“No!” screamed Kelene. “It was me!” She tried to grab his wrists, to pull him away from her mother, but she might as well have tried to uproot a tree, Zukhara ignored her and sunk his thumbs deeper into Gabria’s throat. The clanswoman’s eyes bulged above her gasping mouth. She struggled and thrashed in vain to escape his iron hands.
“I warned you,” Zukhara hissed in sharp, fierce anger. “You did not heed me.”
“I didn’t mean to! I was angry and scared,” Kelene raged at him. “Get off her.” She abruptly pulled up her tied feet and kicked at him with all her might.
Her feet landed on his ribs and slammed him sideways against the wagon wall, jarring his hands loose from around Gabria’s throat. Kelene swiftly rolled over the older sorceress, knocking Zukhara’s hands off completely, and she managed to use her body to shove her mother off the pallet to the floor.
Gabria was too weak to stand. Sobbing, she lay supine on the dusty boards and tried to draw deep, rasping breaths through her bruised throat.
The counsellor angrily pushed himself upright until he was kneeling over Kelene. His long, lean shape loomed above her like a black, forbidding shadow.
“It was an accident!” Kelene insisted. “If you kill her, you lose your best lever against me, and I’ll see you in Gormoth before I teach you even one spell.”
Zukhara leaned so close his trim beard brushed her chin. His hands rose and fell over her neck but instead of choking her, his long fingers caressed her skin from her earlobes down the soft length of her throat. “Then I guess we are at an impasse, my lady,” he said huskily in her ear. “If you do not obey, I will kill, and yet if I kill, you will not obey. A fine challenge.”
Kelene quivered at his touch. His warm breath by her ear made the hairs rise on the back of her neck, and his weight on her shoulder and chest frightened her. She lay rigid and cold, her heart beating rapidly, “Then it would be best if we struck a bargain,” she made herself say.
Zukhara settled more comfortably on top of her, his hands still resting on her bare neck, one thumb caressing the frantic pulse in the base of her throat.
“I will train you in sorcery — as much as you need to control your power — and when I am finished, you will let my mother, me, and our Hunnuli go home unharmed.”
The man chuckled, warm and throaty. “A bargain struck in haste is oft regretted. I will think about it. Perhaps in time we will devise a better arrangement.” He pushed away from her and untied her hands. “In the meantime, eat. Then show me what you have to offer.”
Kelene gritted her teeth. There was nothing else to do but agree — for now. She helped her mother to the bench by the table where Zukhara had placed their meal and a small lamp. Kelene drew on her skills as a healer and tenderly eased the pain in Gabria’s bruised throat. She wrapped a cool, damp cloth around her mother’s neck and helped her sip a cup of wine.
From his stool, Zukhara observed them impassively.
After a while, Kelene coaxed Gabria to eat some soup and was pleased to see a little colour return to the older woman’s waxen cheeks. With the flush came a reawakening of Gabria’s steel spirit. She covered her forehead with a limp hand, sagged back against the wooden wall, and surreptitiously winked at Kelene. The young woman smothered a smile and ate her own food gratefully.
The moment she was finished, Zukhara cleared off the table and, in a lightning-swift change of mood, flashed his friendly, disarming smile. He pulled a small book out of his robes and laid it in front of Kelene. “Now, my lady. Where do we begin?”
Gabria and Kelene bent forward to look at the little volume in the light of the oil lamp. Although books were not common among the seminomadic clans people, both women had learned to read the old Clannish script from books preserved in the Citadel of Krath by the Cult of the Lash and from a few precious manuscripts unearthed at Moy Tura. To their astonishment, this book, no bigger than a man’s hand, appeared to be a relic of clan history. It was made of white vellum, stretched and scraped to thin, supple sheets and bound between a heavier cover of leather that, once dyed a rich red, had since faded to the colour of old wine.
Kelene gingerly turned the front cover to the first page and heard her mother gasp. In a spidery, delicate script was written: Jeneve, Daughter of Lord Magar of Clan Corin.
