Dark Horse

5

The smells of cooking food for the evening meal were warming the treld when Athlone took Gabria to the leader of the clan’s outriders and left her in his charge. The man, a pleasant-faced warrior of thirty some years, wore his black hair bound in an intricate knot and had several gold armbands on his right arm.

He gave Gabria a pleasant smile. “My name is Jorlan. I am pleased to have the Hunnuli with us. I hope she does not mind such menial tasks as guard duty.”

Nara nickered her impression of laughter and rubbed her nose on Gabria’s back.

With Athlone gone, Gabria relaxed a little and enjoyed the leader’s unexpected friendliness. It made it easier to ignore the hostile glances of the other outriders and the blatant gestures they made to ward off evil.

“She does not mind at all. Besides, she has to do something to earn all the grass she eats,” Gabria said.

Jorlan laughed. He sent his men to their tasks, then mounted his bay horse and gestured to the meadows where the clan’s herds grazed. “You will be riding with the brood mares tonight. They are due to foal soon.”

Gabria was surprised. No wonder the outriders had been so hostile. The brood mares were the most coveted herd to guard and the duty was usually given to the favored warriors in the werod. She, as the newest warrior-in-training, should have been sent to the farthest fringes of the valley to stand sentry duty.

On the other hand, if she considered the leader’s point of view, it was excellent sense to put the Hunnuli mare and her rider with the valuable brood mares. Nara was the best possible protector, combining the speed, strength, and senses of several men and their mounts. The duty was not given as a reward but for expediency.

“Right now, I will take you to the meadows to meet the meara,” Jorlan added.

They followed the well-worn track down the hill to the extensive meadows that filled the valley. To the north, where the fields were protected from the winter winds by the backbone of Marakor, the Harachan horses were divided into several herds, each led by a stallion or mare of high rank. The largest herd was the work horses, the second was the yearlings and young horses in training, and the third was the brood mares.

Over all reigned the meara, the greatest stallion in eminence and rank. Each clan had a meara, which was chosen from their herds for the finest blood and ability, and these stallions were the pride and heart of their clans. No man dared lay a hand on one, save the chieftain, and to kill a meara was a crime punishable by the most hideous death. In the summer, the meara fought for his rank against selected males. If he was victorious, he was honored for another year; if he failed, he was returned with gratitude to the goddess, Amara, and the new meara ruled the herds.

The Khulinin meara was named Vayer. He was standing on a small hillock near the river, a mounted outrider with him. Even from a distance, Gabria would have recognized the horse as the meara. She had never seen a Harachan stallion to compare with him in form, beauty, or strength. He was a large chestnut with a golden mane falling from his high arched neck, and the gleam of fire in his hide. Although the Harachan horses did not have the size or intelligence of the Hunnuli, this stallion was wise from years of experience, and he carried his nobility like he carried his tail, as boldly as a king’s banner in battle.

When Jorlan and Gabria reached the hillock, Vayer neighed a greeting. As Jorlan spoke to him, Gabria looked closer and saw the horse’s muzzle was hoary with age, and scars from many battles marred his red hide. Still, his muscles were solid and his regal courage blazed in his golden eyes.

Vayer gravely sniffed Nara and snorted. She neighed imperiously in answer. The stallion, obviously satisfied, nickered to the men and trotted away. The outriders watched him go.

Jorlan and the rider talked for a moment longer, while Gabria looked over the herd of young horses nearby. They were a strong and healthy group, and they had wintered well. Their long coats had not shed yet and were still thick and shaggy. It would be a few more weeks before their sleek beauty was revealed.

The colts reminded Gabria of the Corin’s horses. She wondered what had become of the brood mares, the yearlings, and the stallions. Had the exiles stolen most of them, or had the horses wandered onto the steppes and been taken into wild herds? Perhaps some of them had found their way to other clans. One horse she would have liked to have back was the Corin meara, Balor. He had been her father’s pride and joy.

“We had a good yearling herd this year,” Jorlan commented to Gabria.

Gabria nodded absently, her mind still on the lost stallion. “Amara should bless you with another rich Foaling ,” she said.

Both warriors stared at her in angry astonishment. Men did not speak of Amara and the Foaling in the same breath for fear of incurring bad luck. Amara was a woman’s deity.

“Your fortunes have been bad,” Jorlan snapped. “Do not cast any of it on us.”

Gabria winced at the reproof. It was well deserved, for she had spoken thoughtlessly.

