Lightning's Daughter

6

Gabria and Nara stood in rippling grass on the point of a high bluff and looked down on the green plains below. The woman shielded her eyes from the noon sun and peered downhill to the caravan trail that wound over the rolling grasslands like a giant snake. The route was not like the stone road near the fortress of Ab-Chakan. It was really nothing more than a dirt path worn into the ground by years of constant use. Nevertheless, it was wide and well marked, and the hooves of countless pack animals had pounded the surface to a rock-hard consistency. In some places the wagons and traders’ carts had cut wheel ruts several handspans deep.

Even now, as Gabria looked up the road, she could see the dust kicked up by a distant merchant caravan heading north toward Pra Desh. She glanced toward the south. The semi-arid high plains had gradually dropped down in elevation as Gabria’s party had journeyed east, and the rough grasses and shrubs had given way to lush meadows, scattered copses of trees, and small sparkling streams.

Coming up beside her, Bregan sat back in his saddle and stretched his legs. “It’s good to see that road,” he commented. “We should be about half way to Calah.”

“We are,” Khan’di noted as he joined them. “But we need to be closer. We’ve got to get to Pra Desh within twenty days.”

“Are you tiring of our journey already?” Piers asked in an icy tone.

Gabria glanced irritably at the healer as the rest of the men came up the hill. Piers and Khan’di had remained bitterly polite to each other, but their poorly hidden animosity was beginning to annoy her. She sighed and leaned her arms on Nara’s mane. After twenty days of constant traveling they all needed a change—especially Athlone. Gabria shot a look at the chieftain.

It was obvious something was bothering him. He was cool and distant to her, spoke to Sayyed only when he had to, and was short to everyone else. Gabria had tried several times to talk to him, but it was difficult to find time for privacy on the trail, and Athlone seemed to avoid her in night camp. After days of being ignored, Gabria was hurt and confused. It was much easier to deal with Sayyed. He was always there, warm and comforting with his ready smile and his easy wit.

Gabria could not help but wonder if Athlone had decided at last that he did not want her. The thought made her half-ill with dread. She had given him time to make up his mind, but deep in her heart she had always believed he would finally come to accept her for everything she was. Now she was not so certain. She fought down the queasy feeling in her stomach and tried to dredge up some hope.

The one good thing to come out of the journey was Athlone’s friendship with Eurus. Little by little, the man was spending more time with the horse, grooming him, feeding him special tidbits, or just talking to him late at night. The special bond between a Hunnuli and its rider was beginning to form. Gabria was pleased for Athlone’s sake. She decided it would be better if she did not interfere. Eurus knew what he was doing.

She pulled her cloak closer about her shoulders. The sun was shining, but the early spring winds were cold and damp with approaching rain. Far to the northwest a gray line of clouds was forming along a storm front that would bring rain by nightfall.

Piers looked at the clouds and shivered. He had a bad cold, despite all of his precautions. “I wish we had time to stop at Jehanan Treld. I would like to be under a real tent before that rain hits,” he muttered.

The company urged their horses downhill and joined the great caravan route to the north. With luck, Gabria thought, we will be in Pra Desh in another fifteen to twenty days.

A few hours later, the party was riding through a narrow creek bed lined with eroded gullies and budding trees. Bregan suddenly held up his hand and brought the party to a stop. Athlone cantered his horse forward. The others stayed back and watched as Bregan pointed to a far hill where a group of horsemen were coming down the slope. The chieftain rode back, smiling for the first time in days.

“We have visitors,” he told them cheerfully.

Bregan trotted ahead to meet the seven riders cantering toward the road. They were led by a horseman holding aloft the dark red banner of the Jehanan chieftain, Sha Umar.

The two groups met along the road. Sha Umar and Athlone greeted each other like old friends while the Jehanan warriors accompanying their lord saluted the Khulinin and stared in surprised awe at the three Hunnuli.

Lord Sha Umar grinned through his neatly trimmed beard at Gabria and saluted her. “Greetings, fair lady. I see you have increased your number of black horses.”

