Lightning's Daughter

2

Gabria did not realize how much the events of the previous summer had drained her emotionally and physically until she had time to relax. After only a few days at the temple, she caught a cold and came down with a fever and racking cough. For days she stayed in the small temple, curled up on her crude bed, lost on the paths of her thoughts. She had barely enough strength to eat or fetch water and firewood. Nara kept watch over her and waited worriedly for the illness to pass.

One cold night as Gabria tossed in a feverish, restless doze, she thought she heard the sound of Nara’s hooves galloping up to the temple. There was the soft thud of footfalls, then she sensed another person close by. She struggled to wake until a cool hand soothed her forehead and a familiar voice spoke softly to her. A cup filled with a warm herbal drink was brought to her lips. She drank without opening her eyes and settled down into a peaceful sleep.

Piers stayed with her through the night and slipped away at dawn, leaving behind a stack of wood, a filled water jug, and a simmering kettle of soup. He did not come back after that night—he did not need to. His herbal drink eased Gabria’s symptoms and his brief, comforting presence revived her interest in survival. Gabria was not sure how he’d known of her illness. She could only thank her goddess that the healer cared enough to risk the visit.

The food Piers had given Gabria sustained her through the days of her malaise. However, as her illness eased and she regained her strength, she realized the supply of food was dwindling rapidly. She would need more than a few beans to keep herself alive. One cold, cloudy afternoon she forced herself to take her bow, mount Nara, and hunt in the hills for meat. To her pleasure, her skill with the bow had not diminished. She brought down a small deer, and that night she feasted on venison.

The exercise and the meat were just what she needed, and Gabria felt stronger than she had in days. After that she went out every afternoon to ride Nara, or to hunt, fish, or gather food in the hills. Her health and her good spirits returned in full measure. She was pleased to notice that, as she grew stronger, her intense grief for her family began to ease, taking with it the bitterness and anger that had burned within her during her struggle for revenge. She was left with a growing sense of contentment and release.

As the last days of autumn passed, Gabria began to enjoy the solitude of the little temple, the peace of her thoughts, and the quiet companionship of the mare. She felt closer to Amara in this place, and each day she knelt by the altar in-the light of the rising sun to give thanks to the Mother Goddess for sustaining her.

Nara, too, seemed to thrive in the peace of the temple. The foal within her, sired by Athlone’s Hunnuli stallion, Boreas, grew steadily and filled out Nara’s sides as she grazed contentedly on the dried winter grass of the hills.

Although no one came to visit them, Gabria often saw Athlone at a distance, keeping a watch on her. His vigilance meant a great deal to Gabria, and she always acknowledged him with a wave.

The only thing that began to bother Gabria as the time passed was boredom. She spent many hours every day gathering food and turning the stone temple into a more comfortable dwelling. But there were times when she had nothing to do. Then loneliness would creep in, and she would long for the distractions of a busy treld. She wanted to find something that would keep her busy during those lonely, dull times.

Then one rainy, cold night she found the answer. An autumn storm had blown in suddenly as Gabria was collecting firewood. By the time she’d made it back to the temple, she was soaking wet and chilled to the bone. She dumped the wet wood in a corner to dry and quickly laid some kindling in the small hearth she had built. To her annoyance she realized she had not banked the morning coals, and the fire was dead. Gabria tried to light the kindling with her flint and steel, but her hands were trembling with cold and she could not draw a spark. Her frustration grew with every failed attempt.

All at once, an idea flashed in her head: she was a magic-wielder. She could use a spell to start a fire. All it would take was a single word.

Gabria hesitated for just a moment. She had promised the council of chiefs that she would not practice sorcery, and under normal circumstances she would have kept her vow. Now, however, she was banished from the clans and dead in the eyes of her people. What she did during the time of exile was her own concern.

She spoke the word of her spell, and a warm, cheerful flame leaped out of the pile of kindling. Gabria grinned like a mischievous child. At that moment, she decided to use her time to practice her sorcery. She had only learned the basic skills and rules of wielding magic from her teacher, the Woman of the Marsh, and had found little opportunity to use her powers since then.

Gabria decided to begin her practice by perfecting one spell. After some thought, she chose a spell of transformation. Magic could not be used to create something out of nothing, though it could alter forms or change appearances. Gabria had used a wild version of a transformation spell to transform her father’s dagger into a sword during her fight with Medb. That experience had taught her how powerful that enchantment could be.

