Lightning's Daughter

5

For five days the party followed the Goldrine River as it flowed northeast then east across the grasslands of Ramtharin, toward its junction with the Isin River.

Ignoring the cold winds and incessant rains, the riders traveled fast from dawn to dusk, stopping only at noon to eat and rest the horses. True to Nara’s word, the foal had no trouble keeping up with the other horses and seemed to thrive on his mother’s milk and the constant exercise. The people slowly settled into the routine of the trail, too, as their muscles adjusted to the long hours of riding and their minds grew accustomed to each other’s constant company.

Gabria divided her time between Athlone, Piers, and Khan’di. Although she did not care for the nobleman from Pra Desh, he enjoyed talking to her and was a fountain of information and advice. While Piers told her about Pra Desh’s history, culture, and society, Khan’di filled her in on the changes that had been taking place in the government, economy, and politics during the past few years.

“The kingdom of Calah is ruled by a king,” he explained one afternoon, “but the capital city, Pra Desh, is ruled by the Fon.”

“The king allows that?” Gabria asked in surprise.

Khan’di chuckled. “He usually doesn’t have much choice. The Fon controls the vast flow of goods to and from the Five Kingdoms, so he or she holds more wealth and power than the king. It is not the easiest of situations. There has been constant feuding between the king and the Fon for generations.”

“Where is your king now?”

The nobleman’s brow lowered in anger. “About eleven years ago, the king of Calah died in a mysterious accident, leaving a son too young to rule. Fast on the heels of that disaster, the Fon was poisoned. His body wasn’t even cold when his wife snatched control of the city and the kingdom. She still holds them both—in the name of the young prince, of course.”

“Why hasn’t the prince reclaimed his throne?”

“No one knows where he is. The Fon held him prisoner for a few years, but we have not seen him recently. I’m afraid she may have disposed of him.” The nobleman fell silent after that and rode with his expression frozen and his eyes as hard as rock.

The next day, during another talk, he told Gabria more about Branth’s arrival in Pra Desh.

“The man was a fool,” Khan’di said in disgust. “He ensconced himself in a big house in one of the wealthiest districts of the city and began flaunting himself in the highest social circles. He made no secret of his talent as a magic-wielder, but he was smart enough not to use his power openly. Then odd things began to happen. Gold was stolen out of locked safes, gem shipments disappeared, and ships sank in the harbor for no apparent reason. Men who angered Branth were financially ruined.” Khan’di shook his head. “By the time someone tied the crimes to Branth it was too late. The Fon sent a detachment of her own guards to arrest him, but he’d had plenty of time to set up his defenses. His house was fortified and his power too great to overcome. He blasted the captain of the guard with a strange blue fire.”

“The Trymian Force,” Gabria said softly.

“The what?”

“It’s a force drawn from the magic-wielder’s own energy.” She grimaced. “It can be very deadly.”

Khan’di nodded. “It certainly was. Branth wiped out an entire company of heavily armed men with it.”

“How did the Fon finally capture him?”

“The way she takes anything—through guile. She played on Branth’s vanities and lured him to the palace with the promise of an alliance.” The man broke off and surprised Gabria by glancing over his shoulder at Piers riding behind him. She thought for just a moment there was a flicker of regret in his dark eyes.

“I suppose the healer told you,” Khan’di continued, “that the Fon is an expert at poison?”

“He mentioned it,” she replied carefully.

“Well, she used a special poison of her own concoction to gain control of Branth’s mind and render him helpless. He still has his talent, but she has the book and controls his actions.”

Gabria looked pale. She despised Branth, but it was hard to imagine the powerful, ambitious chieftain trapped in the grip of an insidious poison. It gave her the shivers. “Can she make him do anything?”

“The man is a total prisoner.”

“What will happen to him if we take him away from the Fon and her poisons? Will he regain his will?”

