Lightning's Daughter

7

In the darkness of the dank palace storeroom, Lord Branth sank down on a stool and tried to light the oil lamp on the table beside him. His hands were shaking so badly that it took several attempts before he could bring the fire to the wick. When the flame leaped up, he leaned forward and rested his head on his arm.

The tall, thin woman behind him crossed her arms and stared at him in disgust. “You fool,” she hissed.

The spell had failed. They had been so close this time. Branth had performed the opening ritual flawlessly, and they had even seen the creature begin to appear in the small, specially reinforced cage. The summoning had been going well until Branth had hesitated in the completion of the spell, and, in that vital moment, the creature had slipped away.

The Fon paced around the table in fury. Branth had practiced the spell dozens of times. He had all of the proper tools—the oil lamp, the golden cage, the collar of gold to put around the creature’s neck—yet he had still failed. The woman’s deep-set eyes narrowed to slits, and she wondered if he had deliberately spoiled the incantation. She had noticed of late that his body was becoming resistant to her mind drug.

He tried to disobey her occasionally, and his eyes showed brief flashes of willfulness. She decided to increase the drug to ensure that Branth remained her slave.

Unfortunately the man was too exhausted to try the spell again tonight. It was infuriating to have to wait, but the Fon realized she should not force Branth to attempt the incantation a second time until he was fit and rested. He had to be at his utmost strength to control the being she sought.

The Fon calmed down as she thought about this creature.

Gorthlings, as some named them, were quite tiny in stature and rather mild in appearance. Nevertheless, they embodied great evil, and, according to Matrah’s book, their essence greatly enhanced the powers of a sorcerer strong enough to capture one and pull it from the realm of the dead to the world of mankind. More importantly, to the Fon’s mind, gorthlings could impart the power to wield magic on a human who did not have the inborn talent. In his tome, Matrah had explained the dangers inherent in summoning a gorthling, but the Fon paid little attention to that. There would be no danger, because she was certain she could control the creature.

The Fon smiled to herself. Once the gorthling bowed to her command, she could take the next step in her plan. She would use her sorcery and the armies of Pra Desh to quell any unrest in Calah and conquer the other four kingdoms of the Alardarian Alliance. From there it would be an easy step to conquer other realms to the north and the east, and with the might of the East in her grasp, she could swoop down on the barbarian clans and add the rich Dark Horse grasslands to her domain.

All at once, the Fon threw back her head and laughed. An empire would be hers-not a mere city, but a world! She sobered as her glance fell on the exiled clansman staring blankly at the floor. She would have to watch him closely after this failure. When the gorthling was hers, Branth would go to the deep, natural pit in the dungeon where she often rid herself of inconveniences.

The only threat the Fon could imagine was the other clan magic-wielder. One of her spies had picked up a rumor in court that Khan’di Kadoa had secretly sent for the sorceress to rid the city of Branth. The woman snorted. She hoped the sorceress would come, though she had not decided whether it would be more beneficial to kill the clanswoman or capture her for her power. She wanted to study that problem a while longer, but there would be time for such pondering later. Her primary concern now was to capture a gorthling.

Irritably, the Fon put away the makings of the spell. She hid the golden cage and the Book of Matrah in a secret compartment she had constructed beneath the floor of the old storeroom. The room was forbidden to the palace inhabitants on pain of death, but she was taking no chances with her precious book or the golden cage.

As soon as Branth was completely rested they would try again. Until then, she would have to tighten her security and continue to lay her plans for the invasion of Portane, the first of the neighboring kingdoms that would fall to her might.

With a snap of her fingers, she ordered Branth to move to his pallet of straw by the wall, where his chains hung. The man ignored her, and she was forced to yank him to his feet. For just a moment, his eyes flashed hatred.

“Branth!” she said, her words cold and deadly. “Go to the wall.” The emotions snuffed out of the man’s gaze. He shuffled to his place like a whipped dog. The Fon chained him with the shackles, left him some food and water, and locked the heavy door of the storeroom.

