eyeing his new nephew.

“Yes,” Sayyed said. He leaned forward to study this brother he had known so long ago. Hajira did not look very different. He had matured, of course, but he still wore his mustache long to help elongate his broad face. His wide-set eyes were deep and large above a hawk-nose and a strong jaw, and when he stood, he still topped Sayyed by several inches.

What had changed, and what disturbed Sayyed, was the cut of Hajira’s hair. His brother’s long, thick hair and the intricate knot of a tribesman had been shaved off close to his skull—a cut that was usually reserved as a punishment for some crime of dishonor.

Sayyed took another sip of the wine and said, “And what of you? If you have heard tales of me then half of them are probably true and you know my life. How is yours? Tell me of the family.”

Hajira laughed a short, sharp bark of amusement. “The family goes on as always. Alset is Raid-Ja now, and he is as unforgiving as Father ever was.”

“Father is dead?”

“Four years ago. He died in his sleep.”

“And Mother?”

“Well and happy and rejoicing in her grandchildren.

She will be overjoyed to know you live.” He paused and glanced at the two Hunnuli standing protectively behind Sayyed and Rafnir before adding, “As for me, I chose to join the Shar-Ja’s guard, and there I have been for twenty years.”

Sayyed was impressed. The Shar-Ja’s personal guards were the elite warriors from every tribe. Initiates went through several years of rigorous training and conditioning and had to swear undying loyalty to the overlord. All would give their lives for the Shar-Ja. Almost unwillingly his gaze lifted to Hajira’s head, and his brow furrowed.

His brother recognized his unspoken question. He cocked a half-smile. “Things have been changing in Cangora the past two years. I made the mistake of voicing my opinion of Counselor Zukhara rather forcefully. He could not dismiss me, but he had me reprimanded and transferred to guard Tassilio—a huge step-down in honor, he thought, sentenced to ‘babysit the idiot.’” He chuckled as he repeated the counselor’s words in a good imitation of Zukhara’s sonorous voice.

A glow of humor lit like a lamp in Tassilio’s face. “Smartest thing Zukhara ever did, and he doesn’t even know it,” Hajira went on. “This imp’s mother sent him to court a year ago. He took one look at the political situation and has been acting the fool ever since to save his hide. He is the accepted, right-born second son of the Shar-Ja, and his heir after Bashan. You saw what happened to the Shar-Yon.”

“The Fel Azureth have sworn to kill the Shar-Ja and all his offspring,” Tassilio said in a flat voice. “When Father got sick, I pretended to go crazy. The law protects lepers and fools.”

Sayyed blinked, both amazed at the boy’s wit and dismayed by the circumstances that drove him to such desperate measures. “What does your father think of your subterfuge?”

The boy looked away quickly, but not before Sayyed saw the glitter of unshed tears in his eyes. “I doubt Father has even noticed. He saw only Bashan.”

Sayyed sat straighter to draw the boy’s attention back to himself. “Who do you think killed the Shar-Yon?” he asked Hajira and Tassilio with deliberate emphasis. His brother and the boy, young as he was, would make good allies in the caravan, and Sayyed wanted to put to rest any suspicions they might have.

“Perhaps we did. Do you think we are here to assassinate the Shar-Ja as well?” Rafnir put in. “As Zukhara said, only clan blood carries the talent to wield magic.”

Tassilio squirmed and looked as if he would say something, but this time he waited and deferred to the warrior sitting beside him.

It was Hajira who spoke first. He put more fuel on the fire, poured more firza, and thought carefully before he made his answer. “I didn’t know what to think when I heard a clan magic-wielder was in the caravan. The thought that this sorcerer was here to harm the Shar-Ja crossed my mind. But I know you. Twenty-six years would not be enough time to turn my brother into an assassin.”

Tassilio’s head shook vigorously. “Not the half-breed who turned sorcerer, fought gorthlings and plagues and stone lions, who tames the black Hunnuli and rides with the Lady of the Dead Clan,” he blurted out. “Do you really have a diamond splinter in your wrist?”

Sayyed’s lips twitched at the boy’s outburst. He was amazed that Tassilio knew so much about his past and viewed it with such enthusiasm. Sorcery was supposed to be outlawed, but obviously the stories of the clans had traveled over the borders. Obligingly he pulled back the long sleeve of his robes and revealed a tooled leather wristband on his right arm. As soon as he loosened the lacings, the band slid off, revealing the pale glow of the splinter just beneath his skin. About two inches long, the slender diamond gleamed dusky red through the blood that flowed around it.

