Lightning's Daughter

3

Two days later, Nara and Gabria came to the hot springs in the foothills of the Darkhorn Mountains near Wolfeared Pass. They had stopped there the year before to rest and bind the wounds gained both from the wolves and during Nara’s rescue from the mudhole.

Once again Gabria gave in to the temptation of warm water. They found a warm pool among the bubbling springs and twisting vapors, and both woman and horse spent the afternoon soaking away the dirt of their journey. It was delightful. By the end of the day, Gabria felt more relaxed and peaceful than she had in a year.

As she dried herself she thought of Athlone and the Khulinin, suddenly realizing she was excited to see them all again.

Her banishment would be over in two nights, and she could rightfully return to the clan. For the first time she felt as if she was going home. Smiling to herself, she put on her pants and tunic and fastened her golden cloak. In two days she would be home at last.

Gabria made camp that night at the edge of the springs, upwind of the mineral-laden pools. Nara stayed close, grazing on the sweet grass. The woman was just settling down to sleep when the mare threw her head up and sniffed the night breeze.

The young woman sat up. “What is it?”

Do not worry, Gabria, Nara told her. I will be back soon.

Without another word, the horse galloped into the darkness.

Surprised, Gabria shouted, “Wait!” She jumped to her feet and ran after Nara, but the mare was already gone.

The girl stood perplexed, staring into the night. What had gotten into Nara? The mare did not usually go off alone without an explanation. Surely she could not be going into labor. It was too soon, and she would have told Gabria. Neither did Gabria think there was any immediate danger lurking in the night. Nara never would have left her rider unprotected.

Gabria returned to her blankets and tried to put her concern aside. Nara had said not to worry, but the sorceress found that that was impossible. She could not close her eyes, and sleep stayed far away through the long night.

Just before dawn, Gabria heard Nara’s hoofbeats pounding, into the little valley. She bolted to her feet and ran to meet the horse. She could barely see the black mare as Nara materialized out of the darkness.

Nara snorted. Her flanks were heaving from her exertion. We must go, she demanded.

“Go!” Gabria shouted. “Go where? Why did you leave?”

I must take you to the mountain. To the Wheel. Someone wants to see you.

“Who?”

The mare stamped her hoof, clearly agitated. Gabria, please! You will see.

Gabria stared at the horse in astonishment. If the demand had come from anyone but Nara, Gabria would have insisted on an explanation before she went anywhere. Instead she shrugged, gathered her belongings, and silently mounted the Hunnuli. She would trust Nara to keep her safe wherever they were going.

Nara galloped out of the valley of the hot springs and headed deeper into the mountains. The night was still quite dark, but the Hunnuli raced over the rough terrain as if her path was lit by the sun. Gabria held onto the horse with every ounce of strength she had as Nara lunged, jumped, and twisted higher and higher into the heart of the Darkhorns over a trail only the mare could see.

“Nara, slow down,” Gabria cried.

The Hunnuli flattened her ears and ran faster. We must be there by dawn.

“Be where?”

The Wheel, was Nara’s only reply.

The Wheel. Gabria had never seen that strange place. She had only heard it mentioned in the old tales told by the bards.

The Wheel had been built in the mountains by Valorian, somewhere near the pass where he had led the first clansmen from the west to the grasslands. No one knew where the Wheel lay or even what it was; the tales had grown vague with time, the pass forgotten as the clansmen had turned their lives to the plains and let go of what had gone before.

Gabria gritted her teeth and clung to Nara. It took all her concentration to stay mounted against the jolting violence of the Hunnuli’s gallop. She would find out soon enough what this place was and who wanted to see her.

Nara continued to run ever higher up the steep, rocky valleys, through forests of pines and dark spruce, and around thickets of heavy underbrush. She plunged over rock falls, raced past high alpine meadows where deer grazed, and galloped over the rough clearings left by avalanches or forest fires. The dry winter was especially evident this high in the mountains. There was only a few feet of snow where normally the drifts would have stood over Gabria’s head. Nara was able to find her way through the low patches of snow without much difficulty.

By dawn they were high in the mountains, nearing the twin peaks of Wolf eared Pass. There were fewer trees on the upper slopes, and the undergrowth was thin and sparse. Nara finally slowed to a trot. Her breath came hard and fast, vaporizing into clouds in the cold, thin air. Her body was steaming from her efforts.

