Winged Magic

10

By dawn Kelene and Gabria were wan and sore. It had been a miserable night, and the coming day that softened the black shadows and sent delicate beams of light dancing through the chinks in the wagon wall did little to lighten the gloom in the women’s hearts.

Still dozing, they were startled alert when the door slammed open and Zukhara strode in. His features looked thunderous but, without a word, he laid out their breakfast, freed their hands, and stood aside as they climbed stiffly to their feet. Kelene was ravenous and ate well. Gabria only picked at her food. Her jaw was swollen and discolored purple and blue; her skin was terribly pale. Only her green eyes blazed defiantly at Zukhara as she sipped the wine he had brought her.

No sooner had they finished than the counselor replaced their bonds, tying their hands loosely in front of them. Kelene had little time to wonder why before he pulled a strange vial from the pocket of his robe. Striking like an adder, he gripped Gabria’s injured face and turned it upward. He forced the vial into her mouth and poured its contents down her throat before she could overcome her pain and spit it out. Terror crossed her face.

“What have you done?” Kelene cried.

Satisfied, Zukhara replaced the stopper in the vial. “I have had enough of your disobedience. You would not take me seriously, so I offer you a new bargain. I have given Lady Gabria a slow-acting poison. If you obey me in all things, in ten days’ time I will give her the antidote. If you do not, she will die a long and painful death.” He paused and smiled a slow, malevolent smile. “Do not think to escape me and seek the antidote on your own. The poison is of my own making, and only I hold its cure.”

Indifferently he turned to the Hunnuli and slathered more of the thick sedative on their rumps. Giving the women a slight bow, he left them and locked the door behind him.

Even as the lock clicked into place, Kelene climbed to her feet. Her ankles were still tied, but the ropes had loosened enough to enable her to shuffle the short distance to Demira’s side. She grasped the hem of her tunic and tore a long, narrow strip off the bottom where it would not be immediately noticed. Bunching it in her hand, she rubbed the place on Demira’s hip where Zukhara had smeared his potion. To her relief, a thin film of greenish liquid came off on her cloth. She knew she had not removed all the sedative and that it would be a while before Demira revived, but this was a start. She carefully wrapped the fabric in a wad, the green stain hidden in the folds, and tucked it in her waistband.

She turned slowly and faced Gabria. “I do not trust Zukhara to keep his word. If Demira can escape, she can find Father, Sayyed, or Rafnir,” she said almost apologetically. She knew she was taking a big chance with Gabria’s life.

The sorceress nodded, her resolution clear. “This man must be stopped,” she said simply.

There fell a silence neither woman wanted to break. Gabria lay down on the pallet, too weary to stay upright. Kelene braced herself on the little bench and kept watch through the hours of morning as the wagon lurched and rumbled its way south in the wake of the caravan. The dust grew thick in the little room, and the air turned warmer.

It was noon, judging by the grumblings in her belly, when Kelene realized the van had noticeably slowed. The sorceress waited, scarcely breathing the dusty air. A moment later the van made a sharp turn to the right and dropped onto a rougher road. Kelene had to grab the small table for support, and the mares lurched sideways in their stall. Kelene noticed a ripple run through Demira’s hide from neck to tail, and the mare stirred her head before slipping back into her stupor.

The van stopped. In the quiet that followed, Kelene could hear the distant sounds of the caravan, and she was not surprised that the noises were dwindling away. Zukhara had said they would leave the caravan. Several voices murmured quietly outside, their tones too soft to identify.

Kelene glanced at her mother. Gabria appeared to be sleeping, so she decided not to waken her. But looking at her mother reminded her of Gabria’s conviction that someone had come after them. Kelene’s heart sank. If that were true, if Athlone or Sayyed or Rafnir had followed the caravan to find them, how would the men know where this wagon had gone? They could follow the Shar-Ja all the way to Cangora, hoping to find Gabria and her.

She would have to leave some sign and hope, slim as the possibility was, that someone would find it and recognize it. But what? If she left something of magic, Zukhara could see it and know her intent. It could not be anything large either, since she had no way to get a big object out of the van.

The wagon jerked and started forward along the rougher trail. Kelene’s hands flew to her braid and her red ribbon. It hung limp in her hands, bedraggled and dirty, but it was all she had. On her hands and knees she searched the floor of the wagon for a crack wide enough to push the ribbon through. Unfortunately, someone had rebuilt the bed of the old wagon, perhaps to hold the weight of the Hunnuli. There was not so much as a seam. She finally resorted to a fingernail crack in the wall beside the door. It was painstaking work to feed the limp ribbon through the crevice, and she prayed no one was riding behind the wagon. At last the red strip fell away and vanished to fall somewhere on the trail. Kelene’s prayers went with it.

They camped that night along the trail, and Zukhara brought their food and drink as usual. He spoke not a word to them, but roused Gabria, watched them eat, and swiftly returned outside.

As soon as she was finished, Gabria went back to sleep. Kelene lay beside her, worried at her mother’s lethargy. Sometime during the night, Gabria tossed in her sleep in the throes of a powerful dream. Kelene woke to her mother’s voice calling low and insistently, “Sayyed!”

The dream faded away, and Gabria lay still, her breathing so shallow Kelene had to strain to hear it. Was this another of her mother’s visions? Was it Sayyed who had come after them? That made sense to Kelene. He had the best chance of making his way through Turic territory. She dozed again, thinking of Sayyed and, most of all, his handsome, dark-haired son.

Zukhara’s entrance startled Kelene awake, and she lay blinking in the morning light that streamed through the open door while he laid out their food, dosed the mares, and departed, all without a word spoken. As soon as the door closed behind him, Kelene worked her way to Demira’s stall, and again she wiped off the thick sedative onto her rag. She put her hand on Demira’s warm hide. Her probing mind immediately touched the mare’s consciousness straining against the drug that imprisoned her body.

Ever so gently Kelene formed a spell that loosened the fabric confining Demira’s wing’s. The Hunnuli, sensing Kelene’s closeness, shifted restlessly.

Be easy, Kelene soothed. Wait and be patient. When you are alert enough, fly and escape.

No! Demira’s resistance rang in Kelene’s head. The mare was fighting the sedative with every ounce of her will. I will not leave you!

Please, Demira, you must! Mother has been poisoned. She will die if we do not have help. I think Sayyed has come to look for us. Find him! Bring him to us! You are the only one who can.

I cannot leave you, Demira repeated, but her thoughts were weak and confused.

Kelene leaned her head on the mare’s rump. “Please try,” she whispered. She returned to their table, roused Gabria. and tried to eat some food. Their breakfast that morning was simple—trail bread, dates, a wedge of cheese, and mugs of a sweet, red juice Kelene had never tried before. She eyed the juice suspiciously, wondering if Zukhara had slipped a poison or sedative into her drink. Thirst finally won over, and she drained the drink to the dregs. It was overly sweet but had a rich, fruity taste.

Gabria merely sipped hers and lay back on the pallet. Zukhara returned to gather the mugs and plates. He smiled his cream-eating leer when he saw Kelene’s empty mug. “Did you enjoy the juice, my lady?” he asked pleasantly.

A warning buzzed in Kelene’s mind; her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“It contained a mixture I prepared especially for you.” He moved close to her, trapping her against the wagon’s wall. “If you are to be my chosen handmaiden, you must be receptive to my seed. I intend to father a dynasty of sorcerers with you.” He brushed a strand of hair away from her face and softly kissed her forehead.

Kelene froze. The mingled smells of his clothes and the warmth of his body enveloped her; his tall weight pressed against her. She tried to struggle, but the ropes held her hands, and his strength trapped her helplessly against the wooden wall. “I can’t have babies,” she ground out between clenched teeth.

“You will,” he chuckled close to her ear. “This is an old Turic midwives’ remedy. It works well to light a fire in a barren womb.”

“The better to burn your seed,” she hissed.

Zukhara laughed outright. He stepped back and picked up the mugs. “Today we reach my fortress, where my last weapon awaits. There your work will begin . . . and our pleasure.” Still chuckling, he left, and in moments the van jerked forward on its last leg of the journey.

Kelene could keep her anger down no longer. A raging scream tore from her throat, and she picked up the small bench and smashed it against the table. Both table and bench cracked and splintered into pieces. Outside, Zukhara’s voice rose in derisive laughter.

The travel that day was long and difficult as the wagon lurched and bumped along a poor, unkempt road. Although Kelene had no idea where they were, the wagon seemed to be climbing ever higher. Hours passed. She felt the electrical energies of the coming storm long before she heard the muted rumble of the thunder.

The light in the wagon’s interior dimmed to a grayish pallor. The wind began to pummel the vehicle’s sides. Kelene could hear the crack of the driver’s whip and the nervous neighs of the team. Voices shouted on both sides, and the thunder boomed closer.

In her stall Demira lifted her head. Her nostrils flared at the smell of the coming storm. “Patience,” Kelene said to the mare.

The light was nearly gone by the time the wagon rumbled off the dirt road and clattered onto a stone-paved surface. The van made one final rush upward, then came to a stop. New voices called, orders were shouted, and Kelene heard the creak and thud of what sounded like a large door being opened. The wagon rolled forward a short distance.

Abruptly the door opened, and Zukhara climbed in. He untied their ropes and hurried both women outside. Gabria was hollow-eyed and groggy and had to lean on Kelene’s arm. Kelene glanced quickly around. The storm was almost overhead, and the lightning cracked around them. She could barely make out a high stone wall with several dark squat towers, and to her left a long hall and a high keep.

“Bring the Hunnuli!” Zukhara shouted, turning to hustle his prisoners out of the storm. Rain splattered on the stone paving.

Suddenly a ringing neigh sounded above the wind’s roar. There was a wild crash of hooves and a scream of terror. The Turic and the women whirled in time to see Demira rocket forward through a door in the front of the wagon. Hands reached to grab her halter, but she screamed and reared, flailing her hooves over the heads of her enemies. The fabric covering ripped and fell away; her wings spread like an eagle’s, ready to launch.

