Winged Magic

11

Kelene gripped the gryphon’s sides with her knees and dug her fingers into the feathery-fur down to touch the creature’s warm skin. After a lot of practice, she had learned that the best way to communicate with the creature was through the same sort of mental link she could establish with the Hunnuli. It was difficult and tiring, but the gryphon was much more likely to obey that than a mouthful of nonsense words shouted in her ear. Down, young one. It is getting too dark, to fly.

A growl issued from the gryphon’s throat, but she finally obeyed and began to spiral slowly to earth.

Kelene sighed. Riding a gryphon was exciting, because unlike Demira, the animal had been flying since birth. Exquisitely graceful, as skilled as any bird, she read the nuances of the forever changing currents and flew as if her body were a part of the wind. But she was also willful, resentful, and still very wild under the weak link of obedience Kelene had established. Unlike Demira, who adored her rider, Kelene knew the gryphon only tolerated her and waited for the day she would be set free. The sorceress understood how she felt and tried to be as kind as possible, but that did not make riding the gryphon over these long, hot days any easier.

Kelene would have given almost anything to fly the gryphon away—almost anything but Gabria’s and Nara’s lives. The gryphon, too, would have to pay a price too high, for Zukhara had fashioned a collar spelled to release a killing bolt if she flew beyond two leagues of his position. Kelene did not know how the collar worked, but she was not going to find out by testing it. There had to be some other way she could take her mother, Nara, and the gryphon and escape from Zukhara. She just had to be patient and keep looking.

Kelene glanced down toward the ground. Already Zukhara’s army had stopped and made camp along the Spice Road. She sighed again and fought down the despair that seemed to hover over her with increasing potency.

When she first heard Zukhara’s plans, a part of her mind had dismissed them as the ravings of a deluded man, but in the past four days, everything had happened as he had said it would. The moment he stood before his followers at Impala Springs and proclaimed himself the new, true leader of the Turic tribes, men had flocked to his call. Kelene had no notion how he spread the word so fast—unless he had preplanned it—but true to his word, on the tenth day after he threatened Kelene, he called his holy war, and men from all over the realm arrived to answer his summons.

Thank the gods, Kelene thought, he had not fulfilled his threat to remove her arm for the diamond splinter. After Gabria had explained that there were no more splinters, and he had satisfied himself that the women’s could not be surgically removed, he dropped the issue for the time being and contented himself by awing his followers with demonstrations of his power, until everyone knew Zukhara did indeed carry the Lightning of the North in his hands.

In the meanwhile, Zukhara commanded Kelene to fly the gryphon at the head of his ever-growing army as it marched south toward Cangora. Even from the air the sorceress had seen the awe and the fear the gryphon’s presence wrought. Some people bowed low to the golden creature, others stared in stunned surprise, and still others fled at her approach. No one tried to withstand Zukhara’s army. The force of fanatics, rebels, and supporters marched unopposed along the caravan road. There seemed to be no one willing to make a stand for the Shar-Ja. Would it be the same in his own city?

The gryphon swept low over the parched grass. She was stiff and unwilling to land yet, so Kelene let her fly a few more minutes along the road. They had flown south only a short distance from the army when the gryphon’s ears perked forward and her nostrils twitched at the warm breeze.

Suddenly a light gust swept by, and Kelene smelled it too, the heavy stench of rotting bodies. She almost reeled in her place. A sharp, piercing picture burst from her memory, an image of her return to the clan gathering during the worst of the plague. Her stomach lurched, and Kelene forced her memories back before they overwhelmed her self-control.

Ahead through the twilight, she saw several shadowy things on the verge of the road. She peered harder, and as the gryphon flew closer, the entire disaster became clear. Burned and broken wagons, vans, and chariots lay on both sides of the path for as far as Kelene could see in the dimming light. Their contents were scattered everywhere, already picked over by looters. Dead horses bloated among the wreckage, and wherever Kelene looked, in the trampled grass, by the wagons, in small or large heaps, lay the bodies of dead men.

Kelene quickly turned the gryphon away and, ignoring her annoyed hiss, told her to return to the camp. They came to land in a clear space near Zukhara’s tent. Her hands shaking, Kelene fastened the gryphon’s chains as Zukhara had instructed, gave her a heaping meal of goat meat, and strode into Zukhara’s tent. Whatever she had intended to say was immediately squelched by Zukhara’s sharp gesture.

“Sit!” he ordered and pointed to a smaller chair near his. The man was seated in a large, ornate, high-backed chair near the center of his spacious tent. Bright lamps lit the interior, and beautiful woven rugs covered the floor. Zukhara had dressed in black pants and a black robe embroidered with a golden gryphon standing rampant. The clothes were simple yet rich and on his tall, limber frame, very elegant. He sat composed, waiting expectantly with his officers on either side.

