Dark Horse

8

The wind died down at twilight, and the dust settled in the fields. One after another the cooking fires were lit, and the weary women prepared the evening meal. The men gratefully set aside their work and came home, until all but the outriders were comfortably settled by their hearths. In the hall, Lady Tungoli and her women lit the lamps and torches, then served the bachelors from a pot of simmering stew.

Through the noise and activity of hungry, raucous men, Gabria sat in” her corner in stony silence. She ignored their questions and offers of food, and stared at the entrance, waiting for one man to walk through and accuse her. But Savaric never came. His place at the table remained empty. After a while, the others forgot her and she was left alone in her self-imposed solitude. The fire was allowed to burn low in the central hearth since the weather was warm. Most of the warriors wandered outside to take advantage of the pleasant evening. Gabria still sat in tense expectation, wondering how Savaric would feel to learn the truth about Dathlar’s “son.”

Moonlight was flooding through the open doors when a young warrior slipped into the hall. Many of the men had returned for the night, and he squinted at the sleeping forms as if looking for someone. Finally he moved next to Gabria.

“Gabran,” he whispered loudly.

Gabria stood up stiffly. So, Savaric had sent a messenger. The girl was surprised he had not come himself or sent the hearthguard, but perhaps he felt she did not deserve the honor.

The warrior waved her over. “Come on, hurry up. The wer-tain wants to see you.”

She paused in surprise. Athlone. Not Savaric? “The wer-tain?” she repeated.

“Yes, now. He woke up a while ago and moved back to his own tent,” the warrior said impatiently.

He led Gabria down the paths to Athlone’s tent and left her’ by the entrance. Her knees felt weak and, for a moment, she had to stop. The night air was cool and refreshing, and the sounds of the camp were pleasantly familiar. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the similarity to Corin Treld, even to the smell of wood smoke and the barking of a dog. The thought gave her comfort, just as the memories of her clan gave her strength. Gabria leaned on that strength now as she pushed the tent flat aside. She wondered why Athlone had requested her presence, but she realized that he probably just wanted her there when he revealed her lies to his father.

Resolutely, she stepped inside. The only light in the large tent was from a lamp burning on the center tent pole. On the edge of its glow, she could see Athlone lying on a low bed. The sleeping curtain was pulled back and he was watching her in the flickering shadows. To her astonishment, they were alone and his sword was propped against a chest, too far away to be easily reached. She stayed by the tent flap, keeping the light between them, and stared at him through the flame. They stayed silent and eyed each other like two wolves on a narrow path.

Athlone gingerly sat up. He waved to a stool, then poured two cups of wine. “Sit down,” he ordered. He tasted his wine and set the other cup on the floor for her.

Her heart in her throat, Gabria obeyed. She took a quick swallow of wine to ease the dryness in her mouth and let the liquid warm her stomach before she spoke. “You have not told Savaric.”

He grunted. He was still very weak and any movement was an effort. “Not yet. I have some questions I want answered.”

“Why haven’t you?”

With an ironic grimace, he pointed to the cut on his throat. “First you tried to kill me, then you changed your mind and brought me back. Why?”

“Nara said I should trust you,” Gabria replied.

“She puts much faith in me.”

“Too much.”

Athlone cocked an eyebrow much like his father. “Yet you did not kill me, even though I could sentence you to death.”

Gabria looked away and her fingers tightened around the cup. “It was a chance I had to take. I need your help.”

“Blunt. After nearly killing me, you ask for my aid.” He took a drink and considered her. “Remove your hat.”

Surprised, Gabria pulled off the leather hat and shook her head. Her hair had grown out a little since she cut it at Corin Treld, and it curled in uneven waves around her neck.

“Who are you?” Athlone muttered as if debating the answer himself. His eyes were no longer suspicious, only puzzled, and he leaned toward her, ignoring the pain in his wounded shoulder.

“Gabran’s twin sister,” she said, her voice hesitant. “I am Gabria.”

He snorted. “Gabria? Doesn’t your name mean buttercup? What an ill-matched name for a lioness. At least you are a child of Dathlar, that is obvious. You have his stubbornness.” He paused. “How did you escape?”