When her evening meal was over, Gabria found a pinecone and began to practice changing its shape. Her teacher had stressed that a spell had to be perfectly clear in the magic-wielder’s mind or disaster could result. Gabria was a little clumsy at first. Her concentration would waver, the image of the spell would not focus in her mind, or she simply did not try hard enough. At those times, the pinecone would warp and twist from the image she had chosen for it. Sometimes she could not make it change at all.

That night and for many days after, she practiced her spell until she was able to change the pinecone into any shape, size, or color she desired. In the process of her learning, a deep respect and curiosity for the endless powers of magic were awakened in her soul. Delightedly she took the next step in the progression: to transform the essence of an object, not just its appearance, into something different. Once again she chose a pinecone and began to try transforming it into her favorite fruit, a sweetplum.

It was a few days before the end of the year when Gabria began to notice the gifts.

The year, and three months of Gabria’s banishment, would end on the night of the winter solstice. By clan reckoning the new year always began on the day when the sun resumed its journey back to the north. During the last days of the year, it was customary to present gifts to the clan priests and priestesses as thanks for special blessings that had been received during the year. Women, usually gave gifts to the priestess of Amara in gratitude for a healthy child, a pregnancy, a loving husband, or a fruitful herd. The gifts were small—food or handmade items that were given from the heart. The priestess used these gifts as part of her livelihood.

One evening Gabria came back from checking her snares and found a bowl of eggs and a beautifully wrought leather belt lying on the threshold of the temple. Curious, she picked them up and looked around. The clearing and the temple were empty. She carried the things into the stone room and laid them on the altar. She could only imagine someone had brought the gifts for the goddess and had been afraid to enter the temple because of her. It’s strange, Gabria thought as she cleaned a rabbit, gifts such as these are usually given to the priestess in person, not left in front of the temple.

To Gabria’s surprise more gifts were left by the door the next day while she was gone: a jug of honey, a pair of wool slippers, and a loaf of bread. Gabria gazed hungrily at the honey. She had not had anything sweet in months, but she placed the gifts on the altar by the others and ate her meal of rabbit soup.

Seeing the gifts gave Gabria an idea. She owed her goddess a huge debt of gratitude for preserving her life and sheltering her these past few months. There was very little she could give as a gift, but as she stared at the pile of furs and skins on her bed, an idea formed in her head.

The next night was the Night of Ending, the last night of a very eventful year. Snow fell heavily that day, so Gabria spent much of it working on her gift for Amara, cutting pieces of soft leather and stitching them together into the shape of a horse. She worked late into the night to sew a mane and tail, stuff the little body, and color it black with soot from her fire.

When she was finished she set the horse on the altar and knelt to voice her thanks. It had been a very long year, and she hoped the next one would not be as difficult. As she raised her hopes to Amara, a cold gust of wind swept through the window, setting Gabria’s fire leaping. She shivered. Hurriedly she banked her fire and crawled into her warm coverings. At dawn the priestess would be coming to the temple to perform the ceremony of prayers for the new year. Gabria did not want to make the situation uncomfortable, and she planned to be away before daybreak. She fell asleep to the sound of the wind humming around the temple.

Gabria had only been asleep a few hours when Nara’s thoughts brought her bolting awake. Gabria, the priestess comes.

The sorceress frantically leaped to her feet and grabbed for her boots and cloak. Outside she heard Nara neigh a greeting to the Khulinin priestess and her acolytes. Gabria saw through the window that a faint golden light rimmed the hills to the east and glimmered on the snow that blanketed the ground.

She stuffed her feet into her boots and shoved her belongings into the corner. She was about to dash out when the priestess and two young women entered the temple.

The women’s eyes widened when they saw Gabria. The priestess’s gaze was turned only to the altar and the window facing the rising sun.

Gabria knew she should slip out now, for most priestesses did not allow the uninitiated to attend this ceremony, let alone a woman under banishment. Yet she hesitated, drawn by the grace and beauty of the priestess at her altar.

At that moment the priestess, without turning around, said, “Stay.”

The acolytes looked shocked when they realized who she was talking to, but the priestess had already begun the prayers and they did not dare interrupt.

Gabria was pleased. She pressed back into her corner and knelt as the acolytes knelt.