Kelene reluctantly perched on the chair he indicated. By Amara, if she had to swallow any more resentment, Kelene swore she would burst. She hated being put on display like this! Being the Gryphon’s “Chosen” had a few privileges, but they were all heavily outweighed by the disadvantages. She could only be thankful that he had been too busy to force his attentions on her again.

She heard the tread of boots outside, and eight men crowded into the tent. All but one saluted and bowed low before Zukhara. Kelene gasped. The one man who did not, or could not, bow was the Shar-Ja. If he had looked old and sick at Council Rock, he looked near death now. His once strong face sagged with loose folds of grayish skin. His red-rimmed eyes were nearly lost in the sunken shadows of his haggard face. He barely had the strength to stay upright, yet he fought off any hand that touched him and through some force of supreme will managed to stand unaided before Zukhara.

“Good,” the Gryphon said, a short, sharp bark of approval. “You caught him alive. And the boy?”

One officer stepped forward. “Your Highness, we have not yet found his body, nor the guard who was with him.”

A flicker of anger passed over Zukhara’s features, but he merely commanded, “Keep looking. I want no loose ends.”

“And what of me?” the Shar-Ja said scornfully. His voice had a surprising timbre to it that demanded Zukhara’s attention. “Am I a loose end, too?”

The lamplight fell in the Gryphon’s eyes and turned to black fire in a face as still and cold as ice. “No, Shar-Ja Rassidar. You are a very important part of my plans. Do you know the Ritual of Ascension?”

The old man gave a fierce bark of laughter and somehow stood straighter until he towered over the men around him. Kelene had not realized until then just how tall he really was, or how proud. “I am aware of the ritual. It was abolished several centuries ago.”

Zukhara’s smile came, quick and feral. “Yes, and in the name of Twice Blessed Sargun and to the glory of the Living God, I intend to resurrect the old ways, beginning with the Ritual.” He gestured to his men. “Take him to his wagon and keep him there. No one is to see him or go near him.” The men swiftly obeyed.

When they were gone, Zukhara turned his burning glance to Kelene. “You have done well, my lady. You and the gryphon have flown as successfully as I had hoped. I have a gift for you.”

Kelene flung herself to her feet. “Mother has but one day left! The only gift I need is her antidote.”

He stood and walked to his table where a small tray of multicolored glass bottles stood shining in the light. He picked up a small vial sealed with wax. “As you have undoubtedly noticed,” he said, coming close to her, “I am very knowledgeable in the arts of medicines and poisons.” He pulled the sorceress close and pressed her against his chest with one arm. With the other he held the vial up to a lamp. “Not only can I design a poison to suit my purposes, I also create antidotes and partial antidotes that delay the effects of the poison.”

Kelene’s jaw tightened. “Do you fulfill your promises?” she said between gritted teeth.

“Partially, my lady.” He chuckled and kissed her fully on the lips before he handed her the vial. “This will keep the poison in check for another ten days or so. Continue your exemplary behavior, and I will give her more.”

“What about the antidote?” Kelene exploded. Would he keep this game going indefinitely?

“I hold it close,” he replied, and he pulled out the chain that held his ivory ward. There, hanging beside the ball, was a small, thin silver tube. “When I feel you have earned it, the reward shall be yours.”

Kelene clamped her mouth closed and averted her face. At least, she thought, he had not noticed the crack in the ivory ward.

He kissed her again, long and languorously deep, until Kelene thought she would gag; then with a sneer he pushed her toward the entrance. “Not tonight, my lady. Though the thought is sweet. I have too many things to attend to. Sleep well.”

Kelene did not bother to answer. She gripped the precious vial, whirled, and fled.

The Gryphon’s army rose at dawn to another clear sky and hot sun. They knelt in the dust for their morning worship and bowed low to Zukhara, the figurehead of their reverent zeal. Their fervor ran high that morning as they broke camp and prepared to march, for by evening they would reach the outskirts of Cangora and perhaps meet their first resistance from forces still loyal to the Shar-Ja. At least they hoped so. Their blood burned for battle and the opportunity to give their lives in service to the Living God and his servant, Zukhara. After all, Zukhara, the Mouth of Shahr, had told them all that such a death guaranteed their entrance to paradise.

At the sound of the horns, the men took their positions. The Fel Azureth, the fist of Zukhara, took the honored place in the vanguard, their highly trained units riding like members of the Shar-Ja’s own cavalry on fleet horses. Behind them rolled the Shar-Ja’s wagon with its prisoner under tight guard. Then came the other combatants, some in orderly ranks on foot, some in mounted troops, still others—mostly rabble and hangers-on who had come for the loot, the thrill, or motives of their own—marched in crowds at the rear. Behind them were the supply wagons, camp followers, and a unit of the Fel Azureth who kept a vicious order on the trailing mobs.

