Winged Magic

18

At the top of the road leading up to the citadel, Marron and Nara came to a stop in front of the closed gates. Helmar grunted her exasperation and slid off her mare. Two heavy wooden gates barred with iron hung from high stone pillars attached to very solid walls. There was no way around the gates or over them. Helmar stalked to the middle and yanked on them. The gates didn’t budge.

“They’ve been sealed with magic,” she called back to Gabria.

Marron sidled up beside her. She stretched out to sniff the gates just as Helmar initiated a spell to break the arcane seals. The mare’s nostrils suddenly flared. Helmar! No, don’t—

She never had a chance to finish her warning.

The gate exploded in their faces.

From the sunlit gardens of the temple, Kelene heard the muffled boom. She cocked her head to listen, hoping the sound meant help was arriving. When nothing more happened, she decided the muffled explosion was probably pan of the fighting in the city. She hurried on.

She saw several good places to hide in the small groves of trees, heavy clumps of shrubbery, or in sheltered nooks scattered throughout the gardens. But she knew they could be only temporary. Her instincts sought a high place. Somewhere above the grounds where she could watch for Zukhara, or where she could see the city below. Perhaps she could see the fighting in the streets and learn who had attacked the city. Maybe, by the grace of Amara, Demira had brought Sayyed and Rafnir and they were already looking for her.

Kelene took a precious moment and paused just long enough to turn her talent inward on her throbbing head. Her magic eased the pain enough to enable her to see clearly and to run without worrying that her head would split open. As an afterthought, she also took time to change the red dress to pants and tunic, which gave her more freedom of movement. Then she went on quickly, moving through the maze of flowerbeds, vegetable gardens, fruit trees, and shrubbery as fast as she could move. She headed toward the tallest edifice she could see in the citadel complex, the great Temple of Sargun.

The temple was unlike anything Kelene had ever seen. It was built in levels that rose ten stories high around a towering central sanctuary. On the exterior, on every level, were hanging gardens of foliage plants and brilliant flowers. From the ground it looked like a verdant pyramid rising in steps to a crown of reddish stone.

Kelene hurried to the temple’s base. She heard shouts behind her and the furious voice of Zukhara. He had managed to banish the bees and come after her as she had predicted he would. A hot fury surged through her, fed by the days of misery, worry, and anxiety. That man had threatened her, hurt her, poisoned her mother, tried to rape her, and forcibly taken her and Gabria away from their home and loved ones all for his own selfish greed and ambition. He had called the dance for all those days. Now, Kelene thought fiercely, let him pay the piper.

She reached a broad stairway leading up to the first level of the temple and flew up on racing feet. She caught a glimpse of men running toward her through the gardens and ran along the outside walkway to the stairs going up to the second story. The steps were broad and solid and easy to navigate, but they were staggered along the side of the temple rather than climbing in a straight line up to the top.

A sudden blast of the Trymmian force exploded on the steps beside her. Kelene stumbled up to the next level, turned, and stared down the stairs.

Zukhara stood on the level below, glaring up at her. His hand was raised to fire again. “Come down, my lady. There is no escape.”

Kelene did the only thing she knew he could not tolerate. She laughed at him.

His eyes ablaze, he fired a sphere of the Trymmian force directly at her. This time a red shield of defensive energy crackled into existence in front of her. The blue sphere ricocheted off into a wall. The sorceress turned and ran to the next set of stairs, her shield still intact and hovering close behind. Zukhara hurried after her. Temple guards came up behind him, but he waved them back. The sorceress was his prey.

The hunt continued up the side of the temple, like a crackling, booming thunderstorm. Kelene led Zukhara on, taunting him into using his power. Zukhara was strong, Kelene knew, virtually invincible as long as he wore the ward. On the other hand, he was arrogant and inexperienced. His ward would be little protection against his own magic if he lost control of his spells.

On the fifth level she slowed down and shot a few bolts of power at him, which he easily dodged. Sneering, he instantly returned a barrage intended to shatter her shield. Kelene gritted her teeth and intensified her defenses, then rushed on ahead of him. She climbed up and up, ever higher along the sides of the temple, past the hanging garden boxes full of ferns, flowers, and tiny trees. She was panting by the time she climbed to the ninth story. Her legs hurt after so many clays of inactivity, and the pain had returned to her head. She hoped Zukhara was as tired as she felt, but when she looked back, he was striding up the stairs at the same relentless pace. Kelene stopped to catch her breath, and she waited at the foot of the last staircase for the Gryphon to reach her level.

He bared his teeth in a wolfish smile when he saw her. “There is nowhere left to go, Clanswoman. Submit to me before I am forced to break you.”

“I’d rather break this,” she retorted and pointed her hand toward him. Instead of firing at him, though, she released a blast at a huge plant box hanging over his head. The wood exploded in a hail of shattered fragments, dirt, and bits of plant. Zukhara was knocked backward by the shock of the blast.

Instantly Kelene lowered her aim and sent a sustained, specific beam of energy toward his chest, where his ward lay concealed. She felt a pressure there, fighting against her power, and she concentrated, forcing her magic deep into the intricate curves of the ward to find the crack and break it open. Blinded by the shower of dirt, Zukhara struggled to regain his balance and fight off her assault with a shield of his own.