I should keep my mouth shut, Gabria decided, but it was too easy for her to slip back into her old habits. To make matters worse, she had forgotten what Jorlan reminded her of: she still carried the stigma of exile and death. Most people would refuse to look beyond that, and if anything unfortunate happened, especially a poor Foaling, they would find some way to blame her. She was an easy scapegoat—particularly if the clan discovered she was not a boy.

Jorlan said no more to Gabria and, after bidding farewell to the outrider, guided her to the brood mare herd.

The mares were pastured in a small valley at the edge of the mountains, where a creek flowed out of the hills to join the Goldrine River. Cottonwood, willow, and birch shaded the creek banks, and grass, herbs, and shrubs grew thick on the valley floor.

Spring was not well advanced, but already the fodder was green and lush, and the trees were bursting with budding leaves. There was a delicate, almost tangible essence of anticipation in the valley, as if the rising life in the trees and grasses and the stream had combined with the sunlight to bless the mares and their unborn foals. Almost fifty horses grazed contentedly among the trees, while the lead mare, Halle, kept a close watch on them all.

Nara whinnied a greeting when Jorlan led them into the valley. Halle returned her call and every mare close by replied with a ringing cry of welcome. The mares trotted over to greet the Hunnuli. Their bellies were distended and they moved ponderously, yet their heads swung gracefully as they sniffed the Hunnuli and her rider.

Another rider hailed Jorlan from the creek and came splashing down the stream to meet them. “Ye gods, she is a beauty,” he called. His mount bounded up the bank. “I heard there was a Hunnuli in the treld, but I could not believe it.” He ignored Gabria and stared at the great black horse. He was a tall, deceptively languid man with muddy eyes and an unconscious curl in his lip.

Gabria disliked him immediately.

“Cor,” Jorlan called over the heads of the mares. “This is Gabran. He and the Hunnuli will be riding with you tonight.”

The young warrior’s pleasure abruptly vanished and anger darkened his face. “No, Jorlan. That boy is an exile. He cannot ride with the mares or his evil will destroy the foals.”

Gabria clenched her hands on her thighs and stared unhappily at the ground.

“As you so aptly noticed, the boy rides a Hunnuli. You know full well the mare would tolerate no evil near her,” Jorlan replied. His voice was edged with sarcasm and irritation, and Gabria wondered if he, too, had doubts about her effect on the mares.

Cor shook his head forcefully. “I will not ride with him. Let me have the Hunnuli. I can handle her. But the exile must go.”

“Cor, I appreciate your concern, but the boy and the Hunnuli will stay.”

Cor pushed his horse closer to Jorlan’s mount and shouted, “Why should that boy be allowed to ride guard on the mares just because he has a Hunnuli? Why can’t he earn the duty like the rest of us?”

Jorlan’s patience was at an end. “One more outburst from you,” he said tightly, “and you will be relieved. Your disobedience and insolence are intolerable. I have warned you before about your behavior.”

Cor’s face paled and the muscles around his eyes tightened in anger. “Sir, the exile will blight the mares. It’s not right!”

“He is a member of the clan, not an exile.”

The outrider slammed his fist on the scabbard of his sword. He wanted to say more, but the look on Jorlan’s face stopped him. . .

“Return to your duties,” Jorlan snarled. His tone left no room for argument.

Something swirled in the silty depths of Cor’s eyes like the flick of a pike’s tail. He snapped a look of fury at Gabria, reined his horse away, and sullenly rode back up the valley.

“Sir. . .” Gabria started to say.

“Gabran, you will learn that I will not tolerate such arrogance or questioning of my orders.”

“You do not believe I will bring evil luck to the mares?”

“What I believe does not matter. Lord Savaric gave me his orders.” Then Jorlan glanced at Gabria’s face and his tone softened. “Do not be concerned about Cor. He has received several warnings about his vindictiveness and bad temper. If he gets warned again, he loses his duty as outrider. He is probably more worried about himself than the mares.”

Gabria glanced at him in gratitude. It was a relief to know Cor’s attitude was not entirely her fault.

Jorlan whistled sharply and two large hounds bounded through the undergrowth. He tossed them some meat scraps from a small bag at his belt.

“The Hunnuli can guard the herd better than our men, but stay close to these dogs. The hunters found signs of a lion in the hills nearby.” Jorlan started to leave, then came back. “If you need help, there is a horn hanging in that tree by the creek. Your replacement will be here about midnight.” Jorlan left, cantering his horse back toward the treld.