The army set out under Zukhara’s watchful scrutiny and soon reached the wreck of the Shar-Ja’s grand caravan. Several days in the late spring sun had wrought havoc on bodies already torn by weapons and the teeth of scavengers. The stench along that stretch of road was thick and cloying and as heavy as the clouds of flies that swarmed through the ruins. The men wrapped the ends of their burnooses over their mouths and noses and pushed on, paying little heed to the dead.

Overhead, on the wings of the gryphon, Kelene tried not to look at the carnage below. She felt bad enough having to forward Zukhara’s cause with her presence, without witnessing the bloody results of his ambition. She prayed fervently he would not order her to use her magic against the Turics. So far, his own power had been enough to awe and terrify his people, and she hoped that his pride would prevent him from seeking oven aid from a woman. But who was to say? If the city of Cangora bolted its gates against him and his army had to lay siege to it, he might be angry enough to force her hand. His arcane prowess was growing by the day, but the power of a fully trained sorceress could open an unwarded city in short order.

Kelene patted the gryphon’s neck. Rafnir, she silently cried, I need you. Where are you?

She had no way of knowing that on that day Rafnir was far to the north, across the Altai with her father and the clan chiefs, preparing the werods for war.

That same morning, leagues behind Zukhara’s army, the riders of the Clannad crested a high ridge and looked down on the dusty, beaten path of the Spice Road on the flatlands below.

“This is as far as I can lead you, Lady,” the guide said gruffly. “I have never traveled beyond these hills.”

Helmar studied the road from one horizon to the other, as far as she could see. At that moment it was empty. “You have done well, thank you. The trail is clear now for all to see.”

Rapinor looked skeptical. “You want us to go down there?” All the warriors stared at the open road as if it were a poisonous snake.

“Too long a solitude makes a heart of fear,” Helmar responded, and she urged her mare into a trot down the hillside. The warriors did not hesitate further but followed after her straight, unyielding back.

They have been hiding for so long, it has become habit, Afer commented.

“And how do you know that?” Sayyed inquired, still watching Helmar ride down the slope.

Helmar told me. I like her. Most of the Clannad are magic-wielders, you know. But she became chief because she proved herself to be the most talented.

“No,” Sayyed said, almost to himself. “I didn’t know. And did she also tell you how they came to be hidden away in the Turic mountains?”

Not yet, the stallion nickered. But I could make a few guesses.

“So could I,” Sayyed replied thoughtfully. “So could I.” He folded his golden cloak into a tight roll, tied it behind his saddle, and wrapped his burnoose around his head. If need be, he could pretend to be a Turic escorting new troops to Zukhara’s war. He didn’t know what they would find on the road ahead, and he did not want to give Zukhara any warning that more sorcerers were coming after him.

He glanced critically at Demira shifting impatiently by his side, and he realized there was no possibility of disguising her long wings. There was only one thing he could think of that might explain her presence.

A halter! she neighed. That is humiliating!

No more than this saddle! If I can wear tack, so can you. For Kelene! Afer told her severely.

So they left the mountains, a Turic on a big black horse, leading a winged Hunnuli mare. If anyone asked. Sayyed would tell them he had captured the mare and was taking her to the Gryphon.

Strangely enough, no one did ask that day, for though the road soon became busy, no one dared stop the strange troop of hard-eyed warriors jogging purposefully along the side of the road. Other groups of mounted or marching men traveled south toward Cangora, and a few refugees fled north. But not one person tried to join the troop or talk to any of its riders. They only stared as the white horses trotted by.

The sun was nearing its zenith when Afer, Demira, and the white horses flared their nostrils and began to toss their heads. An erratic breeze blew hot and dry from the desert, and on its skirts came the unmistakable smell of unburied dead.

In the open, nearly treeless land the riders saw the scavenger birds and the remains of the massacred caravan for a long way before they reached the first burned wagon and decaying bodies. A few birds squawked at the intruders and flew farther down the road to settle on another spot. Some of the dead had already been claimed and taken away for burial, but many more still waited on the sandy ground among the dead horses and scattered debris.

Helmar brought her troop to a stop. “We may not ever know if we do not look,” she said to Sayyed, who was grateful for her concern.

They spread out in pairs along the long strip of road and carefully searched each wagon, body, and heap that belonged to the Shar-Ja’s caravan. No one had a real hope that they would find Hydan, Hajira, or Tassilio among the wreckage, but if they found the bodies, at least they would know. Sayyed worked tirelessly in the search, since he and Afer were the only ones who could recognize Hajira and Tassilio, and while he saw a few faces he vaguely recognized, he found no one to match I he description of the boy and his black-clad guard.

