Lightning's Daughter

14

Gabria did not show the mask to her companions until the next day, when they were away from the desolate ruins of Moy Tura. The party stopped at noon to eat and rest the horses, and she brought out the stained linen bundle and laid it on the grass in front of her. The men and Tam gathered around to watch as she peeled the fabric away.

Gabria’s heart pounded. She could hardly believe the beautiful, magical object was real until she could see it again in the light of day. She lifted the last linen fold aside to reveal the golden mask. Drawing a deep breath, she held the mask up to the sun. It sparkled and shone as brilliantly as it had on the day it was made.

“What is it?” Athlone asked in a hushed voice.

“It looks like a death mask,” Piers said.

The sorceress ran her finger over the mask’s cheek. Piers was right, it did look like a death mask. If that was the truth, then this man had been very important. The clanspeople only made death masks of those they deeply revered.

It was a handsome face, Gabria thought. Even in the rigid lines of the metal she could see the character of his features.

There was strength in the planes of his jaw and forehead, stubbornness in his long nose, and humor in the lines around his mouth. When she looked closer, she could see the cleft of his chin, the trace of a scar on his forehead, and the arched lines of his eyebrows. The eyes were closed, but Gabria fancied the irises would be brilliant blue if they were open.

“It’s magnificent,” Piers said.

“What are you going to do with it?” Sayyed inquired.

Gabria shrugged and turned the mask over in her hands. “I don’t know. It holds some kind of arcane power, but I can’t tell what the spell is supposed to do.”

The Turic rose to his feet and flashed his grin. “Too bad it can’t talk.”

The young woman nodded absently. She studied the gold mask while the others ate their meal and watered the horses, yet she discovered nothing that was useful. There were no inscriptions, etched designs, or markings of any kind on the metal. It was simply a man’s face with an enigmatic expression. Finally she wrapped the mask back in its cloth and packed it with her belongings. For the rest of the day she mulled over the puzzle of the mask and still could find no answer.

The party trailed Branth for seven days after leaving Moy Tura and drew no closer to the elusive exile. He was moving faster now that he knew someone was following him, and the travelers were hard pressed to keep pace with him. To their dismay, he seemed to be pulling ahead of them as he trekked south across the plains. All of them wondered where he was going and what he would do next. On the eighth day they found part of their answer.

That morning dawned clear and warm, hinting of the hot afternoon to come. A light breeze blew about the hills, and meadowlarks dipped and fluttered after grasshoppers. The party was riding south, following Branth’s trail along the flank of a long, low ridge, when the Hunnuli abruptly stopped and neighed an alarm.

Gabria, death birds! Nara warned her rider.

The sorceress saw the birds then—a large flock of black vultures circling low over a place beyond the hills ahead. “Look,” she cried, pointing them out to everyone.

They galloped urgently toward the place, rode to the top of a high hill, and looked down upon a small valley lined with trees. The birds were swinging over a clear space not far from a meandering creek.

“Oh, gods,” Athlone breathed.

Gabria bit her lip to stifle the sick feeling that rose in her stomach. The scene in the clearing below looked hideously familiar to her.

“Keth, stay here with Tam and the horses,” Athlone ordered. The warrior was glad to comply.

The rest dismounted and walked down the long slope to the clearing by the creek. Several vultures squawked and flapped into the trees.

Twelve people lay scattered in huddled, lifeless heaps-five men, four women, and three children wearing the orange clan cloaks of the Bahedin. Their carts and belongings were torn apart and thrown carelessly among the bodies. The horses and other animals were gone.

Piers hurried to examine them, but as he turned the mangled bodies over and checked their pallid faces, it became very clear they were all dead.

While the healer was occupied with the corpses, Athlone and the others looked for signs of Branth. They had little doubt that he was responsible for the massacre.

“They were traveling with full carts and their tents. They must have been latecomers trying to catch up with their clan on the way to the Tir Samod,” Athlone said bitterly as he examined the wreckage of a cart. This slaughter sickened him.