“Catch her!” Zukhara shrieked. His words were lost in a crash of thunder.

The winged mare rolled her eyes at her rider. “Go!” shouted Kelene, and the mare obeyed. Like black thunder she charged the open gateway. Her legs were swollen from standing so long, her muscles were stiff and slow, and she was still slightly disoriented by the sedative. Yet carried by her desperation, Demira spread her wings and threw herself into the teeth of the storm. At once the clouds opened, and the rain poured down in blinding sheets. In the blink of an eye, the Hunnuli had vanished.

For one shattering moment Kelene thought she had pushed Zukhara too far. Quivering with furious passion, he turned on her and whipped out his dagger to press against her throat. His lean visage snarled at her like a wolf’s.

“You didn’t need her,” Kelene forced herself to say calmly. “Like any horse, she will go home.” She prayed he did not understand enough about Hunnuli to know they were not like any other horses.

Her cool words had some effect, for instead of ramming the blade into her neck, he spat a curse and dragged her inside the hall. She saw servants take Gabria away, but she had no chance to see where before Zukhara wrenched opened a door and flung her down a flight of stairs. Kelene scrambled to stay on her feet. The counselor’s hand clamped more tightly about her wrist and dragged her down several more spiraling stairways that wound deeper and deeper into the subterranean depths of the fortress.

Silent and implacable, he hauled her on until her hand was numb and her legs were tired. At last he dragged her through a narrow archway and thrust her forward. She banged painfully against a low stone wall and had to grab at it to keep from falling.

A low, angry hiss filled the dark spaces around her. A strange smell lingered on the cold air. Zukhara snapped the words to a spell Kelene had taught him, and a bright white sphere of light burst into being. It hovered over their heads, casting its light over a huge stone ceiling that arched above.

“Down there is my weapon for the holy war I plan to launch. Unfortunately, it was injured during its capture. I brought you here to heal it and tame it to obedience. Do that, and your lady mother will get her antidote.” Zukhara pointed down, over the stone wall.

Kelene turned. She saw they were standing on an overhang at the side of a large natural cavern. Slowly she let her eyes drop to the bottom, where a broad floor formed an amphitheater in the mountain’s heart. Curled on the sandy floor, staring malevolently up at the light, was a creature unlike any she had ever seen.

“What . . .” she gasped.

Zukhara’s anger receded before his pride. “That,” he said, “is my gryphon.”

“Father!” an urgent voice hissed in his ear. “Father, wake up!”

Sayyed stirred and groaned out of his stupor. He tried to move his arms until that same voice whispered, “No! Don’t jerk like that. Stay still. Please, Father, try to wake up!”

The frantic urgency in that familiar voice penetrated Sayyed’s groggy thoughts, and he closed his mouth and rested his aching limbs. Something seemed wrong though. Some strange thing had happened to his body that he couldn’t understand. He could be wrong, yet he felt as if he were hanging upside down.

Sayyed opened his eyes. A brilliant morning sun illuminated everything around him with a clear, sharp light. The majestic mountains gleamed—upside down—in an endless sky of blue. Then he looked down, or was it up, and saw there was nothing beneath his feet but air.

The words he spoke were short and emphatic.

“Father!” hissed Rafnir’s voice. “Please don’t move!”

Sayyed’s mind snapped fully alert, and he quickly recognized the precariousness of his position. He was tied back-to-back with Rafnir and hanging head-first over a very deep and very rocky ravine. Also, the rope that held them seemed dangerously frayed and was tied to a very fragile-looking wooden framework that overhung the edge of the chasm. And, he noted in increasing annoyance, his weapons and most of his clothes were gone. Lastly, he realized there were voices other than Rafnir’s speaking behind him.

“I’m telling you, Helmar, these are simply Turics. Uphold the law and get rid of them,” demanded a male voice.

“Turics or not, why waste two healthy men?” a female voice cried. This speaker sounded older and more insistent. “You know we need new blood if our line is to survive! These two are strong and can father children. Let them leave their seed in our women before you kill them.”

Sayyed was so startled by the gist of the conversation that he did not realize for nearly a minute that the speakers were talking in Clannish. Not the Clannish he was used to, but an old dialect combined with new word combinations and Turic phrases. He listened with both fascination and increasing anger.

“And what about you, Rapinor?” A third voice spoke. “You caught them. What do you say?” This third speaker was a woman whose voice was rich and self-assured.

Yet a fourth voice responded, “Lady, I don’t know how to advise you. Yes, I found them in the Back Door, and they look and dress like Turics. But I swear they rode black horses bigger than any I’ve ever seen, and one man had a sphere of light.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a torch he carried?” the first man said dryly.

“A torch on a night like last? No,” the speaker said, the certainty clear in his deep, resounding voice. “The sphere was greenish-white like magic and went out when the man fell unconscious.”

“There has to he a simple explanation for that,” said the old woman irritably. “We all know magic is dead beyond the mountains.”

Sayyed turned his head in an effort to see these people, and although he strained, he could not see around Rafnir. “What is going on here?” he said in Clannish.

His words caught the speakers’ attention. “A Turic who speaks the tongue of the clans,” said the first man. “All the more reason to kill them. They could get away and tell the clans.”

Tell the clans, Sayyed wondered. Tell them what?

“Traveler,” called the younger woman, “you were caught trespassing on land that is forbidden. Our laws automatically condemn you to death. However, we are having some doubts as to your identity. Who are you?”

Sayyed opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. By the gods, how should he answer that? If he claimed to be Turic, these strangers would cut the rope and let him and Rafnir fall. If he said clan, they would probably do the same thing. His power itched to break the ropes that bound him and his son and set them on a more upright and equal footing with these people, but he decided to hold off exposing his talent until he absolutely had to. The speakers’ opinion of magic was very unclear.

“We are looking for our family,” Rafnir answered for him. “My wife and my wife’s mother were kidnapped by someone we do not know. Yet the wagon that carried them came up into these mountains. We had almost found them when we were caught in the storm and lost the trail. If we trespassed, we did it unintentionally, and we humbly apologize.”

The people remained quiet while they tried to understand Rafnir’s unfamiliar dialect; then they burst into talk all at once in a babble of questions, demands, and angry opinions. Other voices joined in until Sayyed and Rafnir lost track of all the words.

“Who are these people?” Sayyed asked irritably. His head hurt from his inversion, and he was tired of all the arguing.

“I don’t know. I can’t see them either. They’re just above us on a rock ledge,” replied Rafnir.

Sayyed tried again to peer around his son and only succeeded in making their rope sway. He froze too late. He heard a creak and a snap, and in a sickening jerk, he and Rafnir began to fall.

“Lady!” the Rapinor voice shouted. “The rope broke!”

“Let them go!” yelled the first man.

Sayyed waited no more. He didn’t care who those people were or what they were afraid of, it was time to show them that magic was very much alive and well. “I’ll undo the ropes; you break our fall,” he yelled to Rafnir.

The wind of their descent tore at his words, but his son heard them. Magic flared from Sayyed’s hands, and the ropes dissolved into dust. With his arms free, Sayyed grabbed for Rafnir to keep him close. Rafnir’s eyes closed as his lips formed the words to a spell he had used three years ago to catch Kelene in a terrible fall. The air thickened into a cushion beneath them. Their sickening speed slowed, and they tumbled gently onto a platform of wind and magic barely ten feet from the ravine’s floor.

“Nice timing,” Sayyed said, peering down at the boulders below.

“Gods,” sighed Rafnir, “that was close. Let’s get out of here.”

“Not yet,” Sayyed growled. He glared up at the ravine face where a group of people peered over the cliffs edge. “I want to know who they are.”

He steadied himself on the platform of air while Rafnir carefully steered it up to the level of the precipice top. His arms crossed and his displeasure plain, Sayyed stepped off onto the stone and faced the group of people standing on the rocks. He looked them over and felt his anger begin to recede. He had never seen such a totally unanimous expression of astounded disbelief and awed surprise in his entire long and adventurous life. Not even the first and unexpected appearance of his magical talent had produced such stunned surprise. Every man and woman before him stared at him in speechless shock. As one their eyes shifted to Rafnir as he stepped beside his father and dissolved his spell; then they looked at one another.

Sayyed counted twenty-one men and women of various ages gathered on the cliff top, including the four in the forefront he assumed were the speakers they had not been able to see. All the people were remarkably fair-skinned, with light hair and blue, green, or gray eyes. Whoever they were, Turic blood had not been in their ancestry. In fact, if it were not for the location and their strange clothes, he would think they were clanspeople.

He decided to try something to break the barrier of tension and see what their reaction would be. His burnoose, outer robes, boots, and belt were gone. He had only his trousers and an undertunic left, so he pulled the tunic off and transformed it quickly and skillfully into a golden clan cloak. He flipped the cloak over his shoulders, stepped forward, and saluted the people as a whole.

“I am Sayyed, sorcerer and Hearthguard to Lord Athlone of Clan Khulinin. My son, Rafnir, and I have come to these mountains only to seek our kin.”

He was gratified when a woman stepped forward and returned his salute. A tall woman, she stood before her people, proud and fearless. The bright light of morning flamed on a coiled mass of red hair and gleamed on her wide forehead, arched imperious brows, and wide, firm mouth. “I welcome you, Sorcerer. More than you know. I am Helmar, Lady Chieftain of the Clannad,” she said in a clear, resolute voice.

She had a carriage of the head and a lancelike directness that reminded Sayyed of Gabria. And a woman chieftain? Gabria would appreciate that, too.

Sayyed bowed. “This was an interesting way to start I he day, but I seem to remember we came with horses. May we return to them?” Despite his sarcastic choice of words, he kept his voice neutral, with none of the annoyance and mounting curiosity he was feeling.

As if a spell had been broken, the stunned silence evaporated into a flight of activity and astonished voices. Helmar gave a series of quick orders, and several people dashed away while others gathered around the two clansmen.

“This way,” said a man Sayyed identified as one of the four. He was a giant of a warrior, muscular, burly, and softspoken. “I am Rapinor, swordsman and personal guard to the Lady Chieftain. Your horses are still in the back passage.” He hesitated, his craggy face curious. “Are your mounts Hunnuli?”