Gabria patted the horse’s neck. She was worried, for Nara should not be running like this in her condition. Wherever we are going, she thought, it is important enough to Nara to endanger herself and her unborn foal.

We are close now, Nara told her.

The sorceress sighed with relief. She was surprised to see the early morning creep into the mountains with a soft light that dimmed the stars and revealed the peaks’ rugged faces.

Nara struggled up a rocky incline, past a few stunted pines and clusters of boulders, to the edge of a broad plateau. There she stopped and snorted in satisfaction.

Mystified, Gabria looked about. The plateau lay like a huge plate on the side of the northernmost of the two peaks, its bare, flat ground swept clear of heavy snow. It seemed empty at first, and Gabria asked curiously, “This is it?”

Nara lifted her head to the peaks. Gabria followed her gaze and saw the distant pass that cut between the two pinnacles.

The Wheel is here. Go see. They will come soon.

“Who are ‘they?’” Gabria demanded.

Nara did not respond. She remained gazing at the peaks as if waiting for something to appear. Her ears were perked, and her nostrils flared in the cold air.

Gabria shook her head and slid off the mare’s back. Her legs and hands were stiff from clinging to Nara; it felt good to stretch her muscles and walk on her own feet. She took a deep breath of mountain air, savoring the sharp, rich smells of frost and alpine trees. For a moment she stood at the edge of the plateau and looked down to where the land fell away into the rugged highlands of the Darkhorns. Her eyes followed the land downward over the slopes as the sun rose higher and spread its light over the distant plains below. The endless leagues of the Ramtharin Plains were slowly revealed to Gabria in lightening hues of indigo, purple, and lavender. From her high promontory she could look far to the east, where the grasslands of her people rolled beyond the horizon.

A smile lit Gabria’s face. It was no wonder Valorian’s people had looked down on those lands and rejoiced. The plains were vast and beautiful and held everything the clanspeople needed to survive. Whatever they had left behind could not have compared to the grasslands.

Gabria turned away from the edge and studied the big plateau around her. At first glance it seemed strangely empty.

There were no trees or shrubs or large boulders to break up the tableau, only a few scrubby, tough plants and some blotches of lichen on the flat ground. The only thing that caught her interest was a low pile of rocks lying in the center of the plateau.

She was perhaps thirty paces away from the pile when she saw something else. On the ground in front of her were two lines of smooth, round, grayish stones. One line curved away to the right and left in a huge arch; the second line intersected the first and ran directly to the pile of rocks.

Gabria followed the straight line of stones to the rock pile.

She saw immediately that the pile was a cairn, carefully shaped into a circle about two paces across and as high as a horse’s knees. Radiating out from the cairn were other equally spaced lines of stones. Gabria followed a second line out; the curved trail of stones circled the cairn and united each straight line into—Gabria nodded her head—into the shape of a giant wheel. She walked around the entire circumference of the huge design, marveling in the perfect curve of the circle and in the arrow-straight lines of the spokes. It was a remarkable creation.

If this is Valorian’s Wheel, Gabria thought, it has to be over five hundred years old. Despite weathering and time, the Wheel was in very good condition.

She shook her head in wonder at the dream behind the Wheel. Lord Valorian was a man known to many civilizations, for tales of his deeds had spread far beyond the limits of the plains. He was a hero-warrior and a chieftain, a man believed to be half-god. He traveled to Sorh in the realm of the dead to fight the gorthlings for Amara’s crown; he bred the Hunnuli from his own stallion and taught them to communicate with magic-wielders; he was the first human to tap into the powers of magic, and he led his people out of the miseries of their old land to a new home beyond the mountains. After his death, his twelve sons spread out across their new land and formed the twelve clans of Valorian, preserving their father’s heritage and passing on the talent to wield magic.

Gabria smiled and thought Valorian might be pleased to find one of his descendants had come back to see his wheel.

Without warning Nara neighed a cry of welcome. They Come! she trumpeted.

Gabria turned in astonishment. She had never heard Nara sound so joyful. Her eyes followed the horse’s gaze to the high pass where the light of morning was streaming onto the mountain face. A herd of dark horses galloped down between the peaks, their manes flying and their tails raised like royal banners. Snow flew from their hooves, and the thunder of their coming rumbled over the plateau.