The Bahedin had long been allies of the Khulinin, and they had stood with Athlone’s father against Lord Medb at Ab-Chakan.

Gabria’s face was pale under her tan. “On their way to the gathering.” She turned away from the body of a young woman and swallowed hard. Flies were swarming around the dead girl’s face, and vultures had been pecking at her eyes.

Secen joined Athlone and said, “Lord, I can only find sign of one man other than the Bahedin. It is as we suspected.”

The chief cursed. “Branth.”

“The hoof prints are from the same horse we have been following, and the boot prints seem to match the ones we saw in Moy Tura.”

Piers hurried over, his face strained and white.

“They’re all dead,” Athlone stated rather than asked.

The healer nodded. “Yesterday. They were tortured.”

Secen looked sick. Athlone raised his fist and brought it down on the side of the cart. “Why! Why is he doing this?” he shouted.

Treader began to bark furiously. Come! I am at the creek! his barks told the magic-wielders.

At the same moment, Sayyed yelled, “Gabria, Lord Athlone, over here. Quick’” Something in his voice spurred Gabria and the men into an instant response. They ran toward the sound of the Turic’s shouts and Treader’s excited barking. As they passed beyond a copse of trees sheltering the riverbank, they came to a sudden halt.

Sayyed stood on the bank, holding the frantic dog by the scruff of the neck. In shocked silence, he stared at a corpse that had been impaled on a sword against the trunk of a tree. The, man’s body hung so high his feet did not touch the ground, and they could tell his death had been painful by his wide, staring eyes and the hideous grimace twisting his features. He was an older man, with a lined, weathered face. His filthy, bloodstained tunic had a golden horse, the emblem of a herdsman, embroidered on the left breast.

“I tried to loosen the sword,” Sayyed said, his voice tight with fear and wonder. “But he . . . moved.”

“That’s impossible,” Athlone snapped. “He’s dead.”

The chieftain reached out to grasp the sword pinning the dead Bahedin. He yanked at it several times, then, as Sayyed had warned, the man jerked to life. As Athlone fell back in horror, the herdsman lifted his head. His lifeless eyes stared down at the travelers, and the pain-racked mouth groaned a. horrible, bubbling sound of agony.

The warriors backed away, their eyes wide with shock. Treader cowered down against Sayyed’s feet. Only Piers stepped forward. He reached up to find the man’s pulse.

“By the holy gods,” Piers exclaimed, snatching his hand away. “This man is dead! His skin is as cold as stone. He has no heartbeat. Look, he’s not even breathing.”

“Greetings, hunters. I know you are following me.”

They turned back to the corpse, who spoke again, his voice raspy and hollow. “I have left this message for you so you will know with whom you are dealing. If you are smart, you will turn back while you are still able.”

The dead man looked from one clansman to another. “I was brought here from the realm of Sorh by one of your kind—Lord Branth. I intend to remain here. I have learned from the people who lie dead nearby that there is only one magic-wielder left in the clans, and only she might possess the power to challenge me. I intend to seek her out.”

Gabria gasped, and Athlone moved closer to her.

The corpse added, “If you wish to find me, I am going to the gathering of the clans.” The dead man emitted a harsh, hideous laugh. “I have plans for the people of Valorian.”

Abruptly the herdsman’s head jerked, his voice stopped and his body sagged against the sword. There was a long, silent pause before Piers tentatively reached up and closed the dead man’s eyes.

“Good gods, what was that?” Secen murmured.

“A spell,” Gabria replied, her voice as hollow as the dead man’s. She was staring at the corpse. Her skin had gone deathly pale, and her knees were weak. “Branth—or whatever he has become—put a spell on this man to speak that message.”

“Whatever he has become,” Athlone repeated. “What do you mean?”

Gabria’s shoulders sagged. “It claims to be from the realm of Sorh. I’m not sure, but I think there is only one such creature that can be summoned by sorcery: a gorthling.”

“What’s a gorthling?” Sayyed demanded.