Something shifted beneath the pressure of Kelene’s spell. The ivory ward, although designed to resist intense amounts of magical energy, had been weakened by the crack in its surface, and now it wavered in the force of Kelene’s power. The crack widened.

Zukhara hunched over, his arms wrapped around himself to protect his ward as he tried to form the shield. Kelene pushed harder. She imagined her hand closing around the pale white ball, the feel of its delicate weight on her palm, and the satisfying crunch as she crushed it in her fist.

There was an audible pop. In disbelief, the Turic pulled the silver chain out of his robes and gaped at the shattered bits that fell out onto his hand.

Kelene stared avidly at the small silver tube that still hung on his chain. She did not want him to take revenge on the loss of his ward by destroying the antidote, so she moved quickly to distract him. “Sorcerer!” she sneered. “Ha! Now we’re even. No false protection. Only our own skills. Try to break me now.” And she dashed up the stairs to the very top, the roof of the temple.

Her ruse worked. Zukhara dropped the broken ward and sprinted after her. They came off the stairs onto the large flat, tiled roof. There were no potted plants growing up here. It was bare and unadorned and open to the vast sky. A small altar faced the east, and several stone benches sat along the low wall that framed the roof placed there for the priests who came to study the stars. The view of the mountains was breathtaking.

Kelene ran to the far end to look for another set of stairs in case she needed an escape. Instead of stairs, she discovered that the end of the temple edged the rim of the rocky pinnacle. From the temple’s lowest floor, the ground fell away in a precipice that dropped nearly a thousand feet to the valley floor. Kelene sucked in a lungful of air and whirled to face Zukhara. He had finally completed his shield and stood across from her, enclosed in a dome of glowing energy.

Kelene pursed her lips. He was showing his inexperience. A full dome of shielding required a great expenditure of strength and concentration to maintain and was hard to move about. Kelene had learned that a simple shield, even one as small as the battle shields carried by warriors, was easier to use and needed less attention to keep intact.

Her thoughts stopped short with a jerk. What was that? Something, a presence, nudged her awareness. Not Demira. Then a high-pitched screeching cry sounded overhead, and a large golden shape wheeled over her.

The gryphon. The creature screeched again in a jarring, nerve-racking tone that sounded both angry and annoyed. She curved her wings and gracefully back-winged onto the roof between Zukhara and Kelene. Crouched there, she hissed at them both. Her ears lay flat, and the hairs rose on the back of her neck.

Kelene stared at her, outraged. “What have you done to her?” she cried to Zukhara.

That the gryphon had been abused was obvious. Her ribs poked out of her golden sides; her coat was matted and dirty. Raw wounds encircled her legs where she had fought against her chains, and red, oozing welts covered her face and shoulders. Worst of all were the singed circles on her sides where someone had used the Trymmian force against her. Kelene remembered seeing the gryphon earlier, flying over the city wall when the fighting started, but if any sorcerers had been with the attackers, she doubted they had caused the damage to the gryphon. The burn wounds looked several days old and were already crusted over.

Something else looked different, too. The gryphon wore a new collar, intricately woven in knots. A ward, Kelene decided; Zukhara had sent the gryphon out with a ward.

As if to confirm her suspicions, Zukhara snapped a command in Turic to the gryphon. She snarled, a low menacing sound of fury. He shouted again and raised his fist. The gryphon winced away. She looked at Kelene, and if there was any recognition in her slitted eyes, it died when Zukhara evaporated his dome and fired a blast of magic at the creature.

The gryphon screamed, more from fear than pain since the collar protected her from most of the blast, and she pounced at Kelene, her talons extended and her teeth bared. The sorceress dove out from under her.

“No, girl,” Kelene cried. The sorceress held out her hands to signal peace, but the gryphon jumped toward her again. Kelene swerved sideways too late. The animal’s paw caught her back, and she fell sprawling near a corner of the low wall.

Zukhara laughed, a low sound as full of menace as the gryphon’s growl. He formed spheres of the Trymmian force and fired at Kelene to drive her into the corner. She scrambled back until her legs banged into the stone wall. She flicked up a shielding dome against Zukhara’s bombardment and the gryphon’s teeth, and tried desperately to think of some way out of the trap. She could not stand there forever holding up an arcane shield, yet she could not fend off the gryphon and fight Zukhara at the same time. She did not want to hurt the gryphon either, unless she was forced to.

The creature snapped at the red power, then ripped her claws over the length of the small dome. Her breath hissed. Her lips curled back from her long incisors. She paced around, staying well away from Zukhara.

All at once another dark shadow scudded across the roof. Kelene shot a look at the sky and saw Demira silently stretch out her long forelegs and dive directly at the gryphon. The winged beast half turned, startled by the mare’s appearance, and caught a kick on her face from the horse’s back hooves. The kick did not injure her since Demira had no real force behind such a maneuver in midair, but it hurt, and it infuriated the already angry gryphon. She sprang off the roof and streaked after Demira.

“Oh, gods,” Kelene panted. She knew the Hunnuli had only a slim chance to evade the flying predator. For one desperate and blind instant she turned her gaze to follow Demira’s escape and forgot about Zukhara.

He lashed out instantly with a spell that did not touch her or even her shield. It landed on the square of tiles beneath her feet and transformed the slate to a sheet of glaring ice. Caught unprepared, Kelene found her feet slipping on the sheer surface. She fell, smashing her head against the low wall.