Gabria bit her lip. It still shamed her to remember that disgraceful argument with her father, but she was not going to lie about it now. “I had a disagreement with Father and I ran away to be alone.”

Athlone refilled his cup. “What about?”

“Marriage,” she said angrily. She took another gulp of wine to hide the flush that burned on her cheek.

The wer-tain laughed outright and nearly spilled his wine. It was the first time Gabria had seen Athlone laugh, and she was amazed by the pleasant change. The hard lines of his face relaxed and his eyes warmed to a rich, dark amber.

“I am sorry,” Athlone finally apologized. “I just cannot imagine any man taming you. You are much like your Hunnuli.”

Gabria was relieved by his compliment, however undeserved, and her hope grew. Perhaps Athlone would keep her secret. His rage from their earlier confrontation seemed to be cooled, and, if he could laugh at her and apologize, he was not planning to have her head removed immediately.

“Why did you come to us?” the wer-tain asked, returning to seriousness.

“For the reasons I told your father,” Gabria answered.

“To claim weir-geld against Lord Medb?” He shook his head. “You don’t have a chance. The man is a chieftain and a reputed sorcerer.” Suddenly Athlone stumbled over his words and stared at Gabria as if something had jogged his memory.

The girl slammed her cup down and said too quickly, “Yes, I want weir-geld. I am the only Corin left to claim it, and man or woman, I am entitled to revenge. That chieftain,” she spat the word contemptuously, “is responsible for the murder of an entire clan!”

“And for your revenge, you want Medb’s death?” Athlone asked slowly. He was taken aback by this girl’s vehemence and was uncertain how to deal with her incredible behavior. And yet, she fascinated him like nothing he had ever known.

“Of course.”

“Even if you break clan law to obtain your revenge.”

Gabria’s face hardened. “I will do what I must to see Lord Medb dead.”

“He will destroy you.”

She nodded. “Maybe. But I have to try. And, Wer-tain, I will use any means or any person to attain my vengeance. Even you.”

For a long moment Athlone was silent, and, as he stared into the flame of the lamp, his eyes seemed to soften and his body sagged back on the pallet. The last of his indignation and hesitation vanished. “Warning accepted,” he said at last. “Despite my earlier temper, I have not told Savaric yet that a woman is a warrior in his werod. You intrigue me. Your will and persistence go a long way to balancing your deceits.”

“Will you tell him?” Gabria asked.

“You didn’t leave me in the mountains to die. I owe you that at least. I won’t tell him, but know also I will do nothing to save you if he discovers your secret from someone else.”

Gabria nodded. That was fair. She was beginning to understand why Nara and Boreas trusted Athlone. He was a man of honor and, as long as one stayed within his boundaries, he would do everything to keep his word. She only hoped he had forgotten any suspicions of sorcery he might have. Gabria had seen the glint of speculation in his eyes when he mentioned sorcerers. The gods only knew what fantastic ideas he might have about her connection with it.

“If I’m not to be executed,” she said, “what now?”

“You are still in training. If you insist on fighting Medb, you’ll have to know more than the simple tactics of the practice field. Your dagger attack was atrocious.”

Gabria nodded and replaced her hat. She stood up and saluted him with boundless relief. “Thank you, Wer-tain,” she said gratefully.

He smiled wearily. “I hate Medb almost as much as you do. Perhaps between the two of us we can at least discomfort him.” Gabria had turned to go when he added, “You have been courting disaster sleeping in the hall. Move to either my tent or Piers’s.”

Gabria was jolted by the mention of the healer. “Piers. He knows I stabbed you.”

Athlone lay back and laughed softly. “He knows more than that. He has kept your secret for some time.”

“What?” she gasped. “How could he have known?”

“A healer learns many things. You should ask him why he did not expose you.”

She walked dazedly to the tent door. “Good night, Wer-tain. Nara was right.”

As the flap closed behind her, Athlone sighed and murmured, “So was Boreas.”

