Winged Magic

by Mary H. Herbert

  When she stepped back, the Hunnuli were satisfied and calmly went to join the sorcerers. A look of surprise passed between Rafnir and Sayyed.

  Sayyed bent in the pretence of examining Afer’s legs. “Are you all right?” he said softly.

  I am and you are! And I am glad to get out of that crack. There was no grass in there, and I’m hungry!

  As if she had understood what he sent. Lady Helmar bowed slightly to the two horses and the clansmen. “I would like to make amends for our poor hospitality. Would you care to stay the night with us and share our table?”

  The dour young man beside her made as if to protest, until he saw Minora give him a hard look. He subsided, looking sullen.

  Sayyed thought of the city in the cliff, of the hidden valley and the secretive people who inhabited it, of the veiled suspicion he saw in every person’s eyes, and the gleam of excitement as if they could not quite believe what he and Rafnir had done. He thought of the Clannad’s knowledge of Hunnuli, sorcerer’s lights, and the “death” of magic beyond the mountains. These people with their pale skin and fair hair seemed different, and yet there was an undercurrent of familiarity he could not quite ignore. Surely one night here in this valley would make little difference in their search for Gabria and Kelene, and perhaps the Clannad could help by telling them where the wagon track went and how to find it again. He bowed to Helmar, and with Rafnir’s consent, he agreed to stay.

  The group rejoined the others waiting at the mouth of the passage, and everyone walked down a steep, narrow trail to the valley floor. Once there, they paused on a low rise at the western end of the valley and gazed at the land about them.

  “Sinking River carved this basin,” Helmar told her guests. “The waters come from the high peaks down those falls to the river, where it runs the length of our valley and spills into the lake.” She pointed to the small lake that lay below the rise. Not much bigger than a large pond, the lake sat serene in a ring of slender trees and grassy banks. Clear water lapped its rocky shores and sank down into unseen depths. “The lake has no bottom that we have been able to find. The river is swallowed by the mountains.”

  The clansmen filled their eyes with the beauty of the valley. Having witnessed the bleak slopes of the rugged peaks and felt the fury of the Storm King, they could appreciate the lush serenity of this hidden realm where spring was in full bloom. Thick grass and vegetation carpeted the valley. Trees in full leaf grew in groves along the riverbanks and in scattered copses up the slopes to the towering valley walls.

  A movement in the nearby meadow caught their gaze, and they turned in time to see a ghostly herd of horses sweep past a belt of trees and come galloping toward the rise. Both men drew their breath in wonder at the white animals that approached them. More than a hundred mares, stallions, and foals flowed like an avalanche up to the foot of the hill and neighed a welcome to the strangers.

  Smaller than the Hunnuli, yet equally as graceful and beautifully proportioned, every horse was white, ranging in shade and intensity from dapple grey to the most brilliant snow.

  A stallion and a mare cantered up the slope together. The mare, a starry white, went to Helmar with a greeting, but the stallion arched his neck, pranced to Sayyed and Rafnir, and sniffed them to familiarize himself with their scent. They rubbed his neck, which was the colour of polished slate; then he went to Afer and Tibor. The two blacks touched him muzzle to muzzle, nickering their greetings. Sayyed removed the Hunnuli’s saddles, and together the three stallions galloped down to the herd. The people and the mare watched them go until the horses spread out over a broad meadow and began to graze.

  “Your horses are incredible,” Sayyed said to Helmar. “How did you manage to breed such a consistent colour?”

  “Fear, Clansman.” she replied helpfully. With a graceful leap she mounted the mare’s broad back, and an enigmatic smile touched her lips. “Bring them to the cliff, Rapinor. I shall go prepare a feast.” The mare sprang away, as swift as a falling star. Minora chuckled to herself.

  From the rise they walked down the valley to the waterfalls and the base of the great ledge. Rope ladders hung down the wall, connecting a series of small ledges, handholds, and narrow steps in several difficult trails up the cliff to the cave settlement. More people joined the group, their faces full of amazement and some disbelief at the arrival of the sorcerers. From somewhere above a horn sounded a summons. The sun was high by that time, and its warm light filled the valley from end to end, yet despite the business of the season, every person in the Clannad laid down their tasks and came at the call of the horn.