He reached the last cluster of wagons near what had been the front of the caravan and walked slowly among the ruined vehicles. Several of them had been stripped of anything usable by looters, but there was one on its side some distance from the others that looked familiar and still intact. He strode toward it, and suddenly two things happened at once. A horse neighed somewhere behind it, and a large dog leaped out of the interior and charged toward Sayyed. Its wild barking filled the quiet and drew everyone’s attention. A warrior nearby drew his bow, but Sayyed yelled at him to put it away, and he held out his hands to welcome the dog. The big animal, whining and barking in delight, planted his paws on the man’s chest and licked his face clean.

“Sayyed!” cried a familiar voice. A lean young figure burst out of the wagon’s door and joyously flung himself in the embrace of the sorcerer. Between laughter and tears, Sayyed calmed down boy and dog enough to get a good look at them. They were both stretched tight with hunger and the shadows of fear, and Tassilio’s face had lost what was left of its boyish innocence. But, the god of all be praised, he was unharmed.

He gazed up at the clansman with huge eyes, and every pent-up word came tumbling out. “Sayyed, you’re here! I prayed you would come. And look at the horse with wings! Is that Demira? Did you find Kelene and Gabria? Who are these people? Where is—”

Sayyed raised a hand to stem his msh of wild words. “Tassilio, where is Hajira?”

The boy led him to the wagon, talking rapidly as he went. “Hajira knew it would happen, you know. A strange man told him just before it started. Hajira stayed close to the Shar-Yon’s wagon, and the minute he realized we were under attack, he threw the driver off and drove as far as he could before we were hemmed in by the fighting; then he loosed the horses, tipped the wagon over, and forced me inside. He thought no one would bother the funeral wagon.”

He scrambled inside. Sayyed stooped to look in the covered vehicle. The Shar-Yon’s sealed casket had been respectfully covered with the royal blue hangings and pushed to the side that had once been the roof, forming a narrow space between the wagon floor and coffin. There on a makeshift bed lay his brother, a crude bandage on his shoulder, another tied to his thigh.

“He was awake a while ago,” Tassilio said, his voice quivering. “But now he won’t wake up.” Despite his strength and growing maturity, tears filled his eyes, tears brought on by exhaustion, grief, and overwhelming relief. He swiped them away with a dirty sleeve.

A grimace on his face, Sayyed stood to call Helmar and her healer. She was already there behind the wagon, standing with a crowd of her riders by a lone white horse and looking stricken. Something long and very still, wrapped in a shroud of royal blue, lay on the ground at the horse’s feet. Sayyed felt a hand on his arm, and he looked down at Tassilio’s unhappy face gazing at the mound.

The boy cleared his throat and said, “I don’t know who he was. He came that morning, looking for Hajira. They were talking when the fighting started. He stayed with us and defended the wagon when some of the Fel Azureth came after us.” Tassilio paused to wipe his eyes again. Helmar and her warriors had turned to listen to him, and he met the chief’s regard directly as if he spoke only to her. “He was very brave. He fought beside Hajira, and he saved my life, you know. He took a sword thrust that was meant for me. When the attackers went away, they thought everyone was dead. I helped Hajira into the wagon, but I couldn’t help the stranger. I could only cover him and keep the vultures away. I don’t even know his name.” The tears suddenly came in earnest and slid unchecked down his cheeks.

The lady chieftain knelt on one knee in front of Tassilio and offered a cloth for his face. “His name was Ilydan,” she said softly. “He was my swordsman, and yes, he was very brave. Like you. I am glad to know he died well, and I thank you for taking care of him.”

Her simple, direct words were what Tassilio needed to hear. He took the proffered cloth, giving her a tremulous smile in exchange, and vigorously scrubbed his face. When he emerged from behind the cloth, his tears were gone, and he looked closer to his normal self.

Sadly the Clannad riders tied Hydan’s wrapped body onto the back of his horse. Helmar took the horse’s muzzle in her hands and leaned her forehead against his to say good-bye. “Take him home,” she murmured. The horse neighed once, a grief-filled, lonely call; then he trotted away with his heavy burden.

“Where is he going?” exclaimed Tassilio, astonished.

“He will take his rider home to be buried with honor,” the chief answered, distracted by her own thoughts.

“How does he know where to go? Do you live close by? Who are you, anyway?” Tassilio was definitely returning to normal. He didn’t even wait for an answer but grabbed Helmar’s arm and pulled her to the wagon where Sayyed had returned to tend Hajira.

The Clannad healer quickly answered Helmar’s summons, and willing hands moved Hajira out to a shelter rigged by the wagon box that gave the healer more room to tend the injured man.