When the woman did not answer, Athlone said, “They’re monsters from our ancient stories. They’re supposed to be creatures of immortal evil.”

“They’re not just stories. Gorthlings exist,” Gabria whispered. “The Woman of the Marsh warned me about them.” Her eyes held a faraway look. She crossed her arms over her chest and took a deep breath.

The men were silent as they tried to absorb the meaning of what they had heard. Athlone and Piers moved to the tree to take the dead Bahedin down. This time when the chieftain yanked at the sword, the man remained lifeless, his soul forever lost to death. They pulled the sword free and gently lowered him to the ground.

They carried the dead herdsman to the spot where his fellow Bahedin lay. A vulture squawked as they approached the bodies, and a few others that had landed nearby sidled away from the Khulinin.

“What do we do with them?” Sayyed asked, indicating the dead clanspeople.

“Bury them,” Gabria said flatly.

“We don’t have time. That will put us farther behind Branth,” Athlone reminded her.

She looked down at the dead herdsman. “Someone buried my clan when I could not. Maybe it was the Bahedin. We could at least burn them. Someone else can build their mound.” The chief nodded. As badly as he wanted to catch up with Branth—or the gorthling that had sided with him—he knew she was right. They could not leave the slain clanspeople to the scavengers.

The task took Gabria and the men the rest of the morning. Using wood from the Bahedin’s carts, dead tree limbs, dried brush, or anything that would burn, they built a bier and laid the thirteen men and women side by side with their tools, weapons, jewelry, and the necessities for their journey out of man’s world. Keth and Tam brought the horses down, and the little girl watched solemnly as Gabria sang the songs of the dead and lit the fire under the bier. The smoke rose high above the plains, its acrid smell driving the vultures away one by one.

By noon the party was on Branth’s trail again, heading south. They rode hard, their anger and worry following at their heels. They found a place to camp at sunset in a hollow between two hills. Gabria built a fire, and everyone gathered around the bright warmth. No one felt like talking.

It was Gabria who finally broke the silence. She lifted her head and stared up at the brilliant stars overhead. “Athlone, I want to go see the Oathbreakers.” The men started in surprise.

“No,” the chief said automatically.

Gabria continued to look at the sky, her mind busy behind her eyes. “I will go without you if I have to.”

Athlone closed his eyes and swallowed the anger he felt at her defiant tone. “Why? Why them?”

“They may be the only ones who can help me.”

“Help you what?” he demanded.

Gabria lowered her eyes and shook her head. “They have a few books from the days of the old sorcerers in their citadel. I think Seth might be able to help me find something I could use to fight the gorthling.”

“How can you be sure this is a gorthling? All you have are the magic words of a dead man,” Athlone said angrily.

“I’m not certain, but everything fits. Branth summoned something evil and now he is slaughtering every human in his sight. He has changed, we have all sensed that. I think he has been overcome by a gorthling. That’s how they work; they possess a host body and wreak havoc using it as a tool.”

“So why don’t we kill its host body?” Sayyed suggested.

“We could do that, but a gorthling is immortal. It would simply take another body as host.”

Athlone leaned forward. “Then how do we destroy it?”

Gabria threw her hands up in the air and cried, “I don’t know! The gorthling is a creature of magic and must be fought with magic. That’s why I must see the Oathbreakers.”

The Turic gestured to himself and Athlone. “We are magic-wielders. We can help.”

The woman shook her head wildly. “I can’t teach you enough to fight something as powerful as a gorthling. Look at what it did to all of those people. It would slaughter you. I couldn’t bear that.”

“And what if it kills you?” Athlone said. “Who will fight it then? Do you expect us to just stand by and watch you face it alone?”

Gabria felt her heart leap. This was the first time Athlone had spoken to her about using his talent. Nevertheless, she forced her excitement down and shook her head. She did not want him learning sorcery just so he could die at the hand of a gorthling. “Athlone, let’s start by learning how to fight this creature. Then we will worry about who will destroy it.”