  With a skill born from a lifetime’s practice, the people clambered up the ladders to their home. Sayyed and Rafnir climbed up more slowly, and when they reached the top they were welcomed with the return of their clothes and weapons. The men were then led to a wide, circular gathering place near the edge of the cliff where a low stone wall had been built along the rim. A fire burned in the hearth at the centre of the ring, and much to Sayyed and Rafnir’s surprise, a real feast had been hastily prepared for their arrival.

  Helmar’s own handmaidens sat Sayyed and Rafnir beside the chief’s seat and served them from platters of meat and fish, an interesting dish of cooked tubers, bowls of dried berries, and rounds of flat bread. Tall flagons of cooled wine and pitchers of ale were passed around.

  As Sayyed gratefully ate the first hearty meal he had had in several long days, he let his eyes roam over his surroundings and the people around him. The settlement in the cliff was not as large as he had at first thought. While the buildings were large and numerous, the population was not. At a rough count he estimated there were about four hundred men, women, and children in the Clannad. Since he had not seen any other buildings, tents, or shelters within the confines of the valley, he assumed they all lived in this stone aerie.

  The cliff buildings themselves were remarkable, some towering four or five stories above the floor level. From where he sat, Sayyed could see several artisans’ houses, a gathering hall, what looked like a temple, and numerous multilevel dwellings, and while the buildings were not opulent, they looked comfortable and well maintained.

  It was while he was looking at the narrow passages between the buildings that he made an interesting observation that only added fuel to his curiosity. Unlike a clan camp, this settlement had no dogs. Not a one, as far as Sayyed could tell. There were, though, cats of every colour and age, lounging on windowsills, draped on walls, and padding along the walks.

  One tabby boldly walked up to him and sprang into his lap. Pleased, Sayyed scratched her ears and the base of her tail, remembering Tam’s cat waiting for him in Moy Tura. The cat settled on his knees and purred her song for him.

  A soft laugh drew his attention, and he looked up into the green-gold eyes of Helmar. Now that he could see her close up, he saw that despite the similarities in character, there was little physical resemblance to Gabria. Helmar’s face was square and strong-featured with a straight nose and an incongruous sprinkle of freckles. He guessed she had seen more than thirty summers, for years of sun, wind, and work had worn away the softness of youth. Her body was hard, too, from physical labour, and her hands were nicked and calloused from wielding a sword. She lounged on her fur-draped seat, as self-assured as any clan chieftain.

  Unconsciously, he smiled back.

  “You like our cats?” she asked.

  “I have one at home. I miss her.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  And out of this simple, ingenious request came an afternoon of talk and tales and history. From the story of Tam’s cat, Sayyed went on to tell his fascinated audience about Tam, the plague, and the clans. Rafnir took his turn, talking about Moy Tura, Kelene, and Demira. The people of the Clannad listened avidly.

  When Sayyed described Gabria and her battle with Lord Medb, the people sat hushed and unmoving. Sayyed, looking at their faces, thought their interest went beyond mere politeness. In a whole afternoon, not one person left the g
athering. Children napped in their parents’ laps, elders dozed in their seats, but not one person walked away from the tales. When he was finished, a low buzz of conversation filled the circle. The sorcerer glanced around and was surprised to see the sun had gone behind the western peaks. Darkness filled the bowl of the valley.

  The talking stopped as Lady Helmar rose slowly to her feet. She looked thoughtful and rather sad, but her voice was as firm as ever. “This Lady Gabria, this last Corin, is she the other woman you are trying to find?”

  “She is Kelene’s mother,” Rafnir replied. “They were taken together.”

  “I should like to meet her. I think we will go with you to this fortress.”

  The younger guard beside her leaped to his feet and planted himself squarely in her way. “My lady, think again. It would be folly to leave the valley this time of year. Let them find the trail themselves.”

  Lady Helmar did not step back. Coolly she faced her guard and said, “Hydan, you forget yourself.”