Softly at first, like the light that began the morning, the priestess chanted her prayers to Amara the Mother, goddess of love, life, and birth. As the light intensified and the stars dimmed, her chants grew clearer, more joyful. The priestess’s green robes glowed in the morning light and swayed gently with her body while she sang. Her long grizzled hair flowed loose to her waist, like a maiden’s.

The fiery rim of the sun edged over the plains, and its pure light poured directly into the stone temple. The priestess’s voice rose to a song of greeting, and the acolytes’ voices joined hers with triumph.

Although Gabria did not know the words of the prayers, she felt their meaning sweep through her mind and carry her to the heart of her feelings. As the light of the sun warmed her face, she raised her hands and hummed the tune of the invocation, sending her own thoughts of gratitude to the goddess who nurtured her .

The prayers came to a last song of hope when the sun parted from the far horizon. Only then did the priestess lower her arms. Standing in the blaze of sunlight, she turned to face the other three women, her wise face still glowing with her joy.

She gave a slight nod to the sorceress kneeling in a corner lit by the sun.

“Thank you, sisters, for your help,” she said to the acolytes, then added, “Lady Gabria, Amara shines her light upon you.”

The acolytes gasped, and one said, “Mistress, remember the law.” The priestess lifted her hands to the sunlight. “Here in Amara’s temple, I am the law. Please go outside and wait,” she told them. “I will join you in a moment.” The two women walked out, keeping their gazes firmly on the ground.

Gabria slowly stood. “Thank you for asking me to stay.”

“I’m pleased you did. This only confirms my belief that you hold the goddess’s favor.” The priestess paused to study Gabria from head to foot. “You are looking well.”

“I am feeling fine,” Gabria said eagerly, “although I was ill for a while. It was miserable. I didn’t have the strength to leave my bed. I think I remember Piers coming once, but that time is rather blurred.” She broke off, and her eyes went to the round window where the light was pouring into the room. “It’s strange. It seems more than just a fever was healed within me. I feel as if a great weight has gone from my mind.”

The priestess nodded. “Your experiences last summer would have exhausted a seasoned warrior. I knew you were worn thin when you left the treld. Your voice was full of bitterness and defeat. I do not hear that anymore.”

“I don’t feel it. It’s ironic. The time I’ve spent in the temple was supposed to be a punishment. Instead, it has been the best healing I could have had.”

“Lord Athlone will be pleased to hear that,” the woman said, her eyes were warm with pleasure. “He has worried constantly about you and misses you sorely.”

Gabria smiled to herself. “And I him.” She colored slightly and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk so much. It’s just nice to see another person.”

“There is no need to apologize. I am glad to listen.”

“Before you go, could you tell me how the clan is faring?”

The priestess caught the faint note of loneliness in Gabria’s voice. “The clan does well. This mild weather has been a blessing. The herds are healthy and everyone is keeping busy.” She paced to the window and looked out at the snow.

“I haven’t seen much of Lord Athlone lately,” the priestess went on. “He has been working with Lord Koshyn of the Dangari and Lord Sha Umar of the Jehanan to restore clan unity.” Her wise face looked troubled. “Lord Medb did more damage than he ever imagined when he tried to conquer the twelve clans. Our people were not meant to be ruled by a single overlord. We’re too different from one another. Now the people who sided with Medb are fearful and defensive, the ones who fought against him are angry and resentful, and those who ran are ashamed. Lord Athlone is worried that all of this will tear the clans even further apart. He has been communicating with every chieftain on the plains to help soothe the angry feelings. It has kept him quite busy.”

“I hope they can resolve some of these problems before the clans gather this summer at the Tir Samod,” Gabria said.

“So do I. We do not need another war,” The priestess stopped as something else occurred to her. “There was another piece of news I heard. It’s only a rumor, but Branth may be in Pra Desh.”

“Branth!” Gabria spat the name. “That murderer. I had hoped he was dead.”

“Apparently not.”

“Has Athlone said anything about Branth’s whereabouts?”

The priestess replied, “Not that I know of. He might be waiting for more reliable information.”

Gabria shook her head absently and stared at the floor while she pondered the priestess’s news.

After a moment, the priestess went to the altar and studied the gifts lying to the side. A knowing smile touched her mouth. She picked up the little black horse. “Yours?”

