Winged Magic

by Mary H. Herbert

  Kelene swallowed hard. She had no chance to retort, for in the next minute a fanfare of horns blared close by. Zukhara took her hand. It was only then that she saw the magnificence of his clothes and realized he had arranged something important.

  Heavy drapes were pushed aside by servants, and Zukhara, Kelene, and the other men walked out onto a large balcony overlooking the palace grounds. Crowds of Turics filled the huge, open space and overflowed down the promenade into the streets. Half of Zukhara’s army was there, yelling loudly and prompting the sullen citizens into cheers. Fanatics began chanting Zukhara’s name.

  The usurper basked in the adulation before he held up his hands and commanded silence. The crowds gradually quieted to hear his words.

  “Rejoice, tribes of the Turic, your salvation is at hand!” Zukhara shouted. “Long have we been led down paths of greed, sloth, iniquity, and corruption at the hands of the Line of Festith. See how we pay for their evil! Our wells run dry; our animals die; our women and children starve. The grain we plant withers for lack of water. There is no help for us! The Living God has turned his countenance away from our pleas. As long as we allow the last Festith to rule as Shar-Ja, Shahr will not deem us worthy of redemption.”

  A few hisses and boos followed those words, but most of the crowd remained silent.

  “See what happened when the Shar-Ja tried to forge a pact with the infidel horse clans? His evil and greed were repaid with treachery and his only son murdered. That was our sign, my people! Sent by our god to show us the way out of our darkness. We must overthrow the perverted power of the Shar-Ja Rassidar and as foreseen by the Prophet Sargun, place the Gryphon on the throne of the Turic realm.”

  The men of the Fel Azureth burst into cheers.

  Kelene stared, wide-eyed, at the man beside her. She knew he was capable of concocting lies, of twisting the truth to fit his purposes, and of deliberately misleading his own people, but he executed his speech with such fervour and sincerity, in a voice that boomed to the edges of the throng with just enough pleading in it to show sympathy and concern for his audience. She might have believed it herself if she had not been a witness to the truth of his cruelty and manipulations.

  Zukhara’s voice cried out once more. “Behold the heretic who brings such affliction upon us.” He pointed downward and out from the main doors came four men bearing a chair litter. Tied to the chair, in his ceremonial robes, sat the Shar-Ja, still alive and furiously silent.

  The city dwellers looked shocked as the Shar-Ja was paraded up and down in front of the palace. Zealots pelted the ruler with rotten fruit and worse, but the citizens drew back as if from a leper.

  “Four days from today, on the first day of the month of Janus, I and the priests of Sargun will perform the Ritual of Ascension to formally kill the Shar-Ja and prepare the throne for a new dynasty. As ordained in the sacred texts of the rite, that day I will take this woman as my wife and be ordained Celestial Monarch and Sacred Ruler of the Turic Tribes. As it was written, so let it be done!” He raised his arms to the roar of approval from his followers; then he thrust Kelene forward to the edge of the balcony just long enough for the crowd to see her. He turned on his heel and strode back indoors, dragging Kelene with him. As soon as he slowed down, the sorceress yanked her hand out of his grasp.

  “I will not marry you!” she yelled. “I am already married and no widow.” She knew it would do her no good to argue, but her temper had grabbed the bit and run away with her common sense.

  He flicked a hand as if to swat away an unimportant fly. “Your marriage as prescribed by your people under your heathen gods is considered invalid in our land,” he replied, his arrogance unruffled by her fury. “To us, you are not united to any man, except me.”

  She crossed her arms, feeling stymied. “It will do you no good. I have not been drinking the ‘remedies’ you send with my meals. I am still barren and can do nothing to increase the blood of Valorian in your descendants,” she threw out for lack of anything better to say.

  He laughed then in delight. “Of course you haven’t. You have been eating it ever since the night in the cavern when I discovered you had turned the juice to water. That was clever. But not clever enough. By the time we consummate our wedding night, the remedy will have completed its purpose.”

  “There will be no wedding night,” Kelene said very slowly and distinctly, as if each word were a dagger to plunge into his heart.