Athlone drew a deep breath. “All right. We’ll go talk to the Oathbreakers. Just you and I. The others will follow Branth so we won’t lose his trail.”

The hearthguard warriors protested. They feared the Oathbreakers, as did any sensible man of the Dark Horse Plains, but they were equally intent on fulfilling their duty to protect their chieftain.

“That’s an order,” Athlone told them. “There’s no sense angering Seth and his fellow cultists by bringing all of you. Gabria and I will be all right. You’ll have enough to worry about just keeping up with Branth.”

The three warriors agreed reluctantly, and Gabria nodded with relief. She knew Sayyed was not happy to be left with the other warriors, but he, too, had to accept the decision.

Later, as she packed the death mask in the small bag of belongings she would take with her, the sorceress wondered if Seth could tell her something about the golden artifact, too. She dismissed that hope immediately; it was possible that the Oathbreakers would refuse to talk to her at all.

The Khulinin left their camp shortly after sunrise the next morning. Secen led his group south on Branth’s trail while Athlone, Gabria, and the three Hunnuli turned west to seek the citadel of Krath in the northern tip of the Himachal Mountains.

Athlone estimated it would take almost four days to reach the citadel, talk to Seth, and catch up again with the rest of the party. He hoped with all his heart that this trip to see the Oathbreakers was worthwhile. He had his doubts. The cult of Krath guarded their secrets jealously. They had gained the title’ Oathbreakers by forsaking their vows of fealty to clan and chieftain and shunning their own people for the desolation of their mountain temple. Even if they had the information Gabria sought, they would not help her out of loyalty to the clans.

Athlone could not stifle a cold feeling of dread at the thought of the Men of the Lash, as the cultists were known. A cloak of suspicion born of whispered rumors and stories of heinous deeds hung on the Oathbreakers’ shoulders. Unlike the men of the clans, who worshiped two male gods, the Men of the Lash worshiped Krath, the dark sister of Amara. But where the goddess Amara embodied the positive aspects of femininity, her sister represented the dark, less predictable facets.

Krath was the ruler of unbridled passion and violence, of secrecy and jealousy. Her power to destroy lay in ways that were either slow and subtle or sudden and unexpected.

Accordingly, Krath’s followers became highly trained killers whose religious goals were to perform perfect murders in the service of their bloodthirsty mistress. The men used no metal in their arts. Their only weapons were their bodies, their whips, and their finely crafted killing instruments of leather and stone. It was said an Oathbreaker could snap a man’s neck with his bare hands or remove a head with a flick of a vicious black whip.

The clanspeople looked on the Cult with aversion and fear. It was not the Oathbreakers’ bloodlust that the clans despised, but the subterfuge they practiced. Their silent, furtive, deliberate style of killing was incomprehensible to the men of the clans. The cultists, for their part, preserved their secretive ways. They had scorned the clans for generations and held themselves aloof in their secret stronghold.

As he approached that stronghold, Athlone missed Bregan’s strong, solid presence more than ever. The loss of the warrior was a real blow. Athlone would have appreciated Bregan’s level head and experience when the time came to deal with the Oathbreakers. The chief’s hand tightened unconsciously around his sword hilt. If he had to, he would tear down the citadel of Krath stone by stone to get the help Gabria needed to destroy Branth. That murderer had too much clan blood on his hands to remain in this world.

The next day, Gabria and Athlone saw the gray-blue humps of the Himachal Mountains rise above the horizon. The Himachals were a much smaller mountain range than the mighty Darkhorns. They did not have the tall peaks and snow-covered summits, and they rose only to a modest height above the plains, yet their slopes were steep and rugged with an almost impenetrable wilderness of heavy timber and underbrush.

Fortunately, Gabria and Athlone did not have to enter the wildness of the mountainside. The citadel of Krath was located in the northern end of the range, in the foothills not far from Geldring Treld. The citadel was not hard to find, but almost impossible to enter.

