Winged Magic

9

Zukhara.

Kelene’s eyes flew open in surprise at the name that appeared so clearly in her mind. She stared up through the darkness and wondered why she should think of the Turic counselor now. He was an unpleasant person who had little regard for the Shar-Ja or the peace council. He was well out of her life. Here, Kelene’s thoughts faltered. Something had brought him to mind. Some memory or clue had jogged her overworked thoughts and brought him clearly and vividly to her attention.

She glanced around and saw night had come. The wagon had stopped swaying, and the world had fallen quiet beyond the wagon walls. The words of their visitor came back to her—he would be coming with food and water when the caravan halted at an oasis.

Kelene stiffened in her bonds. The words and the man’s voice echoed in her head. The voice had meant nothing to her when she was distracted by her own pain and discomfort, but it struck a note of recognition now. Of course, she growled to herself. The silhouette now had a face: Zukhara’s.

Soft footsteps crunched on gravel outside. The door opened, and the same lean figure climbed into the wagon and closed the door behind him. He was so tall he had to stoop under the wagon roof. He carried a small lamp, a waterskin, and several plates of food which he laid on the fold-down table.

Saying nothing, he bent over Kelene, picked her up, and set her effortlessly on the bench on the wall. Gabria, too, was shifted off the pallet and placed beside Kelene. Both women glared in unspeakable hatred at the man who had taken them prisoner.

Zukhara ignored their silent anger and set the food and water in front of them. He sat on the edge of the bed and let them stare for a long while at the refreshments set so tantalizingly close.

“Listen to me,” he said finally. The tiny lamp flickered. sending harsh shadows shifting over the sharp angles of his face. “You are in the middle of the Turic realm. There is no escape. Your Hunnuli are safely sedated and will remain that way until we reach our destination. I know you will not leave them, but if you foolishly try to escape or cause any trouble while we travel with this caravan, I will not hesitate to kill them. Do you understand?”

Both women nodded, their eyes wide.

Zukhara continued, his words forceful and precise. “As long as you obey me, I will bring food and water twice a day. Defy me and one of you will die.” He paused and pulled something out of the front of his robe. “I also have this.” He showed them a small ball on a golden chain.

Kelene looked blank, but Gabria jerked in recognition. The ball was a beautiful piece of handcarved ivory, cut in a delicate tracery of interlocking knots. Within the ball were two more, one within the other, equally as intricate. Gabria had had a similar ball once, given to her by the high priest of the Cult of Krath. The balls, creations of an older age, were magic wards that protected their wearers from spells. There was no guessing how a Turic had found one or if he knew how to use it.

Zukhara acknowledged Gabria’s recognition with a nod. “Now, if we understand each other, you may eat.”

With surprising gentleness, he untied the horsehair ropes around their arms and carefully eased the gags from their mouths. He left their feet tied.

Kelene and Gabria could do nothing more for a while than work some feeling back into their hands and arms. Their jaws ached miserably from the release of the tight gags, and their mouths were so dry they could barely swallow.

Zukhara poured water in mugs for them and watched impassively as each woman painstakingly sipped the liquid.

The first question Kelene thought to ask as soon as she could voice a word was, “Why?”

The counselor stroked his long, elegant chin while he considered how much he wanted them to know. “Let’s just say I have need of you and your abilities.” He would not elucidate further, and the clanswomen were too desperately thirsty and hungry to force the question. They ate and drank as best they could. The food was stew, surprisingly soft and tasty, and the water had been drawn from the fresh, clean springs of the oasis. It tasted marvelous to their parched mouths.

As soon as they finished, Zukhara swept away the dishes and faced them both over the empty board. “I brought you here,” he said without preamble, “because I need your help.”

A look of surprise slipped over Kelene’s face at the change in the counselor’s attitude and tone. The belligerent aggression had been tempered by politeness; the cold harshness in his voice was gone, and the rigidity of his shoulders and limbs had relaxed into an almost neighborly slouch.

He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and went on. “You must understand, it was not an easy decision to kidnap two sorceresses.”

“Why?” Kelene said sarcastically and gestured at the wagon’s walls. “You had plenty of room.”

The counselor shrugged off the question as he might a fly. “I did not wish to disrupt the peace council, but after Bashan’s death, I thought I had no choice. When the Shar-Ja left Council Rock last night, I brought you with us.”

“We didn’t kill Bashan,” Gabria spoke for the first time.

