Dark Horse

4

“How can you be so certain it was Lord Medb who ordered the massacre,” Lord Savaric asked as he leaned back on his fur-draped seat. “You have not given us sufficient proof to believe your accusation.”

Gabria slumped in frustration. “I have told you everything I can.”

“It is not enough. You are bringing serious charges against a clan chieftain. How can you know what happened at the encampment? Or that it was an exile band that slaughtered the clan? You say you were not there.”

“No, I was not there during the killing, but I know! I can read the signs of battle and I know what led up to the massacre,” she cried.

Gabria was sitting before the dais, facing Savaric, Athlone, and the clan’s elders, who were seated in a semicircle before her. They had been interrogating her for several hours, and she had told them repeatedly everything she could remember of that awful day at Corin Treld and the days following. Still they were not satisfied.

Behind her, the men of the werod had gathered to hear her story. They clustered in silent groups around the fire pit. Gabria was very self-conscious sitting before this large crowd of men. It seemed as if any second, one of them would see through her disguise. They were so quiet and watchful. If she turned her head slightly she could see them, their dark, muscular faces regarding her with a mixture of surprise, disbelief, and speculation. A flagon of wine was being passed around, but few of the warriors were enjoying it.

The girl wished they would finish this inquisition. It was night and getting quite late. During the day she had had a chance to eat, clean off a little of the dirt, and rest. But now she was getting tired. Gabria had refused to part with her cloak and sat with it bunched up on her lap.

“Can’t you understand?” she asked sadly. “Lord Medb needed my father’s cooperation. Our clan was small, but we were the first he had attempted to win to his favor. The other chieftains in the north respected Father. With his support, Medb would have had some control in the northwest.” Savaric nodded to himself. He had been following Medb’s plots for some time, but even he was shocked by how far the chieftain seemed willing to go. .. And your father refused these overtures of friendship?”

“Violently.” She laughed bitterly, remembering her father’s exact words. “Medb only made one offer. When that was rejected, he resorted to coercion and threats and finally an ultimatum.”

Athlone was sitting on a leather stool near his father. His hand idly scratched the ears of a large deer hound as his eyes watched Gabria and the reactions of the men around him. “What sort of ultimatum?” he demanded.

Gabria spoke slowly, stressing each word. “Lord Medb made it clear that he wants to be overlord of the clans. To that end, he offered Father the lordship of all the northern lands. If Father refused, our clan would die.”

The men burst out in a loud clamor of outrage. Whispers of Medb’s bid for absolute power over all the clans had been blown from one encampment to another all winter, but the idea of a sole monarch was so far-fetched to the clansmen that few people had paid close attention.

“No!” The herd-master’s voice cut through the noise. “I cannot believe this. No chieftain would have such audacity. How can he offer power that is not his to give?”

“The power is not his yet,” Gabria interjected. “But he made good his threat to my father.”

The master turned to Savaric, who was watching Gabria thoughtfully. “Lord, how can you listen to this. Lord Medb’s clan is many days’ ride from the Corin range. It would be senseless for him to look so far afield.”

“Yet, you agree he is looking,” Savaric replied.

The man shifted uneasily. “We have all heard the rumors of Medb’s growing ambitions. But this is absurd.”

Savaric stood up and paced in front of the dais. “Is it?” He posed the question to all the men. “Think about it. Medb needs allies to help him hold the vital regions of the grasslands. The Corin were a perfect choice. If Dathlar had agreed to his offer, Medb would have held a valuable hammer in the north, a hammer he could have used with his clan in the south to crush us in the middle. But,” Savaric said as he gestured at Gabria, “when the Corin refused, Medb used them as an example to the other clans. He is proving he is deadly serious.”

The warriors’ voices quieted and even the herd-master looked pensive as the full impact of Savaric’s words sank in. The chieftain stood by the stone seat, momentarily lost in his own thoughts.

Gabria closed her eyes and let her head droop. The chief seemed to understand after all, and if he did, that was all that mattered. She was too exhausted to worry about the others. Sleep was all she wanted now. The girl felt her body sag and her head seemed to grow heavier. She heard Athlone get to his feet and say something to his father.

