Winged Magic

by Mary H. Herbert

  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 land 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 honourable enough to accept the child.”

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

  To everyone’s relief, a small contingent of counsellors arrived at that moment led — to no one’s surprise — by Zukhara. The elegant counsellor 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, Counsellor,” 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 Angora 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.

  “Counsellor,” 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 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 e 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 honourably, and they slaughtered my family!” he shouted with all his despairing fervour, “Until the Shar-Ja fulfils 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 tween 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 round and galloped it back to the Ramtharin shore. The older men, subdued and grim, followed close behind.

  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 day 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 grey 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.

  Across the clan camp, Eurus lifted his great head. He stood in a huddle with Afer, Tibor, and the smaller Harachan horses of the other chiefs, trying to keep warm while the men conferred one last time in Sha Tajan’s tent before the darkness became complete. The stallion stirred irritably and blew a gout of steam, like smoke from a dragon’s mouth.

  Something was wrong. Eurus could feel it like an ache in his belly. He slammed a hoof into the slush and snow. The Harachan, though handsome, graceful animals, had little of the Hunnuli’s intelligence, endurance, or power. They rolled their eyes at the restless giant in their midst and shifted nervously away from him.

  Afer nickered to reassure them, and they settled warily back into their group. Only the Hunnuli could not calm down again. Afer and Tibor both grew restive, and after only a few minutes, the three Hunnuli sidled away and trotted back to the Khulinin tents.

  At first glance, everything looked normal to the Hunnuli. The tents were holding their own against the gathering ice, a few sheltered campfires were burning, the guards were at their distant posts, and the camp was quiet.

  When the stallions came to the chieftain’s tent, though, their anxiety blew up into alarm. The two mares and the women were gone, and their tracks, already filling with snow, pointed down toward the dark river.

  Afer neighed a long, demanding clarion call that rattled the camp and brought men alert, but there was no response from either Nara or Demira. Like black thunder the three stallions galloped along the mares’ trail to the grove of trees. There they slowed to a walk and let their keen eyes and sharp sense of smell lead them through the dense undergrowth to the river’s edge.

  They caught the scent of Nara and Demira in the crushed grass and of Hunnuli blood mingled in the slush and mire of the shore. There, too, they detected traces of many men: churned footprints, a pool of human blood, and the scent of sweat and fear.

  Another smell teased Eurus’s nose, a scent that was pungent, powdery, and metallic. It made him dizzy, and he quickly snorted it out. He scented Gabria’s faint scent in the brush by the trees and Kelene’s on the rocks by the Altai. And that was all.

  The riverbank was empty. The women and the mares had vanished.

  Tibor and Afer wheeled and charged back the way they had come, while Eurus searched up and down the bank for some sign o
f his mate and her rider. At his side, the Altai tumbled and rolled in a muddy, heaving current that reached higher and higher up the shore, washing away the scent and sign of the attackers and their victims.

  Troubled shouts and running feet crashed through the quiet of the grove, and hooded lamps bobbed their light in the deep twilight. The old stallion returned to meet Athlone, Sayyed, and Rafnir, who were out of breath and wild-eyed. Afer and Tibor came with them.

  “Tell me,” gasped Athlone. Other men, Gaalney and Morad among them, joined their chief on the bank, and Eurus told the five sorcerers what had been discovered.

  Lord Athlone breathed long and deeply before he roared, “Sayyed, I want the entire camp checked tent by tent to be certain they are not there. Rafnir, take squads of men up and down the river to search the banks. The rest of you come with me!”

  Without hesitation everyone leaped to obey. They searched for hours, as the darkness closed in and the sleet completed its change to driving snow, and yet they found nothing more of Gabria, Kelene, or the two Hunnuli mares.

  In all the furore of the search, no one on the northern bank of the Altai saw the Shar-Ja’s great wagon leave the camp, nor the long line of supply wagons and baggage vans that followed in its wake.

  At last the men gathered in the centre of the camp by a huge fire built as a signal on the slim possibility the two women were lost in the storm.

  Rafnir’s face was blanched when he reported to Athlone the dismal results of the searches. “Only one guard noticed them leave the tents, but they seemed fine to him and he thought nothing more about it. No one knows why they rode down to the river. We have found no more traces of them anywhere close by.” He bit off his words fiercely as if to contain the worry and fear that ate at him. “Downstream, they found the body of one of our outriders washed up on a snag. His throat had been cut, and his cloak was gone.”