“I know, Lady Gabria, but I’m afraid I do know who did and, because of that, I had to move fast.” He smiled then, and Kelene drew a sharp breath at the amazing transformation. The predatory anger that lined his face was wiped away by a pleasant, disarming smile of friendliness and good humor. If Kelene had not felt his rage and seen the hate in his eyes at the council, if she had not spent the last twenty-four hours in misery and been threatened by this same man, she would have liked him for this smile alone. She knew then that Zukhara was even more dangerous than she imagined, for he was not only influential, powerful, merciless, and ambitious, he could wear charm like a beautifully crafted veneer.

“What do you want?” Gabria replied warily.

“You have in your clan a man who is half Turic and half clan. His parents had twelve children, yet only he inherited enough clan blood to be a magic-wielder.” The man steepled his fingers and met Gabria eye to eye. “There have been other half-breed children along the border; this aberration could turn up again.”

Gabria’s expression tightened into a frown. “Of course that could happen again. But such a child has not yet been brought to my attention.”

His mouth widened to what most people would have seen as an expression of delight. To Kelene and Gabria, his broad grin resembled more the victorious leer of a wolf about to eat its kill.

“Perhaps now, then,” said Zukhara, and he opened out his palm, spread his fingers, and formed a small sphere of greenish light directly over his hand. The implications struck both women at the same time, and they shrank away from the harmless little light.

“How can you do that?” gasped Kelene.

“My mother was raped by a Wylfling while she was on a journey. She was so terrified of her husband’s jealousy she told him the baby was his. It wasn’t until he died a few years ago that she found the courage to tell me.” He gave them another friendly smile. “It explained some questions that had been bothering me.”

Gabria and Kelene said nothing to his revelation. The same suspicion was brewing in both their minds that the counselor knew more about magic than how to form a simple sorcerer’s light, and they watched him quietly and waited for him to explain more.

Zukhara bounced the little light gently in his palm; then with a snap his fingers closed over the sphere and crushed it out. “I had thought to visit you these past few years to study sorcery with your clan students, but other matters kept me busy. Now there is little time left. I must control this power now, and for that I have brought you with me.” The charm cracked from his voice, turning his words hard and bare. He turned suddenly and pointed a finger at Kelene. “I want you to teach me how to use my power, how to control it, and how to turn it to my will.”

Kelene was so startled by his choice, she exclaimed without thinking, “Me? I’m no teacher. I’m a healer!”

“You know sorcery. It is enough to begin. Lady Gabria may watch and contribute if she wishes. We will start tomorrow.” He stood then and pulled Kelene to her feet. With deliberate care he slipped the gag back into her mouth and tied her wrists tightly together. His eyes glittered in the lamplight as he stared down at her angry face. His hands lingered on her arms for a moment longer than she thought utterly necessary before he lifted her back onto the bed. Kelene did not even try to sense his emotions but shut her mind and turned her head away for fear of what she might find.

Gabria was gagged and tied again and returned to her place beside Kelene. This time Zukhara did not bother to fasten their arms to their sides. He picked up the lamp and dishes. “Until morning,” he said pleasantly and climbed out, locking the door behind him.

His footsteps had barely passed away before Kelene pulled her bound wrists up and used her fingers to wrench the gag out of her mouth. “That—!” she spat furiously, too angry to think of a worthy epithet.

Gabria removed her gag, grateful for the small relief. “That man is crazier than a mad dog in the summer heat,” she observed dryly.

“Half-clan!” Kelene hissed. “Gods’ truth!” She lay beside her mother, trembling with rage. Although she could not bring herself to say anything to Gabria, she realized she was fuming not just because of Zukhara’s audacious kidnapping or his demand that they teach him sorcery, but also because of the brilliant look in his eyes when he pulled her up and the slow touch of his hands on her skin. It was enough to make her flesh crawl.

Gabria tilted her head toward Kelene. “You know,” she said slowly, “I would wager Nara that Zukhara was the one who killed the Shar-Yon.”

“I won’t take that wager,” Kelene answered. “Mother, we can t teach that viper sorcery. He is already a menace to the Turics and the clans!”

“No, we must not if we can help it.” She paused and thought of Athlone’s description of Bashan’s seared body. “But perhaps we should teach him the rudiments of control. Wild magic, in his hands, is more dangerous than a controlled spell.”

“What if he pushes me to teach him more?”

Gabria’s thin smile was lost in the darkness. “Then perhaps we should convince him that his abilities are not as strong as he hopes. If his spells were to go awry ...”

Kelene gave a dry chuckle. “You’re not suggesting disrupting his spells.”

“Nothing blatant. Just a nudge here and there to sour the effect.”