Although it was night and the palace inhabitants were probably asleep, the Fon took the precaution of using hidden passages to reach her private rooms on the third floor of the palace. With a chuckle of pleasure, she stepped out onto the balcony of her bedroom and looked down on the sprawling city of Pra Desh. The harbor was a silver crescent in the moonlight. Her glance found the reflection of the Serentine River and slowly followed the water’s path north through the city and beyond into the rich farmlands of Calah. The river’s trail vanished in the darkness, but the Fon followed it onward in her imagination, past the borders of Calah to Portane and the other lands of the Five Kingdoms.

“Soon,” she whispered to herself. “Very soon.”

“Gabria!” The shout came from a long distance behind her, its urgency clear over the sound of galloping horses.

The young woman tried to ignore the call. She knew what the shout meant: they had been riding for hours and the men wanted her to slow down. But the memories of her dream still burned in her mind and urged her on. She had to keep going. She had to get to Branth before it was too late.

The call came again. “Gabria!”

Gabria, this road is treacherous. We must slow down, Nara said in her thoughts. The others cannot keep pace with us.

“Then leave them. I don’t need any of them,” the woman cried. Although Nara continued to run, Gabria could feel the mare’s reluctance breaking her smooth stride.

I know the men are causing you confusion, but you cannot leave them. You need them with you.

Gabria’s hands tightened on the horse’s mane. She had a wretched headache from both the wine and the vision, and her thoughts were a whirlwind of frightening, half-seen dreams and tangled memories of Athlone, Sayyed, and the night before. She was angry, confused, and in no mood to be reasonable. “No. I don’t need them. They’re making me crazy.”

Nara nickered, the sound like gentle laughter. So I have noticed. Still, we cannot go on like this. My son cannot keep up.

Gabria turned to look back and saw the small, black form far behind, struggling gamely through the mud to catch up with his mother. Eurus was staying with him, and farther behind were the seven men and the other horses. She said, “Oh, Nara, I’m sorry.”

The Hunnuli immediately slowed to a walk, and in a moment, Eurus and the colt cantered to her side. Their black coats were spattered with reddish mud, and their hooves were caked with the stuff. The colt was so tired he could not even nicker his relief.

The men caught up shortly. Their horses were muddy, too, and sweating heavily. Atop his steed, Piers looked thoroughly miserable.

Athlone, who looked much less put out by the hard ride, started to say something, but Gabria glared at him, turned her back on the company, and rode ahead up the trail—this time at a more manageable pace. The men glanced at one another, yet no one spoke their thoughts. They were a very silent group as they followed the road north in the wake of the sorceress and her Hunnuli.

The rain ended shortly after midday, and a warm wind from the south pulled the clouds apart and cleared the huge sky. By late afternoon, the green-gold hills basked in the warm sun, and a verdant smell of herbs and grass rose from the damp earth.

The comfortable heat of the spring sun dried the travelers’ cloaks and hoods, their packs and horses. It also warmed their spirits. Gabria slowly felt her tension and frustration melt away in the mellow sunshine. Although her dream still bothered her and urged her on to Pra Desh, she slowly realized that much of her inner turmoil was caused by the men. They were making her crazy.

She was already worried and nervous about a confrontation with Branth and the Fon. Now her emotions were being torn apart by the two men she cared for more than anyone. She still loved Athlone, but he did not seem to want her. Sayyed, on the other hand, obviously adored her, but she did not know if she wanted him. She was being pushed and pulled in too many directions.

The other men were not much help, either. Piers, her usual counselor and supporter, was either miserable with his cold or arguing with Khan’di. For his part, the merchant was constantly urging the party to keep moving toward Calah as fast as they could go. Bregan never let Lord Athlone out of his sight long enough for Gabria to talk to the chief, and the other three warriors never said a word to her.

This journey would be enough to try the patience of Amara, Gabria noted silently. Nevertheless, she knew Nara was right.

She did need the men to help her reach Pra Desh and find Branth. Without them she would be lost. The young woman took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. It would do little good to antagonize her companions with her bad temper. She would have to calm down and find a way to deal with her tangled feelings.

By the time the company stopped to camp by a watering hole, Gabria had rejoined the men. Her earlier frenzied anger was apparently put aside. She laughed and talked with Sayyed and Piers, chatted with Khan’di, and teased Bregan about his short-legged horse. She tried to talk with Athlone, without much luck. The chief was taciturn all evening and seemed to have his thoughts a thousand leagues away.