Two blows in one afternoon were too much, her mind thought through a haze of pain and whirling bits of light. Her shield faltered and went out. She knew she should renew it, but at that moment she could not remember how. Zukhara’s face swam in front of her. It smiled at her with such a gloating smirk that it would have made her queasy if she weren’t already feeling very ill. She felt his hand on her face and sensed her death in the hatred and fury that steamed from his touch.

“Zukhara!”

Kelene blinked in surprise. She hadn’t said anything.

The Turic flinched as if something had struck him. With an oath, he jumped to his feet and faced Gabria. The sorceress stood at the top of the stairs, looking like one of the plague dead. Her hair hung loose, as wild as any hag’s. Her face was ghastly white and streaked with dark rivulets of blood. More blood smeared her torn and tattered skirts.

Zukhara, in his arrogance, rejoiced. Gabria could not fight him; she was too weak, yet she could watch her daughter be crushed beneath his power. He would not kill Kelene’s body; he still wanted that for breeding. He would destroy her personality, the spirit that made her so unique. He leaned over Kelene again and lowered his hand to her face.

The little silver tube hanging loose on its chain dangled forgotten from his neck. It twisted and danced in a gleam of sunlight and shone like a tiny sun in Kelene’s blurry vision. It beckoned to her hand to reach for it. Just as Zukhara’s fingers touched her cheek, Kelene grasped the tube and yanked hard. The chain dug into the man’s neck and broke with a snap.

He yelled in fury but, before he could snatch the tube back, Gabria formed a spell—a simple, devilish one that required little strength from her failing body—and flung it at him. A small green ball of power flew through the space between them and smacked into his shoulder. It clung there like a bur. Immediately tiny tendrils of green energy burst out of the ball and skittered over his torso like streams of angry fire ants.

Zukhara arched backward, stunned by the itching pain of the magic. He scratched frantically at his arms and chest and back; he pulled at the little green bur, and all his efforts only made the burning stings worse. He staggered back from Kelene to the wall and screamed for the gryphon.

Free of his weight, Kelene grabbed the stones by her head and hauled herself to her knees. She was just high enough to peer over the low wall and see the ground below, where the gryphon crouched close to the temple wall, flanked by two furious Hunnuli mares. Demira had been clever enough to realize she could not outfly the winged predator. As soon as she saw her mother, Nara, approaching the temple, she had landed and sought the older mare’s help. Now the gryphon had two large and powerful horses to contend with, and she was discovering they were not such easy prey. At Zukhara’s bellow, she bounced into the air and beat her way up to the top of the temple.

Kelene saw her coming. Summoning all her strength, she willed her hurting body to walk toward Gabria. Her mother stumbled toward her. They met in the middle, and their arms went around one another.

Zukhara finally pried the green bur off his shoulder, He threw it to the ground and stamped on it. “Kill them now!” he shrieked at the gryphon. The creature wheeled, reluctant to obey the man’s demands. She hissed at him and slowly came to land near the women.

“Kill them I said!” he screamed again.

Kelene snatched at the one chance she had left. Letting go of Gabria, she threw herself at the gryphon and caught one of its long legs. Surprised, the animal jerked back, but Kelene held tight to the warm, furry limb. Her fingers clasped tight against the skin. Using her empathic talent, she reached into the gryphon’s turbulent mind to touch the bond of familiarity she had forged during their time together. The gryphon growled a rumbling note.

It’s all right, beautiful one, she sent softly, reassuringly. It is me. I will not hurt you. I promised to help free you, remember?

The creature’s growl slowed and faded. Her nose sniffed Kelene’s scent.

“No!” Zukhara yelled at her. “You are mine! You will do as I say. Now kill them both.” Overcome with embittered rage, he lashed out at the gryphon with a whiplash of fiery magic.

Without the ward the spell would have killed her. As it was, the lash caught the gryphon on the haunches like a flick of lightning. She reared up, breaking away from Kelene, and screamed a shivering cry. Her wings beat the air; her eyes burned with white-hot fire. In one powerful leap she sprang at the man she hated above all other men.

Zukhara’s arrogance proved his undoing, for even as he saw her come he could not believe the gryphon sent to him by his god would turn on him. By the time his brain thought to react, her powerful talons had ripped into his stomach. He screamed once before she crushed his head.

Kelene turned her eyes away. She walked back to Gabria, and for a time they simply stood together in utter exhaustion. Relief, release, and happiness formed a potent brew of feelings that began to revive Kelene’s battered form, and she became aware of several details. The first thing she pointed out was the blood on Gabria’s face and clothes.

“Most of it is not mine,” Gabria said unhappily. “It is Helmar’s and Marron’s.” She held up her hand to forestall Kelene’s questions. “The tale is too long to explain now, but as soon as you’re able, please go to them. Zukhara booby-trapped the citadel gate, and it blew up in their faces.”

Kelene nodded. “There is only this; then we will go.” She held up the silver tube she had torn from Zukhara’s neck. “The antidote.”

Years of aging dropped away from Gabria’s face at the touch of a brilliant smile. With shaking hands she took the tube, unscrewed the top, and swallowed half the contents. “I will save the rest for the Shar-Ja,” she said. “I could tell just by looking at him that he had been poisoned the same way.”