Gabria’s hands flew to the book, and she drew it closer to pore over the writing and illustrations on the following pages. “This is a spellbook,” she breathed in surprise. “A personal collection compiled by Lady Jeneve! How did you get your hands on it?” she snapped at Zukhara.
He smiled again, a long, self-satisfied sneer. “The God of All delivered it to my hands to help fulfil the prophecy.”
“What prophecy?” Kelene demanded.
Zukhara disregarded the question and tapped the book with his forefinger. “I can read this, so do not try to trick me. I simply want to know how to use the magic to control these spells.”
Glancing over her mother’s arm, Kelene read the names of some of the spells in the handbook. Most were simple day-to-day twists of sorcery that took only basic skills and caused little harm, such as firestarters, spheres of light, easy transformations, household aids, and simple medications. But there were others that a man like Zukhara could twist to his own purposes: a spell to paralyze an animal or human, spells of destructive power, a spell to summon wind from a gathering storm, and others she would be loath to show him.
Control first, she thought to herself. She had never taught anyone magic; that had always been Gabria’s duty. But it seemed reasonable to start at the beginning where every magic-wielder had to start and take it as slowly as she dared. Perhaps, given the help of the gods, she and Gabria could find a way to escape before Zukhara pushed his training too far.
She traded looks with Gabria, then closed the book and pushed it aside. “We will start here,” she said, tapping her own forehead, and she launched into her first lesson. “Will is at the centre of sorcery. With every spell you create you are attempting to impose your will on the substance of our world. Magic is a natural force that is in every creature, stone, or plant. When you alter that force, even with the smallest spell, you must be strong enough to control the effect and consequences. The forces of magic can destroy you if you cannot control them.”
She paused and stared at Zukhara’s dark visage. Unconsciously she had been repeating Gabria’s old lesson that she had listened to for years before the words took on real meaning. “The strength of will is the most important trait of a magic-wielder. Therefore you must know yourself, every measure and degree of your own being, so you can recognize your own limitations and know when sorcery has begun to bleed substance from your life-force.”
Zukhara’s hand suddenly grabbed Kelene’s right arm and pulled her wrist out straight toward him. He touched her embedded splinter so hard she flinched in pain. “Enough of your childish lectures. I have the will of the Living God; there are no limitations other than my own lack of knowledge. I will have a splinter in my wrist in ten days’ time or I will remove your arm at the elbow. Are we clear?”
Kelene gaped, aghast at his monstrous arrogance. He had no comprehension of his own weaknesses and therefore dismissed any possibility of them in impervious blindness. Perhaps she and Gabria wouldn’t have to escape; perhaps all they had to do was wait for Zukhara to destroy himself in his own overwhelming self-confidence.
She hoped he would hurry and do so soon. She didn’t want to have to tell him there were no more diamond splinters. Gabria had used the last one only a year ago and had not yet found a new source for the special, power-enhancing gems.
Kelene yanked her wrist out of his grasp and said firmly, “Fine. Then we will begin with control.” She held out her fingers and demonstrated commands for Zukhara’s first spell.
The Turic watched avidly, then followed her instructions until he had formed a perfect greenish-white sphere of light. Late into the night the sorceress and her pupil practiced and discussed, manipulated magic
and worked on simple skills, until Kelene was exhausted and Gabria drooped beside her.
Indefatigable, Zukhara ordered them to lie down, retied their hands, and departed, his back still straight, his step as forceful as always.
“Oh, Mother,” Kelene sighed when he was gone. “What are we going to do? He’s at least as strong as Sayyed, and he’s learning fast.”
“I was afraid of that when I saw him work. He burns with ambition. But what is he planning? Why is he so determined to have a splinter within ten days?”
Kelene sighed and closed her eyes. She was so tired, and there was nothing left she could say.
Gabria’s questions passed into silence unanswered.
CHAPTER NINE
Zukhara slammed his hand on the rough table. “What tripe are you showing me? Why will it not work?” he demanded. Stewing in frustration, he tried again to form a simple transformation spell to change a cluster of grapes into a handful of plums. He focused on the grapes and spoke the words of the spell for the third time.