Gabria was relieved to be left alone with Nara and the mares for a while. She could relax in their undemanding company and enjoy the peace of the evening. The evening was a lovely one, clear and mild, and the twilight gently lingered into night. The wind was cool and the stars glittered overhead in glorious sprays. The night was full of sounds familiar to Gabria: the ripple of the creek, the rustle of the trees, and the sounds of contented horses. She hummed a tune to herself while she rode Nara along the creek and scouted the surrounding hills, keeping watch for a mare in trouble or a hunting predator. The hounds padded silently beside her.

She only saw Cor a few times in the course of their duty. He remained near the head of-the little valley and stayed to himself.

The moon, now waning, rose near the end of Gabria’s watch. She and Nara stood under the trees at the mouth of the valley with the mare, Halle. The night was quiet; the dogs sprawled on the ground, panting.

Suddenly, Nara tensed. Her head came up and her nostrils flared. Gabria, there is trouble.

A stray breeze wafted down from the hills, disturbing the mares. Halle stamped nervously and whinnied a warning. The dogs sprang to their feet. Gabria reached for the horn that hung close by.

All at once, a blood-chilling squeal tore through the night. The mares panicked. Like a storm breaking, Nara bolted up the creek, the dogs fast on her heels. Gabria hung on desperately to the Hunnuli and clutched the horn to her chest. Shouting and wild whinnying broke out ahead. Terrified mares galloped down the valley away from some horror. Nara had to swerve violently to avoid them.

The small valley narrowed, and trees crowded around the stream, making it difficult for Nara to run. The dogs surged ahead. They scrabbled over a gravel bank, came around a curve, and leaped a fallen tree into a clearing. Cor was already there, on his feet, his sword drawn, watching a cave lion crouched over the body of a dead mare. Faint moonlight gleamed on the lion’s fangs and on the white blaze on the dead horse’s face.

The tableau seemed to freeze for a moment as Nara and the dogs burst into the clearing, then everything shattered into a chaos of noise and motion. The dogs leaped at the snarling cat from either side and Nara drove her front hooves into the lion’s head. The cat was knocked off the dead horse into a tumbling pile of snapping dogs. Gabria lifted the horn and blew peal after peal of strident notes.

During the furor, Gabria forgot about Cor. He slunk back to the trees’ shadows and watched the fight, making no move to help. He studied everything for a moment, then a calculating smile tightened his -thin mouth. Without a word, he faded into the darkness.

Before long, the lion had had enough. It fought its way out from under the dogs and bolted into the underbrush with a squall of pain and rage. The dogs were about to follow when a whistle brought them to heel. Mounted men bearing torches and spears crowded into the clearing behind Jorlan. Their faces were grim as they looked over both the dead mare and the boy on his Hunnuli. Several men stooped over the body and studied the tracks of the lion, then they disappeared into the brush on the cat’s trail.

Jorlan looked up at Gabria. “Report, Outrider.”

Gabria explained as best she could what had happened. It was then she realized that Cor was gone. Her heart sank. It was horrible enough that this hideous killing had happened during her first night as an outrider, but without Cor to collaborate her story, the clansmen would heap the blame, undeserved or not, upon her. The lion had found the straying mare near Cor’s position, and even Nara had not discovered its presence in time. But those were merely excuses. The Khulinin would never forgive her for the loss of the precious mare.

Gabria could see the men’s faces in the flickering torchlight; it was obvious what they were thinking. Only Jorlan seemed puzzled. He had dismounted and was walking carefully around the clearing, scanning the ground.

Nara neighed as Cor walked out of the trees. He was leading his limping horse. His clothes were tom and dirty. He tried to look surprised and horrified as he saluted Jorlan.

“This was your guard position, Cor. Where were you?” the leader demanded.

“My horse bolted a while ago and fell into a gully north of here. He hurt his foreleg, as you can see. I had a rough time getting us out of there.” Cor sounded unhappy, but he could not completely hide the smugness in his voice.

Nara snorted in contempt.

Jorlan crossed his arms and raked the man with a furious glare. “While you were so conveniently absent, the cat killed a daughter of Vayer.”

Cor shook his fist at Gabria. “It is the exile! His curse has brought this down on us. I tried to warn you.”

The other men looked at their leader uncertainly. All of them were unsure how to deal with this strange boy and the complicated twists of his destiny. It was easy to dump the blame for this tragedy at the Corin’s feet, but the men knew Cor well and they sensed something was not quite right about his story.

Jorlan refused to respond to Cor’s feigned anger. “The boy told me you were here before him, on foot, and that you made no effort to help.”

“He lies!” Cor shouted.