“I don’t know or care. Just remove him or kill him.” Khan’di twisted his mustache, a habit that showed when he was agitated. “We must get him away from the Fon before she invades Portane. If she attempts that, the entire Alardarian Alliance will shatter. Pra Desh will be ruined! I—”

Nara suddenly tossed her head, interrupting him. Gabria, someone comes. The mare whirled and faced a hill they had just passed. Eurus neighed a warning to the men, and the party drew in close to Nara and came to a halt.

At that moment, a lone horseman appeared on the crest of the hill and waved to them in apparent excitement. He was too far away to recognize, yet they all saw he was not a clansman. He was a Turic tribesman from the southern desert. Gabria glanced worriedly at Athlone, and the hearthguard gathered around their lord, their hands resting on their swords.

The horse came toward them at a full gallop, his ears pinned back and his tail flying. The man leaned back in his stirrups and greeted the party with a wild, high-pitched ululation. The afternoon sun glittered on the great curved sword by his side, and the burnoose he wore flew out behind him like a flag.

He reined his horse to a snorting, prancing stop directly in front of Nara and Gabria and swept off his hood. “Sorceress!” he cried. “I have been looking everywhere for you!”

Gabria was so surprised she could only stare down at the man. He was young and lean, with the dark skin and brown eyes common to Turic tribesman. His black hair was worn in an intricate knot behind his head. His face was clean-shaven, revealing the strong, narrow lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Gabria thought he was compellingly handsome, and he met her confused stare with a bold, masculine look of pleasure.

He ignored the other men, who were watching him with varying degrees of curiosity and wariness, and dismounted from his horse. He came to stand by Gabria’s foot. “You are Gabria of Clan Corin,” he stated, looking into her face. “I know it. I am Sayyed Raid-Ja, seventh son of Dultar of Sharja. I, too, am a magic-wielder. I would like to travel with you and learn your sorcery.”

Gabria felt her jaw drop.

“Absolutely not!” Athlone thundered.

“Why not?” Sayyed asked reasonably, turning to the chief for the first time. “Lord Athlone, forgive me. I was so pleased to find the sorceress that I forgot my duty to you. Greetings!”

Athlone nodded curtly. He had taken an instant dislike to this man, and he did not appreciate the way the Turic was looking at Gabria. “Good day to you, son of Dultar. Please stand aside. We must be on our way.”

“That’s impossible,” Gabria mumbled.

“What?” Sayyed and Athlone said at once.

The woman quickly gathered her wits and turned to the tribesman. “How can you be a magic-wielder? Only clan blood carries that talent.”

Sayyed flashed a grin at her. “My mother was of Clan Ferganan. She was captured one day near a waterhole by my father. He sought a slave to sell in the market that day, but it was he who became a slave to a wife and twelve children.”

“You are half-clan?” Piers exclaimed.

Khan’di shrugged. “It is enough.”

“How do you know you are a magic-wielder?” Athlone demanded.

A mischievous twinkle danced in Sayyed’s glance. He stooped down, picked up a handful of dirt, and tossed it into the air. The earth and stones flew high, then exploded into a cloud of shimmering blue butterflies.

The unexpected fluttering startled Khan’di’s gelding. It snorted in fear, spun around, and slammed into Athlone’s stallion. The Harachan horses picked up the gelding’s panic and leaped into a frenzied attempt to escape.

“Of all the stupid things to do,” Athlone yelled from the back of his bucking stallion. “Get rid of those things!”

Sayyed spoke a command and the butterflies vanished. He tried to look contrite as the riders calmed their mounts.

He is a magic-wielder, Nara told Gabria, though how much use butterflies will be against Branth I cannot say.

“All right,” Gabria said, trying not to laugh. “You are who you say you are. Why do you want to come with me?”

Sayyed threw his arms wide in excitement. “To learn! My father has enough sons to bother with, so I can do what I want. I want you to teach me about sorcery.”

“It looks like you know enough already,” Khan’di remarked dryly.

