Winged Magic

8

Just before sunrise and the morning horns, Hajira woke Sayyed. Without speaking, they left the Hunnuli and the other sleepers and strode purposefully in the direction of the baggage wagons. They climbed a short rise where they could see the wagons and vans parked row by row in the early light. Talking and gesturing to hide their true intent, they took turns studying the wheeled vehicles.

After several minutes of this, Hajira’s expression turned thoughtful, and he said in a low tone, “Take a look at the large, covered van. Last row, near the end. There are several men lounging nearby.”

Sayyed made a casual turn as if he wanted to look at something on the paling horizon. “I haven’t noticed that one before. The brown one, wood roof, and some sort of red emblem on the side?” He felt a surge of hope. The van looked big enough to hold both the mares and the women.

“That’s the one. It looks worn. It’s probably a merchant wagon that was rented or borrowed. But those men down there do not look much like drivers.”

“Hmm, no. They are dressed like the men who attacked us. More guards perhaps?” Sayyed suddenly stiffened, and he had to force himself to look naturally away from the men below. “I know one of those men. The lean one. He has gray in his hair and a mole on his cheek. I saw him slip into the caravan two days ago.”

Hajira’s face lost its friendliness, and his eyes turned hot and frustrated. “Have you seen others coming into the caravan?”

“Several groups,” the sorcerer confirmed. “They were heavily armed and arrived at dusk.”

The warrior frowned. “I was right!” he said fiercely. “Someone is fattening the tribal levies with mercenaries and fanatics. I have tried to warn the counselors, but no one will listen to me. I am dishonored!” he spat. “And other men are too afraid to talk. The Gryphon has sworn to call a holy war, and no one wants to get in his way.”

Sayyed sucked in his breath. A holy war was a call to battle in the name of the Living God, a call that few Turics would ignore. Usually the holy war was used in times of invasion or war with other nations. Never had a holy war been called to incite rebellion within the Turic nation itself. “The God forbid,” he murmured.

“Indeed. The Gryphon may be planning a coup before we reach Cangora in nine days.” He turned on his heel and strode down the rise away from the wagons. Sayyed followed. “We’d better find your women and get them out. We certainly do not need two magic-wielders caught in the middle of a civil war.”

Sayyed couldn’t agree more.

They split up after that, Hajira taking his charge to the front of the caravan near the funeral wagon and Sayyed and Rafnir riding in the midst of the tribal escorts. For fear of attracting attention, they all kept their distance from the wagon train that brought up the rear.

The ride that day was long and hard, over a rolling, twisting road that reached to the rising Absarotan foothills. It was dark by the time the caravan stopped at the next oasis, the Impala Springs. The people were too tired to set up a full camp, so they put out crude shelters, ate cold food, and went thankfully to bed. Only the Shar-Ja and his counselors had their tents erected for the night.

Hajira waited only until the camp was settled before he sought out the clansmen. Ignoring Tassilio’s protests, he left the boy with the Hunnuli and led Rafnir and Sayyed back to the parked wagons and vans. They did not have to search long before they made an alarming discovery.

The large wooden van with the red emblem on its side was gone.

Almost frantically the three men checked the baggage wagons again, from one end of the field of parked vehicles to the other. There was no brown van and no guards, only a few drivers tending to their wagons. Sayyed asked several about the van, but no one had paid much attention to one brown vehicle among so many, and no one had noticed it leave. The men then looked everywhere in the oasis village, around the stone-walled springs, in other areas of the camp, even in some outlying gullies, hollows, and dry valleys. All to no avail. The unremarkable brown wagon had vanished from the caravan.

Frustrated and upset, Sayyed and Rafnir returned with Hajira to the Hunnuli. The night was well advanced, but the men were too agitated to sleep. The allotted four days was gone, and their only possible lead had disappeared somewhere along the leagues of the Spice Road.

“We have several choices,” declared Sayyed, his arms crossed and his face grim. “We can go back to the Altai and find the Fel Azureth, to learn if they have Gabria and Kelene. We can continue to search the caravan, or we can abandon both ideas and go in search of an unknown wagon that may or may not be holding the women.”

“The road forks three ways,” Hajira said softly. “Which way does the heart go?”