Piers was drying herbs when Gabria stalked into his tent and dropped her belongings on the floor. She stood in the middle of the pile and crossed her arms as if daring him to challenge her presence there. The felt tent was steeped with earthy smells of mint, hazel, and wild rose. Piles of freshly cut plants lay on the wooden table.

At the sound of the weapons and bundles hitting the carpeted floor, Piers glanced over his shoulder. “Good evening, Gabran. There is a pallet for you over there.” He pointed to the sleeping area and turned back to his work.

Gabria saw another cream curtain already dividing the sleeping room in half and a wool-stuffed mat and several furs and blankets waiting for her. After the heated words of the afternoon, Gabria was not certain Piers would want her as a guest; but he had obviously already thought of it. Nevertheless, the girl did not want him to feel pressured into being a reluctant host. She wanted the arrangement to be acceptable to him as well.

“You were expecting me?” Gabria asked, surprised.

Piers hung another bundle of herbs on his drying rack. “It is safer for you to move out of the hall; I am the older of two bad choices.” Gabria still had not moved, and the healer smiled briefly when he turned and saw her standing in her heap of clothes and weapons. “You are most welcome to stay,” he added gently. “I had a long talk with the wer-tain this afternoon. We thought you would choose my tent.” He paused, then added, “In case you were wondering, Athlone does not remember much about the stabbing except that you did it.”

Gabria was relieved to hear that news. She studied the healer for a moment and thought about their earlier argument on magic. She was relieved that she could move out of the hall, but living with Athlone was out of the question. Staying with the healer who called her a sorceress was almost as objectionable. On the other hand, Piers had not betrayed her. Gabria’s curiosity prompted her to give him a chance.

“How long have you known about my disguise?” she asked.

Piers chuckled and came over to help pick up her belongings. “From the day I bound your ankle.”

“Then why didn’t you tell Savaric?”

His brief humor faded and was replaced by an abiding sorrow. “I will just say you reminded me of someone.”

“That is quite an excuse for risking your life for a stranger.” Piers picked up the girl’s blanket and cloak. “It was enough.” He helped her pack her clothes in a small leather chest ornamented with brass. She hung her weapons on the tent supports.

As they worked silently, Gabria wondered if this someone the healer mentioned was responsible for him leaving Pra Desh. A sadness was still in his face, and his mind seemed to be years away.

“Did this person resemble me or just pretend to be a boy?” Gabria asked the question lightly to draw him back to the present.

Piers did not answer at first. He stored his fresh herbs in a damp cloth, then poured a cup of wine and sat staring into its depths for a long while. Gabria had decided he was not going to answer when he said, “I drink too much of this. Before she died, I never touched wine.”

“She?” Gabria prompted. There was a bitterness and grief in Piers that echoed her own. This shared pain, whatever had caused it, began to dispel her anger toward him.

He continued as if he had not heard her. “You resemble her in a vague way: fair hair, young. But you are stronger. She was pretty and delicate like silk. When she married the Fon’s youngest son, I did nothing to stop her.”

“Who was she? What happened to her?”

Piers stood up. His reverie was reaching into places he wanted to forget. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said curtly. “She is dead. But I want to keep you alive, so get some rest.” He went to his own pallet and drew the curtain.

Gabria sighed and sat down. She had not meant to push him so hard. Whoever this girl was, she must have been very close to Piers to kindle such a response. The mysterious girl’s influence was still quite strong if she were the only reason for Piers not telling Savaric of Gabria’s disguise. Maybe later the healer would reveal the rest of his tale. Until then, she would accept Piers’s hospitality, whatever his motives were.

After a while, Gabria blew out the lamps and sat in the darkness of the tent, considering the day. With the stroke of an ill-aimed dagger she had found two allies, three if she could add Boreas, and by her reckoning she was no longer an exile.

By clan law, an exile was a man or woman who committed a criminal offense or who, for some unusual reason, was totally separated from a clan. Until that person was accepted by another clan, he or she was considered an untouchable, an outcast. Gabria had been accepted temporarily by the Khulinin, but she knew that they had agreed only on the merit of her disguise and the Hunnuli. Therefore, in her own mind, she was still an exile.