For the next several days the company continued on their northern route, riding fast on the heels of Gabria and the Hunnuli. She pushed them all hard, for the sense of urgency that had awakened during her dreams grew stronger by the day. They were losing precious time. They had to reach Pra Desh before Branth attempted his spell again.

Although Nara and Eurus tried to keep a pace the smaller Harachan horses could tolerate, the constant, hard traveling began to take its toll on the weaker horses.

One afternoon, four days from Jehanan Treld, Bregan’s horse tripped in a rodent hole at the side of the road and fell heavily on his head. Gabria, riding beside the warrior, heard a sickening crack as the horse went down and saw Bregan thrown violently to the ground. She slid off Nara immediately and went to the warrior’s side. His head was bloodied, and his eyes held a vague, dazed look. He tried once to get up before he fell back in her arms.

The other men dismounted and came running. Piers examined the injured warrior, then looked up at Athlone with obvious relief. “He’s cut and bruised. He might even need stitches, but he should be all right.”

“Stubs won’t be,” one of the other warriors said glumly.

They turned to look at Bregan’s gelding, still struggling on the ground. The three Hunnuli were standing beside the stricken horse, their muzzles close to his to quiet and comfort him. Everyone could see the shattered, bloody end of his foreleg.

Athlone cursed. He knew how much Bregan loved his horse. Silently, Athlone drew his sword and knelt beside the gelding.

“No! Wait’” Bregan pulled himself painfully to a sitting position. Blood poured down his face from the deep cut on his forehead. He snuggled to focus on his horse and, as the realization hit him, tears mingled with the blood on his face. Slowly he crawled to Stubs and cradled the horse’s head in his lap.

The gelding nickered once and relaxed in Bregan’s arms. Without a word, the old warrior gently pulled the horse’s nose up until the base of the throat was exposed. Athlone drove the point of his sword through the soft throatlatch, deep into the brain. Stubs died instantly.

Bregan, blinded by blood and tears, closed the gelding’s eyes and passed out.

They removed the bridle and saddle and erected a cairn of rocks over Stubs’s body. Piers and Secen gently lifted Bregan onto the healer’s mare. It was almost dark by the time they rode on, so they soon stopped in a sheltered, wooded valley only half a day’s travel from the winter camp of the Reidhar clan.

While the other hearthguard warriors set up the small traveling tents and Gabria starred a cooking fire, Piers tended to Bregan’s injuries. The warrior had roused from unconsciousness and was muttering between his clenched teeth as the healer gently cleaned the wound on his forehead. That done, Piers began to stitch it closed with a tiny bone needle and horsehair thread. Athlone and Khan’di came to sit beside them.

“The blow to Bregan’s head is serious,” Piers said without preamble. “He’s going to need at least a day of rest.”

The chieftain glanced an inquiry at Khan’di. The nobleman rubbed his mustache and said, “There is not much time left. If the Fon stays with her original plan, she will invade Portane in fifteen days.”

“My lord, I . . . Ouch!” Bregan flinched away from Piers’s needle.

“That’s what happens when you move! You’re worse than a child,” the healer admonished. He pushed Bregan’s head around so he could see the gash better in the firelight.

“If you were about to say that you don’t need the rest,” Athlone told the old warrior, “forget it. All of us could use a respite from the road.” A look of concern crossed his face. “We could also use several new horses and some supplies.”

Piers looked sharply at the chieftain. “Do you intend to stop at Reidhar Treld? Is that a good idea?”

“No. But they’re close, and we have little choice.”

Khan’di asked, “What is wrong with the Reidhar?”

“There’s nothing particularly wrong with the clan,” said Piers, tying off a stitch on Bregan’s forehead. “The trouble is their chieftain, Lord Caurus. He hates sorcery, and he’s suspicious of the Khulinin’s wealth and influence. Last summer, when Medb threatened the clans with war, Lord Caurus would not side with Medb, but he wouldn’t side with Lord Savaric either. He took his clan back to their lands and waited to see what would happen.”

“I don’t know what he expected to do there,” Bregan commented. “His clan would never have survived an attack by Lord Medb if the sorcerer had survived the battle at Ab-Chakan.”

Athlone chuckled. “Caurus still can’t believe my father and Gabria destroyed Lord Medb without his help.”