“I don’t believe so,” Jorlan said. “I have seen your tracks.”

Cor looked sideways at Gabria and realized he had made a serious mistake. He licked his lips. “The exile should not have been guarding the mares. It is his fault this happened.” He paused, sensing he was losing his credibility. The other warriors were muttering among themselves, and Jorlan was staring at the dead mare. Gabria was watching Cor from the back of the Hunnuli, as if waiting for him to trip himself. Cor’s anger and embarrassment suddenly overwhelmed his common sense and he threw his sword at the Hunnuli. It missed and landed at her feet.

“All right, I was here,” he shouted furiously. “My horse threw me. But that sorcerer’s servant was the cause of this. He drew the lion here and was going to leave me to be killed, too. We cannot let him stay in this clan!. He will doom us, just like the Corin.”

Jorlan strode forward, struck Cor to the ground, and stood over him. “You are a disgrace. You are relieved of all duties as an outrider and your behavior will be reported to the chieftain for further punishment.” Jorlan’s voice was cold with disgust.

Cor looked wildly around the dark clearing for some sign of support from the other warriors. When he saw only the disdain on their faces, he jumped to his feet and ran into the trees. No one moved to stop him.

Gabria spent the last hour of her duty in a blur. She was badly shaken by the lion’s attack and by the hatred she had seen in Cor’s eyes. It was all she could do to stop her hands from trembling while she helped the men bury the dead mare in the clearing. The women would come later. to bless the mound and send the dead mare’s spirit to Amara, but Gabria paused long enough to whisper a quiet prayer of peace. The familiar, comforting words in her head eased her own pain a little, and when her replacement came at midnight, Gabria was able to bid good-night to the remaining men and leave the valley with a straight back.

The ride across the fields to the treld was the last quiet moment she had for the rest of the night. News of the attack had spread rapidly through the encampment and the clan was in an uproar. A hunting parry was being organized. Groups of men clustered around the tents, discussing the import of the news while the women wept for the mare and her unborn foal. Cor had stormed into the hall and, after gulping down a flask of wine, was cursing Gabria and Jorlan at the top of his lungs, protesting his own innocence. Jorlan and most of his outriders had already returned and reported to Savaric.

Gabria and Nara stopped at the edge of the treld and watched the activity for several minutes. Gabria slid off the horse, and the Hunnuli dipped her head and gently rubbed her nose along the girl’s chest. Gabria scratched Nara’s ears.

The girl wished she could borrow some of the mare’s vast energy to bolster her own flagging strength. She was exhausted now, but she would have to sleep in the hall tonight with the unmarried men. She doubted she would have much rest.

I am going to the meadow. If you need me, I will come.

Gabria nodded and gave the horse a. final pat. When Nara trotted away, the girl pulled her new golden cloak tighter about her and walked wearily to the camp. The light from the torches and campfires danced around her. The black tents sat like noisy, humped creatures with their backs turned against her. The clanspeople were busy preparing to hunt the lion, and, to Gabria’s relief, no one noticed her. She passed by, a sad shadow in all the hubbub, unseen by all but one.

Athlone stood in the darkened entrance of his tent and watched as Gabria came up the path. His handsome face was hooded in darkness, so she did not see him as she went by. He waited until she was past the guards at the hall before he turned to fetch his spear from his tent.

Something still bothered him about that boy. The nagging suspicion would not stop. Why? The Corin showed spirit and courage despite his grief, and his determination seemed unshakable. Jorlan had reported favorably about the boy and his actions during the lion attack. Neither these attributes nor his unmistakable love for the Hunnuli were the usual characteristics of an exile on the run or a spy for an ambitious chieftain.

The mare was another curious aspect of the boy. The Hunnuli had accepted him, and the horses of that breed were impeccable judges of character. Even Boreas liked the Corin, although the big horse found something humorous about the mare and her rider. If the boy was treacherous or wicked, no Hunnuli would come within smelling distance of him.

Athlone had heard very recently that Lord Medb had tried to win a Hunnuli by capturing it and keeping it penned in a box canyon. As he understood the story, the horse had nearly killed Medb before throwing itself over a cliff, preferring death to serving the lord of the Wylfling clan. Athlone did not know how true the rumors were of Medb’s injuries, but he was greatly saddened and not at all surprised by the Hunnuli’s death.

Nevertheless, Athlone could not reconcile himself to Gabran’s presence. Something was not right with the boy. There were too many little details in speech and movement that did not fit. What was he?