Tonight, though, Piers and Athlone had acknowledged her for herself and, by their acceptance, erased the stigma of rejection in her mind. Piers, by his own admission, had become her protector, and Athlone was her mentor. With the help of these two men, Gabria knew she would survive, at least until the clan gathering.

Only Piers’s accusation of sorcery bothered her. Gabria still could not completely accept the idea that she had an inherent talent for sorcery. Cor’s injury and the dream, Nara’s revelations and now Athlone’s collapse were not enough to overcome all of Gabria’s prejudices. A part of her still hoped the growing evidence was nothing more than strange coincidence. So far, she only had a single dream and Piers’s word for proof that she was the source of the magic involved. It was possible the dream was only a part of her imagination and Piers was wrong. Gabria hoped that nothing else would occur and she could put the whole ugly problem aside like a bad dream.

Gabria yawned and realized the night was getting late. She had been chasing her thoughts around for too long. The girl made her way to her sleeping area, removed her pants and boots, and sat down on the comfortable pallet. After living with the constant noise in the hall at night, Gabria was relieved to hear only Piers’s soft snoring. Before long she was lulled to sleep.

But like any ugly problems, the question of sorcery refused to be ignored. Deep in the night, when Gabria was asleep, she dreamed of a blue fire that rose from her being and grew in strength like a storm. It fed on her emotions, drawing its power from her until it burned in every vein. Then the fire flared in her hands and exploded outward as a bolt of lightning. Again it struck and burned a half-seen figure of a man, only this time the man wore a golden belt.

Gabria jolted awake and lay shivering in the darkness. It was another coincidence, she told herself. It had to be. She dreamed of the blue force because she had argued with Piers about it that day. That was the only reason. For the rest of the night Gabria tried to convince herself that the dream was not important and she needed sleep, but when the horn sounded at dawn, she was still wide awake.

To Savaric’s amazement, he learned the next morning that Gabran had moved out of the hall and into Piers’s tent. The healer had been alone for so long that the chieftain found it difficult to believe the man had asked the boy to share his tent. On the other hand, they shared a bond of two uprooted people, and perhaps they were drawn together by similar needs. If I that was the case, Savaric was pleased. He was fond of them both and felt they deserved friendship.

Savaric received another surprise after the morning meal, when he rode past the practice fields and found his son teaching Gabran dueling exercises with the short sword. Dueling was a frequently practiced method of ending blood feuds, settling arguments, or claiming weir-geld. The rules were strict and rigidly adhered to, and, because it was fought solely with swords, dueling was restricted to skilled, initiated warriors of a werod. With no mail or shield for protection, a man needed every advantage to survive. Boys Gabran’s age could not hope to best an older warrior in personal combat, so Savaric saw no reason for Athlone’s training.

But when he questioned the wer-tain, Athlone merely shrugged and replied that the boy was determined to challenge Medb and there was no harm in humoring him. Savaric eyed them both doubtfully, but he trusted his son, so the chief only shook his head and cantered off with his men to hunt.

Meanwhile, Athlone turned back to Gabria. His arm was in a sling and his face was strained from weakness, but he held his sword as if it were a feather and watched Gabria’s efforts with a sharp eye.

“One thing puzzles me,” he said during a rest. “Where did you learn to use a sword?”

Gabria smiled. Since Athlone’s acceptance of her true sex, she felt like a wasting illness had suddenly vanished from her mind. He still distrusted her, and Gabria noted that the vestiges of his anger and resentment would probably never disappear—at least as long as she wore pants and carried a sword—but his suspicions were gone. She found it easier to assume her role as a boy and to keep her mind concentrated on the details of survival.

“My brothers liked to pretend I was a boy,” she answered with some humor.

Athlone examined her critically from head to toe. “If you looked then as you do now, your brothers did not have to pretend very hard.”

Unconsciously, her hand crept to her short hair beneath the ever-present leather hat. “If I had been pretty, I would be lying in a cold grave now instead of keeping warm with light work,” she said mildly.