After a thorough examination, the healer told Sayyed and Tassilio the good news. “His wounds are not dangerous. The worst of his malady is dehydration. He needs liquids and plenty of them. If he can get through the next few hours and stave off infection, he should be fine.”

Tassilio whooped and danced around the tent with his dog.

True to the healer’s word, Hajira revived under a steady treatment of water, honeyed tea, and finally broth. In the late afternoon, he surprised everyone by sitting up and insisting rather forcefully that Sayyed take him and the boy out of this stinking, fly-infested, pestilential wreck. The healer agreed, and the riders very thankfully obliged. They built a makeshift cart for the guardsman out of several broken wagons, hitched it to a horse, and left the massacred caravan behind.

Sayyed rode beside Hajira part of the way and told him what had been happening. The wounded man listened, his eyes half-closed, and when Sayyed completed the tale, his haggard face lit with amusement. “Only you, my brother, could go into those mountains to find two magic-wielders and come out with over seventy.”

“Just not the right ones.”

Hajira’s mirth fled. “No. Not yet. This is worse than we feared.” Ignoring the pain in his shoulder and leg, he pushed himself up against the back of the cart until he was propped upright. “Zukhara is using your women to help him fulfill an ancient prophecy from The Truth of nine that he thinks applies to him.”

“And you do not believe it?” Helmar asked.

Hajira snorted. He knew enough Clannish to understand her. “Prophecies are not exact. They can be bent to fit any number of events.”

“What then is the Lightning of the North?” asked Sayyed.

“Where did you hear that?”

“From what little bit of news we have been able to gather. It is rumored Zukhara carries the Lightning of North in his hand.”

Hajira shrugged that away with one good shoulder. “It must be Kelene and Gabria’s sorcery.”

Sayyed scratched his chin. That made sense, so he mentioned something else that had bothered him. “Did the Fel Azureth kill the Shar-Ja?”

“I doubt it. I saw them capture his wagon just before we bolted for the funeral van.” He bowed his head to Helmar, who rode on his other side, Tassilio perched happily behind her. “Thank you for sending your man, Lady. He told me he had ridden day and night to reach us. I am sorry it was his doom to come at such an ill-timed moment.”

She acknowledged his thanks and said, “There is one tiling I would know. How have you two survived for two days?”

The Turic pointed a finger at the boy. “He is a most ingenious scrounger.”

Tassilio blushed beneath his dark tan and blurted, “You would have done the same for me.”

“True.” Hajira’s eyes crinkled with a smile then slid closed, and the man drifted to sleep.

Tassilio solemnly regarded his friend with something akin to adoration. “He wanted me to run away and leave him, but I couldn’t do that! And he was right, too. No one came near the Shar-Yon’s wagon after the battle. Many people came to loot or look for wounded or for the dead, but no one dared approach a royal coffin defended by a large dog and a horse as white as a ghost.” The boy grinned at the memory and almost as quickly his smile slipped away. He sniffled, thankful that the worst part of his ordeal was over, and surreptitiously swiped a sleeve over his eyes.

Then his quick mind found another thought, and he reached back and patted the mare’s white rump. “Hydan’s horse was something special, wasn’t he? He seemed so horribly sad at the death of his master, I could hardly bear it. I told him I was sorry and I thanked him, and you know the odd part, I think he understood.”

“Most horses understand a kind heart,” Helmar replied.

“Don’t try to get direct information from her, boy,” Sayyed warned him dryly. “She is as secretive as a clam.”

“All secrets are revealed in good time,” Helmar retorted. “And the reasons for them.”

Weary and safe for the first time in a long while, Tassilio leaned against Helmar’s strong back. “At least we’ll be in Cangora soon. I hope my father is there.”

The adults made no answer. No one knew what they would find in Cangora, and no one wanted to hazard a guess.

The Clannad rode for the rest of the daylight hours, following the beaten trail of Zukhara’s army. Although they saw other Turics along the way, most of the people looked too suspicious or frightened to offer any further news of the Gryphon. The riders came to the last oasis on the Spice Road near sunset, hoping to find the army camped there, but the oasis was empty, and the tiny settlement close by was deserted. The reason for that dangled in the few tall trees around the four walls. Ten men of various ages, their hands bound and their robes stripped away, had been hung not more than hours before. An edict nailed to a tree forbade any man from removing the bodies until they rotted off their nooses.

“So the Gryphon deals with those who do not accept his will,” Hajira said in a voice heavy with scorn and disgust. “The families who lived at this oasis were Kirmaz tribe. Their leader did not travel with the Shar-Ja’s caravan. He is a stubborn man with a fierce sense of tradition who did not get along well with Zukhara. Once he knows about this”—Hajira jerked a hand at the hanging men—“he will be hard to hold back.” The guard’s words dropped off, and his face grew very thoughtful. “Cut them down,” he said abruptly.

