Winged Magic

by Mary H. Herbert

  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 favours.”

  They walked on peacefully for a while until they passed the cluster of luxurious tents set aside for the counsellors 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. 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 warrior’s pride. “I was Commander of the Tenth Horse, the oldest and most honoured 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 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; counsellors 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 counsellors lost confidence in the Shar-Ja and his son. Finally someone suggested Counsellor 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 counsellor and paid for it with dishonour and disembowelling. 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 honour 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.

  Just before sunrise and the morning horns, Hajira woke Sayyed. Without speaking, they left the Hunnuli and the other sleepers and strode purposefully in the direction of the baggage wagons. They climbed a short rise where they could see the wagons and vans parked row by row in the early light. Talking and gesturing to hide their true intent, they took turns studying the wheeled vehicles.

  After several minutes of this, Hajira’s expression turned thoughtful, and he said in a low tone, “Take a look at the large, covered van. Last row, near the end. There are several men lounging nearby.”

  Sayyed made a casual turn as if he wanted to look at something on the paling horizon. “I haven’t noticed that one before. The brown one, wood roof, and some sort of red emblem on the side?” He felt a surge of hope. The van looked big enough to hold both the mares and the women.

  “That’s the one. It looks worn. It’s probably a merchant wagon that was rented or borrowed. But those men down there do not look much like drivers.”

  “Hmm, no. They are dressed like the men who attacked us. More guards perhaps?” Sayyed suddenly stiffened, and he had to force himself to look naturally away from the men below. “I know one of those men. The lean one. He has grey in his hair and a mole on his cheek. I saw him slip into the caravan two days ago.”

  Hajira’s face lost its friendliness, and his eyes turned hot and frustrated. “Have you seen others coming into the caravan?”

  “Several groups,” the sorcerer confirmed. “They were heavily armed and arrived at dusk.”

  The warrior frowned. “I was right!” he said fiercely. “Someone is fattening the tribal levies with mercenaries and fanatics. I have tried to warn the counsellors, but no one will listen to me. I am dishonoured!” he spat. “And other men are too afraid to talk. The Gryphon has sworn to call a holy war, and no one wants to get in his way.”

  Sayyed sucked in his breath. A holy war was a call to battle in the name of the Living God, a call that few Turics would ignore. Usually the holy war was used in times of invasion or war with other nations. Never had a holy war been called to incite rebellion within the Turic nation itself. “The God forbid,” he murmured.

  “Indeed. The Gryphon may be planning a coup before we reach Cangora in nine days.” He turned on his heel and strode down the rise away from the wagons. Sayyed followed. “We’d better find your women and get them out. W
e certainly do not need two magic-wielders caught in the middle of a civil war.”

  Sayyed couldn’t agree more.

  They split up after that, Hajira taking his charge to the front of the caravan near the funeral wagon and Sayyed and Rafnir riding in the midst of the tribal escorts. For fear of attracting attention, they all kept their distance from the wagon train that brought up the rear.

  The ride that day was long and hard, over a rolling, twisting road that reached to the rising Absarotan foothills. It was dark by the time the caravan stopped at the next oasis, the Impala Springs. The people were too tired to set up a full camp, so they put out crude shelters, ate cold food, and went thankfully to bed. Only the Shar-Ja and his counsellors had their tents erected for the night.

  Hajira waited only until the camp was settled before he sought out the clansmen. Ignoring Tassilio’s protests, he left the boy with the Hunnuli and led Rafnir and Sayyed back to the parked wagons and vans. They did not have to search long before they made an alarming discovery.

  The large wooden van with the red emblem on its side was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Almost frantically the three men checked the baggage wagons again, from one end of the field of parked vehicles to the other. There was no brown van and no guards, only a few drivers tending to their wagons. Sayyed asked several about the van, but no one had paid much attention to one brown vehicle among so many, and no one had noticed it leave. The men then looked everywhere in the oasis village, around the stone-walled springs, in other areas of the camp, even in some outlying gullies, hollows, and dry valleys. All to no avail. The unremarkable brown wagon had vanished from the caravan.