“You have heard of those too?” Sayyed remarked. The more he learned of these people the more mysterious they became. How much did they know about clan magic?

“Softly, Rapinor,” Helmar admonished. “There will be time for answers after we return the horses.”

A thousand questions burned on the faces of all the people around them, but none gainsaid the chieftain as she led the strangers up a path to the crest of the ridge. There she paused and stretched her hand out to the west. “Welcome to Sanctuary.”

Rafnir whistled softly, and Sayyed simply stared.

At their feet the ridge dropped away into a deep valley that lay like a green jewel in the cold heart of the mountains. Lush and verdant, it stretched for nearly five leagues east and west, nestled between three lofty peaks. Sunlight glittered on the waters of a small lake and a river on the valley’s floor and picked out the white plumes of several waterfalls that cascaded clown the western face.

“Look!” Rafnir said. His finger pointed toward the waterfalls, but it was not the water that gripped his attention. A huge ledge bisected the western face of the canyon wall midway up its height. On the ledge beneath a towering overhang was a cluster of buildings carved from the natural stone and sitting in eminence over the valley. Below, herds grazed in the meadows, and the tiny figures of more people could be seen moving about their tasks.

Helmar’s eyes crinkled in her weathered face as she watched the reaction of the two clansmen. Her expression was calm but wary, and she studied the two men as thoroughly as they studied the valley.

Beside her, an older woman touched Sayyed’s cloak. Small, bright-eyed, and quick as a bird, she was the only woman in the group wearing a long robe. The rest of the people, even the women, wore long, baggy pants, warm wool shirts, and leather vests or tunics. “Sorcerer, I am Minora, Priestess of the Clannad,” she told Sayyed.

“Ah, yes,” Sayyed said, flashing a smile. “The one who wanted to keep us for breeding stock.”

Although Sayyed did not know it, he had a very charming smile that took any sting out of his words. Minora laughed, a ringing, delightful burst of humor. “And I still do. We are very isolated here. Good breeders are hard to come by.”

He turned to look at the magnificent structure across the valley. “Did your people make that?”

The priestess lifted her chin to see his face. Short as Sayyed was, she barely reached his shoulder. “The ledge and the stone were there. We have simply worked it as we wished.”

“We could certainly use these people at Moy Tura,” Rafnir commented to his father.

A look too indescribable to understand passed over Minora’s face, and the other people hesitated, their expressions still and hard.

“What is Moy Tura?” Helmar quickly asked.

But Sayyed sensed a nuance of familiarity in her tone that belied her ignorance. “An old ruin in our land. We are trying to rebuild it.”

“Who—” she started to ask.

“My lady, you said no questions until the horses are released,” Rapinor reminded her bluntly.

She chuckled, low and throaty, and led the group on a winding course along the top of the ridge and clown a steep, tortuous trail to the tiny canyon where the stallions were trapped.

“When you entered the passage last night, we sealed the entrance,” Rapinor explained. “We had no idea what we had caught.”

Sayyed’s fingers went to his throat. If his neck looked anything like Rafnir’s, a blue and purplish bruise ringed his throat where the rope had hauled him off his Hunnuli. “Indeed,” he said dryly.

Helmar cleared her throat in sympathy, and her lips twisted in a wry smile. “You must forgive our style of welcome. We do not usually allow strangers into our valley. If it had not been for Rapinor and his insistence that you were using a sorcerer’s light, you would be dead already.”

Sayyed shot a look at the burly swordsman. Stout as an oak, the lady’s guard had not budged from her side since the two men landed on the ledge. Nor had his hand strayed far from the sword buckled at his waist. Another man, younger but more dour than Rapinor, stood on Helmar’s other side. His heavy brows framed his eyes in a frown, and his thick lips were pursed with displeasure.

“How is it that you know so much about magic,” Sayyed inquired, “what with your being so isolated in a realm that forbids its use?” And, his thoughts continued silently, why is it so important to you?

Lady Helmar cocked her head and gave him a wide, challenging stare from her green-gold eyes. “We hear things once in a while. We do not drop everyone over the ravine.” She flashed a brilliantly disarming smile.

A short hike later, they reached the valley floor and trekked to the narrow entrance leading to the crevice where the stallions were trapped. Helmar and her two guards worked their way in, followed by Sayyed and Rafnir. They heard the horses long before they saw them, for ringing neighs echoed along the rock walls, punctuated by heavy crashes reverberating on something that sounded like wood.

The clansmen saw why a few minutes later. The high, narrow passage had been completely blocked by massive stone blocks fitted together to form a thick wall. The crashing sounds came from a wooden wicket gate set in the wall.

“The Back Door,” Rapinor said. “Your horses obviously found it.” He strode forward and, standing wisely aside, drew the heavy bolts. The door flew open, and Afer and Tibor charged through ready for battle. Their eyes glowed green with angry fire, their tails were raised like battle standards, and their hooves clashed on the stone.

Seeing their riders, both stallions stopped and snorted. Where were you? trumpeted Afer. Who are these people?

Before Sayyed could respond, Helmar stepped forward and boldly put her hand on Afer’s arched neck. The stallion instantly stilled, his ears stiff and his nostrils quivering as he gently sniffed her arm and face. Tibor crowded over and smelled the chieftain from hair to belt, then nickered a greeting.

When she stepped back, the Hunnuli were satisfied and calmly went to join the sorcerers. A look of surprise passed between Rafnir and Sayyed.

Sayyed bent in the pretense of examining Afer’s legs. “Are you all right?” he said softly.

I am and you are! And I am glad to get out of that crack. There was no grass in there, and I’m hungry!

As if she had understood what he sent, Lady Helmar bowed slightly to the two horses and the clansmen. “I would like to make amends for our poor hospitality. Would you care to stay the night with us and share our table?”

The dour young man beside her made as if to protest, until he saw Minora give him a hard look. He subsided, looking sullen.

Sayyed thought of the city in the cliff, of the hidden valley and the secretive people who inhabited it, of the veiled suspicion he saw in every person’s eyes, and the gleam of excitement as if they could not quite believe what he and Rafnir had done. He thought of the Clannad’s knowledge of Hunnuli, sorcerer’s lights, and the “death” of magic beyond the mountains. These people with their pale skin and fair hair seemed different, and yet there was an undercurrent of familiarity he could not quite ignore. Surely one night here in this valley would make little difference in their search for Gabria and Kelene, and perhaps the Clannad could help by telling them where the wagon track went and how to find it again. He bowed to Helmar, and with Rafnir’s consent, he agreed to stay.

The group rejoined the others waiting at the mouth of the passage, and everyone walked clown a steep, narrow trail to the valley floor. Once there, they paused on a low rise at the western end of the valley and gazed at the land about them.

“Sinking River carved this basin,” Helmar told her guests. “The waters come from the high peaks clown those falls to the river, where it runs the length of our valley and spills into the lake.” She pointed to the small lake that lay below the rise. Not much bigger than a large pond, the lake sat serene in a ring of slender trees and grassy banks. Clear water lapped its rocky shores and sank down into unseen depths. “The lake has no bottom that we have been able to find. The river is swallowed by the mountains.”

The clansmen filled their eyes with the beauty of the valley. Having witnessed the bleak slopes of the rugged peaks and felt the fury of the Storm King, they could appreciate the lush serenity of this hidden realm where spring was in full bloom. Thick grass and vegetation carpeted the valley. Trees in full leaf grew in groves along the riverbanks and in scattered copses up the slopes to the towering valley walls.

A movement in the nearby meadow caught their gaze, and they turned in time to see a ghostly herd of horses sweep past a belt of trees and come galloping toward the rise. Both men drew their breath in wonder at the white animals that approached them. More than a hundred mares, stallions, and foals flowed like an avalanche up to the foot of the hill and neighed a welcome to the strangers.

Smaller than the Hunnuli, yet equally as graceful and beautifully proportioned, every horse was white, ranging in shade and intensity from dapple gray to the most brilliant snow.

A stallion and a mare cantered up the slope together. The mare, a starry white, went to Helmar with a greeting, but the stallion arched his neck, pranced to Sayyed and Rafnir, and sniffed them to familiarize himself with their scent. They nibbed his neck, which was the color of polished slate; then he went to Afer and Tibor. The two blacks touched him muzzle to muzzle, nickering their greetings. Sayyed removed the Hunnuli’s saddles, and together the three stallions galloped down to the herd. The people and the mare watched them go until the horses spread out over a broad meadow and began to graze.

“Your horses are incredible,” Sayyed said to Helmar.

“How did you manage to breed such a consistent color?”

“Fear, Clansman,” she replied helpfully. With a graceful leap she mounted the mare’s broad back, and an enigmatic smile touched her lips. “Bring them to the cliff, Rapinor. I shall go prepare a feast.” The mare sprang away, as swift as a falling star. Minora chuckled to herself.

From the rise they walked down the valley to the waterfalls and the base of the great ledge. Rope ladders hung down the wall, connecting a series of small ledges, handholds, and narrow steps in several difficult trails up the cliff to the cave settlement. More people joined the group, their faces full of amazement and some disbelief at the arrival of the sorcerers. From somewhere above a horn sounded a summons. The sun was high by that time, and its warm light filled the valley from end to end, yet despite the business of the season, every person in the Clannad laid down their tasks and came at the call of the horn.

With a skill born from a lifetime’s practice, the people clambered up the ladders to their home. Sayyed and Rafnir climbed up more slowly, and when they reached the top they were welcomed with the return of their clothes and weapons. The men were then led to a wide, circular gathering place near the edge of the cliff where a low stone wall had been built along the rim. A fire burned in the hearth at the center of the ring, and much to Sayyed and Rafnir’s surprise, a real feast had been hastily prepared for their arrival.

Helmar’s own handmaidens sat Sayyed and Rafnir beside the chiefs seat and served them from platters of meat and fish, an interesting dish of cooked tubers, bowls of dried berries, and rounds of flat bread. Tall flagons of cooled wine and pitchers of ale were passed around.