The lady chief started at his sharp voice. “What? Why? Would it not be better to let the families deal with the bodies? Do we risk the time?”

“It is probably already too late to catch the Gryphon before he reaches Cangora,” Hajira replied, intent on his own thoughts. His piercing eyes swept the nearby foothills. The wells and springs of the Spice Road oases bubbled up from an intricate series of underground rivers and streams that flowed from the secret heart of the Absarotan Mountains. They were the lifeblood of the western half of the Turic realm and were granted for safekeeping—and often as favors—into the hands of the different western tribes. Even in times of drought, the oases usually had water. This particular set of wells was doubly important for its proximity to Cangora and its location along a prime road that led into high pastures in the mountains. It had been zealously tended by the Kirmaz tribe for several generations.

Hajira was familiar with their leader and knew his reputation as a firebrand. If he could get the man’s attention, it could be worth the time spent. “The survivors are probably up there now watching us from that cover,” he told Helmar. “They don’t know who we are yet, but if we treat their dead with respect and leave a message for the Kirmaz-Ja, we just might earn a new ally.”

Following Hajira’s advice, the riders cut down the ten men, laid them carefully in a row in the shadow of a mud-brick building, closed their bulging eyes, and covered their bodies with blankets and then stones to discourage scavengers.

When the job was complete, Hajira hobbled to the mounds with Sayyed. “The families will return soon and can bury these men as they see fit, and they will know the Raid are not afraid of the Gryphon.” The two men draped Sayyed’s coat over the first mound where anyone coming to investigate would see the Raid emblem and understand.

After watering the horses, the Clannad continued their journey. They were not far from Cangora, and they wished to push on after Zukhara, in the hope that his army would camp before the gates and they would be able to find the women before the Gryphon entered the city. It all depended on whether or not Cangora would defend itself.

Yet the closer they drew to the capital, the more evidence they found of the Gryphon’s brutal advance. An increasing number of small villages and farms were located along the road, and many had been raided to feed the voracious army. More bodies hung from trees or lay hacked in front of their abandoned houses. One building, a storehouse from the looks of its burned remains, had been blasted to splinters by what they all recognized was magic.

“Would Kelene do that?” Hajira asked, nonplussed by the amount of damage.

“If Zukhara held a knife to her mother’s throat, she might,” Sayyed said heavily.

“That is something I have wondered since you told me this tale,” Helmar said. “Why don’t Kelene and Gabria use their sorcery to escape? They’ve been held for days now, and we know they’re alive.”

“Zukhara has poisoned Gabria, but beyond that I do not know, and I have been thinking about it from the night we realized they were gone.”

She is afraid of him, Demira sent. I know that from her touch, but I do not know why. He kept me asleep for so long and then, when I woke, she made me escape.

Sayyed shook his head. “So what hold does he have over her? Kelene has the courage of a lioness and the stubbornness of a badger. I hope she is just biding her time.”

“And what will you do if Zukhara forces her to fight us?” asked Helmar in her quiet, husky voice.

“We will leave that to our gods,” he replied, so softly she could barely hear him.

The road wound on along the treeless, rolling hem of the foothills. To the west the sun had dropped behind the massive ramparts of the Absarotan peaks. To the east a purplish haze settled peacefully over the flat, arid lands bordering the Kumkara Desert. Ahead of the troop where the road rolled south over a long, easy hill, the riders spotted the first gray clouds of smoke climbing on the still evening air. Soon they noticed a murmur as deep and threatening as thunder rumbling in the far distance.

The riders glanced uneasily at one another. Hajira sat up in his cart and strained to see ahead. The road was deserted now; the countryside was empty of life. A tension hovered in the air as palpable as the sounds that grew louder and more distinctive the closer the troop drew to the top of the hill. By now they could distinguish the din of thousands of voices raised in anger, the clash of weapons, and several large explosions.

The troop hurried forward to the top of the slope and there halted to stare down at the scene below. Cangora, the ancient capital of the Turic rulers, sat in a great bay in the sheltering arms of the mountains. Roughly equal in size to old Moy Tura, it climbed in gentle levels and terraces up the natural slope of the valley to a massive hump of rock that towered over the city and prevented attack from the rear. Cangora was also fortified with thick stone walls and high, domed towers that provided a solid line of defense across the bay. Its only large entrance was a massive gateway hung with the huge copper doors that gave the city its Turic name, “Copper Gate.” After the vanished holy city of Sargun Shahr, it was the most important site in the Turic realm, a center of trade, religion, and art. Cangora had never been taken in battle.