Then someone dropped a cup on the floor, and the metal rang dully as it struck the hard-packed earth. The clang caught Gabria’s attention like the distant clash of swords. She dragged open her eyes. Her glance fell into the fire burning in the center of the hearth. Everything was silent; she could feel the eyes of the men upon her, but she could not see them. She could only see the flames. The girl began to breathe faster and her heart raced.

In the back of her mind Gabria heard a faint thunder, like hoof beats, that mingled with the crackle and roar of the fire. She tried to move as the sound grew louder, to escape the noise and the terror that came with it, but the thunder engulfed her and swept her into the light of the fire. The flames bounded high, burning away her self-awareness. The men, the hall, even the fire faded into obscurity while her consciousness fell helplessly through the lurid gloom and touched a dying link with Gabran, her twin brother. Born together, they had always shared a special bond, and now, like the touch of a dead hand, his presence coalesced out of the chaos and led her back to the paths of Corin Treld.

Her vision cleared and the familiar encampment lay before her, shrouded in a veil of thickening mist. “Fog,” she mumbled. “Fog is coming in. Where did it come from?” Her voice changed and seemed to take on another personality.

Athlone tapped Savaric’s arm and nodded at the girl. The chieftain suddenly frowned and stepped forward, motioning his men to keep silent.

Gabria swayed, her eyes pinned in the fire. “The herds are in. Everyone is here, but. . . wait. What is that noise? Taleon, get Father. I must find Gabria. There are horses coming. It sounds like a large troop,” Her words came faster and her face drained like a pale corpse. The men about her watched in fascination.

“Oh, my gods, they are attacking us!” she shouted and stood up, gesturing wildly. “They are burning the tents. We must get to Father. Where is Gabria? Who are these men?”

Abruptly her voice went heavy with grief and rage. “No! Father is down. We must stand and fight. The women and children run, but it is too late. We are surrounded by horsemen. Fire everywhere. We cannot see in this smoke and fog.

“Oh, gods. I know that man with the scar. These men are exiles! Medb sent them. He swore to kill us and he has. The cowards, they are bringing lances. Oh, Gabria, be safe. . .”

The words rose to a cry of agony and instantly died into a silence of emptiness and despair. Gabria’s link with her brother snapped and the vision was gone. She trembled violently, then crumpled to the floor. A sigh, like a suppressed breath, wavered through the listening men.

For a long moment, Savaric stood staring into the fire. Finally he said, “Take him to the healer. We have heard enough for tonight.”

Without a word, Athlone and another man wrapped Gabria in the scarlet cloak and carried her from the hall.

The healer, a tall, wiry man in a pale rose robe, touched Gabria’s forehead with a cool hand and glanced at Savaric. “Forgive me, Lord, but you pushed him too hard. The boy is exhausted.”

“I know, Piers, but I had to find out what he would tell us,”

“Couldn’t it have waited?”

“Perhaps.” Savaric gestured to the prostrate form, still wrapped in the red cloak, sleeping on a pallet. “The boy hid it well. He is strong. I did not realize how worn he was until it was too late.”

The healer’s mouth twisted into a smile. “An hour or two of questioning before the clan elders would tire a lion. You mentioned a vision?”

“Hmmm.” Savaric poured wine into two horn cups and took a swallow from one before he answered. “He seemed to be reliving the massacre at his treld—through someone else’s eyes. Is it possible he could have fabricated what he told us? Or did he truly see a vision of what happened at the encampment?”

Piers sat down on a low stool and picked up his wine cup. Savaric leaned against the center pole of the tent. “A terrible shock and exhaustion can do strange things,” Piers said thoughtfully. “He may have been dreaming what he imagined happened, or . . .” The healer shrugged, his thin shoulders shifting slightly beneath his loose robe. “I do not know. Medb is a cruel man and his powers are strange. Maybe this tale was planted in the boy’s mind to confuse us, or maybe he did have a vision. It’s been known to happen before.”

Savaric gave him a wry grin. “You are not much help.” He looked at the healer curiously. “What makes you think Medb had anything to do with this?”

“Word spreads fast, Lord. Besides, only Medb has the capacity and the ambition to destroy an entire clan,” Piers replied.

“You don’t think it was a band of renegades or marauders?” asked Savaric.

“I doubt it. Raiders like that take women and plunder. This attack was total destruction. No, I think the boy was right, and if he is, then Medb is getting bolder.”