They fell silent, their thoughts heavy with their dangerous predicament. After a long, unhappy pause, Kelene whispered, “Should we try to escape him?”

“Would you leave Demira in his hands?” Gabria asked heavily, although they both knew the answer.

“No. So we deal with Zukhara until we can leave with the Hunnuli.”

“Or someone reaches us.”

Lying there in the darkness, tied hand and foot, far from home and desperately worried, Kelene felt very much the daughter in need of her mother’s reassurance. “Do you really think they would dare search for us here?”

In the darkness Gabria felt for her daughter’s bound hands and clasped them tightly in her own. “Athlone, Rafnir, or Sayyed will find a way. I know it.”

The certainty in those words was enough to satisfy Kelene and reinforce her own belief in her kin. Calmer now, she set her mind on her immediate problems of teaching sorcery to Zukhara and dealing with captivity.

Suddenly she gave a rueful laugh at herself. “Just before Gaalney came to Moy Tura,” she explained to her puzzled mother, “I was riding Demira above the city and feeling sorry for myself because things weren’t going my way.” She chuckled again and felt better for it. “Right now I would happily trade all of this to be back in that mere muddle. I promise, if we make it back to Moy Tura, I won’t feel sorry for myself again ... for at least another three or four years.”

Gabria laughed softly with her, and their tension eased enough to let them rest. They slept fitfully through the night, until Zukhara returned at dawn. The Turic brought food to his prisoners, allowed them to attend to their needs, and waited while they ate their morning meal. Gabria and Kelene watched him like a pair of hawks, but the man remained mute and did nothing to give the women any hope of escape. His movements were brusque yet meticulous, and his eyes burned unabated with their fierce zeal.

As soon as the captives finished eating, their hands were retied, and they were returned to the pallet. Instead of leaving right away, Zukhara stepped to the barrier and glanced over at the Hunnuli. Kelene craned her head around to see what he was doing, and her heart jumped in hope when Demira tossed her head. A hoof crashed against the wooden gate, but the two mares were so crowded, Kelene could not tell which one had kicked.

Zukhara did not flinch at the impact. He drew a glass flask from a pocket in his dark blue robe and uncorked it. A pungent, medicinal odor filled the interior of the wagon, alerting Kelene’s curiosity. She strained her neck to watch Zukhara pour some thick greenish liquid onto a cloth and rub it on Demira’s haunch. Nara was treated with the same liquid, and shortly after, the mares’ stall was silent again.

Kelene cursed under her breath. Whatever drug he was using to sedate the mares must be very potent to affect the big horses so quickly. The door slammed and locked behind the counselor, leaving the clanswomen in darkness again. Shortly thereafter they heard whips crack, voices shout, and animals call. There was a great deal of noise and some jerky starts as the baggage train sorted itself out; then the wagon bounced forward, once more under way.

The weather that day seemed sunnier, for the light shining through the chinks in the wagon’s walls was bright and full. Kelene watched one whip-thin beam move slowly across the wall and down to the floor in a course that indicated they were moving south, deeper into Turic territory.

In spite of their thirst and discomfort, evening came all too soon for Kelene and Gabria. The light dimmed and disappeared into twilight; the caravan reached its next stop along the Spice Road. Unbeknownst to them, Rafnir and Sayyed were eating their meal and talking to Turics not more than several hundred paces away.

No one came near the wagon for a long while, and the sounds of the camp dwindled to sleepy tranquility. They heard several sets of footsteps pacing past their prison, but not one person stopped to look in their wagon or check on their condition.

Kelene squirmed against the Hunnuli-hair ropes that held her fast. Her hands were swollen, red, and painful; her body ached from lying on a jolting board all day. She dreaded seeing Zukhara again, yet she reviled him with every scrap of her fury for not coming and getting this ordeal over. Her tongue had dried to thick leather, and her throat burned with thirst. “Where is he?” she ground out between clenched teeth.

She felt her emotions kindle the power of the Trymmian force in her bones and blood. It burned like a spark on touchwood, ready to ignite at her will.

Without any warning, the door swung open, and a tall figure loomed in the entrance. In that split second Kelene’s thoughts exploded with her pent-up fear and rage and, before she could control herself, a wild burst of the Trymmian force flamed from her hands. Kelene gasped in horror.

Gabria reared up and tried to evaporate the blast, but it flew too fast and struck Zukhara full on the chest, where it exploded in a cloud of blue sparks. The counselor staggered backward from the force of the blow. Only the ivory ward around his neck absorbed the searing power and saved his life.