Gabria looked up. “Nara is pregnant.”

“Indeed. Then I shall take this and add the mare to my prayers.”

The sorceress walked over to the altar. “Aren’t you going to take the other gifts?”

“Those, young woman, are for you.”

“Me!” Gabria gasped.

“There is a small but growing belief among the women that you are the blessed of Amara. There have been five births this season and all have been successful. Some women attribute that to your continued presence in the temple. They have brought these gifts to you.”

Gabria was amazed. “But you are Amara’s priestess. These gifts should be for you.”

The woman’s smile widened, and she shook her head. “I do not need them.” She paused, her eyes boring into Gabria’s. “But the clan needs you whether it knows it or not. Stay in the light of Amara’s grace, and you will weather all the hatred and suspicion the unbelievers throw at you.” She came to stand in front of Gabria. The girl tensed, waiting for the rest of the warning.

“Step out of the light,” the priestess continued, her voice low and adamant, “And I promise you, the goddess will destroy you.”

Gabria nodded once in understanding. The priestess examined her face for a long moment before she stood back, satisfied with what she saw.

“You will be home in three months, in time for the celebration of the Birthright. I will look forward to your return.”

The Birthright was the ceremony of thanksgiving to the goddess Amara, for a fruitful birthing season. It was a vital part of the clan’s duty to the Mother of All. Gabria could not help but wonder if the rest of the Khulinin would look forward to her return at that time.

The priestess strode to the entrance. “If the Hunnuli needs help at the time of her birthing, call for me.”

“Thank you, Priestess,” Gabria said with gratitude. She went to the door and watched the three women walk down the path until they disappeared among the trees.

For many days after the priestess’s visit, Gabria mulled over her words. After so many months of rejection and suspicion, she found comfort in the knowledge that a few clanswomen were beginning to accept her basic goodness and her loyalty to the gods. Sorcery was believed to be a heretical evil and a perversion of the gods’ powers. Gabria had believed that herself until she came to understand her powers. Perhaps now the clanspeople were beginning to question their old beliefs, too.

That was an encouraging thought.

The only part of the priestess’s news that worried Gabria was the rumor about Branth. She wondered if he really was in Pra Desh and if he had the Book of Matrah. She turned cold at that possibility. Everyone believed the Geldring chieftain had stolen the book of spells, so it was very possible that he could be trying to use the knowledge captured within its ancient covers. Gabria hoped with all her heart that he was not, because Branth was as cruel and ambitious as Lord Medb. The gods only knew what kind of trouble the Geldring could devise with his power.

Gabria wondered, too, what Athlone might do when he learned where Branth was hiding. Clan law granted Athlone every right to seek Branth and exact justice for the murder of his father. But Athlone had responsibilities to the clan to think of. Besides, if Branth had become a practicing sorcerer, Athlone would not have a chance against him.

Gabria finally shook herself and set aside her disturbing thoughts. She still had several months left of her banishment, and it seemed senseless to waste her time worrying about a rumor she could not confirm. She brought out her pinecones and returned to her practice of sorcery.

As the winter days passed, Gabria grew more adept at her spells. Her first attempts to turn the pinecone into a sweetplum were dismal failures. Her plums were either too hard, too sour, or too strange to eat. Finally, one evening, she envisioned exactly what she wanted, spoke the words of her spell, and changed the prickly brown pinecone into a perfect sweetplum. She laughed with delight when she took a bite and the delicious juice ran down her chin.

The sorceress practiced a few more times until she had a bowl of different kinds of fruit, then she went on to the next step: changing an organic substance into something inorganic. By this time her senses were more attuned to the process of bending magic to her will. In only a few days she was able to transform the pinecone into stone or any object she desired.

Gabria was so busy hunting for food and practicing her magic, she did not notice immediately that winter was giving way to spring. The weather had remained dry and mild so the changes came gently to the land. The fifth full moon of her exile had come and gone before she realized that the air was not as chilly and the days were growing longer. She had less than one month left before she could return to Khulinin Held.

To her surprise, Gabria had to admit that she was not completely happy about going back. She had grown to like the freedom to use her magic. It would be difficult to give that up-even with the possibility that the council of chiefs would change the laws forbidding sorcery when the various clans gathered later that summer at the Tir Samod.

But that was not the only reason she was reluctant. As much as Gabria liked Khulinin Held, she did not feel at home there.