“I hope it is enough. Amara only knows if there is any more.”

A grumbling sound drew their attention back to the gryphon. Demira and Nara came clattering up the stairs, and the gryphon crouched, snarling at their presence.

Kelene skirted the remains of Zukhara’s body and calmly patted the wild gryphon. Even hungry as she was, the creature had not tried to eat the man’s corpse. Gently Kelene unfastened the collar on the gryphon’s neck. Stroking her back, Kelene extended her magic into the gryphon to ease the pain of the animal’s burns and injuries. Thank you, she told her. That is twice you have saved me. I keep my promise. Go home and find your family.

The gryphon’s tufted ears snapped up and, without a backward glance, she leaped off the roof into the afternoon. Wild with joy, she called once and flew faster than the wind toward the western peaks. They watched her for a moment, until her golden shape disappeared in the distance.

Silently the sorceresses mounted their Hunnuli and left the temple roof, where Zukhara’s trampled body lay alone and unmourned.

While they rode back to the front gate, Gabria told Kelene the little bit she knew about Helmar.

“A red cloak?” Kelene said in amazement. “Where did she come from? Do you think she is a Corin?”

“I don’t know. All I can tell you is that she and her Hunnuli risked their lives for us, and I don’t want to lose her now.” Gabria’s reply was iron-firm, a sure sign that her strength was starting to return.

Kelene said nothing else. She worked instead on her own condition to clear her battered mind, still the pain, and bolster her energies. By the time they reached the cloistered courtyard, her headache had eased from blinding agony to a dull ache that was tolerable, and her limbs felt strong enough to deal with what she had to do.

A small group of yellow-robed priests clustered under the shade of the arched cloister near the remains of the gate. Gabria went to them and gestured to Kelene.

The young sorceress slid carefully to the ground. She patted the mare, delighted beyond words to have her back. “Demira, I must ask one more favor. Please go back to the palace and find my healer’s bag in our room. Third floor, west wing. And see if you can find Rafnir, too.”

I will look for Sayyed, as well. I think he loves Helmar.

Kelene barely had time to register that surprising remark before Demira sprang aloft and dropped over the rim of the citadel’s wall. Kelene hurried to help Gabria.

Priests from the temple had brought the unconscious woman to a resting place on a low cot out of the sun. They had been afraid to carry her any farther. A healer skilled in the arts of surgery and medicine had already begun the difficult task of stopping the bleeding from lacerations on her head, neck, and chest. Kelene looked at the bloodied face and marveled that the woman was still alive.

The healer said something in Turic, and Gabria made an understandable reply. The healer nodded to Kelene. She knelt down by Helmar’s head and set to work. Although she did not speak very much Turic and the healer knew no Clannish, they were able to meld their efforts into a swift, efficient treatment. Kelene removed the wooden splinters and debris and cleaned the wounds while the healer priest deftly stitched the worst lacerations closed before the chief lost too much blood. 11 was a long, difficult process.

Helmar roused once and tried to twist away from the healer’s sharp needle, but Kelene laid her fingers on the woman’s forehead and eased her gently back to sleep. The Turic healer nodded with approval. They were nearly finished when Demira returned from the palace with Kelene’s bag in her teeth and Tassilio on her back.

“Hajira and Mohadan are with Father, so I came to help,” he announced, hopping off the mare’s back. “Demira told us what happened. Lord Athlone, Rafnir, and Sayyed are on their way up.”

Kelene smiled her thanks. “A gift for your help, Shar-Yon.” She handed him the silver tube of antidote.

Recognition ignited Tassilio’s face into an incandescent grin, and he quickly handed the precious vial to one of the priests. “Give this to my Father at once!” he commanded. “Tell him I will come as soon as my work here is done.”

Kelene gratefully took her bag back to Helmar’s bedside. Most of the immediate work to save Helmar had been done, but the woman faced a long siege before she could fully recover. Shock, blood loss, dehydration, and infection were side effects she would have to battle in the next few days. Fortunately she had suffered no broken bones, and as far as Kelene could tell, no internal injuries. Even so, neither Kelene nor the Turic healer who had helped her knew if Helmar would survive the devastating blast. Only time and her own strength could help her now.

To improve her patient’s strength, Kelene brought out a carefully wrapped packet. Using some warm water brought by a monk, she made an infusion from a special combination of herbs that she always kept prepared and readily available in her bag. The recipe was an old one she had found in the ruins of Moy Tura, and its invigorating potency had helped restore many people to health. With Tassilio’s help, she explained to the healer what it was, and he watched with interest while she mixed the tea with honey and dribbled it between Helmar’s lips.

Kelene glanced around the courtyard for her mother and saw Gabria kneeling by something on the other side of the gate. Oh, gods, she had forgotten about the Hunnuli. She passed the cup to Tassilio and went to check on the horse.

Gabria had treated many wounds in her life, but she was the first to admit she was not a healer. It was apparent to Kelene as she joined her mother that the older woman felt overwhelmed by the extent of Marron’s injuries. With one hand Gabria pressed a strip of cloth torn from her skirt over a gaping wound in the mare’s chest and with the other tried to stem the flow of blood from a gash on the mare’s neck.