The Gryphon’s army had drawn up before the great city in shouting, seething ranks. They had no siege engines and not enough men to assault such a large fortification, but even from their position on the distant hill, the Clannad could see Zukhara’s army would need nothing more than the one person who stood before the massive gates to open its way into the heart of the city. A distinctive blaze of fiery blue light seared from the person’s hand toward the top of one of the towers. The dome exploded in a deadly blast of stone, melting lead, and burning timbers. Three other towers had already been destroyed.

“Is that Kelene?” asked Helmar in surprise and consternation.

Hajira leaned forward over the driver’s shoulder, staring at the figure so far below. “No, by the Living God’s hand,” he answered. “That is Zukhara!”

A horrified hush fell over the watching warriors. The answers to so many questions fell into place.

“The Lightning of the North,” snarled Sayyed. “It’s not Kelene’s sorcery, it’s his!”

In spite of the darkness the watchers on the hill could see frantic activity on the walls. Weapons blinked in the torchlight, and people struggled to put out the fires before they grew out of control.

Just then a large, dark shape winged slowly over the city. Torchlight and the light from several fires by the front gate glowed on the golden wings of a living gryphon. On its back sat the figure of a woman, her dark hair unbound, her body unmoving.

Demira suddenly neighed in anger and would have sprung into the air if Sayyed had not seen the tension in her muscles and anticipated her intention. “No!” he bellowed and gave her halter such a tug, it yanked her off balance and into Afer’s side. “No! Do not even think it. Not yet. Wait and see. We cannot rescue her in front of an entire army.”

The mare neighed a strident peal of frustration. Let me get her. I can outfly that thing!

The black stallion snorted fiercely in reply. No, you cannot. That is a creature born to the air. And if you will not think of yourself, think of Gabria and Nara!

Demira pawed the ground. Her coat broke out in damp patches of sweat, and her tail swished a furious dance, but she accepted their logic and angrily clamped her wings to her sides—for now.

Another sound drew their attention back to the besieged city. The braying voice of a single horn echoed across the distance. The attackers fell quiet. The man in front of the gates blared out a thundering message. The troop could not hear his words, but they heard his exalting tone and knew what he demanded.

Nothing happened for a long while. The gryphon continued to cruise over the city; the army shuffled impatiently like a hunting dog waiting for the kill. Smoke swirled from the tops of the shattered towers.

At last another horn sounded, this time from the battlements of the city’s wall, and the huge gates swung slowly open to allow a small contingent of men to exit the city. From their robes and the flat gold chains glinting on their chests, Hajira identified them as members of the Shar-Ja’s council. They bowed low to Zukhara.

“That’s it then,” he growled. “If those men are negotiating, the city will surrender. I had hoped the governor would put up a fight, but they have probably killed him.”

The words had no sooner left his mouth than the envoy turned to point to something, and two more men dragged a body out of the gateway and dumped it at Zukhara’s feet.

A roar of triumph swelled from the ranks of the Gryphon’s fanatics. They lifted their weapons high and crashed their shields together, making a cacophony of noise that filled the valley from end to end and shook the foundations of the city. The great gates opened wide. The Gryphon and the Fel Azureth entered Cangora in triumph.

A pall of mist shrouded Gabria’s dreams. Dense and heavy, virtually impenetrable, it hung across her subconscious, obscuring the visions that formed in her mind. She struggled to get through the fog to a place where the air was clear and the light was as bright as the midday sun over the Ramtharin Plains, but there seemed to be no end to the clinging, gloomy mist. No beginning. No end. No life. Just dismal obscurity.

Then she heard a sound familiar to all clanspeople: the distant drumming of hoofbeats. A jolt of fear went through her. It had been twenty-seven years since the massacre of her clan and the inception of the vision of her twin’s murder. She had suffered the same dream or variations of it several times since then, and it never ceased to cause her grief and pain. It always began in fog and always included the sound of hoofbeats. She half turned, expecting to hear her brother’s voice, and found she was alone in the mist. No one spoke; no other sounds intruded into her dream. There was only the single beat of one approaching horse.

Gabria looked in the direction of the sound and saw a rider on a ghostly white horse materialize out of the mist. A Harbinger, her mind said. The immortal messenger sent from the god of the dead to collect her soul. Zukhara’s poison had worked at last.

But her heart said no. Her heart still beat in her chest, faster now with growing excitement, and her thoughts, too, leaped at the vision coming toward her. Harbingers were male, as far as anyone knew, but the rider on this glorious white horse was a woman, and a magnificent woman at that, dressed for battle and bearing a sword. A helm hid her face, and the style of her clothing was unfamiliar, but behind her back, rippling like a chieftain’s banner, flowed a cloak as red as Corin blood. The woman lifted her sword in salute . . . and vanished.