“Only a trifle I have learned by accident. I want to know more.”

“No,” Gabria said. She was thoroughly taken aback. “I can’t teach you, I hardly know enough myself.”

“Well, then, I might help you. They told me at Khulinin Treld that you are going to battle another sorcerer. Let me come. If you can’t teach me, maybe I can help.”

“I don’t think . . .” Gabria began.

“Isn’t sorcery forbidden by the Turic?” Athlone interrupted in annoyance.

Sayyed locked his gaze with Athlone’s and said, “Yes. And since I have been outlawed from my people, I decided that I should die doing what I was born to do.”

His words and their obvious sincerity touched Gabria to the core, stirring the similar feelings she had about magic. To hear another person state a desire for sorcery so honestly was all she needed to win her trust. The King Stallion had advised her to take other humans with her. Why not another magic-wielder?

She held out her hand palm up. “Come, Sayyed Raid-Ja. If you’re so certain, maybe I can use your help.”

“No!” Athlone snarled, but his protest was lost in Sayyed’s shout of glee as he clasped Gabria’s hand to seal the deal.

Nara began to move, and the whole party fell in beside her, leaving Athlone fuming on his mount. The chieftain kicked his horse forward and caught up with Gabria. To him, her expression looked maddeningly pleased.

The chief gritted his teeth. Unless the Turic changed his mind and left, it looked like they were stuck with him. The man had already swung his horse in behind Nara and was whistling a tune to himself. Short of driving him off at swordpoint, there was nothing Athlone could do about him.

“What possessed you to invite him along?” Athlone said coldly to Gabria. “You don’t need his help. And we don’t have time to mollycoddle an irresponsible boy.”

Gabria was stung. Her eyes £lashing dangerously, she leaned over and snapped, “The King Stallion told me to bring others with me. I am following his advice.”

“Why him? He’s a Turic. He’ll just be in the way,” Athlone replied, his fury mounting.

Gabria glared at him, hurt and angry. On this journey she needed all the support and trust Athlone could give her. She could not understand why he was being so vehement about this stranger. “Because he sought me out. Because he cares about what he is. Because he is a magic-wielder and I may need him!” Her last word broke off sharply, and she lapsed into silence.

Athlone studied her for a long time, watching the way her blond hair curled around her ear, how her small nose turned up slightly at the end, and how the freckles on her cheeks stood out when she was angry. She was so lovely it made his heart sing and yet, sometimes she was so strange and distant to him; he did not know how to reach her. All he could do was try to understand, but that hardly seemed enough.

The chieftain let out a long breath. “Perhaps you’re right,” he told Gabria, his voice still sharp with anger. “Not all magic-wielders are willing to use their powers. One like the Turic might be useful.”

“You have the talent, too, Athlone,” she said quietly.

“And no desire to use it.” The chief shifted his weight and kicked his horse forward. For the rest of the afternoon he rode the point, well ahead of Gabria, Sayyed, and the others.

Gabria and Athlone had little chance to bridge the rift over the next few days. Gabria felt she was in the right in their dispute over the Turic’s presence and did not try to approach the chieftain with apologies or contrition. Athlone, in turn, had few opportunities to talk to her. Every time he tried, he was called away by the warriors or interrupted by Piers or Khan’di.

Sayyed did not help matters, either. The young Turic made himself at home with the company. He laughed and joked with the warriors—Secen, Keth, and Valar; helped Bregan hunt for meat; talked medicine with Piers; and discussed the merits of fabrics and spices from the South with Khan’di. But he saved the best of his attentions for Gabria. He used every chance he had to be near her, whether Athlone was there or not.

The sorceress was resting upon Nara’s back one afternoon while the mare paused for a drink. Seeing an opportunity to talk to Gabria alone, Athlone waved his men on and went to join her and the Hunnuli on the riverbank. She looked at him curiously and a little warily, as if expecting the outbreak of another argument.