As Sayyed gratefully ate the first hearty meal he had had in several long days, he let his eyes roam over his surroundings and the people around him. The settlement in the cliff was not as large as he had at first thought. While the buildings were large and numerous, the population was not. At a rough count he estimated there were about four hundred men, women, and children in the Clannad. Since he had not seen any other buildings, tents, or shelters within the confines of the valley, he assumed they all lived in this stone aerie.

The cliff buildings themselves were remarkable, some towering four or five stories above the floor level. From where he sat, Sayyed could see several artisans’ houses, a gathering hall, what looked like a temple, and numerous multilevel dwellings, and while the buildings were not opulent, they looked comfortable and well maintained.

It was while he was looking at the narrow passages between the buildings that he made an interesting observation that only added fuel to his curiosity. Unlike a clan camp, this settlement had no dogs. Not a one, as far as Sayyed could tell. There were, though, cats of every color and age, lounging on windowsills, draped on walls, and padding along the walks.

One tabby boldly walked up to him and sprang into his lap. Pleased, Sayyed scratched her ears and the base of her tail, remembering Tam’s cat waiting for him in Moy Tura. The cat settled on his knees and purred her song for him.

A soft laugh drew his attention, and he looked up into the green-gold eyes of Helmar. Now that he could see her close up, he saw that despite the similarities in character, there was little physical resemblance to Gabria. Helmar’s face was square and strong-featured with a straight nose and an incongruous sprinkle of freckles. He guessed she had seen more than thirty summers, for years of sun, wind, and work had worn away the softness of youth. Her body was hard, too, from physical labor, and her hands were nicked and calloused from wielding a sword. She lounged on her fur-draped seat, as self-assured as any clan chieftain.

Unconsciously, he smiled back.

“You like our cats?” she asked.

“I have one at home. I miss her.”

“Tell me about her.”

And out of this simple, ingenious request came an afternoon of talk and tales and history. From the story of Tam’s cat, Sayyed went on to tell his fascinated audience about Tam, the plague, and the clans. Rafnir took his turn, talking about Moy Tura, Kelene, and Demira. The people of the Clannad listened avidly.

When Sayyed described Gabria and her battle with Lord Medb, the people sat hushed and unmoving. Sayyed, looking at their faces, thought their interest went beyond mere politeness. In a whole afternoon, not one person left the gathering. Children napped in their parents’ laps, elders dozed in their seats, but not one person walked away from the tales. When he was finished, a low buzz of conversation filled the circle. The sorcerer glanced around and was surprised to see the sun had gone behind the western peaks. Darkness filled the bowl of the valley.

The talking stopped as Lady Helmar rose slowly to her feet. She looked thoughtful and rather sad, but her voice was as firm as ever. “This Lady Gabria, this last Corin, is she the other woman you are trying to find?”

“She is Kelene’s mother,” Rafnir replied. “They were taken together.”

“I should like to meet her. I think we will go with you to this fortress.”

The younger guard beside her leaped to his feet and planted himself squarely in her way. “My lady, think again. It would be folly to leave the valley this time of year. Let them find the trail themselves.”

Lady Helmar did not step back. Coolly she faced her guard and said, “Hydan, you forget yourself.”

Jut-jawed and steely-eyed, Hydan pointed at the two sorcerers like a man flinging an accusation. “What if they’re lying? What if all we have heard has been a tale to save their necks?”

Sayyed felt Rafnir tense and stir, and he laid a restraining hand on his son’s arm before Rafnir jumped into anything unnecessary. Helmar, he could see, was equal to the confrontation.

Eyes blazing, she ignored the rest of the gathering and pushed herself close to Hydan to make her point very clear. “And I suppose they faked the sorcery they used this morning,” she said fiercely. “Truth or half-truth, they are here and they are magic-wielders.” She threw a wild gesture at the stone city behind her. “Do you want to live like this forever? If we can find this Lady Gabria, she will confirm the truth.”

“If there is a Lady Gabria,” Hydan muttered.

“If you doubt, Hydan, then ride with me and learn for yourself.”

As quickly as he had flared up, the young guard subsided, having rammed his feelings against the wall of his chiefs will. Helmar, obviously used to his tantrums, turned back to Sayyed without a pause. “You said the wagon had a red emblem of some sort and took the trail up around the Storm King? I know that path. It goes to a fortress owned by an old noble family.”

“The old stone castle?” Hydan put in, as coolly as if he had never shown his temper. “The latest resident is one of the royal counselors, I have heard.”

“His name wouldn’t happen to be Zukhara?” Rafnir guessed. Hydan didn’t even have to answer that. Zukhara’s name fit the trail of clues and events they had been following since Council Rock.

“You know this man?” Helmar asked.

Sayyed nodded once. “A dangerous adversary.” He lifted his eyes to her face and met her forthright gaze. He thought briefly of offering to leave alone—surely he and Rafnir could find the fortress with a few directions—then lie dismissed the idea and bowed to the determination he could read so clearly in those expressive eyes. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder why she was so willing to help two strangers that only hours before she had planned to drop down a ravine. And why was it so dangerous for the Clannad to leave their valley? These questions and many more trooped through Sayyed’s thoughts. It was a puzzle with too many pieces missing.

At that point, men brought torches to the gathering circle. The fire was stoked, and several people fetched their instruments to strike up some dance music. Like their language, the Clannad’s musical instruments were an interesting blend of old clan, Turic, and individual designs, and the music they played was rollicking, toe-tapping fun. The people danced late into the night, breaking only to listen to a harper sing ballads of the white horses, the Sinking River, and the valley they called home.

Sayyed and Rafnir enjoyed the evening and the pleasant company of the cliff dwellers. It was a frustrating evening, though, for try as they might they could not lead anyone into answering more than basic questions about their daily lives. Minora was more than happy to discuss her duties in the temple to the goddess they worshiped, but she neatly skirted any inquiries about the origins of the white horses and her insistence on keeping the two men for breeding. Rapinor, too, was closemouthed about anything except his duties as swordsman to Lady Helmar. And the lady herself, when asked a question, more often than not answered it with another question. Sayyed found himself talking to her for nearly an hour about his childhood with the Turics and his decision to join Gabria. In all that time she said nothing about herself.

At last the chieftain clashed the hilt of her sword against a gong hanging near her chair and ended the gathering. The people quickly split up, going their separate ways back to their homes. Helmar took Sayyed and Rafnir to quarters that had been prepared for them on the ground floor of a tall building and bid them goodnight.

When at last they were left alone, Sayyed drew a long breath and expelled it in a gusty sigh. “I still don’t know who these people are,” he said irritably.

They found pitchers of water set aside on a stand for washing and beds covered with woven blankets. The stuffed mattresses on the beds felt so delightful after days of sleeping on the ground, Rafnir threw himself on one and was asleep before Sayyed had removed his boots.

Bone-tired as he felt, Sayyed could not sleep yet. Too many things ran through his mind, whirling as fast as the melodies of the Clannad jigs. He thought of the clan cloak he had transformed earlier and remembered he had left it at the gathering circle. Barefooted, he walked silently through the darkened passages back to the open ring.

He took one step out from between the buildings and as silently drew back into the shadows. Someone was standing in the ring beside the cloak Sayyed had left flung over the place where he had sat.

He stared at the form, trying to see who it was. Night filled the huge cavern with velvet darkness, but beyond the stone walls a curtain of countless stars glittered their distant, silver light. The person turned sideways against the backdrop of stars, and Sayyed recognized the handsome, straight profile of Helmar. Ever so slowly she picked up the cloak and seemed to hug it tightly to her chest; then she aimed and strode toward him. Sayyed pushed deeper into the sheltering shadow as she walked on past.

The sorcerer blinked in surprise. For just the wink of an eye, Helmar had been close enough for him to see her clearly, and in that brief moment, he had seen the shimmer of tears in her eyes.

Sayyed walked slowly back to his quarters deep in thought, and when he finally drifted to sleep that night, it was Helmar’s face, strong yet sadly vulnerable, that colored his dreams.

Kelene crouched against the stone wall as far from the gryphon as she could manage and vehemently loosed a string of well-chosen words vilifying Zukhara’s ancestry. Blood dripped from three long scratches on her arm, and a bruise spread over the right side of her face. She glared balefully at the gryphon, who hissed and glared back with equal ferocity.

“Stupid bird,” she muttered to herself. Or whatever it was. Even after two days of being trapped in its vicinity, Kelene still wasn’t sure if the winged creature was a bird or an animal. It was beautiful, she had to admit that. Its narrow head, wings, and the beaklike nose reminded her of an eagle, as did its piercing hunter’s eyes and the bright gold fur that looked suspiciously like feathers covering its entire body. The legs, though, looked like those of a lion, powerfully muscled, sleek, and deadly. Its feet had large pads fitted with razor-sharp retractable claws. The beast had a long tail like a cat’s, and Kelene had noticed that it used the tail to communicate its feelings much as Tam’s cat did. It used its tail now, lashing it irritably back and forth as it lay on the floor and glowered at her. Its tufted ears lay flat on its head.

“Afraid of a few scratches?” Zukhara’s voice reverberated through the cavern. The woman and the gryphon glared up with matching hatred at the overhang. That was one thing Kelene knew they had in common.

“The beast will not kill you,” Zukhara called to her, the scorn clear in his loud voice. “It is chained and prefers the taste of horseflesh. You have had two days already, two days that your lady mother lies dying.”

Kelene leaped to her feet, ignoring the gryphon’s startled snarl. “How is she? Is she still alive?” she called anxiously.

“She is being cared for,” the Turic said curtly. “And she is still alert enough to continue my training in sorcery. But you have only five days left until the poison completes its task.” He lowered a basket to her and left, his words still echoing in her mind.

Five days, she thought miserably, and she was no closer to taming this gryphon than she’d been when Zukhara dumped her in the pit with it. On the other hand, she thought wryly, the company of a wild gryphon was certainly preferable to Zukhara and his plans for her.