Savaric nodded, the worry plain on his face. “And stronger. We have ignored Medb’s ploys for power for too long, Piers. If we do not break him soon, he will become too strong for any of us.”

Piers’s mouth hardened. “You are talking war, you know. A war that could destroy the clans.”

“Medb will destroy us if he becomes overlord. I would rather die a free chieftain than live as his underling.”

Piers drained his cup and poured more of the light, fragrant wine he loved. He took a long swallow, then said, “They say Medb is reviving the black arts.”

Savaric glanced at the sleeping form under the cloak, then back at Piers. “They say many things about him, but that fact I find hard to swallow. His clan would not tolerate their chief practicing magic. It would mean dishonor for all the Wylfling.”

“Not if they were already under his thumb. Magic can be used for other things besides creating fog.”

“So you heard about that already, too.” Savaric chuckled. “Was there anything you missed?”

The healer stared at the tiny fire in his hearth for some time before he answered. “Have you had any word from Cantrell or Pazric?”

“No. I am not worried about Cantrell. The bard has been gathering information for me for a long time. He can take care of himself, even in Medb’s camp. But Pazric should have been back from the south by now. It does not take this long to negotiate a trade with the Turic tribes.”

Piers nodded. The men were quiet for a while, each wandering in his own thoughts. Their silence was companionable, born of a long friendship and respect.

Finally, Piers said, “That boy is an enigma. Perhaps he holds a key you can use to unlock Medb’s doom.”

Savaric shook his head and straightened. “That is very unlikely. Even grown men can’t kill Medb.” He walked to the entrance. “But take care of him, Piers, or you will have an angry Hunnuli trampling your tent.”

“Did this mere lad truly rescue a Hunnuli?”

“He certainly did.”

Piers raised his wine cup in a mock salute. “Then he shall be treated like a hero,”

Savaric matched his salute and left the tent.

Gabria slept through the night and most of the next day, lying motionless beneath her cloak, too weak to move even in sleep. Piers watched her anxiously, and several times he checked her to be sure she was still breathing. Outside the healer’s tent, Nara waited patiently. Savaric visited once to check the boy’s progress, but Gabria made no sound and still lay as if lifeless.

In the late afternoon, Piers was giving Gabria a sip of mild tea between her slack lips when, without warning, she began writhing and lashing out at him. Her face was twisted in hatred and her breath rasped in her throat. “No!” she cried hoarsely. “You can’t have me, too.”

“Easy, boy, easy.” The healer held Gabria down and soothed her until the dream passed. With its end came a slow awakening to consciousness. Gabria’s body relaxed, her breathing eased, and her eyes crept open until she was staring into the healer’s concerned face.

“I don’t know you,” she whispered.

Piers sat back on his heels at the edge of the pallet and allowed himself a rare smile. The boy was obviously on the way to recovery, for there was no fear or hesitancy in his voice.

“I am the healer of the Khulinin. Piers Arganosta.”

“That is a strange name for a clansman,” Gabria said. Her voice was stronger and color was returning to her skin.

Piers was relieved to see the boy was not withdrawn or dwelling on his grief. Savaric was right: the lad was very strong. “I am not a clansman,” he explained. “I am from the city of Pra Desh.”

“What are you doing on the plains?” she asked curiously.

“Amongst the barbarians?” he asked with a touch of irony. “The city lost favor with me.”

Gabria bristled at the word “barbarian” until she realized that Piers was not being insulting; he was merely repeating a phrase he had heard too often. His face was rather pleasant, she thought, if a little sad, and his pale eyes reminded her of mica: smoky and opaque. There was nothing pretentious about him, a characteristic she did not expect from a man from Pra Desh, the greatest of the eastern cities. In fact, he seemed to deliberately avoid drawing attention to himself. There was little bright color about him, nothing to draw the eye. He was pale with light skin and fair hair cut short.

His tent was plain and simply furnished with a portable medicine chest, a few light pieces of furniture, and an undyed carpet. Hangings of cream-colored wool hung on the walls of the tent, and another curtain hid his sleeping area. The soft rose of his healer’s robe was the only extravagant color Gabria could see.