“Gabria, I—” he began. Then he stopped, for it dawned on him that he really did not know what he wanted to say to her.

“Lord Athlone!” Bregan yelled. “Secen is signaling.”

The chieftain cursed under his breath and looked for the warrior, who was riding the point. Secen was atop a far hill, signaling the presence of other riders. Athlone left Gabria and hurried to investigate. By the time he checked the two riders Secen had spotted and made sure they had not seen his party, Gabria had joined Sayyed.

The chief’s face darkened with anger as he watched the two of them together. Sayyed had found some early wildflowers and had made a crown for Gabria. They were talking and laughing like old friends as she fastened the ring of flowers in her hair.

Athlone spurred his horse away so they could not see the doubt and anger on his face.

On the evening of the twelfth day, Gabria and her companions reached the Tir Samod—the name given to the holy joining of the Goldrine and Isin Rivers—where the clans of Valorian had gathered every summer for countless generations. They arrived before sunset and made camp in the grove of cottonwood trees near the place where the council tent usually stood. To the clansmen the meadows looked empty and strange without the big camps, the bustling market, the huge council tent, and the throngs of people, dogs, and horses that crowded the site every year. Except for the ripple and rush of the two rivers and the wind sweeping through the bare trees, the place was quiet and peaceful.

For the first time in several days the sky was cloudless and the sun set with the promise of another clear day. After the evening meal, the warriors settled down by the fire to clean their weapons and tack. Piers examined his medical supplies to see if any had been spoiled by the intermittent rains of the past twelve days. Khan’di sat on his cushion and cleaned his nails.

For a short time, Gabria watched Nara and her baby as the colt frolicked in some shallow water. Beyond the horses, the gold light of sunset illuminated the circle of standing stones on the holy island of the gods in the middle of the rivers. Gabria looked at the island and then beyond to the far banks.

Every year when the clans gathered, each one encamped on the same site. The Corins had always made their camp to the north of the island on a wide, grassy bend of the Isin.

With little thought, Gabria took off her boots and waded across the gentle rapids of the Isin to the opposite side. She climbed the low bank and meandered slowly toward the trees that identified her clan’s ground. As in the treld far to the north, there was little here to mark the passing of the Corins: a few old fire pits, a refuse pile that would last only until the next flood, and some cut trees. Like the Corins’ meadow, there was also a burial mound. It had been left by the Khulinin when they camped on the Corin ground the previous summer.

Gabria wandered to the mound and stood gazing at the one spear and helmet that still adorned the single grave. The rustling of the grass alerted her to the presence of someone else in the campsite. She turned, smiling, thinking it was Athlone.

“Someone you know?” Sayyed asked.

The woman shook her head and pushed her disappointment aside. She had wanted Athlone, but Sayyed was good company, too. In the few days she had known him he had already become a close friend, someone with whom she felt comfortable and happy. She crossed her arms and said, “I didn’t know him except by name. He was Pazric, second wer-tain of the Khulinin. He was the first to be deliberately murdered by sorcery in over two hundred years.”

“Oh? I hadn’t heard about him. Tell me.”

“Lord Medb killed him during a council meeting of the chiefs last summer. It was the first time Medb displayed his powers.”

Sayyed stared down at the mound. “That must have been terrible,” he said with sincerity.

Gabria turned away. All at once she was overwhelmed by memories of that harrowing, event-filled day—the day Pazric had died; the day she had attended the council to accuse Medb; the day Savaric had forced Lord Medb to reveal his sorcery. Her throat tightened, and she blinked as the light of sunset blurred and shimmered through sudden tears.

Quickly Sayyed put his arm around her waist. He was rather short for a Turk and Gabria was tall for a clanswoman, so their heads were level as he pulled her close. She leaned against him and drew solace from the comfort of his strong arms and the warmth of his presence.

Her sadness slowly disappeared until her mouth curved up in a faint smile. “You remind me of my brother, Gabran.”