For a fleeting second, Athlone remembered the Shape Changers, the sorcerers of ancient legend who had learned shape changing to avoid punishment for practicing magic. He shuddered. But that was long ago. The heretical magic was dead and its followers died with it. It did not matter, though. The boy was no magician, simply a clansman with a secret that might prove dangerous to all.

Athlone found his spear and walked out of his tent to join the hunt for the lion. He could only hope that he would discover what the boy’s secret was before it proved fatal for someone in the clan.

The huge doors of the hall were still open when Gabria returned from the fields. She entered the hall reluctantly and stood blinking at the sudden light. A fire was burning low in the pit and a few lamps still glowed from the ceiling beams. As she became accustomed to the light, the girl saw her pack and the new bow lying by the nearest pillar. Looking up, she saw several men already asleep on blankets and furs along the right-hand wall, beneath the colorful tapestries of Valorian’s adventures. The storerooms were closed and the heavy curtain was drawn over the entrance to Savaric’s private quarters. Four other men were sitting on the opposite side of the fire at a trestle table. Two were playing chess, one was watching, and the fourth was slumped over a wine flask.

Every clansman was entitled to a tent of his own once he reached manhood. The huge, black felt tents were made by the man’s family and presented to him at the initiation of his warrior status. However, the tents were difficult to maintain, and it was usually the women who kept the fires burning, patched the holes, and kept the tents neat and pleasant. Most bachelors, therefore, chose to sleep in the hall. It was warm, relatively comfortable, and did not have to be packed every time they moved. They could eat there and entertain themselves long into the night without disturbing the treld.

Yet, despite the freedom and convenience of the hall, most men did not stay there long. Marriage and the tents, even with their numerous problems, were preferable to the conditions of bachelorhood. A man needed a woman, his own hearth, and the privacy of the felt walls. The clans survived because of unity and cooperation, but they retained their identity because each man valued his own individuality and the strength drawn from his home, even one that was packed into a cart every summer.

Gabria certainly did not feel at home in the strange, pillared hall. She was nervous being with these men in such close and intimate quarters. She could see at least one of the sleeping men was wearing nothing beneath his blankets. With her own family that would not have bothered her, for she was used to seeing men in various stages of undress. But here she had no brothers to defend her, no chieftain’s quarters for security, and no protection as the chief’s daughter. She had nothing but a disguise—and a flimsy one at that.

Quietly, she slipped along to the right-hand wall to the gloomiest corner, away from the sleeping men. Gabria fervently hoped no one would notice her. If she could curl up in the blanket Piers had given her, perhaps they would not realize she was there.

“We have a new member in our illustrious ranks,” a voice called out in a raucous tone. “Take note of him, men, a boy who has barely left his mother’s breast and already he has lost his clan and killed our mares.”

Gabria cringed at the words. Slowly she turned and stared at the speaker. It was Cor. He was sitting at the table, waving a wine cup in her direction. The other three men had previously ignored him, but now they watched in anticipation of some entertainment. Gabria turned her back on them and tried to disregard Cor’s sniggers. Cor was swaying gently, but his voice was not broken or slurred.

“He sits on his great black horse and spits on us while he deafens the lords with his whining and pleas of innocence.” Cor staggered toward the girl as the others watched in interest. Gabria listened apprehensively.

“But I know you. I can see what you keep hidden beneath your bold face,”

Gabria stiffened and her eyes widened.

“You are a coward!” he hissed. He was so close to Gabria, his breath brushed her neck. “A spineless pile of sheep dung who fled his clan instead of standing and fighting. Or did you lead the attackers to the camp? You are so brave when you are sitting on that black horse, but how brave are you, worm, when you are low to the ground on two puny legs?” Viciously, Cor grabbed Gabria’s shoulder and spun her around.

The girl stepped back against the wall, too terrified by the drunken rage that distorted Cor’s features to run. The other warriors cheered them both and taunted Cor with bets and jibes. No one moved to help Gabria. Disgruntled yells came from the men who had been awakened. The shouts, jeers, and insults crashed together into an unnerving cacophony. Gabria threw her head back.

“Stop it!” she shouted. “Leave me alone.”

“Leave me alone,” Cor mocked. “Poor little worm is not so brave after all. He needs his mama. But she’s dead and rotting with the other Corin.” He rocked back and forth in front of Gabria, exuding wine fumes. His muscles seemed to bunch beneath his tunic.