With the sun reflecting off the rocks and the snow, it was difficult for Gabria to clearly see the horses; then she rocked back in astonishment. She clambered up to the top of the cairn for a better view. As they drew closer, she recognized them immediately, for the horses were huge and black. They were all Hunnuli.

They galloped onto the plateau where Nara pranced to join them, and the entire herd neighed their welcome to the mare and the woman. They flowed into a circle around Gabria, following the curve of the wheel.

She tried to count them, but there were too many and they raced by her in a boisterous, wild run. Their black coats gleamed in the sunlight, and a blazon of white lightning marked each horse at the shoulder. Her mouth slightly open, Gabria stared at the magnificent mares and stallions. Her heart sang with their delight.

At last the Hunnuli slowed down and stopped. They wheeled to face the woman, their breath billowing in clouds around them. A stallion broke away from the ring, trotted forward, and nodded his head to Gabria.

He was huge. Even on the cairn of stones, the woman’s head barely reached his nose. She realized immediately he was the King Stallion. His great strength was molded in the muscles of his neck and legs; his eyes glowed with a deep, abiding wisdom. White hairs of age covered his muzzle, yet his step was powerful. A regal courage showed in his every movement and toss of his head.

We greet you, Sorceress, he told Gabria. The stallions thoughts to her were proud but kind.

She swept back her cloak and bowed low to the majestic horse.

We have waited a long time for the magic-wielders to return, he continued. The Hunnuli were bred and born to be the companions of humans with the ability to use the powers of magic wisely. We have missed them. You are the first in a long time to return to the arts. For that we are greatly pleased.

Gabria stared at the stallion, her eyes huge. She had no idea what to say to him. Sensing her confusion, Nara left the circle of Hunnuli and came to stand beside her.

The King Stallion turned his dark eyes to Nara. Serve her well, Gabria heard him tell the mare. She must continue her work if sorcery is to return to the clans.

The mare agreed with a neigh.

Gabria spoke up, “Nara has been my friend beyond all imagining. She has served me very well indeed.”

And so shall her sons, the stallion replied. Then he dropped his head down to Gabria’s height, arching his massive neck, and looked at her through the long hairs of his forelock. Sorceress, we have asked you to come to Valorian’s Wheel so we can warn you. Someone, some human, is tampering with magic beyond their control. He shook his mane angrily.

You know the Hunnuli cannot be harmed or altered by magic, but we are innately sensitive to it and to any change in the forms of magic. Lately, we have sensed strange vibrations emanating from the east. These frighten us, for we believe the powers of magic are being abused.

Gabria looked away, her eyes thoughtful.

The stallion snorted. You know who it is?

“Possibly. An exiled chieftain may be in Pra Desh. We think he has the Book of Matrah,”

Then, Sorceress, you must go. Find the source of this tainted magic before something terrible happens that you cannot challenge or reverse.

Gabria paled. “Do you know what he is doing?”

The Hunnuli lifted his head to the east, his nostrils flaring. That is unclear to us. The only thing we know is this magic-wielder is unskilled in handling the powers he is trying to use. He must be stopped.

Gabria felt her heart sink. Oh gods, not now, she cried to herself. To the stallion she forced her reply: “I understand.”

Good. The stallion neighed a command, and a smaller, younger male broke away from the herd and joined Nara. The stallion bowed his head to Gabria.

It would be wise if you took other humans with you, the king told her. Particularly the chieftain, Athlone. He would be a great help to you. Eurus will go with you. Lord Athlone will need a mount befitting his talent.

Gabria eyed the young stallion doubtfully. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but Athlone is very reluctant to admit his powers. Now that his stallion, Boreas, is dead, he may not accept another Hunnuli.”

The King Stallion snorted, a noise that sounded much like laughter. We will let Athlone and Eurus work out their own relationship. I’m certain the chieftain will come to his senses.

The woman’s mouth tightened, for she knew Athlone’s stubborn nature. “I hope so,” she muttered.

With a toss of his head, the king signaled his herd. The horses neighed and pranced forward.

Farewell, Sorceress, he said to Gabria. We will come if you need us. Then he wheeled and galloped back up the plateau, the other Hunnuli falling in behind him.