“I have never been to Pra Desh,” Gabria said as the man stood up and fetched a bowl of soup from the small pot on his hearth.

“Then you are very blessed.”

Gabria was unexpectedly irritated. How dare he say something like that. He knew nothing about her. “I have not been blessed,” she snapped. “By anything.”

“You are alive, boy. Enjoy that!” Piers exclaimed.

“I have no right to be. My place was with my clan.”

“Your place was where the gods chose to put you.” He handed her the bowl, but she ignored it and glared at the open tent flap, where the afternoon sun was slanting through.

“You are a stranger. What can you know of our gods and their ways?” she retorted.

“I do know self-recrimination is useless. It does not bring back the dead, so do not waste your gift of life on guilt or lost opportunities.”

Gabria continued to stare outside. “May I get up now? It must be late.”

Piers sighed. Obviously, his advice was being ignored. “If you feel like it. The Hunnuli is waiting for you, and I am sure you can find food in the hall.”

“Thank you, Piers,” she said coolly.

“You are welcome, Gabran.”

The girl flinched at the name he used and wondered if she would ever grow used to the pain that clung to it. She stiffly climbed to her feet. Immediately, she wished she had not. Her muscles trembled, her head whirled, and dizziness shook her like an ague. She took a few faltering steps, then her ears roared and her stomach threatened to rebel. Piers wordlessly handed her a stool. She sank down gratefully and rested her head on her hands before the nausea overcame her.

“What is wrong with me?” Gabria groaned.

“Do you expect to go through all you have and not pay for it? You have used your body beyond its limits. And you have hardly eaten a thing. Give yourself time to snap back.” He gave her the soup. “Now, eat this.”

She took the bowl and sipped the meaty broth. “Thank you,” she said again, this time with more sincerity.

Piers stepped to the tent flap and summoned a passing warrior. “Tell Lord Savaric the boy is awake.” The man hurried away and within minutes, Savaric entered the tent. He was caked with dust and sweat, and a large falcon gripped his padded shoulder where his golden cloak had been pushed aside.

“The hunting was fair today, Piers,” the chieftain said, his eyes on Gabria.

She sat on her stool, staring into the distance. Lost in thought, she had forgotten her precarious disguise and did not rise to give her chieftain a warrior’s salute of fealty. Just then Gabria realized the men were looking at her and she sprang to her feet, spilling the hot soup over her leg.

“Forgive me, Lord,” she stammered.

Savaric waved off her apology. “Your forgetfulness hardly matters here. But do not lose your memory before my other warriors.”

Gabria nodded and sat down, chagrined. Her face reddened with embarrassment. Piers gave her a rag to clean the spilled soup and refilled her bowl.

“Your newest warrior will soon be ready to assume his duties,” the healer said to Savaric. “He will be tender for a day or two, but he will toughen.”

“Good. The boy will need all the strength he can muster.”

“I understand Athlone is to be Gabran’s mentor,” the healer said. .

Savaric chuckled. “Of course. Athlone wished to personally handle the boy’s training.”

“Athlone can go jump in a swamp,” Gabria muttered.

The chief turned to her, his expression hard. “What did you say, boy?”

Gabria winced. She had not meant to speak so freely. She had to remember she was no longer with her own family. Her face blushed even brighter, and she stared at the ground speechlessly.

“Keep a civil tongue, Gabran,” Savaric ordered, hiding a smile as Piers winked at him. “Tomorrow, if you can ride, you will begin your duties.”

“Yes, Lord,” Gabria mumbled as Savaric strode out. She sagged on her stool and gripped her bowl to still her trembling hands.

I am an idiot! she thought to herself. First I forget to salute the chief, and then I scorn the wer-tain in front of his father. Careless mistakes like those could draw unwanted attention and expose the weaknesses of my disguise. There were too many other things to remember about behaving like a boy to be caught in some dull-witted error. I have to be more careful! Glancing sideways at Piers, Gabria stretched out her legs in a masculine manner and rested her elbows on her knees as she finished her soup.

“Your Hunnuli has been waiting. Perhaps you might walk out and reassure her,” Piers suggested when Gabria returned the bowl.

The girl nodded and stood up, waiting for the dizziness that struck before. This time, the soup steadied her and she found she was able to walk without shaking. Nara was by the tent’s entrance and nickered in delight when the girl came out.