She unpacked the food and a wineskin from the basket. He certainly was taking no chances that she go hungry. He had sent enough delicacies to last another day, and the skin was full to bursting with the same fruit juice he had given her earlier. She wrinkled her nose at the sweet smell. He had probably laced it with more of his midwives’ remedy. For the briefest moment she hesitated and thought of her wish to have a baby. If this remedy worked, was it worth the chance? Could she rely solely on luck and her wits to keep her out of the counselor’s bed? Then, almost fiercely, she changed the juice to water. She wanted a child desperately, but she wanted Rafnir’s baby, not a child conceived in trickery and hate.

After she had eaten, Kelene repacked the basket and stood to stretch her back and shoulders under the wary gaze of the gryphon. As she moved, something fell out of her skirt to the cavern floor. She picked it up and recognized the wad of fabric she had used to wipe the sedative off Demira’s rump. It had lain forgotten in her waistband for three days. Curious to see if the ointment was still damp, she unfolded the cloth, and the faint medicinal smell rose to her nostrils. The sedative, set in its oily base, had saturated the fabric through almost all the folded layers. Kelene grinned. If this hadn’t fallen out when it had, she might have been drugged by the very potion she hoped to save.

She folded it again, wrapped it in another scrap from her already tattered tunic, and returned it to its hiding place. Unfortunately there wasn’t enough to sedate the gryphon. It stood taller than a Hunnuli and probably weighed twice as much.

But she had other weapons for that beast. Kelene rolled up her sleeves. She had refrained from using more than a few minor spells in the presence of the gryphon for fear of injuring it further or scaring it beyond redemption. All she had received for her gentle concern were scratches, bruises, and snarling disdain. Well, time was too precious now to softfoot around this beast! She would have to take her chances with its sensibilities.

Kelene recalled the handbook of Lady Jeneve, and in her mind’s eye she pictured the page she wanted and the words to the spell that paralyzed living creatures. She recreated the spell and released it, stopping the gryphon in midstride before it knew what hit it. It could still breathe, and its eyes glowed bright with fear and anger, but it did not move as Kelene came close.

Softly, gently, she spoke to the gryphon to ease its fear. She did not touch it yet; she merely walked around the creature to ascertain the full extent of its injuries. Fortunately most of the wounds were scrapes and scratches that were healing on their own. Only one long abrasion on the left hind leg looked swollen and festering.

Kelene fetched the water left in the wineskin and her healer’s bag. The first night Zukhara imprisoned her with the gryphon, he had returned her bag, sent her new clothes, and provided a pallet for her comfort. Kelene had ignored the new clothes, preferring her own torn and dirty ones to the silk tunic and the form-fitting gown Zukhara had sent. She found a use for them now, taking delight in tearing them into strips to bandage the gryphon’s leg. She laid out several jars of salves, a bowl of water, and the bandages. When she was ready, she took a deep breath. The gryphon, its huge eye rolling back to look at her, looked terrified by its inability to move. Laying a hand gently on the gryphon’s warm side, Kelene closed her eyes and extended her empathic talent down her skin and into the creature’s body.

Wild, hot, and fierce, the gryphon’s emotions broke over her, making her gasp at the sheer force of its personality. At once she realized the gryphon was a female, young, barely of breeding age, and consumed with rage at her captivity. Kelene felt barbs of suspicion and bright red animalistic waves of fear. She probed deeper, soothing her way with calm thoughts and feelings of concern, toward the heart of the gryphon’s emotions.

Ever so delicately Kelene let her thoughts touch the creature’s mind. Easy, girl, she sent kindly. You and I are in this together. Let us help one another. She didn’t know if the golden beast was intelligent enough to understand her thoughts and the concept of cooperation, but it was worth a try.

Much to her relief, the gryphon’s vivid, tumultuous feelings began to settle down to calmer waves of wary curiosity.

I will not hurt you, Kelene continued. I want only to treat your hurt.

Her mental touch still lightly on the gryphon’s mind, she began to clean the infected cut. Skillfully she salved it and bandaged the leg, all the while stroking the creature with her empathic touch.

When she was finished with the wound she added one more thought before she broke their bond. I am a captive like you, and like you I have to serve the man. If you will help me, I will help you gain your freedom. And with that she withdrew her mind and dissolved the paralyzing spell.

The gryphon shook herself and snarled irritably at Kelene, but although she still stood in range of the creature’s powerful paws, the gryphon sat down, curled her tail around her feet, and contemplated the sorceress with eagle eyes.

“Think about it,” Kelene said aloud, and she returned to her pallet to let the animal rest. Would the gryphon settle down and let her help? She didn’t know, and she was too tired to think about it for long. Without intending to, Kelene fell soundly asleep.

The gryphon’s growl woke her to darkness, and she bolted upright at the chilling sound. The sorcerer’s light she usually maintained had gone out while she slept, leaving the cavern in impenetrable night. The gryphon growled again, low and full of menace. Her chains rattled in the darkness.

Kelene raised her hand to relight her sphere when a small handlamp flared to light in an entrance she had not seen before. A stone door, cunningly set in the rock of the cavern wall, creaked closed behind Counselor Zukhara. He set the lamp on a ledge and moved toward her pallet. Kelene sprang to her feet in alarm.

“I have been watching you and your progress with the gryphon. It is almost ready.” Kelene said nothing and warily watched him approach. He paused an arm’s length away and eyed her from head to toe. “You are not wearing the clothes I chose for you,” he said levelly.

“I had other need for them,” Kelene replied. Nervously she edged back, very much aware that Zukhara wore only a loose-fitting robe open to his chest and his ivory ward. Deliberately she turned to run and, under the cover of her more violent movement, she dipped her fingers in her waistband and palmed the wad of fabric.

Zukhara lunged after her. His hands closed on her shoulders and wrenched her off balance. Her tunic ripped across the back. Half-hauling, half-dragging her backward, he flung her to the pallet and pinned her clown with the full length of his body. Kelene lay panting and wild-eyed. She straggled against his weight, and as she tried to heave him away, she clamped the rag with oily sedative against his upper arm.

To keep his attention on her, she screamed and fought with all her might and prayed the sedative would work. She could feel his passion exuding from him in a heavy cloying aura, and she desperately closed her mind to his touch, terrified of being overwhelmed by his need.

Zukhara forced his hand over her mouth and silenced her screams. In the sudden quiet, she heard the gryphon lunge against her chains. The beast’s growl rose to a hair-raising cry that shivered to the vaulted ceiling of the cave.

Zukhara heard it and exalted. “Tonight, my chosen, we consummate our union in the presence of the sacred gryphon.” Kelene lay still, her face marble-white, her fingers still fastened to his arms. “You are like the gryphon,” he told her. “Untamed, fierce, and proud. I have waited a long time for this.”

Kelene’s eyes widened. Did his voice seem to slur a bit on those last words? No sooner had she thought that, than Zukhara’s eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped over her, dead to the world.

The sorceress gratefully pushed him off. She wrapped the rag back in its cloth and grinned. The sedative was potent stuff indeed. She had no idea how long the drug would last, so she quickly went to work. First she tried the stone door, but as she had feared, it was locked with a powerful spell. Not that she was certain she wanted to escape yet anyway. She had no antidote for Gabria and no knowledge of where to find her mother, or Nara, or even a way out. Nor did she want to kill Zukhara yet. for those same reasons. There would be a better time to escape—a time perhaps when she could also free the gryphon. Instead she decided simply to play along with Zukhara’s plans. Let the man think he had succeeded, she thought grimly; then maybe he would leave her alone for a while.

Setting one blanket aside, she mussed her pallet as if it had been vigorously used; then she draped the Turic’s long body over the whole thing. Her fingers found the ivory ward, pulled it out, and she cracked it ever so slightly under her knee. The crack would weaken the ward’s effectiveness, and if all went well, he would not notice the damage until too late. She pulled off his robe, averting her eyes in distaste, and dropped it in a pile with her own torn, dirty tunic and skirt. Then she transformed the spare blanket into a pair of riding pants and a thick, warm tunic similar to those she had worn before.

She looked around for a place to lie down away from Zukhara and was surprised to see the gryphon sitting at the end of her chain and regarding her with calm, friendly eyes. In fact, she was purring. She walked up to the creature, waiting for her perked ears to go flat, but the gryphon only lay down on her side as if inviting Kelene to join her. Kelene threw all caution to the winds. She curled up beside the gryphon’s warm, furry-feathery side and waited for Zukhara to wake up.

She didn’t have long to wait. The sedative was old and there hadn’t been much to work with on the rag. In a matter of minutes, Zukhara stirred and sat up rather groggily. He looked around for her. Kelene huddled closer to the gryphon’s side and tried her best to look like a wounded maiden. The Turic’s eye roved from himself to the bed to their clothes to Kelene’s miserable expression, and Kelene was rewarded by a flicker of confusion in the man’s dark eyes. Finally he stood, donned his robe, and strode toward her. The gryphon’s tufted ears snapped flat, and her warning growl stopped him in his tracks.

He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “I see you have tamed the beast,” he said to Kelene.

“She and I have something in common,” Kelene retorted.

“She? I didn’t realize.” He smiled in pleasure. “How appropriate.”

“I thought gryphons were extinct,” she said, trying to keep the aggrieved tone in her voice while leading him to any subject other than what had not happened between them.

She needn’t have worried. Zukhara’s pride would never let him admit he didn’t remember a thing. He thankfully accepted her lead to an area he could discuss with authority and assurance. “My hunters found one tiny pride so far back in the mountains it took days to reach them.”

Kelene noticed the gryphon was paying close attention to their exchange, and she pondered just how much the animal understood. “Are the others still there?”

“As far as I know. I took only the one.”

“But why? What use will she be to you?”

“You do not know the Turic religion,” he said scornfully, “or you would understand. Gryphons are the sacred messengers of the Prophet Sargun. In our ancient tales, it was a gryphon who freed the prophet from his prison and carried him home. The gryphon is a powerful symbol to my people, and this one will be the vanguard of my conquest. When she flies, the people will know my armies are blessed by the Living God, and they will flock to my call.”