The weather had been clear and warm for several days, but that afternoon the wind shifted and began to pile clouds together. The horizon to the north turned iron-gray, its line edged with towering, white-capped clouds. Gabria and Athlone did not need to urge the Hunnuli faster to avoid the storm. The animals sensed the coming rain and picked up their pace. By late afternoon the riders spotted the citadel of Krath on a promontory a few leagues to the south in the tree-clad flanks of the mountains. They altered their route and hurried south ahead of the rain.

Before long, they came to an old stone road that paralleled the mountain peaks. Gabria and the chieftain recognized the stonework immediately as that of the ancient men, the Sons of the Eagle, who had conquered the plains long before the clans had arrived. The men from the west had also built the fortress of Ab-Chakan, which lay only a few days’ journey to the south. The road ran past Ab-Chakan and the Isin River, then vanished somewhere near Dangari Treld in the southern end of the mountains.

For much of its length, the road was very old and concealed beneath a net of grass and shrubs, but it was clear and easy to follow in the rough foothills. Gratefully the Hunnuli took to the road and hurried on.

Gradually they drew closer to the citadel. The horses came to a stop at the foot of the mass of rock upon which it rested, and Gabria and Athlone looked up in dread at the black towers. The two riders could not help but shudder. Neither of them had ever been there before, for the clanspeople avoided the stronghold like a plague camp. Few men who dared enter the confines of the citadel survived to tell of the adventure.

The citadel sat on top of a rocky promontory overlooking a wooded valley. A trail forked off the main road and wound up the precipitous slope to the only visible entrance into the closely guarded stronghold. As far as the travelers could see, the citadel consisted of a massive central keep topped by needle-sharp towers of black granite and surrounded by a high, crenellated wall of the same dark stone. The whole edifice crouched like a brooding, malevolent beast over the road and cast its shadow into the valley below;

The riders stared up at the citadel silhouetted against the lowering clouds until the colt grew restive. The wind suddenly swooped out of the north, whipping the trees and snapping at the riders’ gold cloaks. The sun disappeared behind the heavy gray clouds.

The Hunnuli started up the trail at a trot. As they made their way along the winding path, Gabria looked closer at the towering citadel and realized it was not as finished as it appeared from a distance. Part of the keep was still under construction and scaffolding surrounded several towers. She remembered that Lord Medb had sent an army to destroy the Stronghold the previous summer, when the Oathbreakers had refused to give him their books and manuscripts on magic.

The citadel had fallen, and the high priest and his surviving followers had fled to Ab-Chakan to join Savaric. After Medb’s death, they returned to rebuild their home. Gabria was impressed despite her nervousness. The men of Krath had accomplished a great deal of work in a short period of time.

The sky was completely overcast by the time Athlone and Gabria reached the top of the rise. The mountains before them were lost in gloom, and the two riders could see dark curtains of rain hanging from the clouds to the north and west. Gabria shivered and pulled her cloak tighter.

The Hunnuli trotted up the narrow path to the massive front wall of the citadel. A single, round-arched gateway, barely wide enough for a wagon to pass through, was built into the wall. It was blocked by a thick oaken door and an intricately carved stone portcullis. The Hunnuli stopped; Eurus pawed the ground.

The citadel loomed over them, silent and menacing, but no one challenged the riders from the walls. In fact, the stronghold seemed strangely lifeless. There were no banners or flags on the towers, no smoke from cooking fires, and no lights or torches. There did not seem to be any guards on the battlements, and there was no sound of life within the walls.

All the same, Gabria sensed she and Athlone were being watched. She looked up at the high walls. “They know we’re here,” she said.

“What are we supposed to do, knock?” Athlone made a sound of irritation deep in his throat and slid off Eurus. He found a chunk of rock and strode to the gate. “Seth!” he bellowed, banging the rock on the portcullis. The noise rang around them, but nothing stirred behind the gates or on the walls. A few drops of rain spattered in the dust.

After shouldering the sturdy door, Athlone shook his head and returned to Gabria’s side. “Those doors have the same type of arcane wards as Ab-Chakan—you know, those small inscribed tiles. We couldn’t batter them down if we had one hundred men.” He shrugged and added facetiously, “Maybe they’re not answering because they’re hiding from the rain.”