Kelene’s eyes grew enormous, and her heart beat painfully as Zukhara climbed to his feet. The tall Turic stepped back into the wagon, placed the tray he took from a servant on the table, and deliberately closed and locked the door behind him. Swift as a striking cobra, his hand shot out and clamped around Gabria’s throat. His fingers found her jugular and her windpipe and began to crush her neck within his ferocious grip.

“No!” screamed Kelene. “It was me!” She tried to grab his wrists, to pull him away from her mother, but she might as well have tried to uproot a tree. Zukhara ignored her and sunk his thumbs deeper into Gabria’s throat. The clanswoman’s eyes bulged above her gasping mouth. She struggled and thrashed in vain to escape his iron hands.

“I warned you,” Zukhara hissed in sharp, fierce anger. “You did not heed me.”

“I didn’t mean to! I was angry and scared,” Kelene raged at him. “Get off her.” She abruptly pulled up her tied feet and kicked at him with all her might.

Her feet landed on his ribs and slammed him sideways against the wagon wall, jarring his hands loose from around Gabria’s throat. Kelene swiftly rolled over the older sorceress, knocking Zukhara’s hands off completely, and she managed to use her body to shove her mother off the pallet to the floor.

Gabria was too weak to stand. Sobbing, she lay supine on the dusty boards and tried to draw deep, rasping breaths through her bruised throat.

The counselor angrily pushed himself upright until he was kneeling over Kelene. His long, lean shape loomed above her like a black, forbidding shadow.

“It was an accident!” Kelene insisted. “If you kill her, you lose your best lever against me, and I’ll see you in Gormoth before I teach you even one spell.”

Zukhara leaned so close his trim beard brushed her chin. His hands rose and fell over her neck but instead of choking her, his long fingers caressed her skin from her earlobes down the soft length of her throat. “Then I guess we are at an impasse, my lady,” he said huskily in her ear. “If you do not obey, I will kill, and yet if I kill, you will not obey. A fine challenge.”

Kelene quivered at his touch. His warm breath by her ear made the hairs rise on the back of her neck, and his weight on her shoulder and chest frightened her. She lay rigid and cold, her heart beating rapidly. “Then it would be best if we struck a bargain,” she made herself say.

Zukhara settled more comfortably on top of her, his hands still resting on her bare neck, one thumb caressing the frantic pulse in the base of her throat.

“I will train you in sorcery—as much as you need to control your power—and when I am finished, you will let my mother, me, and our Hunnuli go home unharmed.”

The man chuckled, warm and throaty. “A bargain struck in haste is oft regretted. I will think about it. Perhaps in time we will devise a better arrangement.” He pushed away from her and untied her hands. “In the meantime, eat. Then show me what you have to offer.”

Kelene gritted her teeth. There was nothing else to do but agree—for now. She helped her mother to the bench by the table where Zukhara had placed their meal and a small lamp. Kelene drew on her skills as a healer and tenderly eased the pain in Gabria’s bruised throat. She wrapped a cool, damp cloth around her mother’s neck and helped her sip a cup of wine.

From his stool, Zukhara observed them impassively.

After a while, Kelene coaxed Gabria to eat some soup and was pleased to see a little color return to the older woman’s waxen cheeks. With the flush came a reawakening of Gabria’s steel spirit. She covered her forehead with a limp hand, sagged back against the wooden wall, and surreptitiously winked at Kelene. The young woman smothered a smile and ate her own food gratefully.

The moment she was finished, Zukhara cleared off the table and, in a lightning-swift change of mood, flashed his friendly, disarming smile. He pulled a small book out of his robes and laid it in front of Kelene. “Now, my lady. Where do we begin?”

Gabria and Kelene bent forward to look at the little volume in the light of the oil lamp. Although books were not common among the seminomadic clanspeople, both women had learned to read the old Clannish script from books preserved in the Citadel of Krath by the Cult of the Lash and from a few precious manuscripts unearthed at Moy Tura. To their astonishment, this book, no bigger than a man’s hand, appeared to be a relic of clan history. It was made of white vellum stretched and scraped to thin, supple sheets and bound between a heavier cover of leather that, once dyed a rich red, had since faded to the color of old wine.

Kelene gingerly turned the front cover to the first page and heard her mother gasp. In a spidery, delicate script was written: Jeneve, Daughter of Lord Magar of Clan Corin.

Gabria’s hands flew to the book, and she drew it closer to pore over the writing and illustrations on the following pages. “This is a spellbook,” she breathed in surprise. “A personal collection compiled by Lady Jeneve! How did you get your hands on it?” she snapped at Zukhara.