Kelene merely nodded. She had given up being surprised by the scope of this man’s plans. “And when you are finished with her, will you let her go?”

Zukhara’s mouth lifted in a cold smile. He knew she was talking about more than the gryphon. “When I am finished, she may not want to go.” He bowed slightly to I hem both. “Good day, my lady. Stay with the gryphon and be sure she will come at your call. Tomorrow we leave for Cangora.”

Kelene jumped to her feet. “And my mother?”

“She comes with us.” He laughed as he turned to leave. “And the antidote, too.” He blew out his lamp, leaving Kelene and the gryphon in the darkness, and the door boomed shut behind him.

The Clannad mustered at daybreak in the meadow at the foot of the cliff settlement. Fifty warriors, men and women armed and dressed for battle, mounted their white horses and fell in behind their chieftain’s standard. Sayyed and Rafnir, astride their Hunnuli, marveled anew at the beauty of the Clannad horses and their training. Except for simple saddlepads, the horses wore no tack of any kind, yet they obeyed their riders as well as any Hunnuli.

As soon as the ranks were mustered, Lady Helmar raised a gloved fist. She rode her star-colored mare that morning and wore a shirt of silver mail that glistened like water in the pearly light. Her bright red hair hung below her helm in a heavy braid that dangled over her shoulder, and a bow and quiver were strapped to her back. She gave a single piercing call that was answered by fifty voices in a shout that rang across the valley. In the city above, those who remained behind waved and shouted good-bye.

The troop trotted down the valley, sorting themselves into a single file as they approached the passage of the Back Door. One by one they rode down the narrow crevice and worked their way down the rugged glen beside the tumbling stream. Even in the light of a sunny spring day, the going was slow. It was nearly midday before the first of the troop came to a halt by the tall, grotesque pole of faces that guarded the faint trail.

“Do you know anything about that statue?” Rafnir asked the rider closest to him.

The man looked up the length of the pole and grinned. “Those things have been in the mountains since long before us. But this one was found many leagues away. My grandfather helped move it here to guard the Back Door. The local shepherds are terrified of it and stay away from the valley.”

The clansmen fully expected to travel the rest of the afternoon. The day was clear and mild, the trails were drying, and the traveling would be easy. But to their astonishment, as soon as the last Clannad warrior reached the ancestor pole, instead of mounting and moving on, Helmar led her riders into the shelter of a thick belt of trees and ordered them to dismount.

“Because,” she insisted when Sayyed demanded to know why, “we always travel at night. The only reason we left early was to traverse the glen in the daylight. But now we’re out of our territory. Now we rest the horses and travel at night.” And that was that.

Sayyed and Rafnir could only swallow their impatience and wait. The stallions didn’t seem to mind. Sayyed noticed Afer and Tibor had taken a strong liking to the white horses and apparently found something amusing about their company. When asked, though, neither stallion would give a definite answer.

Sayyed scratched his beard and tried to relax. It was not easy. The afternoon wore slowly on while the horses quietly grazed, the warriors dozed, and the insects droned in the undergrowth. Finally Sayyed brought out his tulwar and the special stone he kept solely to sharpen the weapon, and he began to am the stone smoothly along the curved blade. After several strokes, he felt the tingling on the back of his neck he always got when he was being watched, and he looked up into Helmar’s intent gaze. Her eyes sparkled, green and intense, the color of sunlight in deep water. She met his regard with frank interest.

“Are you as good with that blade as you are with magic?” she asked, her voice lightly teasing.

He lifted an eyebrow and kept working. “You have only seen me use one spell, so you cannot know whether I am good or not.”

Beside the chief, flat on his back, Hydan chuckled at the remark.

“If half of what you told us is true, then you must be one of the finest sorcerers in the clans,” she said.

“He is.” Rafnir spoke up from his resting spot by the trunk of a tree.

A hiss of humor escaped Sayyed. “All of what I told you is true,” he said shortly. “Now tell me a truth. Where did your people come from?”

“Over the mountains.” She shrugged. “We have been in Sanctuary for generations.”

“Why did you decide to save us when you learned we were sorcerers?”

“You saved yourselves. We couldn’t very well argue with magic-wielders.”

He grunted. “Where did you learn to speak Clannish?”

“We didn’t know we were until you came along.”

Exasperated, Sayyed put away his stone. He felt as if he were running into walls with every question he asked. Either they had a poor oral tradition, they simply didn’t care about their ancestry or—and Sayyed was more inclined to believe this—they were deliberately concealing a secret they weren’t ready to share.

He shoved his tulwar back in its sheath, crossed his arms, and leaned back against a tree, shutting his eyes to end the conversation. The Clannad would reveal their truths when they wanted, and until then he was not going to beat his head against their walls.

When night came, the troop ate a cold meal and continued across the mountain slopes toward the trail Sayyed and Rafnir had lost in the storm. The two sorcerers quickly acknowledged that the Clannad warriors were quite good at night travel and their horses were sharp-eyed and agile. But the darkness disguised details, drained color, and turned the world to shadow, and even the most seasoned traveler was slowed by night on treacherous paths in the mountain wilderness. Worse yet, the heavy rains of the storm two nights ago had washed out many sections of the trails they were trying to follow, and a huge, muddy landslide blocked one shortcut they tried, forcing them on a long detour out of one valley and up a traverse over a high, spiny ridge before they could find their way to the wagon trail. By dawn they were tired, muddy, and still leagues from the fortress.

When daylight painted the eastern horizon, the Clannad began to look for a place to shelter for the day. Sayyed, though, urged Afer close to Helmar’s mare. “We can’t stop now,” he said bluntly. “Gabria and Kelene have probably been in that fortress almost three days. We have to get them out!”

“And we will,” Helmar replied. “But the horses need a rest and we-—”

“Do not travel in daylight. I know,” he cut her off. “But we don’t have that time to waste.”

“I will not endanger my people for—”

“What is that?” Hydan exclaimed.

All eyes swept to the brightening sky in time to see something large and dark swerve toward them. A shadow swift as a storm cloud raced overhead and plunged out of the dawn light. The white horses neighed a warning.

Hydan’s warrior instincts brought his hands to his bow and an arrow before he stopped to think. In a blur he nocked the arrow, raised the bow, and drew the string to his jaw.

“No!” bellowed Rafnir.

Tibor sprang forward and rammed into Hydan’s horse, knocking the man’s aim askew. The bow dropped, but his fingers released the string, and the arrow sang wildly into the group clustered around Helmar.

In the same second the downdraft from a huge pair of wings swept over the party and blew the shaft farther off course. I found you! trumpeted a Hunnuli voice.

“Demira!” Sayyed shouted in joy. Just as he spoke, the arrow pierced through his arm and into his side. Stunned, he looked down at the shaft that pinned his arm to his ribs, and a sickly smile twisted over his lips. “I knew I should have stayed in Moy Tura,” he said and slowly sagged off Afer to the muddy earth.

Appalled, Helmar, Hydan, and Rafnir slid off their mounts and hurried to Sayyed’s aid. While Tibor joyously welcomed Demira, the warriors carried the sorcerer into a copse of trees and laid him on the cloak Helmar had returned. There was no question now that they would have to stop.

Helmar snapped orders to her riders, and in moments every man and horse was out of sight in several scattered groves of trees. One man was a healer, and under his direction Helmar and Rafnir removed the shaft from Sayyed’s arm. Fortunately that part proved easy enough, for the arrow had pierced straight through the muscle on the back of his upper arm. The difficulty came in removing the arrowhead from his ribs. Demira’s wings had probably saved his life by slowing the arrow, but it still had struck with enough force to wedge between two bones. It took a long while to cut the skin, work the arrow free, and stitch the wounds. Although Helmar and the healer tried to be gentle, by the time they were through Sayyed was drenched with sweat and utterly exhausted. His hand reached out to grip Helmar’s, and he thankfully passed out into healing sleep.

The lady stared down at his hand, still dirty from clenching the earth in his pain, and her fingers tightened around his.

Afer gently nosed her. He will be all right.

“I know,” she murmured.

Rafnir looked up sharply. “What?”

She settled more comfortably beside the clansman, his hand still in hers, and sighed. “Just talking to myself.”

Sleep, the healer’s salves, and a warm meal soon bolstered Sayyed’s constitution. As soon as he could stand without getting dizzy, he insisted on greeting Demira and making much over her return. The mare confirmed Gabria and Kelene were in Zukhara’s fortress, and she told the men the sketchy facts she knew.

“Poisoned!” Sayyed said furiously. “Are you sure?”

That is what Kelene said, Demira replied. She was certain someone had come after them, and she ordered me to leave. Her mental tone still sounded aggrieved. / have looked for you all over these mountains!

Rafnir flung his arms around her neck, and that was all the thanks she needed.

The troop left the trees that night at Sayyed’s insistence, but the loss of blood had left him weaker than he thought, and he could ride only a few hours that night. They stopped again the third day in a woods only a few leagues from the fortress. Sayyed was too tired to argue. Although his impatience pushed him on, his body would not obey. The puncture in his arm was healing well, but riding had pulled the stitches in his side. Blood oozed from his bandages, and the wound looked red and swollen. Sayyed knew he would be no good to Gabria and Kelene if he did not regain his strength, so he ate his food, swallowed a draught provided by the healer, and went to his bed without protest.

Just past midnight the next night, the troop climbed a rocky hillside and rode down into a steep ravine. There on a high plateau overlooking the ravine, they saw the stark outline of several squat towers and the high stone walls of a fortress. On one side of the castle the cliffs fell sheer to the ravine floor; on the other a pale road wound its way up the steep face to the enhance.

“Good gods,” Rafnir breathed. “How do we get up into that?”

“By the front door,” Sayyed growled.

He conferred with Helmar for several long minutes and, when they were agreed, the Clannad riders dismounted. Silently and nearly invisibly, the warriors began to work their way up the road toward the fortress. Demira pushed aside her fear of flying at night and flew a reconnaissance over the fortress.