The only home she knew in her heart was a broad meadow far to the north, where the Corins had once made their winter camp. She had not been back since that day of the massacre, almost a year ago.

One night, when the half-moon rose above the plains, Gabria lay on her pallet in the dark, cramped temple and thought about her family long into the night. After a while she dozed, drifting in and out of sleep. Her dreams crowded in and jostled with her memories of her father and brothers. She tossed and turned as the dreams grew more vivid, and the phantoms of her old terrors gathered like shadows in her mind.

In the blink of an eye, her thoughts cleared. A vision came to her then, as real as the first time she had experienced it. It was the same vision she had dreamed that previous summer, just before her first meeting with Lord Medb.

Gabria saw herself standing on a hill, looking down at the ruins of a once-busy camp. The sun was high and warm, and grass grew thick in the empty pastures. Weeds sprawled over the moldering ashes and covered the wreckage with a green coverlet. A large mound encircled with spears lay to one side, its new dirt just now sprouting grass.

Gabria jolted awake. The vision faded, but the image of the burial mound remained clear in her thoughts. She had no idea if the mound was real. When she found Corin Held after the massacre, she had been alone and unable to do anything but leave her people where they had fallen. It was ill she could do to save herself.

Gabria mulled over the vision for several days, and in that time her desire to see her home again became a powerful yearning. The more she thought about it, the more important it became for her to see for herself if her clan had really been buried. There had been no chance to say good-bye to her father and brothers on that horrible day. Perhaps now, while she still had about eight days of exile remaining, was a good time to go. On Nara she could cover the distance to the treld in three or four days and be back before anyone missed her. No one would have to know she had left the temple.

When Gabria told the Hunnuli mare of her idea, Nara agreed. To see your home once more will give you strength, the mare told her. We will go.

They left the next morning in the cold, misty hour of dawn.

Nara cantered east beyond the foothills to the plains and gradually swung north to avoid the Khulinin scouts. By sunrise they were well to the north of Khulinin Held and following the Sweetwater River. Nara settled into an easy, flowing canter that would carry them for hours over the open leagues of grass.

Gabria relaxed on Nara’s broad back. It felt wonderful to be on the plains again, away from the temple, the hills, and the people who would not come near her. Here on the wide, treeless grasslands she could see from horizon to horizon, feel the wind that tugged at her hair, and rejoice in the eternal blue sky that arched over her head. She threw her arms wide and laughed happily at her freedom.

Nara neighed in reply. The black horse stretched out into a gallop, her muscles moving effortlessly as she raced the wind for the sheer joy of running. Her black mane whipped into Gabria’s face. Her hooves pounded the hard ground.

Gabria laughed again. She felt the power of the Hunnuli flow beneath her as quick and hot as the lightning that’ marked the horse’s right shoulder. All at once she was overwhelmed by love, gratitude, and wonder. As long as she had Nara, she knew she would never be alone. She would always have an empathetic companion who would stand by her no matter how often her own people rejected her. She flung her arms around Nara’s neck and pressed her cheek against the soft hair.

The mare slowed to an easy canter. Are you all right, Gabria?

The young woman sat up, smiling, and rubbed the horse’s shoulder. “Stay with me, Nara, and I will be.”

Always, the Hunnuli replied.

Silently they went on. There was no need to say more.

They traveled north for three days through the wide, grassy Valley of the Hornguard. To the east, the snowy peaks of the Darkhorn Mountains towered into the sky, their white mantled heads crowned with clouds and their gray ramparts hidden behind veils of wind and snow. To the west, the smaller range of the Himachal Mountains bordered the valley like an old, crumbled fortress wall. The valley was a fertile, green land where antelope, wild horses, and small game flourished. Both the Geldring and the Dangari hunted in the Hornguard, and, since Gabria had no desire to meet anyone from the clans, she and Nara stayed to the eastern side of the valley among the foothills of the Darkhorns.

To Gabria the journey felt strange, yet half familiar. They were traveling back the way they had come almost a year ago.

The mountains and hills looked much the same: barren, gray-brown with winter, and patched with snow. Only Gabria was different. She felt a lifetime older and wiser; she was no longer a simple, terrified, girl. The realities or war and magic had changed her.