The sorceress returned his smile. She had always liked the Jehanan chief, for he had been one of the few lords to support her at the chiefs’ council after Medb’s death. She noticed his arm was still stiff from the wound he had received in the battle at the fortress, but his strong, tanned face was as healthy as ever, and his robust voice left no doubt as to his power and authority.

“Athlone,” he boomed. “You should have sent word you were coming! When one of my outriders told me he had spotted you on the road, I didn’t believe him. I had to come out here to see for myself.”

Athlone laughed. “My apologies, Sha Umar, but we’re traveling fast. We hadn’t planned to stop.”

“At least stay the night. The treld is not far. Besides,” he pointed to the sky “there’s a storm coming.”

The Khulinin chief followed his gesture to the dark clouds.

“I suppose we could use some supplies and a good night’s sleep.”

“Done!” Sha Umar exclaimed. He beamed with pleasure. “We don’t have time for a feast, but I can promise you a good meal and a dry tent. Come.”

The two chiefs rode ahead, side by side, and the others fell in behind.

Sha Umar lowered his voice so only Athlone could hear. “You are riding fast and without your cloaks. Your mission must be important.”

“Yes,” Athlone stated flatly.

“Would it have anything to do with Branth?”

Athlone assessed his friend for a moment before he answered. “Perhaps. But we do not want our journey to become common news.”

“That’s what I thought. Good. We can’t leave Branth loose with Medb’s old tome.”

Athlone agreed. “The clans couldn’t stand another war.”

“Exactly. What can we do about that blasted book?”

“What do you mean?” the Khulinin asked carefully.

Sha Umar slapped the horn of his saddle. “That tome! It’s caused nothing but trouble from the day it was found. What if you take it away from Branth and someone else gets his hands on it?” He paused as if embarrassed. “What would Gabria do if she had it?”

Athlone froze. “What are you implying?” he demanded, his voice harsh.

“Magic can corrupt, Athlone. It’s simply a fact of human nature. That much power could lead even the purest to stray into greed, selfishness, cruelty, or vanity. Gabria is controlling her powers now, but what if that book of knowledge fell into her hands? How would she react? What would she do?” He looked at his friend. “More to the point, what would you do?”

Athlone was silent for a long while. When he finally answered, his voice was deeply troubled. “By the gods, I don’t know.”

“You’d better think about that on your way to find Branth,” said Sha Umar.

The Khulinin chief looked away, and the two men, without another word, left the road and led the party east toward Jehanan Treld. The winter camp of Clan Jehanan was only a few leagues away, sheltered in a wide, green valley not far from the Sea of Tannis. The Jehanan numbered several hundred, and their clan was rich in pride and tradition. Although their treld was close to the sea and they often fished and gathered food in its waters, they remained stock breeders and horsemen who followed their herds across the plains in the summer. They were fiercely loyal to their chieftain, devoted to each other, and hospitable to guests.

The Jehanan happily greeted Athlone and his companions, and they recognized Gabria from the summer before. Because of their gratitude to her for their survival, they stifled their fears and suspicions of her powers and welcomed her as befitted the lady of Clan Corin. They gave her the finest guest tent and a serving girl to tend to her needs. A bag of the clan’s best oats was their gift for Nara. They were all amazed by the black colt and clustered around him in a distant but admiring circle.

Gabria was pleased by their efforts and, for her part, she hid her weapons, put on her skirts, and tried to blend in with the jovial crowd.

That night the travelers joined Sha Umar in the chief’s big hall, a long, low building crafted of local stone and driftwood. The Jehanan chieftain was still unmarried, so his sisters served as hostesses and skillfully supervised the serving girls and the food.

The lord stinted nothing for his friends and had his finest wine brought out and the best of his remaining delicacies set before his guests. Because it was early spring, there was very little fresh food to offer. Still, the larders and storerooms of the treld yielded dried fish, sugared fruits, honey, bread, cheese, pickled gulls’ eggs, and shellfish brought from the sea that day.