I feared you might be ill.

“No, just weary,” Gabria said. She wound her fingers through Nara’s ebony mane. “Have you had any food?”

No, I have been waiting for you.

“Then let’s go down by the river. I need to think.”

They walked side by side through the encampment, ignoring the faces that turned to watch them and the fingers that pointed their way. No one greeted them or offered them hospitality, and no one came near. Gabria was relieved when she and Nara left the tents behind and reached the banks of the river. It was difficult to hide her weakness and walk like a Corin past the staring clansmen. Her legs were trembling again and she felt lightheaded by the time Nara found a secluded place by the water.

Gabria gratefully sat down in the long, lush grass of the treeless bank while Nara began to graze. The girl leaned back, letting the wind touch her face and tufts of grass tickle her neck as she listened to the rippling music of the river.

We are being watched.

Nara’s thought was a rude awakening. The mare still grazed in apparent disregard, but she faced away from the girl toward a bare hillock, where a lone horse stood, its head turned toward them.

Gabria glared at the distant horse, then turned away in disgust. “I’m not surprised. Where is the rider?”

There is none. That is a Hunnuli stallion.

“Athlone, the wer-tain.” Gabria pitched a pebble in the water and watched as the circles were overwhelmed by the flow of the stream. “He sent his Hunnuli to watch us so he could be sure we do not try to contact Medb—or do anything else suspicious,” she said sarcastically.

The man is cautious and has a need to be, the mare pointed out with mild reproof. He is to be trusted.

“Trusted!” Gabria cried. “He would kill me if he ever found my secret. One mistake, one little slip of my disguise, and he will spear me as neatly as a jackal.” She pulled her cloak closer and added, “Women are not permitted to be warriors among our people. But I must try to be one. Death is the only thing I can trust to receive from Athlone if I fail.”

It is too bad you feel that way. He would be a powerful ally.

“You are the only ally I need. You, my sword, and the good will of the gods.”

They remained by the river for a long time while Nara ate her fill of the rich grass and Gabria watched the meadowlarks dip above the grazing livestock. They both ignored the watching stallion.

But Gabria found that her peace had fled her. She could not relax or let her mind wander while the Hunnuli stallion guarded her every move. She was not accustomed to such distrust or being treated with dislike. In all of her seventeen years, she had never felt so alone; for Gabran, her family, and her clan had always been with her. Nothing had prepared her for the endless confusion and emptiness that had dogged her steps since the day of the massacre. She was not a Khulinin and she never would be, but she wished someone would accept her with open arms. She wanted to be warm and comfortable and welcome, not pushed out in the shadows like a thieving beggar.

The evening was growing cold when Gabria and the mare returned to the treld. Nara led the way to the healer’s tent. Piers was gone when Gabria entered, yet she found another bowl of soup warming by the fire and her pack lying on the sleeping pallet. Everything in the bag had been cleaned and mended, and a new tunic of soft linen had been added. Sleepy again, Gabria finished the soup, curled up in her cloak, and sank into another motionless sleep.

Athlone came for Gabria at dawn, when the echoes of the morning horn were fading. Astride his towering stallion, he shouted at her to come, for her apprenticeship was about to begin. She barely had time to grab a warm bun from Piers’s table, pin on her cloak, and dash out of the tent before the wer-tain was cantering off toward the meadows. Groggily, she clambered onto Nara’s back and followed, her irritation wide awake.

“Come on, boy, your duties start at sunrise,” Athlone said when Gabria had finally caught up with him. “And don’t let me catch you shirking.”

He led her to a practice field where several targets and makeshift figures were set up. “Before I can begin your training,” he stated, sliding off his horse, “I need to know what you can do.” His tone implied that he did not expect much. Then, his eyes hardened to stone. “Where are your sword and bow?”

Gabria felt her stomach fall to her knees. The day had barely begun and already she had made a careless error. No warrior left his tent without his weapons; she had not even brought her dagger. “Wer-tain, I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I do not have a bow and I . . . left my sword. . . in the tent.”

Athlone walked deliberately around the horses until he stood by Gabria’s foot. The silence crackled. “You what?” he snarled with withering scorn. “If such carelessness is characteristic of your clan, it is little wonder they were wiped out.”