Her problem was that her experiences had not erased her memories. The closer they came to Corin Treld, the more nervous Gabria became. Time and again she remembered that hideous day when she had stumbled into the ruins of her home and found her murdered family. She had thought that she would be calm and able to deal with the memories, but the feelings of terror, grief, and confusion boiled out of her mind like a turbulent flood.

As hard as she could, Gabria fought down the turmoil within her and pushed on, refusing Nara’s suggestion to stop and eat or rest. The Hunnuli was not bothered by the constant traveling, but she grew worried about her rider. Gabria was obviously lost in her own thoughts. She was no longer alert or attentive to her horse and their well being.

On the third day from Khulinin Treld, Nara cantered over a hill and down into a bowl-shaped gully. She paused at the edge of a half-frozen, muddy pool.

Do you remember this place?

Gabria stared down at the dark pool. “Very well. I still have the scars on my hands.” She ran her hand down Nara’s neck. “A small price to pay for the gift of a friend.”

In one motion, they both looked up to the top of a nearby hill where a small cairn of rocks could still be seen on the crest. It was there that Gabria had buried Nara’s first foal.

She had come across the wild Hunnuli trapped in the mud and fighting for her life against a pack of wolves. Gabria had driven off the marauders and spent two days digging out the pregnant mare with her bare hands. She had tried to save the foal, but it had died during birth. She had laid it to rest among the rocks.

Thinking of the foal, Gabria belatedly remembered Nara’s current condition. The mare was almost ten months into her pregnancy. Shamefaced, she ran her hand down Nara’s silken neck. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

Nara nickered. There is no reason to be so.

“Let’s camp here tonight,” the young woman suggested.

The mare tilted her head and looked at Gabria with her wise eye. There are still several hours of daylight left. We could be in Corin Treld by nightfall.

Gabria shook her head. “We need to rest. Besides, I want to face the treld in the light of day.” They found shelter in a shallow overhang in the side of one of the hills. Nara went to graze while Gabria built a small fire, ate her meal, and lay down on her blankets. Darkness came quickly, for the sky was overcast and the air was heavy with the threat of snow. Gabria closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

She was very tired, and she knew tomorrow would be a trying day, but her thoughts could find no rest. Her mind kept returning to the reality of the massacre and the dream-images of her clan’s grave mound. What would she find tomorrow?

Had her family been buried with honor or were the bodies still there, rotting into the grass? She tossed and turned as her imagination envisioned every possibility, then jumbled the imaginings together with the real memories of the carnage.

Phantoms drifted through her mind with half-remembered faces and voices silenced by death.

Outside Gabria’s meager shelter, Nara came to stand against the cliff wall. The horse’s eyes reflected the firelight, glowing like gems against the darkness.

Gabria remembered lying in the dark that night long ago, watching the eyes of the wild, trapped mare and wondering what would become of both herself and the horse. She never imagined the incredible events that were to follow. Now, she and Nara were going back to the place where the chain of events had begun.

Gabria sat up and leaned back against the rock. No, that’s not quite true, she thought. The chain of events led back to Medb and his greed, and even farther back to the generations of clanspeople who had zealously avoided magic. It went back to the destruction of the Sorcerers, to the blossoming of the magical city of Moy Tura, to Matrah who compiled his great tome, to the early magic-wielders who had experimented with magic, and as far back as Valorian, the hero-warrior who had first used magic to defeat the evil gorthlings of Sorh. Gabria was only a small part in a story that actually had begun centuries before and would continue long after she was dead.

The woman laughed. Seen in that perspective, her worries and inner turmoil were merely threads against a vast tapestry of clan history and human events. All of her frightened imaginings would change nothing about the treld or her dead clan. What was done, was done. She would simply have to wait until morning to settle her personal fears. She lay down again, pulled her cloak up to her chin, and let her thoughts relax. This time she drifted off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Snow was falling the next morning when Gabria awoke. It was a light, fitful shower that patterned Nara’s dark coat with tiny stars and dusted the ground with powder. The mountains were completely obscured behind a wall of cloud. Gabria shook the snow off her belongings, ate a quick meal, and mounted Nara. They left the gully without a backward glance and trotted slowly north through the swirling snow. Corin Treld was not far by horseback, but Gabria did not want to miss it in the billowing storm.

Fortunately the snow shower did not last long. A little before noon, as Nara crested a ridge near the treld, the snow stopped and the clouds began to break.