On the bunk behind him, Gabria wordlessly moved her fingers and used her own will to throw his magic astray. The grapes on the table wavered a few times, then burst under the pressure of the vying sorcery.
The Turic spat a curse.
“Be patient,” Kelene told him coolly. “Concentrate on what you want. You have to know exactly what you intend to create or the spell will go awry.”
“I know what I want,” he ground out.
“Then perhaps you are not trying hard enough to control the magic. If you cannot master these simple spells, you will never be able to control the more complex sorcery.”
They eyed each other across the table, Kelene stiff and her head thrown back; Zukhara tense and angry, the lines pulled tight around his mouth and across his brow. In the flickering lamplight, he reminded Kelene of a black-and-gold adder, its large, dark eyes glittering, its lean head poised to strike.
“All right, try something a little simpler,” she suggested, pushing the dripping grapes aside and picking up a flask of water. She poured a small amount of water into a dish and placed it before the Turic. “With a minor spell you can turn this water to ice,” she said and showed him how to do it.
Zukhara tried the spell and managed to create a film of ice on the water before the pottery dish shattered and spilled water across the table. Kelene watched him impassively, like a teacher helping a pupil who cannot quite grasp an easy concept. He tried spell after spell, and no matter how hard he tried, everything went wrong.
An hour later he was struggling to create a flame on a candle when Kelene suddenly lifted her head. From somewhere nearby came the sounds of boots scuffling on the ground, several soft thuds, and the mutter of muted voices. Gabria didn’t have to break the spell that time, for the disruption caused Zukhara to jerk his hand, and the candle sagged into a pool of melted wax. Muttering under his breath, Zukhara strode to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out.
Kelene followed him with her eyes and saw a dark-clothed man meet him just outside the door. “Counsellor, we have found two more pilferers in the wagons,” she heard the man say.
Zukhara looked at something out of Kelene’s sight. “Get rid of them,” he ordered. “But not here. More deaths will draw attention. Take them out past the oasis.”
The callousness in his voice chilled Kelene with a hollow foreboding. It could so easily be herself or Gabria he so casually disposed of. The counsellor climbed back into the wagon, dusting his hands as if ridding his palms of some dirty annoyance. He settled on his stool across from Kelene and almost negligently flicked his hand and set the wick of the melted candle burning. He stared at the tiny flame for a long time, his volatile expression lost in thought. The silence built around him, thick as walls.
In one sudden movement and without warning, he sprang from his seat and delivered a stunning blow to Gabria’s jaw. The fury of the assault snapped back her head, with an audible crack, against the wooden wall.
“Get back!” he roared at Kelene when she jumped to help her mother. With fierce deftness, he retied Gabria’s hands and stuffed the gag back in her mouth. Mute with suspicion, he sat down and repeated the transformation spell Kelene had tried to teach him. The cluster of split grapes turned into a heap of delicate purple plums. He tried every spell they had practiced that had gone wrong, and each one worked perfectly. Kelene watched him, too terrified for Gabria to intervene.
“So,” he hissed. “You thought to dissuade me from my goal by ruining my magic.” He turned his baleful glare on Gabria. She lay half-stunned, her face white and her body limp. Blood ran down her chin from a cut on her mouth. She attempted to focus on him, her frustration and anger almost as potent as his. “You cannot stop me. Understand, fools, magic is part of my destiny. It is one of the weapons foretold in the prophecy.”
There was that allusion to a prophecy again, Kelene realized. “What are you talking about? How can a clan power be any part of a Turic prophecy?” she snapped, her tone made sharp by her nervousness.
Zukhara seemed to swell before her eyes. Tall as he was, he straightened his spine, threw back his long shoulders, and jutted his chin forward arrogantly. “Five hundred years ago when your paltry horse clans were still settling the plains, the Prophet Sargun wrote The Truth of Nine from his prison in the dungeons of Sarcithia, while it was still part of the Tarnish Empire. When he escaped and returned over the mountains to his homeland, he founded the city of Sargun Shahr and gave his book to his younger brother. The city has since vanished. We still seek it today, but The Truth of Nine is in Cangora in the keeping of the Holy Order in the great temple of Sargun.”