It is lightly guarded, she reported when she returned. And they are not paying close attention.

Sayyed and Rafnir watched the descending moon and gave Helmar and her warriors another half hour; then Sayyed trotted Afer openly up the road toward the fortress gates. Rafnir mounted Demira, and she launched herself into the darkness.

Demira was right, the guards were very lax that night. Sayyed rode nearly to the top of the plateau close to the gate before a voice called out to challenge him.

Sayyed replied in Turic, “I have messages for the Supreme Counselor, Zukhara.”

“Not tonight,” grumbled a voice on the wall.

Sayyed shot a look over his shoulder to the dark, rock-tumbled edge of the road. A tiny flash, the reflection of moonlight on a dagger blade, signaled Helmar was ready.

“Sorry, but I really must see him now,” Sayyed snapped, and he raised his good arm and fired a powerful blast of magic at the wooden gate. To his astonishment, the magic struck the wood and evaporated. The entrance was protected with magic wards!

This arcane defense was so unexpected, Sayyed stared in surprise. Shouts echoed on the walls, and feet pounded along the battlements. The sorcerer had wanted to surprise the garrison, and all he had succeeded in doing was rouse them all. He tried again with a more powerful bolt. That one shook the gate and boomed against the stone, but the wards were new and well made, and they held.

Sayyed took a deep breath. He was weaker than he imagined, and the thought crossed his mind that maybe he wasn’t strong enough after all to break this gate. As if Afer had read his thoughts, the big stallion neighed, and someone slipped up beside the Hunnuli.

“Try again,” Helmar cried to the clansman.

He pulled in all the magic he dared use, formed it into an explosive spell, and released it from the palm of his hand. Before he could even draw breath, a second bolt followed his across the night-dark space and exploded just behind his on the portals of the gate. The wards vanished in a clap of thunder, and the wooden gate cracked to ruins.

The Clannad warriors charged forward, their swords raised, their voices lifted in battle cry. Behind the walls, Demira came to land on the stone pavings, and Rafnir, in all the confusion, sprang into the hall to look for the women.

Sayyed looked down at Helmar, too startled to think of anything to say.

She smiled at him. “If you had been full-blooded, you might have learned that ‘clannad’ is an ancient clan word for ‘family.’”

“Your ancestors were clanspeople?” he asked, feeling rather dense.

“A long time ago.”

“But you have no splinter.”

“There are no more,” Helmar replied with a shrug. She touched his right wrist where his splinter glowed beneath his sleeve and ran to join her warriors in the fighting at the gate.

The garrison, undermanned and ill-prepared for a battle with sorcerers and sword-wielding warriors who came out of nowhere, quickly surrendered. As Sayyed and Helmar ended the assault and rounded up prisoners, Rafnir ran out of the hall, looking thunderous. “They’re gone!” he shouted furiously.

Sayyed turned on the commander of the fortress. “Where is Zukhara? Where are the women he had with him?”

The Turic drew himself up in pride for his master. “The Gryphon flies, and Lord Zukhara rides to claim his throne.”

“He did what?” asked Helmar puzzled. Sayyed had not gone into detail about the current unrest in the Turic realm. He assumed the Clannad knew.

“Lord Zukhara left this morning with the sorceresses,” the soldier explained as if to a simpleton. “Soon he will call his armies and march on Cangora.”

“A day!” Rafnir cried, totally frustrated. “We keep missing them by a day!” He paced back and forth in the hall of the mountain fortress, slamming his hand on a shield every time he passed it. The shield was a large one, hung on the wall for decoration, and it made a satisfying crash every time he hit it. “Why can’t we leave now?” the young man demanded. “The Hunnuli could catch up with their horses.

He got no immediate answer. His father, Helmar, Rapinor, Hydan, and several other warriors sat around a long table in front of a roaring fire. A map of the Turic realm, unearthed in a storage chest by the garrison commander, lay unrolled on the table amid a scattered collection of flagons, pitchers, and plates. The rest of the troop rested, tended their horses, or raided the castle storerooms for food and drink. The fortress garrison kicked its collective heels in the dungeons.

Midnight had passed hours ago, and dawn would soon lighten the road, but Sayyed made no effort to move from his chair. There were too many forces in motion now to leap precipitously into action. He wanted time to think. He had already explained in detail to Helmar and her men what had happened at Council Rock and later in the caravan. They had been unpleasantly surprised. Still, in spite of their concern, Sayyed fully expected the mysterious Helmar to take her riders and return home now that their duty was done.

He was, therefore, startled when she spoke into an interval between Rafnir’s rhythmic banging. “If you plan to go after Zukhara, you will need help.”

A ripple of surprise passed through her men. Rafnir halted in midpace.

Instead of looking pleased, Sayyed’s brows lowered in suspicion. “Why? It will mean leaving the mountains, traveling in daylight. Why do you offer that now?”

Helmar slowly rose. Her helmet had been laid aside, and her hair blazed red-gold in the firelight. She swept her hand over the map, then looked at her warriors one by one. When she spoke, her words were only to them. “For generations we have lived in Sanctuary thinking the world had abandoned us. Now the world has come pounding at our door, and we learn it has changed while we hid in our mountain fastness. Knowing what we know now, do we want to continue to hide and let the world go by without us? Or do we ride forth and embrace the possibilities of the future?”

Her question fell to every man, and there was silence while each one considered his answer.

Rapinor spoke first, the loyal, staunch warrior who would follow his chief to the grave. “I go with you.”

“Have you considered the consequences, Lady Helmar?” asked another man.

“For the past three days, Dejion. I have also considered the consequences if we stay home and turn our backs. As Minora keeps telling me, we have grown stagnant. Our bloodlines are dying from lack of new stock. If we go back, we could lose everything our ancestors tried to save.”

“Then I will ride with you, and the gorthlings take the hindmost,” the warrior laughed.

“I still haven’t seen this Lady Gabria,” Hydan grumbled. “But you make a good argument.”

The others, too, agreed to ride with the clansmen, and Helmar nodded her satisfaction. “Then go. Talk to the warriors. Tell them why and say any who wish to go home may do so.”

The men bowed and left, leaving Helmar with only her two guards and the clansmen. She pulled in a deep breath and sat down so quickly her sword clattered on the chair. “Does that answer your question?” she said to Sayyed.

He leaned back in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. His arm hurt and his side throbbed abominably, but he wouldn’t go to his pallet yet. This night was too full of revelations. “What made you decide this?” he asked.

“The mare.” Helmar nodded toward the open doorway where the Hunnuli rested in the courtyard. “When I saw her in all her beautiful living flesh, I knew you had been telling me the truth—all of it. I realized then that our stone walls would no longer be enough. It is time the Clannad shows its true colors.”

Sayyed offered her a slow, conciliatory smile. “Will dawn be a good time to start?”

At that Rafnir’s hands went up in annoyance. “Why wait until then? They like to ride at night; let’s go now!”

“You may leave any time,” his father told him, “because I want you to go back to the Ramtharin.”

A bright flush swept over Rafnir’s face, and he turned on his heel and stamped to the table.

Seeing the look on his son’s face, Sayyed held up his hand. “I need someone I can trust to find Athlone. He said send a message, remember? Well, I’m sending you and Tibor. Get him to come south with the werods to help the Shar-Ja.”

The audacity of such a suggestion took Rafnir’s breath away. “You want him to bring the clans over the Altai? But the Turic will think they’re being invaded.”

“That’s why I want you to go. With you at Athlone’s side, you can tell the Turics you have been summoned by the Shar-Ja in accordance with the peace treaty.”

“A treaty that was never signed!”

“A mere formality. Make a likeness of the Shar-Ja’s banner. Dress like a Turic noble. Make it look official.”

“What if the Shar-Ja doesn’t want any help?” Rafnir demanded.

Sayyed rubbed his temples and said grimly, “I don’t think he is in any position to argue.”

Helmar had been listening to the exchange, her face thoughtful. “Can’t you take your flying horse? It would be faster, would it not?”

Rafnir picked up a full flagon and put it down again, still too agitated to stand still. “No. She can carry me short distances, but I am too heavy for her to carry such a long way. Besides”—he cracked a crooked grimace—“I doubt you could get her any farther away from Kelene than she already is.”

Helmar nodded as if she had already anticipated that answer. “Well, your journey back will be dangerous if you go alone across the open country.” She traced a line north along the foothills of the Absarotans. “One of my rangers could lead you on mountain trails all the way to the border.”

“Lady, that is generous, but I don’t think your horses could keep up with a Hunnuli,” Rafnir replied distractedly.

The lady chieftain laughed softly as if at a private joke. “On the mountain slopes you have not been able to witness the full talents of our white horses, young Rafnir. Be assured, the whites will match your blacks.”

Sayyed pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. “And I suppose your white horses are descended from clan stock, too.”

She nodded, her eyes merry. “Of course.”

When she didn’t add more, Sayyed bent forward, cupped his hands over hers, and said earnestly, “One day will you trust me enough to tell me the full truth of your history?”

Helmar’s eyes fell to their linked hands, and something flickered in the back of her heart, that same heart she thought she had hardened to the attentions of men. “One clay,” she said and pulled her hands free.

Rafnir went back to his pacing, but this time he did not slam the shield as he passed—a good sign, Sayyed thought. The older sorcerer continued with his plans, letting Rafnir stew over his duty. “There is another favor I must ask, Lady,” he said, and hesitated before he went on. “It could be very dangerous, but it is important to me and maybe to the Turics as well.”

“Ask.”

“I need someone to get word to my brother, Hajira, in the Shar-Ja’s caravan. He is the sole guardian of the Shar-Ja’s only living son. That boy has to be protected at all costs.”

Helmar steepled her fingers. “I know nothing of this boy or the Shar-Ja beyond what you have told us, but even that little shines brighter than what I have heard of this Zukhara. I will find someone willing to go.”

“My lady, with your permission,” Hydan said, rising to his feet. “I will go. I speak a little Turic, and I owe Sayyed a favor for shooting his arm and making us late.”