Before Gabria could draw another breath, the horses were gone. The thunder of their hooves echoed on the peaks and faded. An empty quiet fell on the plateau. She gazed at the twin peaks, wishing the Hunnuli would return, wondering if she would ever see their like again.

Nara nickered to her softly. When Valorian brought the clans over that pass and built this wheel to celebrate their journey, they had over two hundred Hunnuli in their midst. Now our herd has barely thirty. Our numbers are dwindling rapidly, Gabria. Without magic and magic-wielders to give us purpose, our mares and stallions do not always mate. Our breed will disappear.

Eurus snorted in agreement.

“May the gods forbid that ever happening!” Gabria said vehemently. She vaulted onto Nara’s back. “Let’s go home.”

The two Hunnuli fell in side by side and made their way down the mountain at a more careful pace. By late afternoon they had reached the foothills and turned south toward Khulinin Treld.

Two days later Gabria and the Hunnuli arrived at the Khulinin camp, just as the horns were blowing to send the evening outriders off on their duties. She rode Nara past Marakor, the tall summit that guarded the entrance to the valley, and waved to the startled outriders standing guard nearby.

She smiled to herself as one of the guardians galloped toward camp to warn Lord Athlone. Nara trotted placidly along the path to the treld, Eurus close by her side. By the time the two Hunnuli reached the training fields by the camp, Gabria could see activity at the chieftain’s hall. A moment later a horseman came galloping down the hill to meet her. It was Athlone.

Even from a distance Gabria could see his anger. His body was rigid on the horse, and his face was dark with fury. He reined his stallion to a halt in front of Nara.

“In the name of all the gods,” he shouted, his eyes on Gabria. “Where have you been?”

Before the startled woman could answer, Eurus came around behind Nara and snorted at the chieftain.

Athlone stared at the second Hunnuli, his anger retreating a little before his surprise and curiosity. “Who is that?”

I am Eurus, brother of Boreas, the young Hunnuli replied.

By this time the members of the hearthguard and the other warriors had caught up with their lord. They gathered close by him, their faces interested but wary. Other clan members clustered around, staring and pointing at Gabria and the two Hunnuli.

Casually, Gabria glanced at the clanspeople to gauge their welcome. She was relieved to see they showed no oven hostility, only curiosity. The priestess of Amara stood at the back of the crowd, a wise smile on her face as she nodded a welcome. Athlone seemed to be the only one disturbed by her return. This time, however, she was not troubled by his reaction. The chief was a volatile man, and Gabria sensed his anger was fed mostly by concern.

Instead of rising to meet his rage, she merely asked, “How did you know I was gone?”

Athlone tore his eyes away from Eurus. “Piers went to find you five days ago. He told me you had left. There was no sign of where you were going, when—or even if—you would return.”

She smiled. “You should have known that I would return.”

Athlone nodded once, sharply, unwilling to give up his anger that easily. “Where did you go?”

“Heretic!” someone suddenly shouted from the edge of the crowd. Thalar shouldered his way through the people and planted himself in front of Nara. “Be warned. Your exile is over, but this clan will not tolerate your evil magic!”

Nara snorted menacingly, but the furious priest ignored her and shook his fist at the young woman. “Your presence curses us, Sorceress, and your foul heresies bring our doom. Leave us in peace!”

“Thalar!” the chieftain said sharply.

Nara, however, had had enough. Her head snaked forward, and she snapped at the priest, her teeth coming dangerously close to his head. The crowd gasped as Thalar stumbled backward, his eyes wide with shock.

“That will be enough,” Athlone demanded.

Thalar started to say something, but the Hunnuli mare flattened her ears, and he stepped hastily back. Glaring ferociously, the priest withdrew to the edge of the crowd.

The sorceress ignored him. She patted Nara and said to Athlone, “Please, Lord, could we go to the hall? The Hunnuli are hungry, and I am very tired. I will tell you everything over a hot meal.”

The chieftain nodded and said with genuine relief, “Welcome home.” He glanced back at the hall with a strange expression of regret. “There is someone else who has been waiting for you.”

“Oh?” Gabria asked. She felt a tug of foreboding, but Athlone dismounted without a reply and handed his reins to a warrior. Gabria, too, slid off her horse. The mare gently nudged her rider before she and Eurus trotted back to the meadows.

