Gabria was pleased by their efforts and, for her part, she hid her weapons, put on her skirts, and tried to blend in with the jovial crowd.
That night the travelers joined Sha Umar in the chief's big hall, a long, low building crafted of local stone and driftwood. The Jehanan chieftain was still unmarried, so his sisters served as hostesses and skillfully supervised the serving girls and the food.
The lord stinted nothing for his friends and had his finest wine brought out and the best of his remaining delicacies set before his guests. Because it was early spring, there was very little fresh food to offer. Still, the larders and storerooms of the treld yielded dried fish, sugared fruits, honey, bread, cheese, pickled gul s' eggs, and shellfish brought from the sea that day.
Gabria was delighted with the fare. Her clan had never traveled near the Sea of Tannis and had no access to seafood. She happily feasted on clams, crabs, and gulls' eggs and washed her meal down with the fine white wine.
As soon as the chiefs meal was cleared away, other clan members gathered in the hall. They pushed the benches and trestle tables aside and cleared a space in the center of the hal . The clan's bard brought out his pipes and invited several other men to join him with their drums. The torches and lamps were lit as the dancing began.
For a while, Gabria watched the dancers and clapped her hands to the music. For the first time in days, she felt comfortable, warm, and full. She drank wine freely, nibbled on the sweet cakes and dried fruits that were being passed around, and relished every note of the exciting, happy musk. Then, before she realized what he was doing, Sayyed pul ed her to her feet and whisked her into the boisterous dance. She barely had time to be surprised at the Turk's knowledge of the clan's dances before he whirled her away to the rhythm of the pipe and drums.
From his seat by Sha Umar's dais, Athlone leaned back and watched the pair dance the intricate steps. He had been drinking the Jehanan's strong wine steadily and was unaware that his pain and his feelings were plain on his face.
Sha Umar glanced at his friend and followed Athlone's stricken gaze to the fair young woman moving through the crowd of dancers. The Khulinin had been closed-mouthed and irritable all evening.
Now Sha Umar was beginning to understand why.
"You have not married the Corin yet," the Jehanan chief said bluntly.
Athlone shook his head and drained his cup to the dregs.
He held the horn cup out for more. "She was banished from the clan for six months. When she returned, we left for Pra Desh,” he replied.
Sha Umar filled the cup. "You picked up that young Turic pup along the way, I hear. He seems pleasant enough."
"Huh," Athlone grunted. "A half-breed."
"If he bothers you," the Jehanan commented, "you should send him on his way."
"Gabria asked him to come."
"Ah." The truth became abundantly clear, and Sha Umar smiled. "Athlone, as a warrior there is none better in the clans than you. As a lover you have a lot to learn."
Athlone glared at his friend, his brown eyes rock hard. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Look at her! Is that the face of a girl madly in love with her dancing partner? She likes him, yes, but she has been watching you al night. Her heart is as plain as day when she looks at you." Sha Umar leaned over and slapped Athlone's shoulder. "Don't worry about her! Let her dance and enjoy. Come, talk with me while we have a quiet moment. When we are finished you can sweep her off her feet."
The Khulinin stared at the older man for a long moment. Sha Umar's words made sense. Maybe his friend could see the problem clearer; he could understand what Athlone could not. For just a heartbeat the Khulinin lord almost accepted the truth of Sha Umar's words, then he saw Sayyed pul Gabria into his arms. The smile that lit Gabria's face brought Athlone's doubts pounding back. But before he could react to his anger, Sha Umar took his arm and pulled him away to the chieftain's quarters, where the two men talked long into the night.
By the time they were finished discussing the problems of clan unity and their plans for the upcoming gathering at the Tir Samod, the music had stopped and the main hal was quiet. In the dim light of the dying fire, Athlone saw only some bachelors without tents of their own asleep on pallets along the walls. Piers and a few companions were still deep in their wine cups in a far corner. Gabria was nowhere to be seen.