The clansman looked around, surprised. He had not expected help from that quarter. “Can you find your way?”

“Hydan is one of the few who leave the valley on occasion to visit nearby settlements. He is a good man,” Helmar added. “His only faults are a temper he can’t control yet and an overreaching desire to protect what he values.”

The swordsman’s face turned red, but he did not waver when she asked. “You understand what you might have to face?” He nodded. “Then go with my blessing and ride safely.”

After that was settled, Sayyed, Rafnir, and Helmar bent over the map again to finalize their plans. Although Sayyed had made most of the decisions to that point, he was very interested to learn Helmar had a quick grasp of the worsening situation and a sharp mind for tactics. She was the one who suggested sending other rangers out to gather news and who pointed out a rough trail over the Khidar Pass that would take them directly to the Spice Road and cut off leagues of extra travel.

One point confused her though. “What will we do when we catch up with this Zukhara? What if he’s already joined his army of fanatics?”

Sayyed could only shake his head. The same thought had occurred to him with no brilliant inspiration to light its way. “I won’t know until we get there,” he admitted. “So if you have any ideas . . .” He yawned, too tired to finish.

The fire had burned low by that time, and everything that could be planned had been discussed. Sayyed’s swarthy face had washed to a grayish pallor, and he moved with uncomfortable stiffness when he stood. Helmar took one arm and Rafnir the other, and they led him firmly to a bed. He was asleep before they had pulled a blanket up over his chest.

The castle bailey was bustling with activity when Sayyed woke the next morning. After a quick wash and a quiet moment for his morning prayers, he strode out into the sunshine in time to say good-bye to Rafnir and his guide.

Rafnir had not verbally agreed to leave the search for Kelene and Gabria, but Sayyed knew his son well enough to hope he would accept the reasons for this request. He stood out of the way, his arms crossed, while Rafnir buckled one of the Clannad’s saddle pads on Tibor instead of the heavy Turic saddle.

“I’m trusting you to find Kelene,” Rafnir said, his voice sharper than he intended. He modified his tone a little and went on. “I never fully understood how you could grieve for Mother for so long, but when I think what it would be like to lose Kelene, I begin to see.” He clasped his father’s arm and sprang to Tibor’s back. “I will bring the Clans!” he vowed. He was about to go when he turned and tossed out one more observation. “Father! I think Mother would approve of Helmar.” He waved, and in a clatter of hoofbeats, the black stallion and the white cantered out of the fortress and on their way.

“What was that?” Helmar asked, coming to stand by the sorcerer.

A quirk of a smile passed Sayyed’s lips. “He said good-bye.” He wasn’t sure why Rafnir would feel inclined to say what he had, and yet he thought his son was probably right. Tam would have liked Helmar. A gust of wind flounced by, snapping his cloak and sending dust swirling around the bailey in tiny whirlwinds. The sky was achingly blue and cloudless, but the air this high in the mountains was thin and still chilly in the mornings. Sayyed shivered as a finger of breeze brushed past his neck. “Tam,” he whispered. Then he glanced over at a straight nose, a dusting of freckles, and a pair of green eyes set in a frame of red-gold lashes—so different from Tarn’s delicate oval beauty—and he was glad Helmar was there.

Hydan left next, with Sayyed’s message wrapped around Hajira’s gryphon knife and tucked carefully in his shirt. He had scrounged some Turic clothes, including a shortcoat emblazoned with Zukhara’s red emblem, and had saddled his reluctant horse with Rafnir’s Turic saddle. He looked passable enough, if rather uncomfortable in the saddle, and he saluted his chief and trotted out in Rafnir’s wake.

A short while later, Helmar led her troop out the fortress gates. To her delight and secret relief, every warrior chose to go with her on her quest to help Sayyed rescue the sorceresses. They took with them all the supplies and equipment they could pack on the backs of the garrison horses. Sayyed waited with Afer until the riders were out of sight; then he hurried down a winding stairs to the dungeon level. The prisoners crowded around the doors as he unlocked them.

“You have to the count of one hundred before this place is destroyed,” he said calmly.

The Turics took one look at his face and fled the castle as fast as they could run, The clansman leisurely rode out the gates, counting as he went until Afer reached the bottom of the ravine. He turned and studied the cliff wall.

“... ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred.”

Sayyed raised his good arm, pointed to the cliff at the base of the castle wall, and sent a long, steady beam of power into the rock. There were no explosions this time, just a rumbling sound that began beneath the beam and radiated rapidly outward. Suddenly an enormous chunk of the rock face slipped loose. Cracks appeared in the fortress walls; then the ground fell from beneath the structure. The hall, most of the outbuildings, several towers, and half the walls slipped down, rumbling and crashing in a cloud of stone, dust, and debris to the ravine floor. The remains of the fortress lay shattered, and the entrance to the narrow spiral staircase leading down to an empty cavern vanished in a pile of rubble.

Sayyed found the sight of the gaping ruins small satisfaction for all the trouble Zukhara had caused. Afer snorted in agreement. Swiftly they set off and soon caught up with the Clannad.

Now that the troop agreed to risk daylight travel, they made excellent time. They rode south at a brisk pace back the way they had come, and in less than two days they reached the back entrance to Sanctuary. Taking with her most of the packhorses and three of her warriors, Helmar left the others to rest and refresh themselves in the tumbled glen.

Sayyed did not know what she said to her people in the valley, but she came back the next dawn with twenty-five more riders and a glowing expression on her face.

“Minora sends her blessings,” was all she would say.

She led her warriors up the slope of a high hill and stopped to watch them pass by. Sayyed paused beside her. The world before them lay bleak and unpeopled, the mighty peaks turbaned in cloud, the slopes mottled with forests and bare outcroppings of stone. Beyond the wild lands to the east where the mountains gave way to the arid plains, the horizon was swathed in mist, as if already obscured in the smokes of war. Behind the troop lay the narrow path to Sanctuary and all that name implied. Sayyed, who had seen for himself the beauty and security of the valley, marveled at the courage it took to step out of the protective walls and ride into a dangerous, troubled world. Some of the men, he knew, had never set foot outside their valley.

Overhead, Demira neighed to the people below and wheeled over the slower moving column, keeping a sharp vigilance from the sky.

That day and the next the Clannad rode in deadly earnest, first to the east to the less rugged and more open foothills, then south toward the Turic capital of Cangora, located on the fringes of the great southern desert. They rode hard, and for all their settled ways, they and their white horses endured as well as any nomadic band.

Their guide was an older man, a short, powerful warrior with the lively, quick glance of a curious child. While most men of the Clannad did not usually leave Sanctuary, a few trained as scouts or rangers and learned the mountains and the trails from tradition handed down from other rangers and from years spent exploring the great peaks. This man knew the trail Helmar had found on the Turic map and led his people unerringly on the shortest and safest route possible.

They saw smoke the second afternoon, a dark column of fumes that rose above the plains and slowly spread across the southern skyline. Demira flew to investigate, and when she returned, her message was dark and grim.

I saw a caravan, a big one, scattered along the side of the road for nearly a league. There were wagons burning and dead men everywhere.

Sayyed felt a cold fear grip his belly. “Can you describe any of part of it? Was the Shar-Ja’s wagon there?”

I did not see that wagon, but I saw dead guardsmen with his colors, and I saw other wagons I recognized from Council Rock. Her tone faltered, and she dropped her long lashes. Even the plague camp did not look or smell so awful.

Sayyed and Helmar exchanged a long look, but neither could ask about Hydan or Hajira or Tassilio. Even if their bodies lay in the dust of the Spice Road, Demira could not have distinguished them from her place in the sky. They rode on toward the smoke and hoped that somehow the two men and the boy survived.

On the third evening, one of Helmar’s scouts found them as they rested the horses along the bank of a scraggly, half-dead stream. The rider trotted his sweat-soaked horse directly to Helmar and nearly fell off as he tried to dismount.

“The clansman was right,” the scout said wearily. He was so tired he could barely stand. “I went down to the settlement at Khazar and talked to some of the merchants and shepherds. The news is spreading like locusts. They say the Fel Azureth have risen. The Gryphon has declared himself the true ruler of the Turic and has called a holy war to purge the land of unbelievers. Half the men in the settlement are leaving to join him, the other half are talking about fighting him. They say the Gryphon is marching on Cangora and that his forces massacred the Shar-Ja’s caravan.”

“Is anyone attempting to organize the resistance against him?” asked Sayyed.

“Not that I know of. I heard many of the tribal leaders who accompanied the Shar-Ja were killed in the massacre, along with most of the royal guards. The tribes are in confusion. The Shar-Ja’s soldiers are leader-less, and no one knows what befell the Shar-Ja.”

Sayyed leaned back against Afer’s strong side. “By the Living God, this gets worse.”

“Aye, it does,” responded the exhausted scout. “They say the zealot’s army meets no resistance because he carries the Lightning of the North.”

“What is that?”

“I have never heard of such a thing. But I also heard a gryphon flies in the vanguard with a black-haired woman on its back. A woman reputed to be a sorceress.”

Sayyed’s eyes widened. “A gryphon? Do you mean a real one?” He whistled. “And Kelene on its back? No wonder the people won’t fight him.” His voice broke off, then went on. “Did you hear any news of the boy, Tassilio?”

The scout shook his head. “All I heard was that the caravan was on the road when fighting broke out in the ranks of the tribal levies, and before anyone knew what was happening, the entire caravan was under attack. They never had a chance.”

“Do you think Hydan had time to reach them?” Sayyed asked Helmar.

She knew who he meant, but she had no reassurance for him. “I don’t know.”

His hand fell to the hilt of his sword; his sharp gaze turned far away. “Are you sure you still want to go? This has become far more than a rescue of two women from an unknown assailant.”

“We have gone too far to turn back now. I will ride with you, Sorcerer.” She lifted her hand, and he clasped it with his own, making a joined fist to seal their vow.

“Besides,” she added with a grin, “in the words of Hydan, ‘I still haven’t seen this Lady Gabria.’”