Without warning, Cor slapped her. Gabria gazed at him speechlessly. “You brought the lion. It is your fault the mare died and I lost my duty. No one would listen to me . . . but you will. You are going to listen to me until you are crushed beneath my boot.” He chuckled at himself. Getting no reaction from Gabria, Cor hit her again savagely. She tried to avoid it, but she was too late. The blow sent her reeling, and blood spattered her tunic from her split lip. The other men looked on, neither helping nor hindering. Cor came at her again.

“Stop it!” Gabria cried, stumbling away from him. “Go away,”

“Go away,” he sneered. “Not for a while, my little man, not until you crawl at my feet and plead for my forgiveness.” He swung at her again and smashed her in the face. Gabria crashed into the wall and collapsed on the floor, her head ringing with pain, blood pouring from her nose.

“Crawl, worm,” Cor shouted gleefully. He kicked her in the side. Waving to the others in victory, Cor stood over Gabria like a conqueror, gloating at his prize. He reached down for her again.

Gabria was lying still, panting in shock and fear. Then she saw Cor’s hand coming. Deep within her emotional prisons, the frustration and anxiety she had suffered the past few days fused together in a furious surge of power. Unbeknownst to her, an aura began to glow faintly around her hands as the white-hot energy of her emotions burst outward to every muscle and nerve ending, overcoming her pain and weakness. The, power ignited in her eyes. She screamed like a cat.

Without a conscious thought, Gabria reached behind her shoulder and grasped her new bow. The unseen aura in her hands flowed up the weapon. Before Cor could react, she rolled off the bow and, with both hands, swung it upward between his legs. The stave caught him neatly in the groin. Just for a second, there was a burst of pale blue sparks.

Cor howled in agony and doubled over. Gabria rolled away, stood up, and crouched, her bow held before her like an axe. But Cor could barely move. He slowly toppled to the ground and lay curled in a ball, moaning. As the warriors moved to him, Gabria backed into the corner, still gripping her bow and trembling with rage. Her green eyes glinted dangerously.

“Nicely swung, boy,” one of the warriors said with a grin.

“Cor won’t be riding for a day or two,” added another man. “Especially the wenches.” They all laughed uproariously.

Gabria stared at them speechlessly. The warriors shook their She heads and left her alone while they picked up their whimpering companion and tossed him unceremoniously on his blanket. Then, the sleepers returned to sleep, the chess players continued their game, and a subdued quiet settled over the hall—all as if nothing had happened. Only Cor’s soft moaning was out of place in the illusion of friendly peace.

Gabria stood in her corner without moving. Her anger and the pale blue aura that no one had noticed subsided, leaving her drained and empty. She dared not move for fear of disturbing the fragile peace.

Gabria knew fist fights and brawls happened constantly in the hall, often just for the fun of competition. But the violence and hatred of Cor’s attack was not pan of the camaraderie. He blamed his disgrace on her and wanted his revenge. Gabria glanced at Cor, as if he might jump on her again, but he remained curled like an infant, whimpering and weeping. She dreaded to think what Cor would do when he recovered. He did not have the manner of a man who forgave readily.

Gabria shuddered and sank to her knees. Maybe she should accept Athlone’s tent. At least he would not beat her. No, she reminded herself sharply, he will kill me if l reveal my identity. And it will be much more difficult to hide in the confines of a tent. But is it safer here with more ears to listen and eyes to watch? Safer with Cor’s dagger within easy reach of my heart? Oh, gods, what am I going to do? Either choice could mean death.

The girl clutched her blanket about her shoulders, thankful for its warm comfort, and huddled into the corner. Her face felt horrible—swollen and caked with blood—but she was not going to move from her corner. She was safe there, for the night at least. Perhaps she could decide what to do tomorrow. Cor might decide to leave her alone, although she doubted it, or perhaps her goddess would provide a way to protect her. Amara had always been with her. Gabria took solace in that, and, after a long while, when the fire had died down, she fell asleep.

Gabria awoke long before dawn. In the deepest hour of the night, she dreamed of a blue fire in the core of her mind tried to banish it, but it was a pan of her and it would not be denied. It grew in intensity and surged outward from her hands, taking the form of a lightning bolt that seared a path through the surrounding darkness and burned with the vengeance of a dying star. Unerring, it struck a half-seen figure of a man and burst him into countless flaming fragments.

Gabria bolted awake in horror. She knew without question what that deadly flare had been. Sorcery. She cringed as she gazed at her hands in the dim light of the single lamp that still burned. She vaguely expected to see a glow of blue still on her fingers where the bolt had sprung.