Tassilio’s eyes grew wide. “So you are not here to kill Father. Why are you here?” he asked directly.

“To find Bashan’s murderer?” Hajira suggested.

Sayyed pulled the armband back on. “If we can, and to find the Lady of the Dead Clan and the healer with the winged horse,” he told them in a terse voice.

Both guard and boy sat up with a jerk and shared a bewildered look. “Lady Gabria and—”

“Kelene,” Rafnir finished for them. “My wife. She and Lady Gabria disappeared the night your caravan left Council Rock. We are trying to find them.”

Hajira did not ask why they had come to search the caravan. The fact that they had risked doing so gave enough credence to their news. “I can promise you they are not with the Shar-Ja or any of his immediate servants. Tassilio or I would know if they were there. Where else have you looked?”

Sayyed told him everything they had seen and examined so far. “We were checking wagons in the baggage train when we were jumped.”

“Odd place for an ambush,” Hajira said, scratching his neck thoughtfully. “I wonder if someone has something to hide and has set guards. They obviously didn’t know you were sorcerers, or they would have killed you instantly.”

“There are several big covered vans that could carry two Hunnuli,” Tassilio pointed out. “We could check them tomorrow night.” His sadness put aside, he turned his youthful enthusiasm to the thrill of the mystery.

His dark-clad guard turned on him. “What is this we? You will stay in your tent where you belong.”

Tassilio drew a long, quivering sigh, but one eyelid drooped in a quick wink to Sayyed.

They doused the fire and thoroughly erased every sign of their presence in the hollow. With Tassilio and his dog leading the way, the two brothers walked side by side back to the sprawling camp. Tibor carried Rafnir, who still suffered the ill-effects of the vicious blow to his head. Sick and weak, Rafnir decided to find his blankets and sleep in a sheltered nook where Tibor could watch over him. Sayyed helped him find a place and settled him comfortably.

Tassilio dubiously eyed the big black horse standing over Rafnir. “Is that your Hunnuli? Where is its lightning?”

Tibor obliged his curiosity by turning his right shoulder to Tassilio. The boy dug his fingers into the stallion’s hair and crowed with delight when he found white skin beneath the black dye. To the brothers’ amusement, Tassilio asked if he could join Rafnir, saying he’d rest better if a Hunnuli guarded his bed.

Hajira acquiesced, and Tibor gently sniffed the boy all over and nickered his acceptance. Tassilio quickly bedded down next to Rafnir, his dog cuddled beside him, before Hajira could change his mind.

Although his head pounded and his muscles felt sore and weak, Sayyed did not want to sleep yet. Under Afer’s close watch, he and Hajira walked around the outer perimeter of the camp, talking for hours about everything that came to mind. Their companionship pleased Sayyed, for the years seemed to fall away, and he and his brother moved back into the easy, confident relationship they had enjoyed before their father tore them apart and sent Sayyed into exile.

For the first time since the plague, Sayyed found himself talking at length about Tam. While Hajira strode silently at his side, he told him of their life together, how Tam saved his life while still a girl, how he waited five years for her to reach maturity, of her love for her animals, her courage and strength, and at last, in a voice that still trembled after three years, he told his brother of her death in the plague tent and of the fatal grief of her Hunnuli.

When he was through, he drew a long breath and slowly exhaled, feeling better somehow for opening his thoughts to Hajira. He had kept his memories of Tam buried deep in his mind, out of sight where they would not hurt so badly, but now that he had brought them out fresh and shining for his brother, he realized he had been missing an important part of his healing. He needed to talk about Tam, to remember their love and joy together. To fail to do so diminished the life she had left behind.

When Sayyed’s words trailed away and he lapsed into his own thoughts, Hajira laughed softly, his black, brilliant eyes filled a new measure of respect. “For years I have hated Father for sending you away. Now I see that, knowing or unknowing, he did you the greatest of favors.”

They walked on peacefully for a while until they passed the cluster of luxurious tents set aside for the counselors and the tribal leaders who attended the Shar-Ja. As they approached the Shar-Ja’s huge tent, several loyal guards on duty snapped to attention and saluted Hajira. The warrior did not return the salutes but nodded at the men’s mark of respect.