Gabria watched them go. Standing beside her, Athlone studied the sorceress’s features and marveled that a face capable of showing such love could also have such strength.

The crowd began to disperse to their own tents and cooking fires. Athlone, Gabria, and several hearthguard warriors walked up the hill to the entrance of the hall.

Twilight was settling into the valley. Once inside the open doors of the hall, Gabria noticed the lamps were lit and a fire was burning in the central hearth. A haunch of meat had been set to the side of the fire, ready for the chieftain, his family, and any other warrior who wanted to eat in the hall. Lady Tungoli and her serving girls were setting up the trestle tables before bringing in the meal.

Gabria said softly, “It’s good to be home.” The chieftain overheard her, and the quiet pleasure of her words evaporated the vestiges of his anger. He offered her his arm, and they walked into the hall together.

As Gabria and the men ate their meal and talked, Piers, Cantrell, and a stocky, ruddy-skinned man Gabria did not recognize came to join them. Other clanspeople sat close by, listening. Lady Tungoli organized her serving girls and also joined the group to hear the talk. No one bothered to introduce Gabria to the stranger in their midst.

Sitting beside Athlone’s dais, Gabria told them all about her vision, her journey to Corin Treld, and the burial mound she had found there. She did not mention her own catharsis, but those who knew her well sensed the new peace and assurance in her manner. She went on to describe the Wheel and her meeting with the Hunnuli. Her listeners sat spellbound as she told of the black horses and their king.

When she repeated the King Stallion’s warning about Branth, the stranger sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Lord Athlone, I—” he began.

The chieftain waved him to silence. “A moment, please, Khan’di.” He turned back to Gabria. “You haven’t told us yet why you have a second Hunnuli.”

Gabria lingered over her cup of wine for a moment before answering. “The King Stallion sent him.”

“Why?”

“He thought you needed a mount befitting your abilities.”

Athlone looked up at the ceiling, the lines on his face taut. “I have a good mount. One befitting a chieftain.”

The warriors around him stared at their chief in surprise. Any among them would have traded their swordarms for a Hunnuli to ride, but Gabria looked into Athlone’s face and understood his refusal. She sipped her wine and let the subject drop. The King Stallion’s advice was wise. She would let Athlone and Eurus work out their difficulties.

Athlone, meanwhile, settled back into his seat and acquiesced to her silence. He had no wish to push the subject further. Instead he poured more wine into his cup and passed the silver ewer to the stranger. “Khan’di Kadoa, now you know why we have been unable to find Lady Gabria,” the chieftain said with a twist of wry humor. “Perhaps now you would tell her why you are here.”

Gabria finally got a good look at the stranger when he rose from the table and bowed to her. She guessed he was about fifty years old, for his short-cropped hair was gray and his heavy face was deeply lined around the mouth and forehead.

He was dressed simply in a pair of leggings and a knee-length hooded shirt, but there was nothing simple about the massive gold seal ring on his index finger. He met her scrutiny with a sharp, interested gaze of his own, and Gabria recognized immediately that this man was no fool.

“Lady, I am Khan’di Kadoa, a nobleman and merchant from the great city of Pra Desh, capital of the kingdom of Calah,” he said smoothly. “I have come to talk to you about this exile, Branth. As I have told your chieftain, Branth has been in Pra Desh over six months now and has been causing nothing but trouble.”

Gabria shifted in her seat. “What has he been doing?”

“He has an old book of spells and the ability, however feeble, to use them.” The man leaned forward, his dark eyes piercing under a line of bushy eyebrows. “When he first arrived, he ignored our laws forbidding sorcery and tried to sell his services. Then, he simply stole or conjured what he wanted. Before long he had the entice city in an uproar. He became such a problem that the city guards tried to arrest him. He killed them all. Then the ruler of our city, the Fon, captured him.”

A note of suppressed rage hardened the nobleman’s voice. “The Fon is an ambitious woman. She not only wants to rule Pra Desh, but Calah and the other Five Kingdoms, as well. She has already laid her plans to take over the rest of the country and invade our neighbor, Portane, in just two months’ time. Somehow, she has coerced this Branth into serving her. She uses his book and his power to strip our fine city, all to build her armies. She will lay waste to Pra Desh just to satisfy her insatiable lust for power.” Khan’di paused. When he spoke again his voice was calmer.