  Jut-jawed and steely-eyed, Hydan pointed at the two sorcerers like a man flinging an accusation. “What if they’re lying? What if all we have heard has been a tale to save their necks?”

  Sayyed felt Rafnir tense and stir, and he laid a restraining hand on his son’s arm before Rafnir jumped into anything unnecessary. Helmar, he could see, was equal to the confrontation.

  Eyes blazing, she ignored the rest of the gathering and pushed herself close to Hydan to make her point very clear. “And I suppose they faked the sorcery they used this morning.” she said fiercely. “Truth or half-truth, they are here and they are magic-wielders.” She threw a wild gesture at the stone city behind her. “Do you want to live like this forever? If we can find this Lady Gabria, she will confirm the truth.”

  “If there is a Lady Gabria,” Hydan muttered.

  “If you doubt, Hydan, then ride with me and learn for yourself.”

  As quickly as he had flared up, the young guard subsided, having slammed his feelings against the wall of his chief’s will. Helmar, obviously used to his tantrums, turned back to Sayyed without a pause. “You said the wagon had a red emblem of some sort and took the trail up around the Storm King? I know that path. It goes to a fortress owned by an old noble family.”

  “The old stone castle?” Hydan put in, as coolly as if he had never shown his temper. “The latest resident is one of the royal counsellors, I have heard.”

  “His name wouldn’t happen to be Zukhara?” Rafnir guessed. Hydan didn’t even have to answer that. Zukhara’s name fit the trail of clues and events they had been following since Council Rock.

  “You know this man?” Helmar asked.

  Sayyed nodded once. “A dangerous adversary.” He lifted his eyes to her face and met her forthright gaze. He thought briefly of offering to leave alone — surely he and Rafnir could find the fortress with a few directions — then he dismissed the idea and bowed to the determination he could read so clearly in those expressive eyes. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder why she was so willing to help two strangers that only hours before she had planned to drop down a ravine. And why was it so dangerous for the Clannad to leave their valley? These questions and many more trooped through Sayyed’s thoughts. It was a puzzle with too many pieces missing.

  At that point, men brought torches to the gathering circle. The fire was stoked, and several people fetched their instruments to strike up some dance music. Like their language, the Clannad’s musical instruments were an interesting blend of old clan, Turic, and individual designs, and the music they played was rollicking, toe-tapping fun. The people danced late into the night, breaking only to listen to a harper sing ballads of the white horses, the Sinking River, and the valley they called home.

  Sayyed and Rafnir enjoyed the evening and the pleasant company of the cliff dwellers. It was a frustrating evening, though, for try as they might they could not lead anyone into answering more than basic questions about their daily lives. Minora was more than happy to discuss her duties in the temple to the goddess they worshipped, but she neatly skirted any inquiries about the origins of the white horses and her insistence on keeping the two men for breeding. Rapinor, too, was closemouthed about anything except his duties as swordsman to Lady Helmar. And the lady herself, when asked a question, more often than not answered it with another question. Sayyed found himself talking to her for nearly an hour about his childhood with the Turics and his decision to join Gabria. In all that time she said nothing about herself.

  At last the chieftain clashed the hilt of her sword against a gong hanging near her chair and ended the gathering. The people quickly split up, going their separate ways back to their homes. Helmar took Sayyed and Rafnir to quarters that had been prepared for them on the ground floor of a tall building and bid them goodnight.

  When at last they were left alone, Sayyed drew a long breath and expelled it in a gusty sigh. “I still don’t know who these people are,” he said irritably.

  They found pitchers of water set aside on a stand for washing and beds covered with woven blankets. The stuffed mattresses on the beds felt so delightful after days of sleeping on the ground, Rafnir threw himself on one and was asleep before Sayyed had removed his boots.

  Bone-tired as he felt, Sayyed could not sleep yet. Too many things ran through his mind, whirling as fast as the melodies of the Clannad jigs. He thought of the clan cloak he had transformed earlier and remembered he had left it at the gathering circle. Barefooted, he walked silently through the darkened passages back to the open ring.

  He took one step out from between the buildings and as silently drew back into the shadows. Someone was standing in the ring beside the cloak Sayyed had left flung over the place where he had sat.