“Light work! Impudent wench, I’ll show you work.” Athlone lifted his sword, and their blades clashed. He fought her hard, showing her tricks with the flick of the wrist or the turn of the blade. The short sword, generally used in melees on horseback, had a flat, broad blade that was better suited to slashing and hacking. Gabria had difficulty adjusting to the more polished form of swordplay used in dueling. But Athlone was a master swordsman and, by the end of the morning, Gabria was beginning to understand this new method of fighting.

“Remember,” Athlone told her, “in dueling, the sword is the only protection you have. It must be your shield as well as your weapon.”

He would have continued the training, but by noon the strenuous work had caught up with him. Athlone was exhausted. His skin was gray and blood stained the bandage on his shoulder. He returned to his tent for the rest of the day, promising to continue Gabria’s lessons the next morning.

Gabria was left to her own devices. She went in search of Lady Tungoli. She found the chieftain’s wife in one of the hall’s storerooms, supervising the distribution of the remaining foodstuffs for the trek to the clan gathering.

Stacks of cheeses and cloth bags of dried fruit lay in heaps around Tungoli’s feet, and huge earthen jars of grain were being emptied by other women into sacks for easier transportation. The Khulinin produced most of their own food through their herds, hunting, and some gardening. Many things, however, were traded for at the gathering with other clans and merchants from the south and east. Delicacies such as figs, fruit, honey, or dried fish, as well as necessities such as salt and grain, were taken in exchange for furs, goats, woven rugs, cloth, felt, saddles, and occasionally horses. To the competitive clansmen, the bartering was half the fun.

When Gabria walked into the storeroom, Tungoli gave her a smile and gestured to the piles of food. “If you would like to help, you are just in time.”

Gabria was quickly put to work lifting the filled grain sacks into a pile by the main entrance, where several strong boys carried them to various families. After months of Athlone’s training, Gabria was pleased to find the sacks easy to move. The last time she had done a task like this her brothers had had to help.

People bustled in and out of the storeroom, shouting, talking, and calling questions, while the stores slowly disappeared. Tungoli stood in the middle of the chaos and hummed softly as she sorted the bags and bundles. The women worked for several hours in companionable chatter until the room was nearly empty. Gabria was happy to work quietly, listening to the voices and relishing in the company.

At last only Tungoli remained, along with the final stores.

The busy crowd had moved on to other jobs, leaving Gabria and Tungoli in the storeroom in a backwash of peace. There was still one jar left to empty when Tungoli was called to another task; she left Gabria to finish the last bags. By that time, the girl was pleased to be alone in the cool, quiet storeroom. The tapestry over the doorway was pulled back to admit the afternoon light, and she could hear other people passing back and forth in the main hall. Gabria worked unhurriedly and became lost in her own thoughts. She didn’t notice when everyone left the hall and two men entered. .

Gabria was scooping the last grains into the leather bag when she heard a horribly familiar voice. Her body froze. The jar, balanced on her hip, slipped from her fingers and dropped to the floor. Its fall was muffled by the flied bag and Gabria managed to grab the jar’s edge before it struck the ground. She shakily sat the jar upright and leaned against the wall, trying to regain her breath. Like her heart, her lungs seemed to have stopped at the sound of that voice: the voice with the slight lisp that came from the throat of Medb’s most trusted emissary.

The last time she had heard that hateful voice had been in her father’s tent when the Wylfling delivered Medb’s ultimatum. Now he was here, soliciting Lord Savaric’s aid. She realized that the chieftain and the envoy did not know she was in the storeroom. Gabria thanked all the gods that she had been out of sight when the Wylfling arrived, for he had seen her several times at Corin Treld and could have recognized her.

Gabria slipped quietly to the door and flattened against the wall in the shadows, where she could see the two men. Savaric was seated on his chair, watching the short, brown-cloaked man who was standing before him. The Wylfling had his back to Gabria, but she knew the figure immediately, and in her mind she saw his face. The emissary’s face was not easy to forget: it was hollow like a wind-eroded rock, and its clean-shaven skin was as immobile and as pallid as limestone. The envoy reminded her of a statue.

She wondered what message he had for Savaric. It was difficult to read the chief’s reactions. Surely the emissary was not offering Savaric the same bribes and threats that Medb had offered her father. That would be a mistake with a clan this big. Perhaps the Wylfling had been here before.