Gabria felt her heart pounding. “It’s not far,” she said. “It’s just across that stream and up the next hill.” Nara broke into a canter. She went down the ridge, leaped the stream without missing a stride, and ran up the slope of a long, treeless hill. Suddenly the sun broke through the clouds and poured down on the land. The Hunnuli reached the top of the hill and stopped.

For a breathless moment, Gabria wondered if they were at the right place. The area looked similar to the home she remembered: the broad meadow surrounded by trees on two sides and backed by the dark, tree-clad mountains; the small stream that clattered along its stony bed; and the pile of boulders by the copse of trees where children used to play. With a stab of pain, Gabria realized this was the same meadow, it just looked different without its once-thriving treld.

Gabria flung up her hands and cried with relief and joy. Her vision had been right; there, in the broad field, stood a new mound, crowned with spears and shining with a dusting of snow in the morning sun. She slid off the Hunnuli and ran down the hill. Halfway down, she unpinned the Khulinin cloak and dropped it in the grass, then she drew her sword and shouted the Corins’ cry of victory. Her voice sang through the empty meadow. The young woman raced up the slope of the mound and through the ring of spears to the very top. She brandished her sword high.

“Corin!” she shouted. “I did it, Father. You are avenged!” The silence of the ruined treld rose to meet her. Head thrown back, she listened to the wind in the grass, the cry of a hawk overhead, and the music of the stream. It almost seemed as if beloved voices would sound then, acknowledging her heroic feats, but there was no one left to answer her. She looked around, half expecting to see her father, her brothers, or someone standing by the mound.

The meadow was empty, and only the wind walked in the treld.

Gabria’s joy died within her as quickly as it had come. Beneath her feet lay the hundred-odd members of Clan Corin; her father, Lord Dathlar; her three older brothers; and her twin brother, Gabran. They were long gone, beyond the earthly lands they had once walked. Her family was in the realm of the dead now, in the presence of the gods. They might know of her victory over their killer, Lord Medb, and the price she had paid to earn her revenge, but they could not share in her glory. They were gone, forever beyond her reach.

Gabria’s eyes filled with tears as she looked down. The new growth of spring was beginning to cover the mound; the earth was gently settling down around the buried bodies. The girl noticed the spears were already sagging, so she walked around the circle and straightened each one. When she was finished, she climbed down from the mound.

For most of the afternoon Gabria wandered around the treld, remembering the places she had loved so well: the site of her father’s tent, the chieftain’s hall they had proudly built with logs, the pens and corrals, the tents of her brothers and her friends. Everything had been burned by the marauders during the attack, but Gabria found many traces of what had been. The foundation of the hall sprawled in the weeds, its interior crisscrossed with a few charred logs. Bits and pieces of personal items lay in the grass. The charred remains of the tents stood rotting into the blackened earth.

At last Gabria came to a level place by the edge of the treld.

There was only a broad, burned patch on the ground to mark the spot, yet Gabria would never forget this place. She had dragged her father’s body from the front of his hall to this open ground and laid her brothers beside him. Then she had built a makeshift pyre and burned them as was befitting for honored warriors. It was all she could do alone.

Whoever had come later and buried the clan had also buried the remains of Dathlar and his sons, leaving no trace of the pyre. It was as it should be, and Gabria gave thanks to the unknown benefactors who had worked so hard to honor her people. She stared at the ground for a long time, remembering the faces of her family. This time her memories brought her warmth and peace. The anguish was gone. At long last her old terrors had been laid to rest.

She walked bade through the treld a final time. Near the ruins of the hall she paused and looked around. Except for the burial mound and the scattered, decaying ruins, the meadow looked much like it must have before the Corins came to winter there. She smiled with bitter sweetness. That was the wonder of it: no matter how much blood was spilled on the grass, the plains remained constant and unchanging. This land could not be altered by human feelings.

“Farewell, Corins!” she called. “Rest well.”

Sadly she walked back up the hill to Nara. She pinned on her Khulinin cloak and mounted the Hunnuli. “We can go.

There is nothing here for me now.” The mare turned to face the burial mound in the meadow below and, with a trumpeting neigh, she reared high in the Hunnuli’s gesture of honor and respect. When her feet touched down again, she and Gabria looked at the treld for one last time. After that, Nara turned south and cantered away.