Dismayed, Kelene dropped her bag and knelt beside the bloodied horse. The priests, assuming the mare was dead, had left her where she had fallen after the gate blew up, and she lay on her side, bleeding slowly into the dust from dozens of punctures, slashes, and abrasions.

“I don’t think we can save her,” Gabria said in a voice thick with tears. “She reared up and took the full force of the blow to save Helmar.”

Kelene touched the mare’s gray muzzle where the black skin showed through the short white hairs. The skin was warm and her eyelids flickered, but Marron was dangerously close to death. And if she died, Kelene knew Helmar would probably die, too.

“We need water, lots of it. Cloth, blankets, and a big bucket of hot water.” She pointed to her bag. “If that tea helps humans, maybe it will help a Hunnuli, too.”

Gabria fought down her worry and went to gather the things they would need. Demira and Nara stood close by Marron, their noses almost touching her. Kelene leaned forward to rest her cheek on the mare’s face and said, “Marron?”

A flicker of consciousness flared in Kelene’s mind—not the vibrant, alert thought of a healthy Hunnuli, but at least it meant Marron was still alive and, on a subconscious level, still aware. Kelene probed deeper into the horse’s mind to reach her understanding. She extended her power over Marron’s body, lessening her pain and soothing her fear.

Matron. I am Kelene, Demira’s rider. Helmar is alive. Do you understand? The Hunnuli’s thoughts burst brighter in recognition. She is alive. But you must stay alive, too. Do you hear me? If you die, she will lose her will to fight. Please stay with us! We will take care of both of you.

The mare’s thoughts sparkled a weary acknowledgment, then slowly faded into the dim, pulsing glow of deep sleep.

Kelene heard horses approach, and she lifted her head to see one of the most welcome sights she would ever remember in her life: her father, her husband, and her father-in-law on their Hunnuli cantering almost neck and neck toward the citadel gates. Their three stallions slid to a stop, and the men dropped off in one unbroken movement.

Kelene stood up, took one step forward, and found herself engulfed in her husband’s arms. She buried her face in his shoulder and held him as if she would never let him go. His clothes were filthy, spattered with blood and coated in dust, reeking of sweat and smoke. A dark beard framed his jaws, and his face was too thin, but Kelene thought she had never seen him look so wonderful.

Sayyed paused long enough to see she was safe; then he looked closely at Marron, and his face turned a sickly paste color. He ran into the courtyard to find Helmar. Afer joined Nara and Demira in their vigil over the white mare.

Lord Athlone came out of the gates, helping Gabria carry the water, buckets, and bandages. His clothes were as bad as Rafnir’s, and his hair and beard were unkempt. His face was lined from days of worry, and his expression was sober after seeing Helmar. But underneath it all, like a light burning in a worn and weathered tent, glowed a joy too bright to mask. It was matched in its luminosity only by the happiness in Gabria’s eyes. He set down his burdens and silently hugged his daughter. Words would come later when the wounded were cared for and the most immediate tasks were done.

With Gabria and Rafnir close by to help, Kelene settled down to the task of repairing Marron’s torn chest and shoulders. She felt sometimes as if she were piecing together a shredded blanket of black skin, white hair, and too much red blood. It was a wonder the horse’s jugular had not been punctured. The gods, Kelene decided, had kept their hands over Helmar and Marron.

When at last she was finished, Kelene felt worn to a single thread. Her hands shook as she slathered Marron’s wounds with an ointment made to fight infection and keep the skin soft so the stitched wounds would heal without crippling scar tissue. If Marron survived, she would always carry scars, but Kelene wanted her to heal as unimpaired as possible.

Since they could not leave the mare lying in the road, the sorceress gradually roused Marron out of unconsciousness. Ever so gently, Afer and Nara nudged her onto her stomach, then helped her ease to her feet. Standing on either side of the swaying mare, they propped up her weight as she tottered into the citadel to the shady cloister near Helmar.

At Tassilio’s insistence, the priests agreed to allow the chief and her Hunnuli to stay in the cloister where they could be close together. Straw was brought for Marron, and she lay down again, her eyes closed and her muzzle near Helmar’s shoulder.

Kelene steeped a bucket of the restorative for the mare, leaving it where she could reach it without difficulty. She also fixed cups for herself, Gabria, and the three men. They all drank it gratefully.

Sayyed sat, like a man in a daze, beside Helmar. He wiped her face with a cool cloth and slowly fed her sips of her tonic, but a haunted shadow grayed his face, and his limbs were tensed with a terrible anxiety.

Gabria watched him worriedly. He had had that same look in the plague tent when he watched Tam die. She had no idea he had fallen so deeply in love with this woman—perhaps he hadn’t either until now. But gods above, Gabria sighed, how would he survive if he lost another love? She leaned into the embrace of her own dearest husband and thanked Amara with all her heart for their reunion.

As soon as Helmar and Marron were as comfortable as they could be, Kelene found the nearest place to sit down and began to shake. Tears filled her eyes. Her strength was gone; her will was depleted. Her head pounded like an overworked drum. She had nothing left in mind or body but a strong desire to lie down and cry. Rafnir scooped her up in his arms. The last thing she remembered for a long time after that was the softness of a bed and the warmth of Rafnir’s body as he held her close and comforted her to sleep.