Gabria was delighted with the fare. Her clan had never traveled near the Sea of Tannis and had no access to seafood. She happily feasted on clams, crabs, and gulls’ eggs and washed her meal down with the fine white wine.

As soon as the chiefs meal was cleared away, other clan members gathered in the hall. They pushed the benches and trestle tables aside and cleared a space in the center of the hall. The clan’s bard brought out his pipes and invited several other men to join him with their drums. The torches and lamps were lit as the dancing began.

For a while, Gabria watched the dancers and clapped her hands to the music. For the first time in days, she felt comfortable, warm, and full. She drank wine freely, nibbled on the sweet cakes and dried fruits that were being passed around, and relished every note of the exciting, happy musk. Then, before she realized what he was doing, Sayyed pulled her to her feet and whisked her into the boisterous dance. She barely had time to be surprised at the Turk’s knowledge of the clan’s dances before he whirled her away to the rhythm of the pipe and drums.

From his seat by Sha Umar’s dais, Athlone leaned back and watched the pair dance the intricate steps. He had been drinking the Jehanan’s strong wine steadily and was unaware that his pain and his feelings were plain on his face.

Sha Umar glanced at his friend and followed Athlone’s stricken gaze to the fair young woman moving through the crowd of dancers. The Khulinin had been closed-mouthed and irritable all evening. Now Sha Umar was beginning to understand why.

“You have not married the Corin yet,” the Jehanan chief said bluntly.

Athlone shook his head and drained his cup to the dregs.

He held the horn cup out for more. “She was banished from the clan for six months. When she returned, we left for Pra Desh,” he replied.

Sha Umar filled the cup. “You picked up that young Turic pup along the way, I hear. He seems pleasant enough.”

“Huh,” Athlone grunted. “A half-breed.”

“If he bothers you,” the Jehanan commented, “you should send him on his way.”

“Gabria asked him to come.”

“Ah.” The truth became abundantly clear, and Sha Umar smiled. “Athlone, as a warrior there is none better in the clans than you. As a lover you have a lot to learn.”

Athlone glared at his friend, his brown eyes rock hard. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Look at her! Is that the face of a girl madly in love with her dancing partner? She likes him, yes, but she has been watching you all night. Her heart is as plain as day when she looks at you.” Sha Umar leaned over and slapped Athlone’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about her! Let her dance and enjoy. Come, talk with me while we have a quiet moment. When we are finished you can sweep her off her feet.”

The Khulinin stared at the older man for a long moment. Sha Umar’s words made sense. Maybe his friend could see the problem clearer; he could understand what Athlone could not. For just a heartbeat the Khulinin lord almost accepted the truth of Sha Umar’s words, then he saw Sayyed pull Gabria into his arms. The smile that lit Gabria’s face brought Athlone’s doubts pounding back. But before he could react to his anger, Sha Umar took his arm and pulled him away to the chieftain’s quarters, where the two men talked long into the night.

By the time they were finished discussing the problems of clan unity and their plans for the upcoming gathering at the Tir Samod, the music had stopped and the main hall was quiet. In the dim light of the dying fire, Athlone saw only some bachelors without tents of their own asleep on pallets along the walls. Piers and a few companions were still deep in their wine cups in a far corner. Gabria was nowhere to be seen.

Swallowing his disappointment, Athlone walked with Sha Umar to the entrance and looked out over the camp. The wind had begun to gust around the tents, and the first drops of rain splattered on the ground.

The Jehanan chief put his hand on Athlone’s shoulder. “I’ll have your supplies ready for you at first light, my friend.”

Athlone nodded his thanks. Sha Umar bid him goodnight and returned to his chamber. The Khulinin drew on his cloak and stepped into the wind and rain.

The treld was quiet and dark; only a few dogs and the night outriders would be out on a stormy night like this. Ducking his head to the wind, Athlone made his way toward the men’s guest tent. Just as he reached the entrance he paused, pleased to see Eurus, Nara, and the colt standing nearby, sheltered from the wind by the canvas. He was about to go inside, then changed his mind and made his way toward the smaller tent that had been set aside for Gabria. It was very late, but he could see light shining through the tent flap. Perhaps he would have a chance to talk to her. In private, he could learn the truth of her feelings.