“He won’t be happy to see us,” Bregan said, frowning.

“He will abide by clan hospitality,” Athlone stated flatly. “We will receive the supplies we need to continue.”

Piers finished the stitching and began to put away his tools. “Will he include Gabria in that hospitality?” he asked carefully.

Khan’di turned to watch the sorceress as she helped Sayyed fix the evening meal. “She travels with us. Doesn’t clan law make it clear that she must be included?”

“Caurus might not pay attention to the details of the law, but I don’t intend to give him a choice.” Athlone replied.

Bregan and Piers exchanged glances at the stone-cold tone of the chieftain’s voice. “I hope you’re right.” Piers said. “Gabria needs rest more than any of us.”

There was a pause. The chief shifted slightly and said, “Why?”

“I think this confrontation with Branth is affecting her more than we realize. She has been pushing herself too hard.”

Athlone’s eyebrows went up. His cold, dark eyes softened a little, and he nodded once to himself. “We have all been pushing her,” he said quietly. He slapped Piers on the shoulder and went back to work.

After the meal, Athlone passed the word of their destination to the rest of the parry. Gabria’s heart sank. She did not like Lord Caurus. He was loud, arrogant, and very unpleasant to anyone who annoyed him. He had also made it clear last summer that he despised sorcery—an attitude he had impressed upon his clan.

While the men settled down for the night, Gabria went for a long walk beside the creek that meandered through the valley. She took only her thoughts with her and tried to find solace in the solitude of the spring night. She did not have much success.

On her way back to camp, she passed the meadow where the horses grazed and saw Athlone standing in the grass with Eurus. The chieftain was brushing the Hunnuli’s ebony coat with a steady, unconscious stroke.

For a time the young woman stood in the shadows and watched the chieftain. She wanted to talk to him, to ask him what was wrong, to learn if he still loved her. But an uncomfortable reluctance to know the truth made her hesitate.

Her heart pounding, Gabria finally walked out of the trees to Eurus’s side. The big horse nickered a welcome, and Athlone started, dropping his brush. To hide his nervousness, he slowly leaned over to retrieve it, then took the time to clean it of din.

Nara came to join them, and Gabria leaned gratefully against the mare’s warm side. “Athlone, I . . .”

The chief did not seem to hear her. He resumed brushing Eurus and immediately said, “Tomorrow, when we ride to the Reidhar camp, I want you to wear your skirts. Put your sword away and keep quiet.”

Gabria straightened and felt her face begin to burn. “I had already planned to do so,” she replied, her words frosted with anger.

“Good. We need the Reidhar’s cooperation. And another thing,” he went on, “all of us have been expecting a great deal from you. Too much, I think, and our feelings have only been getting in the way. We need to remember the priorities of our journey.”

Athlone glanced at her form in the shadow of the Hunnuli. It was too dark to see her face or the hurt confusion in her eyes.

“Gabria,” he said, brushing Eurus harder, “I came on this journey to help you, not get in your way. From now on I will stand behind you and allow—”

Gabria pounced on the last word. “Allow!” she cried, coming around beside Eurus. “Don’t patronize me with your pride-riddled speeches, Athlone. I don’t deserve it!” She glared at him. “What are you really talking about?”

For days Athlone had been wondering what he would say if he had time alone with Gabria. Now he had that time, but nothing was coming out as he had planned. He wanted to gather her in his arms and feel her warmth and love. Instead all he could see in his mind was her slim, strong body in Sayyed’s embrace, and the more the image played in his head, the greater his anger waxed. The jealousy grew until all of his rehearsed speeches and truest desires were burned in its heat. His days of frustration, anxiety, and confusion suddenly crested in a flooding wave of anger and confusion that came sweeping out in a reckless torrent.

“I’m talking about Sayyed!” he shouted at her.

“Sayyed!” Gabria gasped in surprise. “What does he have to do with this?”

“Everything. You love him. You had him in your tent the other night. All right! If he’s the one you’ve chosen, then take him. I will not hold you to our vow.”