How could it be? Why had she dreamed of magic? She knew nothing about the arcane except the half-truths of legends and the clan strictures that forbade its profane use. Sorcery had been eradicated generations ago and anyone guilty of trying to resurrect it was put to immediate death. So where had that dream sprung from? Gabria had never considered using such power, and she did not think wielding magic was an inherent ability.

Since birth, Gabria had been taught that sorcery was an evil heresy. The priests claimed sorcery was an abominable sham of the gods’ power, an insult to the deities and the cause of hideous retribution upon anyone who tried to use it.

Gabria shuddered at the memory of her dream. It was impossible that she could create that blue fire herself. She did not have the knowledge or desire to do so. Yet why had she dreamed of that power now? She sat frozen in a crouch, musing over the fading images of her dream, very afraid of falling asleep and dreaming again.

When the horn of morning faintly echoed in the hall, Gabria was still awake. The warriors rose from sleep, laughing, yawning, and grumbling. They rolled their gear out of sight, into a storeroom behind a tapestry, and prepared themselves for another day. A serving girl brought cups of steaming wine and heaps of meat-stuffed rolls. Gabria remained still.

Athlone, back from the night’s hunt, found her as she had been most of the night, hunched in the comer beneath her blanket, her eyes fixed on something in the distance. The wer-tain breezed into the room, smelling of morning dew and horse’s sweat, and greeted the men. He saw Gabria in the corner and anger pulled at his mouth. Muttering a curse, he ripped off the blanket and yanked her to her feet.

“I warned you about shirking. . .” His voice trailed off as she slumped against him and he saw the bruises and dried blood on her battered face. She feebly pushed against him and tried to stand alone, but a searing pain melted her ankle. With a moan she could not stop, she fell to the floor. Sometime during the fight with Cor, she had wrenched her barely healed ankle again.

“What happened?” A look of pity intruded into. Athlone’s stony eyes.

“I fell down the steps last night,” Gabria answered listlessly. She shoved against the wall and painfully levered herself to a standing position. She teetered on one foot, glaring at the wer-tain, daring him to gainsay her.

The pity faded and Athlone turned to the warriors who were watching as they ate. “What happened?” he repeated harshly.

One man jerked a thumb at Cor, who was still lying curled on his bed, apparently asleep. Athlone’s brow lifted, and he strode over to the recumbent warrior. He leaned over to shake Cor’s shoulder. At the first touch, his hand leaped back as if scorched.

“Good gods,” Athlone said in astonishment. “This man is burning with fever. Tabran, call the healer quickly.” Then he remembered Gabria standing in the comer with blood on her face, and his nagging suspicions turned to a noisy warning. But he still was not sure why.

“The rest of you men get to your duties,” Athlone ordered. “Now.”

The men glanced at each other uneasily, and fetching their weapons, filed out the door. Athlone stayed by Cor. The wer-tain’s face was bleak and his body was tense with his unnamed suspicions.

“I am going to ask you again,” he said without turning around. “What happened?”

Gabria heard the change in his voice immediately. He suspected something strange had happened between her and Cor. “I hit him with a bow,” she snapped.

“Why?”

“I should think that is obvious, Wer-tain.” Piers’s voice came from the entrance. “Just look at him. The boy was being beaten.”

Athlone and Gabria turned to the healer as he came into the hall. “I asked the boy,” Athlone said, rankled by the man’s immediate defense of Gabria. “I want to know what happened to Cor.”

“I know what you meant.” Piers’s pale eyes were like the clouds of a winter storm as he helped Gabria to the fire pit and made her sit on the stone rim.

Gabria watched the two men surreptitiously. Even through her listlessness and pain, she could recognize the signs of a long-lived dislike between the healer and the wer-tain. Piers’s movements were hurried and brusque. It was as if he could not wait to be away from Athlone’s demanding presence. Athlone, on the other hand, seemed to be edgy and impatient dealing with the quiet foreigner. Gabria found Athlone’s discomfort interesting, and she drew closer to Piers’s supporting arm.

Athlone glared at them both, annoyed that the boy had found such a quick ally in the healer. “The boy will live. I called you here to see to Cor.”

“If Gabran lives, it will not be because of your efforts. I asked you to go easy on him yesterday until he recovered, but you deliberately ran him into the ground.” Piers squeezed Gabria’s shoulder and went to examine the unconscious warrior. The healer’s mouth opened slightly in surprise when he touched Cor. He quickly straightened out the man’s body and checked him over carefully.

“How strange. I have never seen anything quite like this,” Piers said worriedly. “What did you say happened to him?”

Athlone gestured to Gabria. “He hit him with a bow.”