Swallowing his disappointment, Athlone walked with Sha Umar to the entrance and looked out over the camp. The wind had begun to gust around the tents, and the first drops of rain splattered on the ground.
The Jehanan chief put his hand on Athlone's shoulder. "I'll have your supplies ready for you at first light, my friend."
Athlone nodded his thanks. Sha Umar bid him goodnight and returned to his chamber. The Khulinin drew on his cloak and stepped into the wind and rain.
The treld was quiet and dark; only a few dogs and the night outriders would be out on a stormy night like this. Ducking his head to the wind, Athlone made his way toward the men's guest tent. Just as he reached the entrance he paused, pleased to see Eurus, Nara, and the colt standing nearby, sheltered from the wind by the canvas. He was about to go inside, then changed his mind and made his way toward the smal er tent that had been set aside for Gabria. It was very late, but he could see light shining through the tent flap. Perhaps he would have a chance to talk to her. In private, he could learn the truth of her feelings.
Athlone was about to call to her when he heard a sound that froze his heart: Sayyed's voice. The man was in Gabria's tent. They were talking very softly, so softly that Athlone could not hear their words, but he did not need to. Their low, private tone was enough to breathe life into every dread he had imagined.
The chieftain clenched his hands into fists. Sha Umar was wrong; Gabria had indeed turned to another man. It took every ounce of his will to turn around and walk quietly back to his tent. Like a man half-dead with cold, Athlone lay down on his pal et and clenched his eyes shut. Although he tried to sleep, nothing he could do would erase the memory of those seductively whispering voices from his mind.
The rain began to fall harder.
Gabria raised her head and stared toward the tent flap. "Did you hear something?"
Sayyed half-closed his eyes and leaned out of the lamplight into the shadows. "Tis the wind and the voices of the dead as they ride the steeds of Nebiros,” he said in a low, dismal voice.
The sorceress smiled lopsidedly. "Oh, good. It might be the Corins. They would love to be out on a night like this."
Shaking his head, the Turic chuckled. He rose and fastened the tent flap tight against the wind. "I forget sometimes that you have already had your life's share of death and pain. Your next life should be one of ease and happiness. Perhaps as the spoiled wife of a wealthy man?"
Gabria wrinkled her nose and leaned back against one of the cushions strewn on the floor. "Why do you Turics delight in punishing yourselves with talk of many lives? I like our clan belief of paradise. I would rather go to the realm of the dead, a place where you can ride the finest horses and feast with the gods."
She filled her cup from a wineskin, drained it, and filled it again before passing the skin on to Sayyed. Her head felt light with wine and music, and the heat of the dancing stil burned on her cheeks.
She was delighted by the joy of the evening and by Sayyed's attentive company. Tonight she wanted him more than she cared to admit, and yet, even as her body yearned for the young, handsome Turic, her thoughts wandered to Athlone. She had waited al evening for the chieftain to dance with her, but he had disappeared with Lord Sha Umar. Only Sayyed had remained.
For his part, the Turic was well aware of the effect he was having on Gabria, and that made his heart surge with hope. Smiling, he sat down on the floor beside her, poured his wine, and picked up the handful of polished stones they were using for a game of Rattle and Snap. "Reincarnation is difficult for some to understand, but it seems clear enough to me. How else can a soul attain perfection? One lifetime
is not enough to learn the grace and wisdom of the One Living God."
Gabria sipped her wine and laid her head back on a cushion. "And what does your god have to say about magic-wielders?"
"Our holy men preach against magic for the same reasons yours do,” Sayyed said. "Magic and sorcery are an abomination of the Living God's power."
"Do you believe that?"
"No. My father does, though. He was the one who banished me. Now I am like you. I have no tribe.
No family." He waved his hands in the air in a mock spell. "Only magic."
Gabria shifted a little on her cushion so she could see his face. Her eyes were not focusing very well.
"And you still want to learn?"
"I cannot ignore what I am as long as there is a chance of doing something good with my talent. I believe magic is a gift of the Living God." He held a finger up. "Or gods, if your people are correct."