Gabria jerked her head angrily. “Seth!” she shouted at the walls. “The sorceress seeks your help.”

Still there was no response from the citadel, and the rain began to fall heavily. Gabria’s expression grew angry. She knew that the Oathbreakers were there and that they were aware of her presence, but she had no time to waste on playing their games. She leaned over Nara’s shoulder and said to the chieftain, “They’re testing me. If we want in, we shall have to invite ourselves.”

Athlone cast one last look at the walls and nodded. Only the gods knew how the Oathbreakers would react to two outsiders breaching their door, but if the cultists would not answer, there was no other real alternative. As an afterthought, he removed his weapons and put them in the meager shelter of the wall. No need to seem too antagonistic.

Gabria saw the sense of his move and handed him her dagger. The Oathbreakers despised metal, so it would be best not to insult them by carrying steel into their stronghold. Besides, Gabria knew full well that if the Oathbreakers wanted her dead, no weapon—save magic, perhaps—could protect her.

She waited while Athlone remounted, then threw her hood back and stared intently at the heavy stone portcullis. It’s too bad there is no thunderstorm, she thought, since mere rainstorms did not seem to enhance magic. She could have used the added power to help shatter the arcane wards. Gabria wondered briefly if any of the cultists were magic-wielders. Someone had to have set the wards.

But as she studied the small tiles inset into both sides of the gateway, she realized the wards were very old. Seth had told her once that the Oathbreakers had a collection of old spells and relics left by the ancient sorcerers. These wards were probably from that collection. They would work well against normal humans, but they were too old and weak to withstand a full arcane attack.

Ignoring the heavy rain that soaked her neck and shoulders and plastered her hair to her head, Gabria raised her hand and began her spell. Once again the diamond splinter glowed under her skin. She did not notice that Athlone was watching her with a fascinated intensity. She spoke a command, pointed to each ward, and concentrated her magic on them. They held for only a few moments, then the old wards cracked and the tiles fell out of the wall. Gabria spoke a second command, and the heavy portcullis began to slide up in its grooves. There was a cracking noise behind the oak door and, suddenly, the entire door fell back and crashed heavily to the ground.

Gabria glanced back at Athlone with a faint smile of satisfaction. She was pleased when he nodded with approval and gestured to her to enter first.

Nara snorted and stepped carefully over the fallen door. Eurus and the colt came close behind. The three Hunnuli walked into a dark, empty courtyard that lay before the keep. Gabria held her arm high so anyone watching could see the glowing splinter in her wrist. She and Athlone strained every sense to catch any movement or hidden danger.

Though no attack came, a tall, black-robed figure did emerge from the deep shadows of the keep. A long hood hid his face, and a black whip hung at his belt. He stopped on the steps in front of the Hunnuli and slowly pushed back his hood. In the fading daylight the two riders recognized the gaunt, hawk-nosed face of Seth, brother of Lord Savaric and high priest of the Cult of the Lash.

“Welcome, Sorceress, to the citadel of Krath,” he said coldly.

The woman nodded in reply. She did not dismount at once, but sat on Nara and returned Seth’s deadpan scrutiny. It was said of the followers of Krath that they could look into a man’s heart and find the hidden evils that were buried there; they pried into secrets and opened guarded emotions that were secreted behind masks. Because of this, few men dared to look an Oathbreaker in the eye, but Gabria was different. She had faced horrors and tragedies, trials and triumphs, until the facades of her life had been worn away, and she had learned to face herself for what she was. She had no fear of what Seth would find in her heart. She knew herself well and had nothing to hide.

After a moment, the high priest seemed to reach the same conclusion, for he nodded once, pulled his hood back over his face, and gestured for them to follow. Gabria tied the bag with the golden mask to her belt, then she and Athlone dismounted and hurried after the priest. The Hunnuli went to stand in the shelter of a nearby shed.