She roused late in the afternoon of the following day in a chamber she soon learned was in the citadel. Rafnir had left, but Kelene was delighted to see a new clan tunic and skirt draped over the foot of the bed and a tray of stuffed meat rolls, cheese, grapes, and wine on the table. Kelene discovered she was ravenous. As soon as she had dressed and eaten, she hurried through the corridors to the front entrance. No one was there but Sayyed and his patients under the cloister. Twenty-four hours had brought little change to Helmar or her horse, and if Sayyed had left her side once, Kelene saw no sign of it. He still wore his filthy, rumpled clothes, and dark shadows circled his eyes from the lack of sleep.

Kelene kissed his forehead. “Thank you for coming after us,” she said.

He cracked a semblance of a smile. “You led us on a merry chase.”

“Tell me,” she asked as she bent over the chief. So while Kelene examined Helmar and Marron and made more of the tea, Sayyed told her about the long journey from Council Rock. Once he got started, he seemed compelled to keep talking, and he told her everything about Sanctuary, the Clannad, Hajira, the ride to Cangora, and most of all, like a man astonished by what he was saying, he talked about Helmar.

Kelene listened quietly. Her father-in-law was not usually so verbose; in fact she had not heard him talk so much in years. She knew it was a measure of his fear for Helmar that made him confide so much of his feelings, and a measure of his love for his daughter-in-law that he chose to share his thoughts with her. Kelene was more grateful than words could tell.

After his tale had wound to an end, Kelene stayed with him. She brought him food and tea and made sure he ate it. She gave him clean clothes. She tended Afer and Demira, who stayed close by, and she conferred with the Turic healer to find the best ointments and pain relievers for her patients.

Lord Athlone and Gabria had returned to the palace, where Gabria and the Shar-Ja were slowly recovering from the effects of the poison. Rafnir had gone down to help Athlone, but he came back in the evening hill of news.

“The last of the Fel Azureth surrendered this afternoon,” he announced with deep satisfaction. “Mohadan’s men routed them out of an old storehouse. The Gryphon’s army in Cangora has been completely destroyed.”

Kelene looked involuntarily in the direction of the temple. “And what of Zukhara?”

“The Shar-Ja ordered his body brought down from the temple and hung on a gibbet at the front gate. He is spreading the word that the Gryphon died a traitor’s death.”

The sorceress thought of the golden gryphon and the faith and loyalty she symbolized to the Turics. “He did,” she replied shortly.

Rafnir glanced at his father. “Hajira has been restored to his command with hill honors. He is reorganizing the survivors of the Shar-Ja’s guard. Tassilio told his father everything, and the old man is so grateful to have his son restored to him, he would give Hajira the world if he asked for it.”

Sayyed only nodded a reply.

A hush settled over the courtyard. The evening sounds became subdued and distant in the tranquil peace before sunset. The cloister basked in the last of the day’s glow.

Helmar’s gasp came as a surprise to all three of them. Her mouth opened and closed; then her eyes widened in surprise. She held up her bandaged arms and felt the stitches on her face. “Sayyed?” her voice croaked.

He took her hands in both of his and tenderly pressed them to her chest.

“Don’t try to talk,” Kelene advised. “Your face is still bruised and swollen, and there are stitches on your jaw and along your forehead. Just rest, and we’ll tell you everything later.” She fixed more restorative tea for Sayyed to give Helmar, this time laced with a dose of poppy juice to help her sleep.

When Helmar slept again, Sayyed looked more hopeful. “This is the first time she has tried to talk.”

“That’s a good sign,” Kelene told him in all sincerity. “She is strong and healthy. She knows you are here, too. That will help.”

Kelene was right. At sunrise the next morning she went out to the courtyard and found Marron lying on her belly, her legs tucked neatly under her, nibbling hay from a pile under her nose. Helmar lay awake, her eyes fastened on Sayyed’s sleeping face.

Her alert gaze followed Kelene around while she checked Marron’s stitches, changed her bandages, and fed her a small bucket of bran mash.

“Will she be all right?” Helmar whispered anxiously in a voice dry and raspy from disuse.

“As right as you,” Kelene replied softly. She examined Helmar’s wounds, too, and gave the chief a reassuring smile. “It was not your day to die. The Harbingers must have been too busy to catch you. Both of you were badly injured, and you will carry the scars. But your wounds are clean and healing well. I think you’ll be able to go home soon.”

“Home,” Helmar echoed. Her eyes followed Kelene back into the building before they returned to Sayyed’s face. “Home,” she repeated, but the happiness she should have felt at such a thought was missing. There was only uneasiness and the fear of impending loss.

Two days later the Clannad carried Helmar on a litter down the road to the palace. Accompanied by the clan magic-wielders, she was escorted to a chamber beside a quiet garden where Marron was settled comfortably on a soft green lawn of grass. It was then the chief heard of Rapinor’s death and learned the casualties of her troop. Fifteen riders had died in the battle at the gates; twenty more had been wounded. Helmar turned her face to the wall to hide her tears.

From that day on she had a constant stream of visitors, from the Shar-Ja and Tassilio to Lord Athlone and the clan chieftains who had come with him. From all her visitors she began to piece together the full tale of the past days.

“Now let me see if I have all of this,” she said to Sayyed one evening. “Lord Athlone captured a raiding party of the Fel Azureth and learned about the Gryphon and his plans.”