  His hand flashed toward her, caught her braid, and wrapped it tightly around his fingers. He wrenched her head back until her throat was exposed. “You are so beautiful when you are angry. Do not change. It will be such a pleasure to break that spirit,” he hissed in her ear. His fingers caressed her neck where the blood surged under her skin. “There will be a wedding night, and soon you will forget that worthless man who never gave you a son.”

  This time Kelene reined in her hot reply. Nothing she could say would change his mind or alter his plans one whit, and all she wanted to do now was escape from his sight and think. Four days, by the gods, that was so little time! Her hands itched to snatch the chain around his neck and run, but what good would that do? Even if she managed to kill him, she still had to fetch her mother, find Nara and the gryphon, who were housed somewhere on the palace grounds, and contend with an entire army. She needed help, at the very least a good distraction, but a rescue force of several magic-wielders would be most welcome.

  Zukhara kissed her lightly on her throat, and a chill sped down her spine. If something didn’t happen soon to precipitate her escape, Kelene knew she would have to choose between her own honour and her mother’s life. Clan society frowned on adultery; some women had even been exiled for promiscuous behaviour. But what if the cost of fidelity was death for Gabria? More importantly, what would Rafnir think? How would he feel if she submitted to another man? Would he understand? She groaned, her teeth clenched, and prayed he would never be tested like that.

  Zukhara laughed at her. Still holding her braid, he dragged her along the corridors back to her room and wrenched open her door.

  Gabria, already dressed and seated at the table, stared coldly at the Gryphon as he shoved her daughter into the room. “My lord counsellor,” she said before Zukhara could leave. “A boon I ask.”

  He hesitated, curious, and because he was feeling generous at the moment, he decided to listen. Although he would never admit it even to himself, he harboured a grudging respect for this clanswoman who had survived so much in her life. He considered it an honour and an achievement to be the one who would at last kill her. “What do you wish?”

  “I would like Lady Jeneve’s book.”

  Zukhara shrugged. He had memorized every word and every spell in the little book. There was nothing in it the sorceress could use to thwart him and no real reason why he couldn’t give it to her for a short while. “Why do you want it?” he asked.

  Gabria pushed herself to her feet and walked to Kelene’s side. “It is a part of a clan long dead. I would simply like it as a memento.”

  The Gryphon bowed. He could be magnanimous. “Then you shall have it. I will send it to you today. Good day, ladies.” He swept out, and the door banged shut behind him. They heard the unmistakable hum of a spell, and when Kelene tested the door, she found it barred with a powerful ward.

  She leaned her back against the door and ripped the silver coronet off her head. “Four days, Mother. That’s all we have left.”

  The moment the Gryphon vanished from the balcony, the citizens of Cangora hurried back to their shops and homes. Disgruntled and fearful, they paid little attention to the beggar boy with the idiot’s smile who crouched with his bowl and his mongrel dog near a column in the promenade. He laughed and chattered to someone only he could see with his great black eyes, and merely grinned all the wider when his bowl remained empty.

  At last the court and the promenade had emptied of everyone but the many guards who watched the palace. One of them strode over to the boy and told him to mo
ve on. The urchin nodded extravagantly, his mouth hanging open, and he shuffled away with the dog at his side. The guard frowned, thinking Zukhara should do something about the riffraff in the city.

  The “riffraff,” meanwhile, continued his way down the streets and eventually reached the Copper Gate. A large contingent of the Fel Azureth commanded the gates, led by a giant of a man whose very appearance gave most men no thoughts of arguing with his decisions. Under his harsh eye, the guards scrupulously examined every cart and wagon going through, interrogated everyone, and refused entrance to anyone they thought suspicious. Undaunted, the dirty urchin wandered over to the captain of the guards and held out his bowl.

  “Go on, simpleton,” the man growled, too busy to deal with the likes of street rats.

  The boy grinned wider, whistled to his dog, and trotted out the gate. The guards didn’t give him a second look. He continued on, apparently aimlessly, up the caravan road, past the fields and a few outlying buildings and businesses until he reached the high hill. At the top he paused to look back; then a triumphant smile replaced his idiot’s grin, and he sprinted out of sight of the city. Laughing to himself, Tassilio raced his dog along the road and, as soon as the way was clear, he angled left into a wide dale partially obscured from the road by a belt of wild olive trees. The Clannad had set up camp there in a scattered grove of trees while they tried to decide what to do and Hajira and Sayyed mended.