"I think it's a gift, too," she whispered.
"That's why I sought you out. You are the only one who can teach me the laws of sorcery." He glanced at her and caught her watching him with a slightly puzzled frown. "What is it, fair lady?" he asked, but she only shook her head and looked away. He was surprised to see tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes.
Quickly Sayyed leaned down beside her. He cradled her face in his hands and tilted her head up so she had to look at him.
The tears brimmed and spil ed down her cheeks.
Gabria touched his jaw and smiled blearily at him. She was about to pull his head down to kiss him when suddenly her vision blurred. The lightness in her head turned to a dark, heavy fog, and she slowly sank back into the cushions. "Sayyed, I can't. . ." she began to say when her eyes closed.
She was asleep before she could finish the sentence.
The young Turic looked down at her for a long while and the need for her rose in him like a tide, pulling at him with an almost irresistible force. Yet he fought it down. He had fallen in love with Gabria that first afternoon, when he saw her sitting on the back of that magnificent Hunnuli mare. Since then he had come to realize that Gabria was a woman to be won, not conquered. He also knew full well that she had not yet given up her love for Athlone. The Khulinin chieftain had a hold on this woman that was not easily broken.
Sayyed sighed and sat back on his heels. He prayed to his god that someday she would chose him over the irritable lord. In the meantime, he had sworn his undying loyalty to her and he ful y intended to fulfill his oath---no matter what.
Gently he pushed the curls off her face and traced the line of her cheek with the tip of his finger.
Then he covered her with a woolen blanket and went to the tent flap. Outside the rain came down in torrents, blown into sheets by a powerful wind. Sayyed looked out toward the tent where he was supposed to sleep and shook his head. This tent was just as comfortable and did not require a long walk through a heavy storm.
He found an extra blanket and laid down on the rugs across from Gabria. Just before he fell asleep, a grin lifted the corners of his mouth as he imagined what Athlone would think if he knew who was keeping Gabria company in the dark hours of the night. The Turic went to sleep with the grin still on his lips.
Sayyed had slept only a few hours when a strange sound brought him instantly awake. His hand went to his dagger as he leaped to a crouch and poised, waiting for a repetition of the noise. It came again, low and terrified, a moan of pain and sorrow.
"Gabria?" Sayyed cried. He sprang to her side and laid his hand on her cheek. Her skin was as cold as ice.
She moaned again, and the sound tore at his heart. He had never heard such despair. He shook her carefully to waken her, but she seemed to be trapped in the depths of a hideous dream. Her face was contorted by terror and her hands clenched around his arm with maniacal strength.
"No!" she shouted suddenly. "You can't! Don't do it." Her cry rose to blood-chilling screams that tore out of her throat in uncontrollable terror.
"Gabria!" Sayyed shouted frantically. He shook her hard, but she shrieked and struggled, still locked in the visions of her dream. Finally he slapped her. The stinging pain seemed to rouse her, so he slapped her again and again until at last her screams stopped and she fell sobbing into his arms.
Voices cal ed outside the tent, and people crowded into the entrance. Athlone was the first one in, his face ashen. He took one look at Gabria in Sayyed's arms, at the crumpled blankets and the empty wine cups, and his mind went numb. He wanted to step forward and comfort Gabria himself, but he could not force himself to move.
Just then Piers pushed his way in through the onlookers. He took a quick, speculative glance around before hurrying to Gabria. Her look frightened him. She was shaking violently, and her face was deathly white. She let go of Sayyed and clung to her old friend. Neither of them saw Athlone by the tent flap or the look of pained fury on his face.
Slowly Gabria calmed down enough to speak, and the haunted look faded from her eyes. "By the gods, Piers,” she gasped. Her voice was hoarse from screaming. "They're really trying to do it!"
"Who is?" he asked, confused. "Do what?"