He smiled again, a long, self-satisfied sneer. “The God of All delivered it to my hands to help fulfill the prophecy.”

“What prophecy?” Kelene demanded.

Zukhara disregarded the question and tapped the book with his forefinger. “I can read this, so do not try to trick me. I simply want to know how to use the magic to control these spells.”

Glancing over her mother’s arm, Kelene read the names of some of the spells in the handbook. Most were simple day-to-day twists of sorcery that took only basic skills and caused little harm, such as firestarters, spheres of light, easy transformations, household aids, and simple medications. But there were others that a man like Zukhara could twist to his own purposes: a spell to paralyze an animal or human, spells of destructive power, a spell to summon wind from a gathering storm, and others she would be loath to show him.

Control first, she thought to herself. She had never taught anyone magic; that had always been Gabria’s duty. But it seemed reasonable to start at the beginning where every magic-wielder had to start and take it as slowly as she dared. Perhaps, given the help of the gods, she and Gabria could find a way to escape before Zukhara pushed his training too far.

She traded looks with Gabria, then closed the book and pushed it aside. “We will start here.” she said, tapping her own forehead, and she launched into her first lesson. “Will is at the center of sorcery. With every spell you create you are attempting to impose your will on the substance of our world. Magic is a natural force that is in every creature, stone, or plant. When you alter that force, even with the smallest spell, you must be strong enough to control the effect and consequences. The forces of magic can destroy you if you cannot control them.”

She paused and stared at Zukhara’s dark visage. Unconsciously she had been repeating Gabria’s old lesson that she had listened to for years before the words took on real meaning. “The strength of will is the most important trait of a magic-wielder. Therefore you must know yourself, every measure and degree of your own being, so you can recognize your own limitations and know when sorcery has begun to bleed substance from your life-force.”

Zukhara’s hand suddenly grabbed Kelene’s right arm and pulled her wrist out straight toward him. He touched her embedded splinter so hard she flinched in pain. “Enough of your childish lectures. I have the will of the Living God; there are no limitations other than my own lack of knowledge. I will have a splinter in my wrist in ten days’ time or I will remove your arm at the elbow. Are we clear?”

Kelene gaped, aghast at his monstrous arrogance. He had no comprehension of his own weaknesses and therefore dismissed any possibility of them in impervious blindness. Perhaps she and Gabria wouldn’t have to escape; perhaps all they had to do was wait for Zukhara to destroy himself in his own overwhelming self-confidence.

She hoped he would hurry and do so soon. She didn’t want to have to tell him there were no more diamond splinters. Gabria had used the last one only a year ago and had not yet found a new source for the special, power-enhancing gems.

Kelene yanked her wrist out of his grasp and said firmly, “Fine. Then we will begin with control.” She held out her fingers and demonstrated commands for Zukhara’s first spell.

The Turic watched avidly, then followed her instructions until he had formed a perfect greenish-white sphere of light. Late into the night the sorceress and her pupil practiced and discussed, manipulated magic and worked on simple skills, until Kelene was exhausted and Gabria drooped beside her.

Indefatigable, Zukhara ordered them to lie down, retied their hands, and departed, his back still straight, his step as forceful as always.

“Oh, Mother,” Kelene sighed when he was gone. “What are we going to do? He’s at least as strong as Sayyed, and he’s learning fast.”

“I was afraid of that when I saw him work. He burns with ambition. But what is he planning? Why is he so determined to have a splinter within ten days?”

Kelene sighed and closed her eyes. She was so tired, and there was nothing left she could say.

Gabria’s questions passed into silence unanswered.

Zukhara slammed his hand on the rough table. “What tripe are you showing me? Why will it not work?” he demanded. Stewing in frustration, he tried again to form a simple transformation spell to change a cluster of grapes into a handful of plums. He focused on the grapes and spoke the words of the spell for the third time.

On the bunk behind him, Gabria wordlessly moved her fingers and used her own will to throw his magic astray. The grapes on the table wavered a few times, then burst under the pressure of the vying sorcery.

The Turic spat a curse.

“Be patient,” Kelene told him coolly. “Concentrate on what you want. You have to know exactly what you intend to create or the spell will go awry.”

“I know what I want,” he ground out.

“Then perhaps you are not trying hard enough to control the magic. If you cannot master these simple spells, you will never he able to control the more complex sorcery.”

They eyed each other across the table, Kelene stiff and her head thrown back; Zukhara tense and angry, the lines pulled tight around his mouth and across his brow. In the flickering lamplight, he reminded Kelene of a black—and-gold adder, its large, dark eyes glittering, its lean head poised to strike.