“The Khulinin is a powerful clan,” the man was saying. “And a large one. It is well known your tents lap the edges of the valley and your herds overgraze the meadows before you leave each summer. Soon your young men will be pressing for tents of their own and there will be nowhere to go. You need more land, perhaps new valleys, to begin holdings for another encampment before the Khulinin burst apart.”

“I was not aware the Wylfling were paying so much attention to our problems. I am honored. I suppose you have a solution?” Savaric asked with barely concealed sarcasm.

“Oh, not I, Lord,” the emissary purred. “But Lord Medb. He feels the lands to the south of Marakor should be relinquished to you and your heirs for a second, even a third holding. He would be willing to endorse your petition to the council for the formation of another holding.”

“That is most generous of him, but I doubt the tribes of Turic would appreciate my claims to their holy land.”

The emissary waved aside the notion. “You would have nothing to fear from that rabble. They will come to heel when they see the combined swords of Wylfling and Khulinin.”

“Combined?” Savaric asked, his eyes glittering.

“Of course. After all, our clan holdings border the Turic’s land as well. They would be trapped between two enemies. My Lord Medb is so pleased with the idea he is willing to aid you in, your claim on the southern hills.”

“In return for what?”

The man shrugged eloquently. “A small tribute—once a year, perhaps—to help feed our growing werod. We, too, are pushing the limits of our winter holdings.”

“I see.” Savaric raised an eyebrow and asked thoughtfully, “Why does Medb concern himself with the welfare of other clans? If he wants use of the Turic lands, he could take them himself.”

“It is no secret that Lord Medb’s ambitions exceed the position of chieftain. He needs strong, loyal allies, and he is willing to pay well for them. His generosity can be endless.”

“With lands and favors that are not his to give,” Savaric said with deceptive mildness.

The emissary’s manner shifted subtly from ingratiating to a self-confident superiority, the arrogance of a man assured of his future position. “The lands will be his soon. Lord Medb’s hand is growing stronger and if you do not accept his proffered friendship. . ,”

“We will end our days in smoking ruins like the Corin,” Savaric finished for him.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Possibly.”

“May I have time to consider this generous offer?”

Gabria smiled to herself and regretted her father had not taken the same tact. Perhaps if Dathlar had controlled his temper and not thrown the emissary out, they would have had time to escape Medb’s wrath.

The emissary was taken aback. He had not expected any cooperation from the obstinate Khulinin; he assumed even the vain hope of gaining the rich grasslands to the south would not sway them to Medb’s rank. Perhaps the Corin massacre had affected the clans more than the Wylfling imagined.

The emissary hid his surprise and smiled coolly. “Of course. You may tell Lord Medb in person at the gathering,” The man hoped that would discomfit the chieftain, since it was very difficult to say no to Medb’s face.

Savaric only leaned back and nodded. “Fine. I will do that. Was there anything else?”

“Yes, Lord. My master asked that I give you this as a small token of his esteem,” The emissary drew a small bag out of his belt and dropped something onto his palm. Gabria craned her neck around the door to see what it was as the man handed the object to Savaric. The chief held the thing up to the light, and Gabria gasped when a flash lanced through the hall with brilliant beams of color. It was a gem called a fallen star, a rare and very precious stone once loved by the sorcerers.

“The stone is a flawless blue taken from one of Lord Medb’s mines in the hills. He wants you to have it as a reminder,” the man said blandly.

Savaric’s brows rose together. “Indeed. This is quite a reminder,” He sat back in his seat and nodded toward the door. “Tell your master I will think about his offer.”

The emissary accepted Savaric’s abrupt dismissal with ill-concealed irritation. He bowed and left. The chieftain sat for a moment, juggling the gem in his hand as he stared at the floor.

Gabria wondered what Savaric was thinking. She knew the chief well enough to know that he was not seriously considering Medb’s offer, but she did not understand why he had accepted the stone. Medb’s gifts were always double-edged.