“Lady Gabria, Branth’s presence has become intolerable. I beg of you, please come to Pra Desh and remove this man before the Fon fulfills her plans. I know I am asking a great deal, but if you could just take him away, the people of Pra Desh—nay, of all Calah—would rise up and deal with the Fon themselves.”

The hall went very quiet as the clansmen waited for a response. Gabria looked at Athlone’s stony face, then at the splinter of the Fallen Star, the mark of a magic-wielder, glowing redly just under the skin of her wrist.

Sadly, she touched the bright spot. After the Hunnuli’s warning and this news from the Pra Deshian, Gabria felt that she had no choice. She would have to try to find Branth before he wrecked havoc on the city or returned to the clans to take Medb’s place. She knew, too, what she would have to postpone her marriage to Athlone. It wouldn’t be right, beginning their life as husband and wife under such difficult circumstances.

“Athlone,” she said into the silence. “He’s right. I must go to Pra Desh as soon as possible.”

At first the chief did not respond. He sat and stared into the fire for several long moments, his expression showing no trace of the conflict that warred within him. Finally he seemed to reach a decision, for he tossed out the dregs of his wine and slammed his cup on the arm of the stone seat. He did not notice that the horn cup split from the force of the blow.

Rising, he said tersely to the men around him, “It is late. We will make plans for the journey tomorrow. Gabria will go to Pra Desh.”

His companions were startled by the abruptness of his dismissal. They stood and began to leave the hall.

“Bregan,” Athlone called to one of the warriors. “Stay. I need to talk to you.”

Gabria gazed at the chief’s back, trying to hide her hurt. He had accepted her decision without a word; perhaps he didn’t care after all. Since her return from the temple, she had found Athlone to be angry, irritable, and interested only in the news she could give. She began to wonder if she had misread him earlier. He was not worried that she was missing, simply angry that she had disobeyed his command by leaving the temple to go to Corin Treld. Perhaps in six months he had already changed his mind about her. She rose to go, her heart heavy. She looked up when Piers touched her sleeve.

The healer read the look in her eyes and understood.

“Don’t take his rudeness to heart. The responsibilities of a chieftain weigh heavily on him tonight,” he said gently.

She looked up at her old friend and squeezed his arm. “It’s not very often you defend Athlone.” The healer’s pale eyes met hers with sympathy and caring.

“I’m fond of you both. Don’t worry. Athlone will come around as soon as he straightens out his own thoughts.”

Wearily she nodded, more hope than conviction in her heart, and the healer took her arm. “Come,” he said. “I have your old sleeping place ready for you.” He led Gabria out of the hall and down the path toward his tent. She looked back at the hall entrance, hoping Athlone would call to her, but the lord was talking to a warrior and did not even seem to notice she had left. She bowed her head and hurried on with Piers.

In the hall, Lord Athlone paced back and forth by the fire pit. The hall was momentarily empty, save for Bregan. The warrior was standing silently by the dais, waiting for his chieftain to speak.

Bregan was twenty years older than Athlone and a handspan shorter. His dark hair, worn short, was graying, and a black and silver beard trimmed his square face. He was dressed in a warm tunic and pants with none of the ornamentation or gold jewelry that was the privilege of a warrior of his experience. His features were well-defined, but in the past winter a deep sadness had left permanent lines on his forehead and face. Bregan watched his lord despondently, for he knew what Athlone was going to ask him and what he would have to answer.

Lord Athlone finally stopped pacing and said, “Bregan, I have asked you twice to be wer-tain and both times you refused. I have to ask you again. I need you as commander of my warriors.”

Bregan shifted uncomfortably. “Lord, you know I can’t.”

Athlone held up his hand. “Before you refuse again, hear me out. I am going to Pra Desh with Lady Gabria.”

The warrior did not look surprised. “Good. Branth must die,” he said flatly.

“And Gabria must not,” Athlone muttered. He put his hands on the older man’s shoulders. “I understand how you feel, but I am chieftain now and I must leave this clan in capable hands. The journey will take months. You have the wisdom to rule in my stead, and you still hold the respect of the werod. There is no one else I trust as much.”