“All right, try something a little simpler.” she suggested, pushing the dripping grapes aside and picking up a flask of water. She poured a small amount of water into a dish and placed it before the Turic. “With a minor spell you can turn this water to ice,” she said and showed him how to do it.

Zukhara tried the spell and managed to create a film of ice on the water before the pottery dish shattered and spilled water across the table. Kelene watched him impassively, like a teacher helping a pupil who cannot quite grasp an easy concept. He tried spell after spell, and no matter how hard he tried, everything went wrong.

An hour later he was struggling to create a flame on a candle when Kelene suddenly lifted her head. From somewhere nearby came the sounds of boots scuffling on the ground, several soft thuds, and the mutter of muted voices. Gabria didn’t have to break the spell that time, for the disruption caused Zukhara to jerk his hand, and the candle sagged into a pool of melted wax. Muttering under his breath, Zukhara strode to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out.

Kelene followed him with her eyes and saw a dark-clothed man meet him just outside the door. “Counselor, we have found two more pilferers in the wagons,” she heard the man say.

Zukhara looked at something out of Kelene’s sight.

“Get rid of them,” he ordered. “But not here. More deaths will draw attention. Take them out past the oasis.”

The callousness in his voice chilled Kelene with a hollow foreboding. It could so easily be herself or Gabria he so casually disposed of. The counselor climbed back into the wagon, dusting his hands as if ridding his palms of some dirty annoyance. He settled on his stool across from Kelene and almost negligently flicked his hand and set the wick of the melted candle burning. He stared at the tiny flame for a long time, his volatile expression lost in thought. The silence built around him, thick as walls.

In one sudden movement and without warning, he sprang from his seat and delivered a stunning blow to Gabria’s jaw. The fury of the assault snapped back her head, with an audible crack, against the wooden wall.

“Get back!” he roared at Kelene when she jumped to help her mother. With fierce deftness, he retied Gabria’s hands and stuffed the gag back in her mouth. Mute with suspicion, he sat down and repeated the transformation spell Kelene had tried to teach him. The cluster of split grapes turned into a heap of delicate purple plums. He tried every spell they had practiced that had gone wrong, and each one worked perfectly. Kelene watched him, too terrified for Gabria to intervene.

“So,” he hissed. “You thought to dissuade me from my goal by ruining my magic.” He turned his baleful glare on Gabria. She lay half-stunned, her face white and her body limp. Blood ran down her chin from a cut on her mouth. She attempted to focus on him, her frustration and anger almost as potent as his. “You cannot stop me. Understand, fools, magic is part of my destiny. It is one of the weapons foretold in the prophecy.”

There was that allusion to a prophecy again, Kelene realized. “What are you talking about? How can a clan power be any part of a Turic prophecy?” she snapped, her tone made sharp by her nervousness.

Zukhara seemed to swell before her eyes. Tall as he was, he straightened his spine, threw back his long shoulders, and jutted his chin forward arrogantly. “Five hundred years ago when your paltry horse clans were still settling the plains, the Prophet Sargun wrote The Truth of Nine from his prison in the dungeons of Sarcithia, while it was still part of the Tarnish Empire. When he escaped and returned over the mountains to his homeland, he founded the city of Sargun Shahr and gave his book to his younger brother. The city has since vanished. We still seek it today, but The Truth of Nine is in Cangora in the keeping of the Holy Order in the great temple of Sargun.”

Kelene felt her mouth drop open, not at the lecture, for most clanspeople knew the generalities of Turic his-tory, but at the conclusion she drew from his rhetoric. “Are you saying there is a prophecy about you in that book?”

He leaned forward, his hands on the table, and his daunting figure cast shadows over her still form. “The sixth,” he said as cold as winter. “ ‘And the Gryphon shall rise to lay flame to the desert and feed on the blood of the unbelievers. Tyrants shall bow before him and nations shall fall at his feet.’” Zukhara’s voice dropped to a low intonation, reciting the words of the prophecy as if breathing a prayer. “By these signs will you know him. In his hand shall be the lightning of the north, and the wind of the Living God shall uphold him. Drought, pestilence, and famine will open his way, and the copper gate will fall before his mighty strength. Before the eye of his chosen handmaiden, he will stand in the light of the golden sun, and a bastard will sit on the throne of Shahr.’” His words dropped away, and he stood poised, his thoughts running ahead to the future and the fulfillment of his dreams.

For once Kelene could think of nothing to say. His audacity and conviction stunned her. The Gryphon. By the gods, she knew that name. “Fel Azureth,” she whispered, unaware she had spoken loud enough to be heard.