“Certainly a mere blow could not have caused this.” Piers checked Cor again, and a small frown creased his forehead. “Hmmm. I wonder. . . have some men take him to my tent.”

Athlone called the guard and gave his orders. He asked Piers, “What is wrong with him?”

“I am not sure. He has a high fever, among other things, but this is something quite unusual. Gabran, you had better come, too.”

“He has work to do,” Athlone said flatly.

The healer shook his head. “Not today. Not in his condition.”

“Your defense of him is misplaced, Healer. He can obviously care for himself,” Athlone stated as he picked up Gabria’s fallen bow.

Gabria could not look at Cor. She stared at the floor, and the memory of her dream returned like a hidden shame. A pang of guilt made her shiver, but she could not believe it was possible that the dream held any truth. She had only hit Cor with a wooden bow, not magic. There was something else wrong with him, something very easy to explain.

“The healer is right, Athlone,” a woman’s voice came from the back of the hall.

“Good morning, Mother.” Athlone smiled at the small, fair-haired woman standing by the curtain to the chieftain’s quarters.

“Good morning, son, Piers, and you, Gabran. I am Tungoli, lady of Lord Savaric.”

Gabria returned her greeting and, for the first time since she came to Khulinin Treld, she felt that she was meeting a friend. Tungoli’s eyes were as open and as green as summer, and her expression was warm and smiling. She was a comely woman whose true age was hidden by a gentle beauty that grew old with grace and radiated from her contentment within. Her hair was braided and wound with a dark gold veil. Her hands were slender, yet strong and confident. She walked toward them with a loose-jointed stride that swirled her green skirt about her feet.

“The boy needs rest,” Tungoli said to Athlone. “There is no sense having two warriors ill. But,” she added soothingly, cutting off Athlone’s next words, “if you insist he stay busy, I have a few things he can help me with.” She slipped her arm through Athlone’s and led him aside, continuing to talk to him all the while.

Piers sighed, an audible sound Gabria barely caught, and he shook his head. “Tungoli and Savaric are the only ones Athlone bows to,” he said softly to Gabria. “Tread carefully around him.”

Several men arrived then and helped Piers lift Cor’s body onto a makeshift stretcher. The healer said, “Wait here, Gabran. I’ll send them back for you.”

In the corner of her eye, Gabria saw Athlone watching them, and her pride dragged her to her feet. The pain sucked the breath through her teeth. “No. I’ll come now,” she managed to gasp.

“Do not be long about it,” Athlone demanded.

Tungoli lifted her eyes to her son in mild reproof. “Athlone, your thoughtlessness is atrocious. Gabran, let them come for you. When the healer is through with you, come to see me.”

“Mother, you are interfering again.”

“I know. But if I do not, who will? The entire treld is terrified of you,” she said, laughter in her voice.

Gabria collapsed on the stone rim again and gazed at the woman thankfully. Tungoli reminded Gabria of her own mother, in a vague, comforting way, and it would be delightful to spend some time with this lady and be out from under Athlone’s iron hand.

Piers nodded to Gabria and followed the stretcher bearers out the door. Gabria did not respond, for she was too engrossed watching Tungoli and Athlone. The small woman looked so incongruous standing up to the tall, muscular warrior, but Gabria was certain the mother won most of their battles. In her own gentle way, Tungoli was just as stubborn as Athlone.

“All right, all right. The boy is yours for as long as you need him. Just don’t spoil him,” Athlone exclaimed.

Tungoli crossed her arms and nodded. “Of course.”

Gabria felt as if a great weight had been taken from her shoulders. She was free from Athlone for a time and she was free of Cor long enough to gather her wits. Gabria still had to decide where she was going to sleep in the future, and she wanted to consider her dream. Perhaps Piers could help her understand. Being from Pra Desh, he would not have the horror of sorcery any clansman would. Maybe the healer would talk to her and give her some reassurance that her dream had been only a figment of her imagination.

Gabria still felt unreasonably guilty for Cor’s sudden illness. Although she was certain it was not her fault, she could not forget the flare of blue power that struck from her hands with such deadly swiftness, or the nameless fear in her heart that there was a connection between the fight and her dream.

“Come on, boy.” Athlone walked to her side. “I’ll get you to the healer and back before my mother scans on another speech.”

To Gabria’s surprise, he slipped her arm over his shoulder and helped her up. Gabria was too stunned by his move to object. Speechless, she looked at Athlone from a few inches away. He met her eyes and, for the first time, his brown eyes did not clash with her green. The wer-tain gave her a sketchy smile, and they moved out the door.