The girl was about to return to her work when Lady Tungoli called to Savaric from their private chambers. The chief tucked the jewel under his cloak, which was lying on the dais, and went to talk to his wife, drawing the tapestry closed behind him. The hall was empty. Gabria knew she should not pry into the chieftain’s business, but her curiosity got the better of her.

She waited a full minute, listening for voices or footsteps, then she slipped to the dais and pulled aside the gold fabric. The gem was set in a cloak brooch of finely woven gold, and it glittered on the dark fur of the seat like its namesake, the star. It was an unusual gift to give a chief such as Savaric. The offer of land was a fat better bribe to the lord of the Khulinin. Why had Medb sent it? He had offered no gifts like this to her father, and Gabria could not believe that Medb was giving a fallen star to Savaric out of the generosity of his heart.

Gabria picked up the gem. A strange tingling touched her fingers. Surprised, she dropped the brooch and the tingling stopped. What’s this, she thought. She gently touched the gem and the sensation happened again, like the distant vibration of a faint pulse of power. Gabria was inexplicably reminded of Piers’s healing stone. She had not touched the red stone, but she sensed intuitively that this gem and Piers’s stone would have the same feeling of power.

Gingerly, Gabria picked up the gem again and held it up to the light from the hall’s entrance. The jewel tingled between her fingers. She looked into the gem’s brilliant, scintillating interior and wondered if this strange pulse was caused by magic. The gem had come from Medb, so it was possible he had put a spell on it.

The thought of Medb’s magic frightened her. She was about to drop the jewel back on the fur when suddenly an image began to form in the center of the stone. She watched horrified as the image wavered, then coalesced into an eye.

Not a simple human eye, but a dark orb of piercing intensity that stared into the distance with malicious intelligence. Gabria shuddered. The eye’s pupil was dilated. Looking into its center felt like falling into a bottomless hole.

“Gabran! What are you doing?”

Gabria leaped back, startled out of her wits. The image vanished. The gem fell out of her hands, bounced off the stone step, and rolled to Savaric’s feet. He leaned over to pick it up.

“No,” she cried abruptly. “Don’t touch it.”

Savaric’s hand halted in midair, and he glared at her, his black eyes menacing. “Why not, boy?”

Gabria stumbled over her words and her face flushed with guilt. She backed away from the dais, still shaken by the memory of the eye in the stone.

Savaric straightened, and the gem sparkled by his foot. “Why not?” he repeated harshly.

“It came from Medb. It’s dangerous,” she mumbled.

“How do you know where it came from?” the chief demanded.

She glanced back at the storeroom, then down at the floor. “I overheard the Wylfling emissary.”

“I see. And why do you think this gift is dangerous?”

Gabria swallowed. Her throat was very dry. What could she say? That she had felt the power embedded in the stone and saw the image of an eye in its center? She could hardly believe that herself. But she was certain of the danger the gem posed and the damage it could do if Savaric was not warned.

“I, uh . . . it is not exactly dangerous,” Gabria replied, stumbling over her words. “But it is . . . I have heard Medb is learning sorcery. I thought he may have tampered with the gem. It feels strange when you touch it.”

“I noticed nothing strange about the gem.” Savaric crossed his arms and stared at the girl. His face was dark with anger. “But you felt free to see for yourself.”

“I am sorry, Lord. I should not have touched your gift, but. . .” She paused and from somewhere in her memory, she remembered an old story her father liked to tell about a jealous sorcerer and a seeing stone. “Father told me a tale sometimes,” she said, looking up at Savaric, “about a sorcerer who kept watch on his wife through a jewel with a spell on it. It was a spell of surveillance, and it enabled the man to see and hear everything the lady was doing.”

The anger on Savaric’s face cleared a little. “I have heard that tale, too,” he said thoughtfully. “What made you think Medb may have done something similar to this brooch?” Gabria clasped her hands behind her back to hide their shaking. “The Khulinin are dangerous. Medb needs to keep close watch on you and a spy would be too obvious. This gift just seemed overly generous.”