The priest led his visitors up the stairs of the keep, through a wide door, and into the central hall. The big room was dark except for a fire burning in the large fireplace against the opposite wall.

The flames gave off just enough light for Gabria and Athlone to see around the empty room. Unlike the rich luxury of the Fon’s main halls, this one was stark and barren. There were no rugs or wall hangings, just bare stone. The only furniture in the room was a long, stone table set before the fireplace. On the right wall, a staircase went up to a gallery that ran the length of the hall and half hid a series of arched doorways.

A huge, painted statue, the height of several men, sat in the shadows against the far wall and leered down on the visitors. Gabria recognized the red-painted face and the multi-armed body of the goddess, Krath. The goddess was in a sitting position with her six arms reaching out. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth, and her eyes were wild and malevolent.

Gabria stifled a shiver and turned away. Praying silently that Amara would come into this house of Krath and protect her, the sorceress hurried on after Seth.

The priest moved to the fireplace and stood before the flames for several minutes. He did not offer his guests food or drink. When he spoke again, he simply said, “Your need must be urgent for you to break our door.”

“If you had answered us in the first place, Uncle, she wouldn’t have had to do that,” Athlone snapped.

The high priest turned toward the chieftain. The man’s face was still hidden by the hood of his robe, but his eyes burned in the firelight. Athlone gritted his teeth and met his uncle’s stare. He had turned away from Seth’s merciless eyes once, a year ago, but he would not do it this time. He forced his eyes to remain steady on the unblinking, penetrating glare. It was like looking into the eyes of a cobra.

Seth suddenly threw back his hood. Athlone and Gabria were surprised to see a sardonic smile twist up the corner of his mouth.

“You have grown stronger since last summer, Nephew,” Seth stated. “Now, why are you here?”

“We think Lord Branth used the Book of Matrah to summon a gorthling,” Gabria stated flatly.

To her dismay, Seth’s emotionless, hard-lined face actually blanched. “How do you know?”

Gabria described her vision, the events at Pra Desh, and Branth’s subsequent actions. When she repeated the message spoken by the dead man, Seth’s mouth tightened.

“From what we know of gorthlings, I believe you are right,” he said. “The creature has invaded the man’s body.”

The sorceress nodded. “I was hoping something in your library could help us. We have to find some way to destroy it.”

The high priest was silent, as if caught up in some internal debate. Then, without a word, he took a torch from a bracket, lit it in the fire, and strode toward the stairs. Athlone and Gabria hurried after him.

The woman glanced up at the gallery overhead and gasped; shadowy forms stood in the arched doorways. The figures melted back into the darkness as the high priest walked up the stairs, and by the time Athlone and Gabria reached the top, the gallery was empty. Nevertheless, the two clanspeople sensed the wary, watchful presences that lurked just out of sight in the lightless corners.

Seth paid no heed to his men nearby, but walked on through a maze of halls and corridors, past closed doors, down stone stairwells, and deep into the heart of the citadel. Everywhere they went, Athlone and Gabria felt, rather than heard or saw, the constant attendance of the unseen watchers.

At last Seth came to a stout door that was bolted with a brass locking mechanism. The two clanspeople watched in fascination while the priest drew a key from his sash and deftly undid the myriad bolts. He pushed open the door and walked in.

Athlone and Gabria stepped inside and looked about in wonder. The large room was lined with shelves. Though many of the boards were empty, about one hundred books and manuscripts lay piled in various places around the room.

Books were a rarity to the clans, for they were difficult to obtain and a nuisance to move from place to place. Normally only healers, priests, and clan chieftains could read, although occasionally the wer-tains, the chieftains’ families, or the priestesses of Amara learned the difficult skill. Gabria had never been taught, and as she looked over the Oathbreakers’ precious volumes, she thought she would one day like to learn.

“I thought Medb’s men destroyed your books,” she said to Seth.

“Some of them, yes. But we were able to hide the most important ones.” He set his torch in a bracket on the wall and gestured to a table and benches in the middle of the room. Silently he searched through the priceless collection of books.