  Frustrated and upset, Sayyed and Rafnir returned with Hajira to the Hunnuli. The night was well advanced, but the men were too agitated to sleep. The allotted four days was gone, and their only possible lead had disappeared somewhere along the leagues of the Spice Road.

  “We have several choices,” declared Sayyed, his arms crossed and his face grim. “We can go back to the Altai and find the Fel Azureth, to learn if they have Gabria and Kelene. We can continue to search the caravan, or we can abandon both ideas and go in search of an unknown wagon that may or may not be holding the women.”

  “The road forks three ways,” Hajira said softly. “Which way does the heart go?”

  Tassilio put his hand on Sayyed’s sleeve. “The Fel Azureth would not take them. They believe too firmly in their own righteousness. They would not stoop to coercing a power they believe to be heretical.”

  All three men gazed at Tassilio, astonished at the boy’s astute observation. His earnest, eager face brightened under their stare, and he pushed a foot forward, crossed his arms, and lifted an imperious chin in such an excellent imitation of his father, Hajira nearly choked.

  “He’s right,” the guardsman conceded. “The core of the Fel Azureth are extreme fanatics who despise any religion or power not their own. Of course, that doesn’t mean someone else didn’t kidnap the sorceresses to make trouble for the fanatics.” He lapsed into silence and brooded over their lack of tangible results, his fingers drumming on the hilt of his sword.

  Rafnir, too young and intense to bear his patience stoically, began to pace step after angry step between the men and the Hunnuli. “So where does that leave us. Father?” he demanded. “There’s nowhere to go forward and too many places to go back!”

  The older sorcerer rubbed his neck against the throbbing pain in his head. It had been a very long day and night, and he was still suffering from the aftereffects of the blow to his head. He closed his eyes and drew a long, filling breath. “I wish to sleep on this decision,” he said. “I will decide in the morning which fork in the road we’ll take.”

  The other men did not argue. There was little point wasting more time or effort on discussion when there was nothing they could do about it until daylight anyway. With Tassilio between them and the Hunnuli keeping guard, they rolled themselves in their blankets to wait for morning.

  Deep in the night, Sayyed’s dreams fled to the Ramtharin Plains. He rode frantically on a desert horse after a golden cloaked woman on a cantering Hunnuli. He chased her, shouting, until she slowed and waited for him. He expected to see Tam, but when he neared and the woman turned around, she pulled off her hood and revealed Gabria’s face as she had been twenty-six years ago when he first saw her that spring day and fell instantly in love with her. Sayyed’s heart ached at her loveliness. She smiled at him with all the warmth and love he remembered, and without a word she lifted her arm to point to a range of mountains. Abruptly she disappeared, and Sayyed found himself in a stifling darkness. He cried out, more at her loss than at the blackness that covered him, and he tried to lunge away from the constricting dark. He discovered he could not move his arms or legs. Something pinioned him from head to foot, something that groaned and creaked close to his head. Then he heard her voice, no more than a faint whisper in his head, “Sayyed.”

  “Gabria!” he shouted, and his own voice jolted him awake. He jumped to his feet and saw morning had already lit the skies with apricot and gold. Afer nudged him with his muzzle, and Sayyed leaned gratefully into the stallion’s powerful shoulder.

  Rafnir, with five days’ growth of beard on his face, yawned and clambered out of his blankets. His eyes met his father’s, and they locked in a long, considering stare.

  “I think we should look for the wagon,” Rafnir said quietly. “I don’t believe they are here.”

  Sayyed said nothing, for he had looked over Rafnir’s shoulder to the mountains northwest of the oasis. He had seen the peaks in the days before as the caravan slowly travelled closer. Last night, though, when they reached the springs, it had been too dark to see details of the great, grey-green chain of mountains that still lay perhaps ten or twenty leagues away. Now he saw them clearly, bathed in the morning light, and he recognized their rugged crowns as surely as he had known Gabria. She had pointed west to those same mountains in his dream. He pondered, too, the other elements: the meaning of the darkness, the creaking noise, and Gabria’s voice.