Savaric picked up the gem and turned it over in his hands. He slowly relaxed and, when he finally spoke, his voice was no longer caustic. “I thought there was a hook in this gift, but I never imagined something like a seeing spell.” The chief gestured toward the door. “Did you know the Wylfling?”

Gabria sighed with relief, for it seemed Savaric had accepted her explanation. She considered the lord’s question and her lip curled. “He delivered several messages to Father. Has he been here before?”

Savaric was about to answer when something occurred to him. With a deft motion he folded his cloak and wrapped the jewel in the thick material. “If you are right about this,” he said, tucking the bundle under his arm, “we don’t need to announce your presence to Medb.”

Gabria drew a long breath. She had not even thought of that. “What will you do with the jewel?” she asked.

“Since I have chosen to trust you, I would like to see if your suspicion is right. The gods knew where you got this idea, but if it is true, perhaps we can use the gem to our advantage. I might try a little test. It would brighten Medb’s day if he thought the Khulinin would accept his offer.”

“He would be most pleased,” Gabria said with a small smile.

“For a while. He will have a rude awakening at the gathering.” He stopped and studied her intently. “Do you seriously intend to claim weir-geld by challenging Medb to a duel?”

“Yes. It must be a Corin who takes the payment.”

“It may not be possible.”

Gabria stiffened and her eyes met Savaric’s stern gaze. The chief was not going to dissuade her from challenging Medb. She had trained her body and prepared her mind for battle against her clan’s killer and no man, no matter how close in kinship or strict in lordship, was going to divert her. She would fight the Wylfling lord against her chief’s direct order if need be. “I will make it so,” she stated flatly.

Savaric walked to Gabria’s side and put his hands on her shoulders. His dark eyes glittered like jet, but beneath the cold glints was a warmth of sympathy. “I know you have your will set to fight Medb alone, and I will honor that as best I may. But there are other factors you do not know about that may influence your decision. When the council is held, remember who is your chief.”

Gabria nodded. She was relieved that Savaric seemed to accept her resolution and her obsession for vengeance. What bothered her, though, was his reference to “other factors.” There could be nothing that would stand between Gabria and her vengeance on Medb.

Savaric’s hand dropped and amusement eased the hardness in his face. “The emissary will be here for another day or two, presumably to rest before he returns to Wylfling Treld. I will see if Athlone is fit enough to argue with his father over the rule of the clan. Medb would be fascinated to think a rift was developing in the Khulinin.”

Gabria smiled. “And will you wear your new cloak brooch, my lord?”

Savaric chuckled. “Of course. You had better stay out of sight.” He shifted the folded cloak to a more casual position and walked purposefully out of the hall.

Gabria watched him go and noted with a pang of familiarity the way his Stride lengthened and his body tensed as he prepared for some important activity. Her brother, Gabran, used to radiate that kind of energy, a concentration of thought and power that boded ill for anyone who tried to thwart him. It was a calculating, tightly controlled strength that had helped him defeat many opponents in chess or swordplay. She had seen the same energy in Savaric before.

Gabria knew now that Savaric was concentrating on the jewel and his plan to test her warning about the seeing spell. If all went well, Medb would fall for Savaric’s ruse and reveal his hand. Gabria knew the gem had been tampered with, and she was certain of the purpose of the spell. But how had she known? Savaric had not noticed anything “strange about the gem. Only she had felt the power in the stone and saw the image of the eye. After the incident with Athlone the day before and her second dream, this encounter with sorcery was too coincidental to be ignored.

Something was happening to her, and she did not like it.

Medb was a sorcerer, not she. Yet she was the one who was accused of striking two men with an ancient arcane power. She was the one who recognized the spell on the brooch. If what Piers said were true, then she was the same as Medb: a profaning heretic.

Footsteps sounded lightly behind the girl, breaking her distraction, and she whirled in alarm to come face to face with Tungoli. The lady’s arms were full of rugs. “Gabran, I am sorry to startle you. Jorlan is looking for you.” Gabria’s eyes flew to the doors where the evening sun was setting beyond the rim of the plain. “Oh! I didn’t know it was so late.” She dashed to the entrance, thankfully leaving her thoughts behind. “Thank you, Lady,” she called and was gone.