  Tassilio could hear Sayyed even before he reach the outskirts of the camp. He waved to the outpost guards and ran directly to the healer’s tent where the brothers stayed under the watchful eye of the Clan healer.

  “Where is that boy?” Sayyed was yelling. “He has been gone since sunrise.”

  Tassilio understood the sorcerer’s sharp, angry pitch the moment he sauntered into the tent. Sayyed was on his side, his back to the entrance, his fists clenched, while the healer tried to clean the infected pus and flesh from the hole in his ribs.

  “You’re a good man,” the clansman said through clenched teeth. “But on the whole I’d rather have Kelene as a healer.”

  Before he could stop himself, Tassilio blurted out, “I saw her! With Zukhara.”

  His unexpected voice caused everyone in the tent to startle, including the healer who accidentally poked Sayyed a little too hard in the tender flesh.

  The clansman uttered a vile curse even Hajira had never heard. Ignoring his aching leg, the guardsman neatly collared Tassilio and pulled him to a seat near Sayyed. “Do not ever sneak up on a sorcerer who is in pain,” Hajira warned. “He might turn you into a toad.”

  Tassilio’s eyes widened. “Could you do that?” he asked Sayyed breathlessly.

  Sayyed glared at him. “Don’t tempt me. Where in the name of Sargun have you been? And what do you mean you saw Kelene?”

  Before Tassilio could answer, Hajira limped to the tent flap and called for Helmar. The lady chief came quickly, slapping dust from her pants and hands.

  She cast a sympathetic glance at Sayyed and an irritated one at Tassilio. “Heir or not, young man, you do not leave this camp without telling one of us first,” she admonished. “We looked everywhere we could for you, and I will not allow you to add further to our troubles by getting yourself lost or killed or captured. Do you understand?”

  Momentarily chastened, Tassilio hung his head and kicked his bare feet at the ground. He knew he deserved the reprimand — he had snuck out without asking — but he felt his news was worth the risk. His irrepressible good spirits came bounding back. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, his face alight with his tale. “But I did see Kelene. And Father, too. He is still alive!”

  Helmar knew a lost cause when she heard it. “Then you’d better tell us,” she said with a sigh and sat down by Hajira.

  Tassilio told them in excited tones how he had entered the city that morning, learned of Zukhara’s proclamation, and mingled in with the crowds at the palace. He repeated Zukhara’s speech almost word for word and described exactly what his father looked like and what Kelene was wearing.

  “She is so beautiful!” exclaimed the boy who was obviously verging on manhood. “And her chin goes up when she’s mad, and her eyes are thunderous!”

  Sayyed, bandaged and sitting upright, chuckled at Tassilio’s description. “So she has not been drugged or broken yet. That is a good sign.”

  “But four days!” Tassilio exclaimed. “Zukhara said he will perform the Ritual of Ascension then. We’ve got to do something to help Father!”

  “What is this ritual?” Helmar asked.

  Hajira grimaced at the memory of the texts he had read about the rites. “It is an ancient ceremony that is intended to purge the throne of one monarch to make way for another. Ritualistic murder. Zukhara intends to behead the Shar-Ja and burn his body. He then takes a wife that same day and begins his own line on the throne of Cangora.”

  “Where does Gabria fit into all of this?”

  “My guess is she is being used as a lever against Kelene,” Sayyed answered.

  “I hope she is still alive,” Helmar said.

  Sayyed sighed so softly only Helmar heard him. “So do I,” he said.

  Something in his tone unaccountably pricked Helmar’s feelings. There was more than mere worry in his voice; there was what... yearning? She mentally kicked herself for thinking such a thing, let alone letting it bother her, but her self-inflicted reprimand did little good. Immediately an unbidden, jealous pang insinuated itself into her thoughts and reminded her that Sayyed himself had admitted to loving this woman once. How many men put themselves in such jeopardy for someone else’s wife without good reason? Helmar flung herself to her feet before her thoughts got any more ridiculous. She strode out of the tent without another word.