Kelene felt her mouth drop open, not at the lecture, for most clanspeople knew the generalities of Turic history, but at the conclusion she drew from his rhetoric. “Are you saying there is a prophecy about you in that book?”
He leaned forward, his hands on the table, and his daunting figure cast shadows over her still form, “The sixth,” he said as cold as winter, “‘And the Gryphon shall rise to lay flame to the desert and feed on the blood of the unbelievers. Tyrants shall bow before him and nations shall fall at his feet.’” Zukhara’s voice dropped to a low intonation, reciting the words of the prophecy as if breathing a prayer. “‘By these signs will you know him. In his hand shall be the lightning of the north, and the wind of the Living God shall uphold him. Drought, pestilence, and famine will open his way, and the copper gate will fall before his mighty strength. Before the eye of his chosen handmaiden, he will stand in the light of the golden sun, and a bastard will sit on the throne of Shahr.’” His words dropped away, and he stood poised, his thoughts running ahead to the future and the fulfilment of his dreams.
For once Kelene could think of nothing to say. His audacity and conviction stunned her. The Gryphon. By the gods, she knew that name. “Fel Azureth,” she whispered, unaware she had spoken loud enough to be heard.
Zukhara’s head jerked up; his eyes glittered. “Yes, my lady. I am Fel Karak, the Gryphon, and the Fel Azureth is my sword. Already my plans are falling into place. There is but one weapon left to collect, and for that we shall leave the caravan tomorrow.” He picked up the hair ropes, tied her hands behind her back, and steered her to the bed.
“Be glad, clanswoman, that you are here with me,” he said softly. He touched her cheek, his fingers gently caressing. “Already the Gryphon sinks his claws into the north. When I gain the throne, I will claim the rich pastures north of the Altai for my own empire. With the lightning in my fingertips, your people will not withstand me. By year’s end I will make you my queen and will lay the plains of Ramtharin at your feet as my wedding gift to you.”
Kelene stared at him, her dark eyes enormous pools in her face. Although she could sense the stark power of his convictions through the touch of his skin on hers, she did not need her talent to grasp the reality of what she was hearing. “But I already have a husband,” she said, too shaken to say anything more perceptive.
Zukhara’s teeth flashed white against his black beard. “There is no law that says I cannot marry a widow.”
With swift, sure movements he replaced Kelene’s gag, cleaned the table, put out the light, and bid the women a good night.
Kelene listened to his footsteps pass away. Anger roared like a caged beast in her head, and she stared helplessly at the dark door, trying to bring her fear and rage under control. She wanted to shriek, to strike out at the man and his unshakable arrogance. She vowed to Amara, Sorh, Surgart, and Krath that she would find a way to stop him. There had to be something to thwart his plans. Not all prophecies come to pass as one would believe they should.
She turned her head to check her mother and saw tears leaking down Gabria’s face. The sorceress had her eyes screwed shut and her pale face turned toward the ceiling.
Worry doused Kelene’s anger as surely as icy water. As carefully as she could manage with her hands tied, Kelene used her long sleeve to mop away the blood on Gabria’s swelling jaw and the tears that dampened her fair hair. Gabria forced a wan smile. Unable to talk, the two women pressed close and took solace in each other’s company. Neither slept well that long, bitter night.
To young Peoren, the clatter of horses’ hooves sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed twilight. He sat taller in his borrowed black cloak and tilted his head so he could hear the approaching troop. Beside him, his picked men — two Dangari, Dos his guard, and six Shadedron — stiffened like alert hounds, their attention pricked to the approaching sounds of horses, hushed voices, and the softer chink and rattle of arms.
To all appearances the ten clansmen appeared to take no notice of the troop approaching them up the long hillside. They had built their fires with care and set them so the vanguard of the Turic raiding party could see them and identify them at a distance that would still allow the clansmen time to run.
Winged Magic Page 14