Zukhara’s head jerked up; his eyes glittered. “Yes, my lady. I am Fel Karak, the Gryphon, and the Fel Azureth is my sword. Already my plans are falling into place. There is but one weapon left to collect, and for that we shall leave the caravan tomorrow.” He picked up the hair ropes, tied her hands behind her back, and steered her to the bed.

“Be glad, clanswoman, that you are here with me,” he said softly. He touched her cheek, his fingers gently caressing. “Already the Gryphon sinks his claws into the north. When I gain the throne, I will claim the rich pastures north of the Altai for my own empire. With the lightning in my fingertips, your people will not withstand me. By year’s end I will make you my queen and will lay the plains of Ramtharin at your feet as my wedding gift to you.”

Kelene stared at him, her dark eyes enormous pools in her face. Although she could sense the stark power of his convictions through the touch of his skin on hers, she did not need her talent to grasp the reality of what she was hearing. “But I already have a husband,” she said, too shaken to say anything more perceptive.

Zukhara’s teeth flashed white against his black beard. “There is no law that says I cannot marry a widow.”

With swift, sure movements he replaced Kelene’s gag, cleaned the table, put out the light, and bid the women a good night.

Kelene listened to his footsteps pass away. Anger roared like a caged beast in her head, and she stared helplessly at the dark door, trying to bring her fear and rage under control. She wanted to shriek, to strike out at the man and his unshakable arrogance. She vowed to Amara, Sorh, Surgart, and Krath that she would find a way to stop him. There had to be something to thwart his plans. Not all prophecies come to pass as one would believe they should.

She turned her head to check her mother and saw-tears leaking down Gabria’s face. The sorceress had her eyes screwed shut and her pale face turned toward the ceiling.

Worry doused Kelene’s anger as surely as icy water. As carefully as she could manage with her hands tied, Kelene used her long sleeve to mop away the blood on Gabria’s swelling jaw and the tears that dampened her lair hair. Gabria forced a wan smile. Unable to talk, the two women pressed close and took solace in each other’s company. Neither slept well that long, bitter night.

To young Peoren, the clatter of horses’ hooves sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed twilight. He sat taller in his borrowed black cloak and tilted his head so he could hear the approaching troop. Beside him, his picked men—two Dangari, Dos his guard, and six Shadedron—stiffened like alert hounds, their attention pricked to the approaching sounds of horses, hushed voices, and the softer chink and rattle of arms.

To all appearances the ten clansmen appeared to take no notice of the troop approaching them up the long hillside. They had built their fires with care and set them so the vanguard of the Turic raiding party could see them and identify them at a distance that would still allow the clansmen time to run.

Peoren smiled a slow, assured smile as the first Turics topped the rise. The scouts had reported the disposition of the raiders perfectly. Five point riders rode ahead of the main body of men. As if on cue, they reined their mounts to a halt and stared at the ten men, their tiny fires, and the ten clan horses. Peoren and his companions jumped to their feet, as if in alarm. The Turics whooped with glee. One yanked up a horn and blew a signal to the riders coming up behind.

With an appropriate display of fear, the clansmen scrambled wildly to their horses, mounted, and set off along the side of the high hill to escape.

The troop of raiders was a big one, numbering over two hundred mounted fighters. Some brought up the rear with strings of stolen horses and laden pack animals, but the majority drew their weapons and followed the escapees at a rush. After all, ten men were easy prey, and ten clan horses were a prize worth pursuing.

Led by a Shadedron guide, the fleeing clansmen raced down the back slope to the mouth of a valley that plunged deep into a range of plateaus and towering hills. They paced their horses at a gallop just fast enough to stay ahead of the chasing band of marauders. Down they swept into the valley, swung right along the streambed, then cantered swiftly upstream toward the cover of the tree-clad hills. The Turics pushed their horses harder to catch the clansmen before they escaped into the night.

Twilight darkened to a dismal gloaming, obscuring detail and washing out color in a thickening blue-gray haze. Mist rose from the creek in curling tendrils that gathered in the hollows and spread out over the low-lying patches of bog. Snow still lay piled in drifts in the colder shadows of the hills.

The clansmen pushed on behind the Shadedron, a hunter who knew the hills as well as he did his own tent. Peoren brought up the rear and lagged slightly behind to taunt the Turic into continuing the chase over the poorly lit trail. The hillsides climbed higher above the stream, and the remaining snow grew deeper.