Gabria stiffened as if he had struck her. Her face went livid and her hand flew to her empty belt.

Careful, Nara warned, sidling away. Keep still.

“Return with your sword,” Athlone ordered. “If you know what one looks like.”

Before Gabria could reply, Nara wheeled and cantered back to the treld. Once they were out of earshot, Gabria clenched her hands in the Hunnuli’s black mane. “That dog!” she screamed. “Insufferable pig! He just insulted an entire clan and I can do nothing.”

They came to Piers’s tent. Gabria stormed in and retrieved her short sword, the one she had taken from Gabran’s hand.

“Trust him, you said!” she raged as she flung herself back on the mare. “I’d sooner trust a viper.”

Nara deigned to ignore her. She carried the fuming girl back to the field where Athlone waited impatiently. Gabria spent the next few hours keeping her misery and anger tightly leashed. Athlone worked her at swordplay and hand-to-hand fighting. They began on horseback, where Athlone’s stallion, Boreas, could help Nara with complicated maneuvers. Then they moved to the ground. Athlone pressed Gabria to the limit of her strength and skill.

A thousand times Gabria blessed her brothers for teaching her the rudiments of their weapons. She was no match for the wer-tain, but she could keep her borrowed identity from suspicion as she fought Athlone through each of his testing exercises. No woman should have known the fighting skills Gabria used.

Athlone worked her hard, both mentally and physically, and he watched Gabria’s every move, waiting for her to slip from anger or carelessness. He deliberately taunted her, shot orders at her, and gave her no rest. When he finally stopped, late in the morning, she fell to her knees, panting and drenched with sweat. He stood back and studied her. The nagging little warning in his head was ringing madly, yet he still could not put a reason to his suspicions. The boy could hold a sword and he knew most of , the basic moves, but there were some important details he did not know about swordplay that he should have. There was also a hesitancy in his attacks that belied a normal boy’s experience with weapons.

Athlone sheathed his sword and whistled to Boreas. Whatever the boy’s secret was, it was obvious from the past few hours that he had a great deal of determination. That was something in his favor.

“Keep practicing the last three parries I showed you,” the wer-tain ordered. “Remember to keep your weight balanced or you will find yourself in the dust. I will take you to the saddler later.” He vaulted onto the stallion’s back.

Gabria glared at him, too tired to move. Without thinking, she said, “What for? I do not need a saddle.”

“No,” Athlone replied sarcastically. “Nara will keep you mounted. But you will need the other trappings befitting a warrior.”

Gabria bit her lip as the stallion cantered away. She had done it again. She had walked into that blunder like a child. This acting was much more difficult than she had anticipated. When she had thought of this scheme, Gabria had imagined herself drifting easily into the fringe of Savaric’s clan and playing the part of a boy with little concentration and great ease until she found the right time to challenge Lord Medb. If she could handle a bow and a sword, she could pretend to be a boy for as long as necessary.

But Gabria had never fully appreciated the countless differences between a male and a female, not only physically and mentally, but socially as well. A boy would never have questioned the wer-tain about the saddler, for a boy would have already learned what was intended. A woman, on the other hand, made her own leather goods. She had no need to visit the saddler, who was the warriors’ craftsman for saddles, harnesses, and leather accoutrements—things a woman had little use for.

In the clans, a woman was expected to keep her place in the tent. She was protected by the men in her family or her husband’s family, and in return, the men demanded obedience. Despite their restrictive lives, the clanswomen were intelligent, efficient, and often fierce, but they understood and believed in the social mores of the clans and followed them by habit. No woman was allowed into the werod, the council, or any of the important ranks of the clan. Only the priestess of Amara and the wife and daughters of the chief had any status and esteem.

As the daughter of Dathlar, Gabria had had status in her clan, and as the only girl in a family of five men, she had been raised with love, respect, and a measure of equality. Her family had given her more freedom and responsibility than many clanswomen had, and she had been happy and content. Before the massacre, Gabria would never have dreamed of pretending to be a boy, or joining a werod, or challenging a chieftain for weir-geld.

However, her life was drastically different now, and she was forced to make some radical decisions. Gabria had chosen this plan of deception because she thought she had enough self-confidence and a great enough understanding of males to pull it off. Now, she was not so sure. There were too many details to constantly remember and so many ramifications she had no experience with. It was so confusing!