“Right. Zukhara had sent his fanatics to cause trouble on the border, hoping we would do just what we did—call for a council. We walked neatly into his trap, bringing Kelene and Gabria with us. Once Athlone learned what was going on, he convinced the other chiefs to support a move over the Altai to help the Shar-Ja. He had already gathered the Werods of five clans before Rafnir found him. With those and the men from Council Rock, they rode here in less than four days.”

“Four days,” she breathed, awed by such a feat. “And is Mohadan doing well?”

“He is in his element.” Sayyed laughed. “The clan lords have been staying out of the way and leaving restoration of the government to Mohadan and the Shar-Ja. Mohadan is making himself indispensable. He’s already brought news that the extremists’ rebellion is failing. Without Zukhara there are no other leaders to take firm command, and word that the Shar-Ja is recovering and has announced a new heir has strengthened his position. There is still a deep loyalty and respect for the Shar-Ja.”

“Will he fully recover?” she asked.

“It looks as though he will. He and Gabria both grow stronger every day.”

Helmar leaned back against her pillows and sighed. Through the open doors of her room she could see Marron grazing, and she winced at the red lines that crisscrossed the mare’s white neck, chest, and shoulders. Helmar hadn’t seen a mirror lately, but she imagined she looked equally as rough. Her eyes turned back to Sayyed.

He had hardly left her side the past few days, except to clean off the grime of war and deal with his own needs. The rest of the time he had stayed with her, changing her bandages, feeding her broth and tea, telling her stories and news, or just keeping her company in the quiet hours when she rested.

Anyone else spending so much time with her, she probably would have thrown out, but Helmar found she craved Sayyed’s company. She missed him horribly when he left, and she cherished every moment he spent with her. Kelene had told her about Tam and Sayyed’s vigil at her dying, and Helmar realized he was terrified of losing her, too. The knowledge strengthened her will to recover and forged her feelings for him into an abiding passion.

As the days rolled into the hot Turic summer, Helmar rapidly improved under the care of Sayyed, Kelene, and the Turic healers. One morning she felt strong enough to walk around the garden with Marron. The walk was glorious, but it made her realize how weak she had become. She began to walk every day, exercise with her sword, and retrain her muscles to regain her former strength and agility. The day the stitches came out she celebrated by going for a ride. Afer offered to carry her, since Marron was not yet ready to carry a rider, and Helmar delightedly rode the big stallion around Cangora to see the sights.

Much of the damage caused by the fighting had been repaired by city builders and the Clannad riders whose magic helped speed things along. Rafnir helped, too, learning at the same time much about construction and architecture. He and the other sorcerers had rehung the copper gates and rebuilt the walls.

Zukhara’s body had been taken down by that time to be burned and his ashes thrown to the winds. A few of his officers languished in the dungeons awaiting trial.

A month passed in peace and growing optimism. At last the time arrived when Lord Bendinor and the other clan lords prepared to leave for the Ramtharin Plains and the summer gathering. Lord Athlone decided to postpone his return until Gabria and Helmar were strong enough to travel. Savaron, he knew, was quite capable of taking the Khulinin to the gathering.

Two days before the clansmen were due to leave, the Shar-Ja called for a council to be held in his audience chambers the next day. When Helmar heard of it, she asked to speak to Lady Gabria alone. Gabria came, bringing Lady Jeneve’s book and the red cloak. They talked for several hours, and what they had to say to each other they kept to themselves. As soon as Gabria left, Helmar called her riders. She brought them all into her room and talked with them for several hours more. When they had said all there was to say, she bid them go to the Shar-Ja’s council.

The council began at midmorning in the large, airy chambers off the celestial throne room. It was quite crowded, for the Clannad riders, the clan chiefs, the Kirmaz-Ja, a unit of royal guards, the Shar-Ja’s newly appointed counselors, and Kelene and Gabria were there.

The Shar-Ja entered with his son and sat on a chair at the head of the room. The antidote and days of activity and optimism had worked a miracle on the Turic overlord. His pride and vigor had returned, bringing health to his poison-wracked body and energy to his work. His skin had lost its pallor, and his eyes gleamed with intelligence and wit. Pan of his healing had included finding his oldest son’s body and bringing it home to Cangora for a royal funeral. The grief for his dead son still lingered, but the pride he felt for his intrepid younger son went leagues to heal his aching heart.

He rose and bowed to the assemblage. Standing tall, his white hair uncovered and his head unbowed, he expressed his gratitude to all who had helped preserve his throne. “Especially I owe my deepest gratitude to the people of the Dark Horse Clans and the Clannad, who rode to help a neighbor when no obligation was owed and no oath of fealty had been given. To you, the lords of the clans, I offer you this—better late than never at all.”

A scribe stepped forward with four rolled scrolls and handed them to Lord Athlone. He passed the extras to Lord Jamas, Lord Wendern, and Peoren, then opened one and read it aloud to those around him. Written in both Clannish and Turic, the scrolls bore word for word the treaty they had completed at Council Rock. At the bottom of each scroll was the official seal and signature of the Shar-Ja. Quills were passed around and each chief signed his name to the scrolls. Lord Athlone returned two copies to the scribe. He bowed low to the Turic overlord.