The sorcerer noted the strange exchange and said, “You were more than a guardsman, weren’t you?”

Hajira hesitated an instant, then drew himself up with a warrior’s pride. “I was Commander of the Tenth Horse, the oldest and most honored cavalry unit in the Shar-Ja’s guard. We were called the Panthers for our silence, our cunning, and our speed in the attack. Now I am a foot soldier in the lowliest ranks, whose only duty is obligatory guard on a simpleton of a sandrat.” Bitterness shook the timbre of his deep voice, and his hands curled as if gripping an invisible weapon.

“But that’s some sandrat,” Sayyed remarked, hoping to ease Hajira’s tension.

His words helped a little, for the warrior’s hands relaxed, and he laughed ruefully. “That boy was a real surprise.”

“What happened?” Sayyed asked. They had passed the Shar-Ja’s tent and were walking by a large area of tents and crude shelters. The escorts from all fifteen tribes camped together, drinking, gaming, talking, and bickering half the night. Girls from the oasis settlement came to entertain them for coins, and enterprising tradesmen brought trays of food and kegs of drink to sell. Even at that late hour, a few fires still burned, and occasional laughter and song could be heard mixed with the mournful howls of wild dogs sniffing for food about the edges of the great camp.

Sayyed remembered the six dead assassins and wished the dogs a good meal. He glanced at his brother. There was just enough distant firelight for him to recognize the stony set of Hajira’s broad face, and he wondered if the warrior was going to ignore his question.

But Hajira had brought his anger under control and fully regained his trust in the younger brother he had once thought dead. “You know the Shar-Ja has been ill almost a year,” he began. “It was about that time that the Gryphon and his extremists captured the holy shrine of the Prophet Sargun and declared their intention to destroy the Shar-Ja’s corrupt court and return the leadership of the tribes to a high priest. No one paid much attention to them at first because the priests and the tribal councils were too busy dealing with the effects of the drought and the Shar-Ja’s declining health. No one was able to find the cause of his malady or a cure, so he turned over many of his responsibilities to his son.

“For a while, Bashan did a good job. But then things started to go wrong. Grain shipments to the cities disappeared; the tribal chiefs grew resentful; counselors were murdered; violence on the roads increased dramatically. Then news came that the Fel Azureth was spreading across the realm and causing problems over the Altai. The remaining counselors lost confidence in the Shar-Ja and his son. Finally someone suggested Counselor Zukhara replace the Shar-Yon and take control of the royal council until the Shar-Ja returned to health.”

Here Hajira paused, and a wry smile crossed his lips. “Royal guards, even Panthers, are not permitted to draw weapons in the council chambers, but when that weasel-eyed, honey-tongued Zukhara agreed and ordered the Shar-Yon to leave the council, I objected.” He drew his long, curved tulwar and held it out at arm’s length. “With this. If Bashan had not ordered me to stand down, I probably would have killed the counselor and paid for it with dishonor and disemboweling. Zukhara has hated me ever since.” His arm fell, and the gleaming blade whispered back into its sheath. “Bashan saved my life that day, but I was not there to save his. For the honor I owe his father, I will protect his brother and I will find Bashan’s killer.”

Sayyed stopped. “Then we hunt the same trail, for the Turics will not give the clans peace until the Shar-Yon is avenged.” He raised his right hand, palm upward, and extended it toward his brother.

Hajira’s hand met his, clasped it tightly, and lifted both into a joined fist that wordlessly sealed their vow of mutual trust and commitment.

Together they turned and began to walk back toward the place where they had left Rafnir and Tassilio. Afer dutifully followed, looking for all the world like a simple horse on a lead line. Only Sayyed and Hajira, who had seen both the killing fury and the loving devotion in the glittering dark eyes, knew the stallion for what he was.

The two men found the younger ones wrapped in their blankets, contentedly asleep under the attentive watch of the Hunnuli and the dog. Exhausted at last, Sayyed threw himself down by his son and fell into a rightfully earned sleep. Hajira prowled around the perimeter of their sleeping area for several more minutes, the ingrained caution of years urging him to check the dark shadows one last time before he slept. At last, cocking an eye at the two black stallions, he stretched out near Tassilio and allowed himself to rest.