Gabria was still deep in her musings when Nara came to her side and brushed the girl’s cheek with a velvety nose. Are you going to sit in the dirt all day?

Gabria shook her head, smiled, and stood up, her sword hanging limply in her hand. The girl knew it was too late to alter her course now. She could imagine some impending difficulties with her disguise, and there would be other problems she could not expect, but she would just have to handle the pitfalls as they came and hope for a great deal of good fortune. Gabria rubbed Nara’s neck affectionately, and together they went in search of a midday meal.

Later that afternoon, Athlone took Gabria to the saddler. The girl had to be completely outfitted with a shield, belt, boots, leather jerkin, helmet, and a quiver for arrows. The old craftsman promised to have the items finished within a few days and he gave Gabria a used, restrung bow he had no use for.

Gabria also found an old, wide-brimmed hat in a pile of scraps the saddler had planned to throwaway. The old man laughingly gave it to her and threw in a leather thong to tie the hat down on her head. The girl pulled the brim down low over her eyes and tried to look casual as she leaned against a post and waited for Athlone.

Athlone was still speaking to the saddler when a boy arrived and gave him a message from Savaric. The wer-tain quickly ended the conversation and, without a word to Gabria, hurried her to the clan hall.

Savaric was waiting for them in the main room of the hall. He stood beside a tall perch, feeding tidbits to his falcon and talking to two of his warriors. The two men saluted as Athlone and Gabria approached, then the men quickly left the hall.

“I’m glad you could come now,” the chieftain told Gabria and Athlone as he moved to the dais. “I have just received word that a messenger has arrived. I would like you both to stay and listen.”

Gabria sat down on the stone rim of the fire pit and tried to be inconspicuous. She wondered if the news the messenger brought concerned her in some way. She had made no effort to hide her trail at Corin Treld, and it was possible that someone had realized there could have been a survivor and spread the word. Enough time had passed for the news to reach the farthest clans.

“Gabran,” Savaric said, jolting her out of her thoughts. “Remove your cloak and keep it out of sight.”

“Yes, Lord.” She unpinned the red cloak, folded it into a cushion, and sat on it. She should have remembered it herself. Her anonymity would be lost if another clan learned of her presence with the Khulinin, and, without some cover to protect her until she was ready to challenge Medb, her life would not be worth a slave’s wage.

While she waited, the girl watched the chieftain and the wer-tain as they talked quietly. She marveled at the rapport that existed between the two men. Both men were strong individuals with very different personalities and yet their respect and love for each other was unmistakable. Many chieftains would have feared an intelligent, strong-willed son like Athlone when the question of clan control came into contention, but as far as Gabria knew, that question had never been raised between these two men. They worked together to rule the large and powerful Khulinin.

In other circumstances, Gabria might have grown to like Athlone, as much as she liked the chief. Nara was right: the wer-tain would make a potent ally, but Gabria and the wer-tain clashed from the beginning and their relationship was slipping from bad to worse. He grated on her already battered confidence. His arrogance, his caustic contempt, and his probing suspicions made it impossible for her to accept him as only a man. He hung over her consciousness like a great storm cloud, blinding her to other dangers and overwhelming her with his potentially deadly vigilance. Around Athlone, Gabria was constantly on guard and afraid. It was little wonder she acted like a bungling fool whenever he was with her.

She was still staring at the two men when the messenger, wearing the green cloak of the Geldring clan, was escorted into Savaric’s hall. Gabria, seeing the messenger’s cloak, edged farther into the shadows of a pillar and hoped he would ignore her. The Corin argued frequently with the Geldring and there had been much interaction between the two clans. It was possible the man would recognize her if he had seen her or Gabran in the past.

But the messenger only gave her a cursory glance as he passed, for his mind was on the news he brought. He bowed before Savaric and offered his chieftain’s greetings. “Lord Branth bids me tell you—

“Savaric straightened in amazement. “Branth! When did he become chieftain?”

“Just before the massacre at Corin Treld. Lord Justar died quite suddenly of a heart ailment”, the messenger said.

“Did a dagger cause his heart ailment’?” Savaric asked dryly.