  In surprise, the men watched her go. Only the healer, an old and trusted friend of the chief, thought he understood. “She has never been married,” he tried to explain. “She does not yet understand.”

  “Understand what?” wondered Sayyed.

  The healer shrugged his bony shoulders. “How she feels about you.”

  Stunned, Sayyed looked at his brother, then at the healer, and he felt his face grow hot. Despite having deeply loved two women and having been married to one for eighteen years, he had not understood either. He liked Helmar and respected her more than he thought possible, but he had never imagined she would feel the same for him. After Tam’s death he firmly believed there would be no other love for him. Now he examined his feelings and, for the first time, he realized his desire for love had not died but merely slept within his heart. Could Helmar be the one to revive it? He suddenly smiled. It was like discovering a beautiful box intact in the ruins and not knowing what he would find inside. Intent on his own musings, he pulled on his loose tunic over his bandaged ribs and walked out of the tent in a direction opposite to the one Helmar had taken.

  Tassilio grinned at Hajira and winked at Sayyed’s departing back.

  The sun shone hot when a lone horseman approached the Clannad camp later that day. At the first low-pitched warning signal, the riders grabbed their weapons and formed a line of defence at the perimeter of the camp.

  The rider, a Turic on a chestnut horse, reined his mount to a halt and studied the warriors with approval. He held up his hand in peace. “I am Mohadan, the Kirmaz-Ja. I see by your dress and white horses you are the troop I seek,” he said in Turic.

  Hajira stepped out of the line of warriors and addressed tribal leader as an equal. “I am Hajira al Raid-Ja, Commander of the Tenth. Why do you seek us?”

  The stranger lifted an arched eyebrow and leaned his arm on the saddle horn. “These are hardly Turic soldiers, Commander, and as I heard it, most of the Tenth was slaughtered.”

  “Not all of us, Kirmaz-Ja. So we make do with what we have.”

  “And what are you planning to do?”

  Hajira, who knew the tribal leader to be a man of honour, gave a short bow. “Perhaps you would like to join us. We could discuss possibilities.�
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  The stranger dismounted and led his horse to the camp to meet with Hajira, Sayyed, Helmar, and Rapinor. The Clannad warriors stayed in position, relaxed yet alert while their chief led the Turic to the shade of several tall cedars. Cool wine and plates of cheese and dates were brought and served by Tassilio. The Kirmaz-Ja sat wordlessly, watching the preparations with a fascinated eye. He seemed particularly intrigued with Helmar and her obvious authority.

  “I do not know of you, Lady,” he said in rough but credible Clannish, “or your people. You are like clan and yet not clan. And how is it that a woman leads a troop of warriors? Some of whom,” he suddenly noticed, “are also women.”

  “Swords and bows are not our first weapons,” Helmar replied. “Strength of arms is not as important as talent to us.”

  The Turic narrowed his eyes. He had smallish eyes deep set behind a thin nose, but they were not piggish eyes, for his face was too hard and narrow, and his gaze glittered with intelligence and wit. He had a grizzled beard trimmed close to his jaws, and his knotted hair was iron grey. He shifted his eagle’s glance from Helmar to Sayyed. “And you, you are Turic no longer. I would guess you are the half-breed who turned to sorcery.”

  Sayyed merely lifted his cup in reply, impressed by the man’s knowledge and intuition.

  “Are you here because of the women Zukhara holds?” Mohadan wanted to know.

  Briefly Sayyed and Hajira told the Kirmaz-Ja the events beginning at Council Rock and leading up to their arrival at the outskirts of Cangora. Sayyed only touched on his time in Sanctuary and the Clannad’s offer to ride with him, but Mohadan’s sharp attention missed nothing, and he studied the warriors around him with keen interest.

  When the narrative was through, however, Mohadan drove straight to the point that had brought him to see them. “I was told yesterday what your men did for the dead at the Saran Oasis. The families were grateful that you defied the Gryphon’s edict to let the men hang until they rotted. So tell me now, will you join your forces to mine and help me bring down the Gryphon?”