Athlone was about to call to her when he heard a sound that froze his heart: Sayyed’s voice. The man was in Gabria’s tent. They were talking very softly, so softly that Athlone could not hear their words, but he did not need to. Their low, private tone was enough to breathe life into every dread he had imagined.

The chieftain clenched his hands into fists. Sha Umar was wrong; Gabria had indeed turned to another man. It took every ounce of his will to turn around and walk quietly back to his tent. Like a man half-dead with cold, Athlone lay down on his pallet and clenched his eyes shut. Although he tried to sleep, nothing he could do would erase the memory of those seductively whispering voices from his mind.

The rain began to fall harder.

Gabria raised her head and stared toward the tent flap. “Did you hear something?”

Sayyed half-closed his eyes and leaned out of the lamplight into the shadows. “Tis the wind and the voices of the dead as they ride the steeds of Nebiros,” he said in a low, dismal voice.

The sorceress smiled lopsidedly. “Oh, good. It might be the Corins. They would love to be out on a night like this.”

Shaking his head, the Turic chuckled. He rose and fastened the tent flap tight against the wind. “I forget sometimes that you have already had your life’s share of death and pain. Your next life should be one of ease and happiness. Perhaps as the spoiled wife of a wealthy man?”

Gabria wrinkled her nose and leaned back against one of the cushions strewn on the floor. “Why do you Turics delight in punishing yourselves with talk of many lives? I like our clan belief of paradise. I would rather go to the realm of the dead, a place where you can ride the finest horses and feast with the gods.”

She filled her cup from a wineskin, drained it, and filled it again before passing the skin on to Sayyed. Her head felt light with wine and music, and the heat of the dancing still burned on her cheeks. She was delighted by the joy of the evening and by Sayyed’s attentive company. Tonight she wanted him more than she cared to admit, and yet, even as her body yearned for the young, handsome Turic, her thoughts wandered to Athlone. She had waited all evening for the chieftain to dance with her, but he had disappeared with Lord Sha Umar. Only Sayyed had remained.

For his part, the Turic was well aware of the effect he was having on Gabria, and that made his heart surge with hope. Smiling, he sat down on the floor beside her, poured his wine, and picked up the handful of polished stones they were using for a game of Rattle and Snap. “Reincarnation is difficult for some to understand, but it seems clear enough to me. How else can a soul attain perfection? One lifetime is not enough to learn the grace and wisdom of the One Living God.”

Gabria sipped her wine and laid her head back on a cushion. “And what does your god have to say about magic-wielders?”

“Our holy men preach against magic for the same reasons yours do,” Sayyed said. “Magic and sorcery are an abomination of the Living God’s power.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No. My father does, though. He was the one who banished me. Now I am like you. I have no tribe. No family.” He waved his hands in the air in a mock spell. “Only magic.”

Gabria shifted a little on her cushion so she could see his face. Her eyes were not focusing very well. “And you still want to learn?”

“I cannot ignore what I am as long as there is a chance of doing something good with my talent. I believe magic is a gift of the Living God.” He held a finger up. “Or gods, if your people are correct.”

“I think it’s a gift, too,” she whispered.

“That’s why I sought you out. You are the only one who can teach me the laws of sorcery.” He glanced at her and caught her watching him with a slightly puzzled frown. “What is it, fair lady?” he asked, but she only shook her head and looked away. He was surprised to see tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes.

Quickly Sayyed leaned down beside her. He cradled her face in his hands and tilted her head up so she had to look at him.

The tears brimmed and spilled down her cheeks.

Gabria touched his jaw and smiled blearily at him. She was about to pull his head down to kiss him when suddenly her vision blurred. The lightness in her head turned to a dark, heavy fog, and she slowly sank back into the cushions. “Sayyed, I can’t. . .” she began to say when her eyes closed.

She was asleep before she could finish the sentence.