“Lord, you do me great honor, but please choose another! I cannot go back on my vow.”

Athlone studied the man before him and saw the adamant refusal in Bregan’s eyes. Of Lord Savaric’s five hearthguard warriors who had been with him the day of his murder, only two still survived. Two of the warriors had chosen suicide instead of facing the shame and dishonor of their failure. One warrior had died of an illness on the way back to Khulinin Treld—some said he had lost the will to live. The fourth withdrew from the werod and each day drank himself into a stupor.

Only Bregan remained a warrior. After Savaric’s death, he voluntarily stripped himself of his status and the gifts he had won for distinguished service, then placed himself in the bottom rank with the young warriors in training. He would begin again, he had told Athlone, and work to regain his lost honor.

The chief shook his head. He could respect Bregan’s choice, but it did not help him solve his dilemma. He had not yet chosen a wer-tain for the clan in the hope that Bregan would eventually accept. Now he had to decide on someone else quickly. He dropped his hands from Bregan’s shoulders and resumed pacing.

“Do you have any suggestions?” he asked.

“Guthlac would serve you well.”

“He’s too young.”

Bregan’s mouth lifted in a slight smile. “He is several years older than you were when you became wer-tain.”

Athlone stopped pacing, his face thoughtful. “I will think about it.”

“He is a good warrior, and the others approve of him. He has been an excellent mentor for the younger men.”

“Isn’t he also your cousin?” Athlone asked, his eyebrow arched. The older man smiled, then the chieftain found himself mirroring the expression. “I will think about it,” he repeated.

Bregan stepped forward. “Lord, will you consider something else?” Athlone turned slightly, surprised by the note of pleading in the warrior’s voice.

“Allow me to come with you,” Bregan said. “I failed your father, but I swear by my life I will not fail you. You will need guards. Let me be one of them.”

“This will not be an easy journey. Gabria goes to face a sorcerer.”

“I know that. Lady Gabria will need protection, too.”

“Pack your gear,” Athlone ordered.

“Thank you, Lord.” Bregan saluted the chief and withdrew, leaving Athlone in the chaos of his own thoughts. The young lord paced for a few more minutes, then left the hall and walked up a path to the top of the hill overlooking the camp. A large, flat rock lay among some scrubby bushes at the edge of the slope. It was Athlone’s favorite place, for it afforded a view of the entire valley.

He gathered his cloak close against the night wind, sat on the rock, and studied the glorious clouds and patterns of stars breaking the monotony of the black sky. In front of him, a full moon sailed high above the plains. He looked down on the encampment. The black tents melted into the darkness, but here and there pools of firelight gave shape to the sleeping camp.

Usually this view of Khulinin Treld gave Athlone solace and strengthened his sense of purpose. Tonight, it only made his confusion more acute. Duty to his clan had always been his sole obligation. When his father had been alive and Athlone was only wer-tain, that duty was clear and simple: defend the chieftain and the clan with his strength of arms and his battle-wit. Now he was chieftain and his sense of duty was split. He still had to care for and defend the Khulinin, but he also had to avenge his father’s murder, sustain the honor of the clan, and struggle to maintain peace with the other clans on the plains. To make matters more complicated, he loved a heretical sorceress more than life itself and feared for her safety. He Was still ambivalent about sorcery, especially his own talent, yet his love for Gabria was undeniable.

Athlone looked up at the deep black firmament and prayed he had made the right decision to go to Pra Desh. He would choose Guthlac to serve as wer-tain while he was gone. Hopefully the clan gods would watch over the Khulinin until he could return.

The chieftain shook his head and stood up. The decision was made; nothing could be served by worrying the matter to death. There were problems to settle, plans to make, and a journey to begin. For good or ill, he was going to Pra Desh with Gabria.

Calmer now, he strode back down the hill and returned to his quarters in the hall. He thought about going to Piers’s tent to see Gabria, but the night was late and she had suffered from the long journey. He decided to wait until morning, when she was rested. He knew he hadn’t given her a very pleasant welcome that evening; in the morning he would - apologize and make up for his bad temper.

With a yawn, Athlone laid his sword by the bed and settled down on the wool-stuffed mattress. He was asleep in moments, dreaming of Gabria.