Gabria was shocked. She did not know whether to laugh or cry. Of all the things that had gone through her mind in the past few days, she had never imagined Athlone could be jealous. How could she have missed it? She stepped toward him, raising her hands to implore him. “My tent. Yes, I did—”

But he was angry beyond reason. “No. I’ve heard enough. Our betrothal is broken.” He turned his back on her and strode swiftly into the darkness. The wind swirled his cloak like a gesture of farewell, and he was gone.

Gabria started after him. “Athlone! Wait! You haven’t heard anything,” she cried, only she was too late. Her hands clenched into fists. “The gods blast that man!” she shouted with frustration and hurt. For just a moment, a pale blue aura glowed around her hands in the darkness.

Gabria, Nara warned softly.

The sorceress glanced down and saw the telltale glow, the first sign of the Trymian Force building within her. The force was a powerful spell that fused the energy within a magic-wielder into one destructive force. It could sometimes appear as an instinctive reaction in times of strong emotion. Gabria had learned well the idiosyncrasies of the Trymian Force when she’d accidentally killed one man and almost killed Athlone the summer before.

Quickly she hugged her arms around herself and forced her emotions to calm. The blue aura faded and, with it, her anger. Gabria shook her head. She should have known better than to approach Athlone when he was tired and worried about their stop at Reidhar Treld. Now their situation was worse. Athlone had exploded in one of his rages and broken their vow of betrothal. Gabria felt cold.

She pulled her cloak tightly about herself and glared at the night, toward the spot where Athlone had disappeared. She could not go on like this, with her emotions in constant turmoil. For the sake of her survival she would have to put her life in order. She would concentrate on her journey and the confrontation with Branth, and deal with Athlone and Sayyed later. As much as they meant to her, they would simply have to wait. Her survival came before the demands of her heart. Perhaps afterward, if she was still alive, she would have the freedom and the time to settle such affairs of the heart. Until then, she would avoid close confrontation with the two men. There was no other way.

With a heavy step, Gabria walked alone toward the creek. The sheltering shadows of the night gathered around her like a suit of black armor.

Piers was still awake, sitting alone by the fire, when Gabria came back from her walk. She knew the healer was waiting up for her, but this night she did not want to talk. Instead, she bent over his shoulder, gave him a quick hug goodnight, and slipped away to her tent.

Piers watched her go. He understood the fears she faced and the uncertainties with which she wrestled. He knew how much her love for Athlone and her friendship for Sayyed were troubling her. He just wished she would talk to him about all of it. He might not have the right advice—how could you advise a sorceress? Yet he could listen and be a friend if she needed one. He knew more about her than anyone else alive.

Piers shook his head and began to bank the fire. Perhaps he had been foolish sitting out here in the damp, waiting for her to come back to camp and talk to him. As much as he knew about Gabria, there was so much more he did not know. In the strange, difficult year since her clan’s massacre, she had learned the skill of reticence, to keep her own counsel, and to do as she decided on her own. Those were traits she had acquired to survive.

The healer went to his tent and crawled into his warm coverings. No, he decided, the waiting was not wasted. His gesture told Gabria he was there if she needed him, and he knew her well enough to realize she would be grateful for that.

The travelers broke camp the next morning in a haze of golden sunshine. High clouds dotted the deep blue sky, and a light wind whisked the leafing trees.

Bregan had had a restless night. The old warrior was stiff and aching from his fall, and he grumbled under his breath as he helped load the packhorses. He tried not to look grief-stricken when the other men brought in their mounts to be saddled.

Athlone watched stonily from the back of his gray stallion. His dark eyes were ringed from lack of sleep, and his mouth was drawn tight with a hidden sadness. The shadow of his morning beard made his face look gaunt.

Gabria watched him with mingled sadness and regret. The pain of their argument still ached in her mind. Yet when Sayyed, who deftly read the expression on her face, winked at her, she could not help but smile.

She looked over the rest of her companions as they mounted. The group was heavily armed, dirty, travel-worn, and weary. They looked more like a rabble of thieves and exiles than a nobleman and the finest of the powerful Khulinin clan. Gabria hoped the Reidhar were in a generous mood that day.

She pushed down her nervousness and rode Nara in behind Piers’s mare. Keth, carrying Bregan behind him, and the other riders fell in line with Athlone. The travelers left the caravan road and struck northeast at an easy canter. If all went well, they would be at Reidhar Treld by midday.