The clansmen were almost in range of the Turics’ crossbows when the valley curved sharply to the left and widened to form a fairly level open space devoid of trees and lightly drifted with snow. In the dense twilight the flat ground looked safe enough, and the Shadedron led his companions across to the foot of a high embankment. The Turics, coming past the curve, saw their prey’s escape apparently blocked by a high bank and yelled their battle cries while they spurred their horses directly toward the milling clansmen.

In their excitement, the Turics did not notice a pale, luminous glow on the ground beneath their horses’ feet. Camouflaged by the snow and the indigo twilight, the glow covered the entire level up to the base of the high bank where the clansmen waited with drawn swords. Atop the embankment in a cluster of brush and rocks, Lord Athlone watched the raiders and gauged his time. Gaalney and Morad, across the valley, watched too, and waited for the chieftain’s signal.

The charging Turics raised their tulwars and prepared to overwhelm the small band of clansmen. In the blink of an eye, the earth sagged beneath their horses. The pale fluorescence they had never noticed flicked out with a wave of Lord Athlone’s hand, and the hard crust the Turics mistook for soil dissolved into a quaking bog. The galloping charge turned into a thrashing, struggling, screaming quagmire of men, mud, and horses.

A few riders at the rear of the troop had not yet ridden onto the bog, but when they tried to turn around, a bright red wall of magic energy slammed into existence across the valley, blocking their way out. They reined to a stunned halt and watched over one hundred fully armed and vengeful clansmen silently rise from their hiding places and encircle the marauders.

The tribesmen still on firm ground guessed what their fate might be in the hands of the furious clans and chose to attack. They charged the nearest group of warriors and were brought down by arrows before they reached the first man. Another bunch at the front of the charge struggled toward Peoren and his men to cut them down. The Shadedron, sick with rage, met them hand-to-hand and killed several before Peoren stopped them. He looked into a square-jawed face with a scimitar nose and a killer’s eyes, and he recognized the leader of the band that had attacked Ferganan Treld.

This was a prize too good to lose. Peoren bellowed to Lord Athlone and stood back from his opponent as the sorcerer lord dropped down from his vantage point and fired a burst of magic at the Turic commander. The blue force laid the man unconscious. Twenty more Turics were hauled from the mud and taken prisoner. The rest either drowned in the black, clutching bog, were crushed by the terrified horses, or were killed by the clansmen.

By the time night was full, the ambush was over. The clansmen rescued what horses they could, patched the injured Turics, and left the dead to the scavengers. They returned back up the valley, gathering the stolen horses and plunder-laden pack animals as they went. They set up camp by the stream and ate a robust dinner. They were tired and saddened by the tragedies that had forced their assault, but they had been victorious, and one band of vicious marauders had been destroyed without the loss of a single clansman.

After their meal, the men sat by their fires to sing and tell tales and celebrate their success, while their chiefs looked over the prisoners. Two guards brought the Turic leader first, his hands and arms bound and his dark eyes furious, to stand before the clan lords.

Peoren nodded once. “This is the man who killed my father.”

“He was at Shadedron Treld, too,” said young Hazeth.

The Turic stiffened defiantly and glared at his captors.

“I have seen the horses they stole and the goods they plundered,” said Lord Wendern. “There is no doubt.”

Lord Fiergan, the red-haired Reidhar, growled, “Who are you? Why did you attack our trelds?”

There came no reply. The prisoner shifted on his feet, his expression sullen and determined.

Lord Athlone rose to his feet with the slow, deliberate intent of a stalking lion. No hint of emotion altered his cold features; nothing distracted his merciless stare from the prisoner.

The Turic’s eyes snapped to the sorcerer: he recognized the chieftain and knew his power. His swarthy face turned noticeably paler.

Wordlessly the chieftains watched Athlone walk to stand in front of the Turic. The guards moved away, leaving the prisoner alone with the Khulinin lord.

“You know the punishments we can mete out to vermin like you.” Athlone said in a voice as smooth and penetrating as steel. “You will wish for any one of those to end your agony if I am forced to deal with you.”

The Turic, who was nearly as tall as Athlone, tried to meet his gaze and failed. He edged back from the chieftain and looked wildly around to see if anyone was going to intervene, but the clansmen stayed where they were, mercy long gone from their thoughts. The Turic began to sweat in the chilly night air.

Athlone raised his right hand, his fingers inches from the man’s face. The Turic stared in growing fear. “Now,” the sorcerer continued, “who are you? And what can you tell us about the Fel Azureth?”

The Turic visibly blanched. Athlone’s fingers dropped until they lightly touched the prisoner’s forehead.

“Talk!” he commanded.