“I’m afraid there is very little here that will help you,” he said, studying the tomes.

Gabria’s heart sank. She had hoped desperately that the Oathbreakers would have some useful information. She did not know where else to turn. “Do you know of anyone else who might know?” she forced herself to ask.

The high priest pulled out several volumes and shoved them back. “I’ve read all of these. They are just general essays on magic. The problem is that there was never much written about gorthlings. All we know is that they are easy enough to summon, but they are treacherous, cunning, and vicious. If they taste blood, they can inhabit any body they choose. Once that happens, it becomes extremely difficult to send them back,”

“Send them back where?” Athlone asked.

“A gorthling cannot be destroyed or killed, it must be sent back to Sorh in the realm of the dead.”

“How?” Gabria cried in exasperation.

Seth’s reply was chilling. “I don’t know how. The only ones who ever summoned a gorthling successfully were Matrah and Valorian. Matrah’s spells are probably in his tome.”

Gabria sighed. “That doesn’t help us much.”

“What about Valorian?” Athlone suggested.

“Valorian never wrote anything down. He did not wish those spells concerning the gorthlings to be remembered.”

The chieftain threw his hands up and paced restlessly to the shelves. “So now we are stuck with a bloodthirsty creature bent on destroying Gabria, and we have no hope of getting rid of it.”

Seth turned his basilisk stare on his nephew. “I did not say there was no hope. The gorthling’s human body is vulnerable like any other flesh, and its ability to use sorcery is limited by its own knowledge and its body’s weaknesses. It can be destroyed, but you will need strength, ingenuity, and courage.”

“A few words of instruction would be better,” Gabria muttered. She half-turned to say something to Athlone when the heavy weight of the bag banged against her leg. She remembered the mask. “Perhaps you could tell me what this is,” she said, unwrapping the mask and laying it on the table before her.

Seth’s cold expression did not change, but he reached out and touched the gold surface. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it in Moy Tura.” The priest’s head snapped up, and he stared at Gabria.

“You were in Moy Tura? Is the Korg still there?”

“Yes,” she replied with a half-smile. “It was because of him that we found the mask. It was hidden in a temple.”

“The gods were leading your steps,” Seth declared.

“Do you know what that is?” Athlone asked.

“It is the death mask of Valorian.” The high priest studied the gold mask on the table. “If anything could help you fight the gorthling, this mask might.”

“How?” Gabria demanded.

“The mask was once a powerful talisman. It was used in secret ceremonies for the worship of Valorian. When the clans destroyed Moy Tura and the magic-wielders, the mask and everyone who had used it disappeared.”

Athlone crossed his arms. “How do you know about it?”

Seth gestured to the books. “It was described in those several times.”

“But you don’t know how to use the mask’s power,” Gabria said.

“Unfortunately, no. That was a secret that was only passed on to the priests of Valorian. Nevertheless, if the magic is still viable, you might be able to discover the artifact’s purpose and put it to your own use.”

Gabria nodded half-heartedly. She was very disappointed. The high priest had not given her much useful information, only puzzles, hints, and more questions.

Seth, sensing her frustration, wrapped the mask in its cloth and gave it back to her. “I am sorry I cannot be much help, Sorceress. Yet you should not abandon your quest. The gorthling is powerful, even more so housed in a human body endowed with magic. It must be sent back or it will wreak havoc in this world.”

The sorceress nodded again, without reply. There was nothing more to say. Silently the priest led his two guests back to the main hall and escorted them to the front door. Despite the rain and the darkness he did not invite them to stay, and they did not ask.

Before Gabria walked down the steps toward the waiting Hunnuli, the high priest stopped her.

“If you are successful in defeating the beast, sorceress, come back. We have other books and relics from Moy Tura. They belong to the heirs of magic. I will teach you how to use them.”

“Thank you, High Priest,” she answered. “I will.”

Under the wary gaze of the hidden cultists, Gabria and Athlone mounted their Hunnuli and rode out of the citadel to rejoin the hunt for Branth.