She grabbed the front of his tunic. "Branth! That woman! I saw them. In some dark room Branth was forming a summoning spell around a golden cage. Something was there for just a moment. I saw it, Piers. It was hideous! I looked into its eyes!"
The onlookers gasped and edged away. Gabria scrambled to her feet, her face wild. "The King Stallion is right! Branth is trying to summon something horrible. We have to go now!"
Outside the tent the three Hunnuli neighed in response to Gabria's emotional summons.
The strident calls broke Athlone's numbness, and he strode forward, relieved to be able to do something. "It is almost dawn. Sayyed, tell the men to saddle their horses. Piers, stay with Gabria until we are ready to go. I will tell Sha Umar that we are leaving."
Gabria's fear galvanized them al and everyone leaped to obey Athlone's commands. In a matter of moments, the company gathered their gear, mounted, and bid farewel to the surprised Jehanan. In the darkness and pouring rain, they urged their horses after Nara as she cantered northwest once again to meet the caravan road.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the darkness of the dank palace storeroom, Lord Branth sank down on a stool and tried to light the oil lamp on the table beside him. His hands were shaking so badly that it took several attempts before he could bring the fire to the wick. When the flame leaped up, he leaned forward and rested his head on his arm.
The tal , thin woman behind him crossed her arms and stared at him in disgust. "You fool,” she hissed.
The spell had failed. They had been so close this time. Branth had performed the opening ritual flawlessly, and they had even seen the creature begin to appear in the small, specially reinforced cage.
The summoning had been going wel until Branth had hesitated in the completion of the spell, and, in that vital moment, the creature had slipped away.
The Fon paced around the table in fury. Branth had practiced the spell dozens of times. He had all of the proper tools---the oil lamp, the golden cage, the collar of gold to put around the creature's neck---
yet he had still failed. The woman's deep-set eyes narrowed to slits, and she wondered if he had deliberately spoiled the incantation. She had noticed of late that his body was becoming resistant to her mind drug.
He tried to disobey her occasionally, and his eyes showed brief flashes of willfulness. She decided to increase the drug to ensure that Branth remained her slave.
Unfortunately the man was too exhausted to try the spell again tonight. It was infuriating to have to wait, but the Fon realized she should not force Branth to attempt the incantation a second time until he was fit and rested. He had to be at his utmost strength to control the being she sought.
The Fon calmed down as she thought about this creature.
Gorthlings, as some named them, were quite tiny in stature and rather mild in appearance.
Nevertheles
s, they embodied great evil, and, according to Matrah's book, their essence greatly enhanced the powers of a sorcerer strong enough to capture one and pul it from the realm of the dead to the world of mankind. More importantly, to the Fon's mind, gorthlings could impart the power to wield magic on a human who did not have the inborn talent. In his tome, Matrah had explained the dangers inherent in summoning a gorthling, but the Fon paid little attention to that. There would be no danger, because she was certain she could control the creature.
The Fon smiled to herself. Once the gorthling bowed to her command, she could take the next step in her plan. She would use her sorcery and the armies of Pra Desh to quell any unrest in Calah and conquer the other four kingdoms of the Alardarian Alliance. From there it would be an easy step to conquer other realms to the north and the east, and with the might of the East in her grasp, she could swoop down on the barbarian clans and add the rich Dark Horse grasslands to her domain.
Al at once, the Fon threw back her head and laughed. An empire would be hers-not a mere city, but a world! She sobered as her glance fell on the exiled clansman staring blankly at the floor. She would have to watch him closely after this failure. When the gorthling was hers, Branth would go to the deep, natural pit in the dungeon where she often rid herself of inconveniences.
The only threat the Fon could imagine was the other clan magic-wielder. One of her spies had picked up a rumor in court that Khan’di Kadoa had secretly sent for the sorceress to rid the city of Branth. The woman snorted. She hoped the sorceress would come, though she had not decided whether it would be more beneficial to kill the clanswoman or capture her for her power. She wanted to study that problem a while longer, but there would be time for such pondering later. Her primary concern now was to capture a gorthling.
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