Winged Magic

by Mary H. Herbert

  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 sweet cakes 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 grey 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 counsellor’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 favourably of peace and the council was off to an auspicious beginning. Better to help the peacemakers build their bridges than fret over one individual.

  CHAPTER THREE

  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 counsellor. “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 Turics 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 supp
lied, 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 humour. “It’s amazing what you can learn from caravan drovers, travelling 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 humour 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 done 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 fervour.

  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 Counsellor 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, Counsellor 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 centred on the tall counsellor, 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 neighbours 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 grey 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 honour.

  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 honour 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 vigour 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 band 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 Counsellor 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 harboured 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 neighbours.”