The young Turic looked down at her for a long while and the need for her rose in him like a tide, pulling at him with an almost irresistible force. Yet he fought it down. He had fallen in love with Gabria that first afternoon, when he saw her sitting on the back of that magnificent Hunnuli mare. Since then he had come to realize that Gabria was a woman to be won, not conquered. He also knew full well that she had not yet given up her love for Athlone. The Khulinin chieftain had a hold on this woman that was not easily broken.

Sayyed sighed and sat back on his heels. He prayed to his god that someday she would chose him over the irritable lord. In the meantime, he had sworn his undying loyalty to her and he fully intended to fulfill his oath—no matter what.

Gently he pushed the curls off her face and traced the line of her cheek with the tip of his finger. Then he covered her with a woolen blanket and went to the tent flap. Outside the rain came down in torrents, blown into sheets by a powerful wind. Sayyed looked out toward the tent where he was supposed to sleep and shook his head. This tent was just as comfortable and did not require a long walk through a heavy storm.

He found an extra blanket and laid down on the rugs across from Gabria. Just before he fell asleep, a grin lifted the corners of his mouth as he imagined what Athlone would think if he knew who was keeping Gabria company in the dark hours of the night. The Turic went to sleep with the grin still on his lips.

Sayyed had slept only a few hours when a strange sound brought him instantly awake. His hand went to his dagger as he leaped to a crouch and poised, waiting for a repetition of the noise. It came again, low and terrified, a moan of pain and sorrow.

“Gabria?” Sayyed cried. He sprang to her side and laid his hand on her cheek. Her skin was as cold as ice.

She moaned again, and the sound tore at his heart. He had never heard such despair. He shook her carefully to waken her, but she seemed to be trapped in the depths of a hideous dream. Her face was contorted by terror and her hands clenched around his arm with maniacal strength.

“No!” she shouted suddenly. “You can’t! Don’t do it.” Her cry rose to blood-chilling screams that tore out of her throat in uncontrollable terror.

“Gabria!” Sayyed shouted frantically. He shook her hard, but she shrieked and struggled, still locked in the visions of her dream. Finally he slapped her. The stinging pain seemed to rouse her, so he slapped her again and again until at last her screams stopped and she fell sobbing into his arms.

Voices called outside the tent, and people crowded into the entrance. Athlone was the first one in, his face ashen. He took one look at Gabria in Sayyed’s arms, at the crumpled blankets and the empty wine cups, and his mind went numb. He wanted to step forward and comfort Gabria himself, but he could not force himself to move.

Just then Piers pushed his way in through the onlookers. He took a quick, speculative glance around before hurrying to Gabria. Her look frightened him. She was shaking violently, and her face was deathly white. She let go of Sayyed and clung to her old friend. Neither of them saw Athlone by the tent flap or the look of pained fury on his face.

Slowly Gabria calmed down enough to speak, and the haunted look faded from her eyes. “By the gods, Piers,” she gasped. Her voice was hoarse from screaming. “They’re really trying to do it!”

“Who is?” he asked, confused. “Do what?”

She grabbed the front of his tunic. “Branth! That woman! I saw them. In some dark room Branth was forming a summoning spell around a golden cage. Something was there for just a moment. I saw it, Piers. It was hideous! I looked into its eyes!”

The onlookers gasped and edged away. Gabria scrambled to her feet, her face wild. “The King Stallion is right! Branth is trying to summon something horrible. We have to go now!”

Outside the tent the three Hunnuli neighed in response to Gabria’s emotional summons.

The strident calls broke Athlone’s numbness, and he strode forward, relieved to be able to do something. “It is almost dawn. Sayyed, tell the men to saddle their horses. Piers, stay with Gabria until we are ready to go. I will tell Sha Umar that we are leaving.”

Gabria’s fear galvanized them all and everyone leaped to obey Athlone’s commands. In a matter of moments, the company gathered their gear, mounted, and bid farewell to the surprised Jehanan. In the darkness and pouring rain, they urged their horses after Nara as she cantered northwest once again to meet the caravan road.