Gabria stirred restlessly on the bed. “They’re coming,” she whispered.

Ever alert even in sleep, Kelene roused and moved close to check her mother. “Who is?” she asked, but Gabria sighed and slipped back into deeper sleep.

The light from a candle by the bed flickered over Gabria’s face and highlighted the sharp angles of her features with a yellow outline. Kelene bit her lip worriedly. Normally slender, Gabria had lost so much weight she looked gaunt. The poison in her system made her nauseated, and it had been all Kelene could do to persuade her to take liquids so she did not become too weak and dehydrated. Her long, pale hair, usually shining and meticulously brushed, lay in a limp and bedraggled braid. Her skin had taken on a grayish pallor, and her strength had ebbed, so she tired very easily. In fact, she showed so many of the same symptoms Kelene had noticed in the Shar-Ja, Kelene seriously suspected Zukhara had poisoned him as well.

Wide awake now, Kelene slid off the bed and walked across the room to a window seat set in a deep embrasure. She didn’t like sleeping on that high bed anyway; it was too far from the ground. A warm pallet on the floor made more sense and was certainly easier on the back than those overstuffed feather mattresses the Turics saw fit to put on their beds. Of course, this room was meant as a guest room for visiting nobility, not clanswomen accustomed to tents and stone ruins.

Kelene cast a censorious glance around the darkened room and curled her lip. The whole thing was too big, too elegant, too overdone. Large pieces of ornately carved furniture, murals, thick rugs, and pieces of decorative art had been arranged in the room by someone, Kelene was sure, with a very tense and cluttered mind. The effort had been made to impress, not to make comfortable, and she found the whole effect annoying.

Suppressing a sign, she drew back the drapes and unlatched the glass-paned window. Glass was a rarity among people who spent most of their lives moving tents around, but Kelene liked the feel of the smooth, cool surface and the way light could pass through. If she ever returned to Moy Tura, Kelene decided to find a glassmaker who could teach her how to create the panes and the beautiful colored glass bottles, vials, and jars she had seen the Turics use.

She leaned out over the sill and drew a deep breath of the night air. Far below her the city of Cangora dropped gradually down street after street to the great copper gates that now stood closed for the night. The city was dark, brooding in silence after its easy defeat by the Gryphon the night before.

After the surrender of the city, Zukhara had taken up residence in the Shar-Ja’s palace at the foot of the magnificent buttress of stone that thrust out from the foot of the mountain and formed the foundation of Cangora’s defenses. Kelene could not see the rock formation from her window, but she had noticed it from the gryphon’s back and recognized its unopposable might. The Turics had recognized that strength long ago and built a large temple on the top of the lofty stone. That temple, Zukhara had told her, was the main reason he had come to Cangora. Unfortunately, he had not yet told her why.

Thankfully she had seen him only once since he locked her and Gabria in the room near his quarters, and then it had been for just a brief time while he displayed her to the remaining members of the Shar-Ja’s council. In the meanwhile, he had been constantly busy, swiftly solidifying his position in the city and spreading his war throughout the realm. The city governor’s body had been hung in a gibbet by the front gates and was quickly joined by three more city officials who protested Zukhara’s right to impose martial law on the population.

He set a nightly curfew for all city inhabitants, and the Fel Azureth patrolled the streets in squads to ruthlessly enforce his brand of civil law. The rest of the army, those who were not billeted at the palace, moved into several inns and a number of large homes around Cangora, throwing out the inhabitants and plundering the stores. Zukhara did little to keep them in check, and anyone foolish enough to complain found himself talking to rats in the city’s prison. Those who did not profess their belief in the Gryphon’s holy calling also found their way to the dungeons.

It was hardly an auspicious way to begin one’s magnificent reign, Kelene thought sourly. She lifted her gaze beyond the night-cloaked city to the heights beyond where the caravan road came down from a broad, open hill. Although she could not see the distant landscape, she remembered it well.

“They’re coming,” her mother had said.

Who was coming? Was someone out there riding to their rescue? Or was it something she could not yet understand, something Gabria had seen only in a dream? Kelene studied the place where the hill should be as if she could penetrate the blackness and see what was there. Last night she had heard something—or thought she had. There had been a brief sound that called for just a moment over the roar of the army and the crash of its weapons. It had risen so faintly she still wasn’t certain it had been there, but it sounded so familiar, so dear. Maybe it was just wishful thinking that she had heard Demira’s voice on the hilltop beyond the city.

Leaving the window open, she returned to the bed where Gabria slept peacefully and pulled a spare cover onto the floor. She folded the blanket into a pallet and stretched out close to the bed so she could be near if Gabria needed her. Her eyes closed and her body relaxed, but it was a long time before she slept.