“You rode a long way to get those,” Rassidar said with a touch of humor. “I did not want you to go empty-handed. And you, Peoren,” he said to the young Ferganan. “I was not so befuddled by Zukhara’s poisons that I forgot my promise to you. I will pay your compensation in horses, stock animals, cotton, and spices to be delivered at a date of your choosing. Will that be sufficient?”

Peoren bowed to the Shar-Ja, his face red with pleasure. “That will do well indeed, your majesty, and I will call off the blood feud. May this be the end of any hostility between clan and tribe.”

Lord Athlone said, “Shar-Ja, our offer still stands to help if we can during this drought.”

“Unless you know a spell to bring rain, you have done more than I could ever have asked for. But we’re not in the dire straits Zukhara led us all to believe. He and the Fel Azureth had been stealing and hoarding grain for the past two years. We have found enough to keep the people fed for a little while longer than we’d hoped. Perhaps you could ask your gods to send us some rain.” He turned to regard the crowded room and saw the Clannad standing in a quiet group near the back of the chamber.

“Lady Helmar,” he called and waited until she came forward. “You came out of our mountains like a legend. No one has ever reported your colony or any people like you in our midst. I hope you will not disappear again into the misty peaks. I have heard a great deal about you these past days from those who have gotten to know you, and because of what I have heard and what you have done for us, I would like to grant the Clannad perpetual ownership of the valley you call Sanctuary, to keep and hold as you see fit with no obligation or debt owed to the throne of the Shar-Ja.”

The Clannad riders stayed strangely silent behind their chief, creating a quiet unified support for Helmar as she turned at an angle to look at both the Shar-Ja and the clan lords. Her voice rang out through the chambers so every person could hear. “Some of you have probably guessed how the Clannad came to be in the Turic mountains, but for those of, you who do not know us well, I will tell you. Generations ago, during a summer clan gathering, my ancestress Lady Jeneve received a secret message that the magic-wielders had been slaughtered at Moy Tura.” She paused when a gasp of surprise and understanding spread from the crowd around her. Only Lady Gabria watched her quietly and bent her lips in a knowing half-smile.

Helmar continued, “Lady Jeneve guessed what would happen if the murderers reached the gathering, so she took her family, her pet cats, a few friends, and their Hunnuli and fled south into the Turic mountains. They found Sanctuary by the grace of the gods, and for two hundred years we have slowly multiplied and lived in terror that someone would find us and give away our settlement to the clans. We did not know until Sayyed and Rafnir stumbled into our back door that sorcery had been resurrected by Lady Gabria. Shar-Ja, if we may wait to accept your generous gift, I would like to talk to my people and to the chiefs about returning the Clannad to the Ramtharin Plains. My lords,” she said directly to the clansmen, “we would like to go home.”

The clan chieftains stared at her. Some looked shocked; some appeared pleased. “But where will you go?” Lord Fiergan asked sharply. “Do you wish to join a clan or start a treld of your own?”

“Well, we can talk about that later I suppose—” Helmar started to say.

Sayyed began to grin as the possibilities lit a fire in his mind. “My lords,” he said, cutting into Helmar’s reply. “The Clannad could come to Moy Tura. They are used to living in buildings, and we are in desperate need of help.” He winked at Helmar, and she beamed back. She had hoped he would make such an offer.

“I must talk to the rest of my people,” she said firmly, “but I think that is a suitable solution.”

“Then I will accept your answer whenever you decide,” the Shar-Ja told her. “And I will count you as a friend wherever you go.”

Kelene whooped with delight.

The clan chiefs left the next day with the Shar-Ja’s treaty and Helmar’s petition to rejoin the clans. They promised to take the news to the gathering and encourage the clanspeople to accept. Sayyed went with them.

Although he wanted to stay with Helmar, he felt he would be a good advocate for the Clannad at the gathering, and Lord Athlone agreed.

Before he left, though, he presented Helmar with a betrothal gift of a bracelet woven from hairs taken from Afer’s and Marron’s tails. “It is just a simple thing,” he explained, “to remind you of me until you say yes.”

She kissed him, grateful that he did not demand an answer yet. How could she decide until she knew where her people would go? She watched him ride away over the foothills back to the plains of the clans, and her heart ached to go with him. Oh, Amara, she wondered, what will I do if the Clannad says no?

Ten days later Lord Athlone, his men, Lady Gabria, Kelene, Rafnir, Helmar, and the Clannad riders bid farewell to the Shar-Ja and Tassilio and Hajira. Their farewells were long and pleasantly sad and full of promises to visit. They trotted out of the city, onto the Spice Road, and turned north toward the mountains and the valley of Sanctuary.

Kelene turned back just once to looked beyond the pinnacle and its green and red temple to the peaks beyond, hoping, foolishly she knew, for one last glimpse of the gryphon. Then she sighed and cast a sidelong glance at her husband.

“Do you know how many people are in the Clannad?” she asked, her tone deliberately innocent.

“Yes, about three hundred and eighty-two. Or so Helmar said,” Rafnir answered.

“Good, then if they come, we will have three hundred and eighty-three new inhabitants in Moy Tura.”

He was slow to catch on. “Three hundred and—” His voice caught, and he stared at her. The delight blossomed on his face. “Are you sure?”

She grinned then, shining like a star. “Yes! Zukhara’s midwives’ remedy actually worked! And that,” she said, her spirit exalting, “is my best revenge!”