The messenger looked uncomfortable, as if that thought had occurred to him before. “I do not know, Lord Savaric. Only his wife and Branth were with him when he died and his body was prepared for the pyre by his wife’s hands.”

Athlone and Savaric exchanged glances of silent speculation. Gabria was relieved she had not tried to seek refuge with the Geldring. Lord Justar had respected her father, but Branth hated the Corin with a passion. If she had gone to him, he would have turned her over to Medb. It was well known he supported the Wylfling chief.

Savaric shrugged slightly. “All right. Continue.”

“We found Corin Treld two days after the killing, and we spent some time reading the signs of the battle. We discovered there may be a survivor, but we do not know who or what that person was or where he went.”

“How do you know this?” Athlone asked.

“There was a makeshift funeral pyre near the ruins and five bodies had been burned. One, by the shield and helmet, was Dathlar. No enemy who slaughtered the clan like that would have afforded the chief such honor. We also found foot tracks leading out of the treld. They went south, then we lost them in a storm. Lord Branth feels we should search the foothills and send word to every clan to seek this survivor.”

“Absolutely,” Savaric agreed with the right amount of enthusiasm. “This survivor could be the last Corin.”

Athlone shot a quick look at Gabria, who was sitting motionless, as if carved from stone.

“The rest of the information was not clear either.” The messenger hesitated as if unsure how to continue. “But it appears that a large band of exiles attacked the treld.”

The reaction the Geldring was expecting did not come. Savaric merely raised an eyebrow and said, “Indeed.”

“You may not believe me,” the messenger replied stiffly, “but Lord Branth believes it to be true. The hoof prints were those of unshod horses, and we found several broken arrows with colorless feathers. The attackers took or burned their dead.”

Savaric drummed his fingers on his knee and looked thoughtful. “Branth is a minion of Lord Medb’s, is he not?” he asked casually.

The Geldring started at the unexpected question and his hand came to rest on his sword. “I do not know, Lord.”

Savaric raised his hand to reassure the man. “Forgive me. That was not a fair question to you. I merely wished to know if there were other reasons besides my ignorance to warn me of the exiles’ infamy.”

“I only report what I am told.” The Geldring paused. “But you are not surprised about the exiles banding together and carrying weapons? It could mean more death and pillage for us all.”

“Did they pillage the treld?” Athlone inquired.

Surprise overcame the young man’s face as the realization dawned on him. “No. No, they did not. They burned everything and drove off the animals.”

“There were other motives for the attack besides the greed of a few brigands.” Savaric suddenly looked tired. “If that is all your news, then please rest yourself and take Lord Branth my greetings.”

The messenger bowed again and left. A silence dropped in the hall. In the doorway, the guards stood in the sunlight that streamed down from the west.

Finally, Savaric stirred and rose slowly to his feet. He looked as if his mind were still grappling with the meaning of the Geldring’s news. “Gabran,” he said at last.

Gabria glanced up at Savaric’s face. For a moment he seemed so old, as though the growing flames of tragedy and deceit that burned among the clans were more than he wanted to deal with. Then the look passed, the weariness and defeat were gone, and his eyes glittered.

Unconsciously, Gabria straightened her shoulders. “Yes, lord?”

“It seems that your story is falling into place. You were careless, though. Medb will soon know his bandits were not thorough.”

“I expected he would find out one way or another, lord.”

The chieftain smiled humorlessly. “True. But we must be more circumspect. You will wear the Khulinin cloak from now on. I do not wish to startle any guests.”

Gabria nodded. She wanted to keep her cloak with her. It was her only link to her past and the happiness she had known. Nevertheless, she understood that wearing it would be unsafe, as well as an insult to the Khulinin who had tentatively accepted her. She would obey. For now.

“Also,” Savaric continued, “you have the choice of sleeping with the other bachelors in this hall or with Athlone in his tent. He has no woman, but it would be more comfortable than the hall.”

Gabria did not even consider the choice. “I will sleep in the hall.”

Savaric chuckled. It was Athlone’s duty to care for his apprentice, but if the boy chose to be on his own, then so be it. The chieftain stretched his legs as he stepped off the dais. “You will ride with the evening outriders for now.”

“Yes, Lord.”

“And, boy, be careful. You are the last Corin.”