  He stared at the form, trying to see who it was. Night filled the huge cavern with velvet darkness, but beyond the stone walls a curtain of countless stars glittered their distant, silver light. The person turned sideways against the backdrop of stars, and Sayyed recognized the handsome, straight profile of Helmar. Ever so slowly she picked up the cloak and seemed to hug it tightly to her chest; then she turned and strode toward him. Sayyed pushed deeper into the sheltering shadow as she walked on past.

  The sorcerer blinked in surprise. For just the wink of an eye, Helmar had been close enough for him to see her clearly, and in that brief moment, he had seen the shimmer of tears in her eyes.

  Sayyed walked slowly back to his quarters deep in thought, and when he finally drifted to sleep that night, it was Helmar’s face, strong yet sadly vulnerable, that coloured his dreams.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kelene crouched against the stone wall as far from the gryphon as she could manage and vehemently loosed a string of well-chosen words vilifying Zukhara’s ancestry. Blood dripped from three long scratches on her arm, and a bruise spread over the right side of her face. She glared balefully at the gryphon, who hissed and glared back with equal ferocity.

  “Stupid bird,” she muttered to herself. Or whatever it was. Even after two days of being trapped in its vicinity, Kelene still wasn’t sure if the winged creature was a bird or an animal. It was beautiful, she had to admit that. Its narrow head, wings, and the beaklike nose reminded her of an eagle, as did its piercing hunter’s eyes and the bright gold fur that looked suspiciously like feathers covering its entire body. The legs, though, looked like those of a lion, powerfully muscled, sleek, and deadly. Its feet had large pads fitted with razor-sharp retractable claws. The beast had a long tail like a cat’s, and Kelene had noticed that it used the tail to communicate its feelings much as Tam’s cat did. It used its tail now, lashing it irritably back and forth as it lay on the floor and glowered at her. Its tufted ears lay flat on its head.

  “Afraid of a few scratches?” Zukhara’s voice reverberated through the cavern. The woman and the gryphon glared up with matching hatred at the overhang. That was one thing Kelene knew they had in common.

  “The beast will not kill you,” Zukhara called to her, the scorn clear in
his loud voice. “It is chained and prefers the taste of horseflesh. You have had two days already, two days that your lady mother lies dying.”

  Kelene leaped to her feet, ignoring the gryphon’s startled snarl. “How is she? Is she still alive?” she called anxiously.

  “She is being cared for,” the Turic said curtly. “And she is still alert enough to continue my training in sorcery. But you have only five days left until the poison completes its task.” He lowered a basket to her and left, his words still echoing in her mind.

  Five days, she thought miserably, and she was no closer to taming this gryphon than she’d been when Zukhara dumped her in the pit with it. On the other hand, she thought wryly, the company of a wild gryphon was certainly preferable to Zukhara and his plans for her.

  She unpacked the food and a wineskin from the basket. He certainly was taking no chances that she go hungry. He had sent enough delicacies to last another day, and the skin was full to bursting with the same fruit juice he had given her earlier. She wrinkled her nose at the sweet smell. He had probably laced it with more of his midwives’ remedy. For the briefest moment she hesitated and thought of her wish to have a baby. If this remedy worked, was it worth the chance? Could she rely solely on luck and her wits to keep her out of the counsellor’s bed? Then, almost fiercely, she changed the juice to water. She wanted a child desperately, but she wanted Rafnir’s baby, not a child conceived in trickery and hate.

  After she had eaten, Kelene repacked the basket and stood to stretch her back and shoulders under the wary gaze of the gryphon. As she moved, something fell out of her skirt to the cavern floor. She picked it up and recognized the wad of fabric she had used to wipe the sedative off Demira’s rump. It had lain forgotten in her waistband for three days. Curious to see if the ointment was still damp, she unfolded the cloth, and the faint medicinal smell rose to her nostrils. The sedative, set in its oily base, had saturated the fabric through almost all the folded layers. Kelene grinned. If this hadn’t fallen but when it had, she might have been drugged by the very potion she hoped to save.