Sayyed masked a grimace with a chuckle. “Why?” he asked, hiding his disappointment. “Was your brother handsome?”

She laughed. “Yes, and kind, as strong and cunning as a wolf. He could also make me laugh.” She sighed softly. “I loved him very much.”

He tightened his arm around her. They stood for a long while in the afterglow of twilight, silhouetted against the pale gold luminescence that hung in the western sky.

From his place by the fire, Athlone watched the two distant figures and felt his heart grow heavy. The Turic was intruding deeper and deeper into Gabria’s life. He had only been with the travelers for seven days and already she was fascinated by him, this energetic tribesman who plainly worshiped her. A boil of jealousy emptied in Athlone’s mind, fed by his pride and uncertainty.

To the chieftain, the most frustrating thing was his own confusion. His relationship with Gabria was still new to him—they never seemed to get a chance to let their feelings develop without something getting in the way. Now this Turic was with them, and Athlone was no longer sure where he stood. Worst of all, he didn’t know what to do about it! Gabria was intelligent, self-reliant, and determined. She had proven her courage and worth ten times over. If she wished to give her love to Sayyed instead of him, then Athlone felt she had earned that right. Gabria had suffered enough heartache and pain without being forced into a relationship she no longer desired. Of course, that did not mean Athlone had to like being put aside.

He slammed the sword he was cleaning into its scabbard and strode out into the darkness. It was easy to tell himself that he could let her go if she chose to leave, but the thought of losing her was tearing him apart. Without thinking, he wandered to the small field where the horses grazed. There he stood, staring into the night, searching for the familiar shape of his old friend, Boreas.

The search was futile, and Athlone knew it; Boreas had been slain in the final battle with Medb the previous summer. That didn’t lessen the chieftain’s need for his old steed, though. Just as Nara was Gabria’s friend and confidant, Boreas had been his companion and advisor.

Athlone frowned and readied himself to return to camp, but something moving in the darkness stopped him. It was the great black bulk of a Hunnuli, a stallion like Boreas. The chieftain’s heart leaped with hope and fear. His ghost, perhaps, returning from the dead to aid me when I most need his advice?

The Hunnuli came to his side, but it was not Athlone’s long-dead steed. An unfamiliar pair of wise eyes gleamed at him, and a deep, soothing voice said, I am not Boreas, Eurus told him. But I am here.

Thankfully the man leaned against the big horse and ran his hand through the stallion’s long, thick mane. He stood, stewing over his problem, his mind working like a boiling pot with bits of thought and feeling bubbling to the surface faster than he could follow them. He loved Gabria and did not want to lose her, yet he did not know how to win her back.

On the heels of those thoughts came the guilty notion that, perhaps, it would be better if he didn’t win her back. She was a sorceress. She should be with other magic-wielders, people like Sayyed who would appreciate and support her talent.

Athlone was chieftain of the largest and most respected clan on the plains. Even if Gabria survived this journey and the clan chieftains changed the laws forbidding sorcery, there would always be suspicion, distrust, and hatred for magic-wielders. He was not completely sure he was ready to accept the controversy and the constant battle for acceptance.

With that thought, a bubble of remorse boiled out of his mind. He was a magic-wielder, too. But it was so much easier to ignore that truth, to let Gabria go, and to live peacefully as a mere chieftain with his clan-like his father and his father’s father before him.

Athlone twisted the black mane into his fingers. He knew full well he couldn’t take that path and live with himself. No, winning Gabria’s heart was the important thing; somehow he would have to find a way to reconcile himself with his talent. If only he knew what to do.

He shook his head in frustration and pushed himself away from the Hunnuli.

The black horse nudged Athlone’s chest. Sometimes the heart speaks dearer than the mind, lord chieftain.

Athlone laughed humorlessly. “And sometimes they argue unmercifully.” He patted the horse and went back to the camp. After a word with the sentry, he retired to his small traveling tent. For Athlone, it was a very long night.