  Was a dream any more of a clue than a hunch or a guess or an idea? Was it a sign sent by Amara or just his tired mind furnishing a solution to his dilemma? Perhaps Gabria’s talent was reaching out to him. Whatever its meaning or its source, he decided to follow its lead, for lack of any other evidence. “The wagon it is,” he said.

  Hajira, who had awakened with Tassilio, drew a small knife from a sheath hidden in his boot. Thin and slender as a reed, the blade fit easily into his palm. The handle was a tiny gryphon’s head carved from a flat slice of opal so the beast’s face shone with rainbow colours in the sun. Hajira handed the blade to Sayyed. “Keep this when you go. If you need me for anything, send the knife with your message and I will come.” He put his arm around Tassilio’s shoulders, a fatherly gesture the boy accepted gladly. “We will keep our ears alert. If anyone has the women close by, we will learn of it.”

  Sayyed ran a finger along the hilt. Although gryphons were extinct, they were still powerful symbols of loyalty and courage in the Turic faith. “A beautiful knife,” he said.

  “A gift from the Shar-Ja,” Hajira replied, unable to completely disguise the ironic bitterness in his voice.

  The sorcerer tucked away the knife and took something from his saddlebag. It was a rope as thick as his little finger. “Many years ago magic wards were made of ivory or wood, carved into balls of great beauty,” he explained to Hajira and Tassilio. As he talked he deftly cut a length of the rope and began tying an intricate knot in the middle of the section. “Unfortunately, I do not have time to carve. This will have to do for now.” He laid the knot on the ground and before Tassilio’s fascinated gaze, he touched the knot and spoke the words to a spell he had memorized from the Book of Matrah.

  The magic glowed red on the rope knot for just a minute before it sank into the twisted fibres. Sayyed picked it up, tied it into a loop, and gave it to Tassilio. “This is not as stron
g as the old ones, but this magic ward will help protect you against all but the most powerful of spells.”

  Tassilio marvelled at the gift. He accepted the knot without his usual blithe smile and hung it gratefully around his neck.

  After morning prayers, the four ate a quick breakfast together, saddled the Hunnuli, and made their farewells.

  “Watch your back,” Sayyed told his brother. The two men embraced, both thankful for this unexpected meeting after so many years. The clansmen mounted and waved to the lone guardsman and his royal charge. Hajira lifted his arm in salute.

  The Hunnuli unhurriedly trotted through the outskirts of the caravan camp toward the settlement. The camp bustled with preparations to leave, and everyone was too busy to pay attention to two tribesmen minding their own business.

  Before long the camp and the oasis with its slow bubbling springs were left behind. As soon as they were out of sight of the camp, Rafnir and Sayyed split up, each taking a side of the beaten caravan road. The chances of finding the tracks of one wagon, particularly the right wagon, were very small. On the other hand, the men knew the conveyance had left the caravan somewhere between the Impala Springs and Oasis Three, and they planned to search every square inch of territory along the road until they found some trace of the missing van.

  With the help of their stallions’ keen sense of smell and their own knowledge of tracking, the men examined the Spice Road for leagues. It wasn’t easy. The Shar-Ja’s vast caravan had left a huge trail of hoofprints, wheel tracks, boot marks, trash, and dung piles, while subsequent traffic had added its own signs. Well-travelled side roads joined the trail here and there, and the route passed through two tribal settlements, each with its own collection of carts and wagons.

  The clansmen asked for information at the tiny villages, and they questioned other travellers, but no one remembered seeing a wagon of that description. They fought a constant struggle between their desire to hurry in case the wagon was somewhere ahead of them on the road and the need for slow, careful scrutiny for tracks in case the wagon had been driven off the road to some remote destination. Through most of the day, the men forced their frustration aside and worked their way slowly northeastward.