Tassilio put his hand on Sayyed’s sleeve. “The Fel Azureth would not take them. They believe too firmly in their own righteousness. They would not stoop to coercing a power they believe to be heretical.”

All three men gazed at Tassilio, astonished at the boy’s astute observation. His earnest, eager face brightened under their stare, and he pushed a foot forward, crossed his arms, and lifted an imperious chin in such an excellent imitation of his father, Hajira nearly choked.

“He’s right,” the guardsman conceded. “The core of the Fel Azureth are extreme fanatics who despise any religion or power not their own. Of course, that doesn’t mean someone else didn’t kidnap the sorceresses to make trouble for the fanatics.” He lapsed into silence and brooded over their lack of tangible results, his fingers drumming on the hilt of his sword.

Rafnir, too young and intense to bear his patience stoically, began to pace step after angry step between the men and the Hunnuli. “So where does that leave us, Father?” he demanded. “There’s nowhere to go forward and too many places to go back!”

The older sorcerer rubbed his neck against the throbbing pain in his head. It had been a very long day and night, and he was still suffering from the aftereffects of the blow to his head. He closed his eyes and drew a long, filling breath. “I wish to sleep on this decision,” he said. “I will decide in the morning which fork in the road we’ll take.”

The other men did not argue. There was little point wasting more time or effort on discussion when there was nothing they could do about it until daylight anyway. With Tassilio between them and the Hunnuli keeping guard, they rolled themselves in their blankets to wait for morning.

Deep in the night, Sayyed’s dreams fled to the Ramtharin Plains. He rode frantically on a desert horse after a golden cloaked woman on a cantering Hunnuli. He chased her, shouting, until she slowed and waited for him. He expected to see Tam, but when he neared and the woman turned around, she pulled off her hood and revealed Gabria’s face as she had been twenty-six years ago when he first saw her that spring day and fell instantly in love with her. Sayyed’s heart ached at her loveliness. She smiled at him with all the warmth and love he remembered, and without a word she lifted her arm to point to a range of mountains. Abruptly she disappeared, and Sayyed found himself in a stifling darkness. He cried out, more at her loss than at the blackness that covered him, and he tried to lunge away from the constricting dark. He discovered he could not move his arms or legs. Something pinioned him from head to foot, something that groaned and creaked close to his head. Then he heard her voice, no more than a faint whisper in his head, “Sayyed.”

“Gabria!” he shouted, and his own voice jolted him awake. He jumped to his feet and saw morning had already lit the skies with apricot and gold. Afer nudged him with his muzzle, and Sayyed leaned gratefully into the stallion’s powerful shoulder.

Rafnir, with five days’ growth of beard on his face, yawned and clambered out of his blankets. His eyes met his father’s, and they locked in a long, considering stare.

“I think we should look for the wagon,” Rafnir said quietly. “I don’t believe they are here.”

Sayyed said nothing, for he had looked over Rafnir’s shoulder to the mountains northwest of the oasis. He had seen the peaks in the days before as the caravan slowly traveled closer. Last night, though, when they reached the springs, it had been too dark to see details of the great, gray-green chain of mountains that still lay perhaps ten or twenty leagues away. Now he saw them clearly, bathed in the morning light, and he recognized their rugged crowns as surely as he had known Gabria. She had pointed west to those same mountains in his dream. He pondered, too, the other elements: the meaning of the darkness, the creaking noise, and Gabria’s voice.

Was a dream any more of a clue than a hunch or a guess or an idea? Was it a sign sent by Amara or just his tired mind furnishing a solution to his dilemma? Perhaps Gabria’s talent was reaching out to him. Whatever its meaning or its source, he decided to follow its lead, for lack of any other evidence. “The wagon it is,” he said.

Hajira, who had awakened with Tassilio, drew a small knife from a sheath hidden in his boot. Thin and slender as a reed, the blade fit easily into his palm. The handle was a tiny gryphon’s head carved from a flat slice of opal so the beast’s face shone with rainbow colors in the sun. Hajira handed the blade to Sayyed. “Keep this when you go. If you need me for anything, send the knife with your message and I will come.” He put his arm around Tassilio’s shoulders, a fatherly gesture the boy accepted gladly. “We will keep our ears alert. If anyone has the women close by, we will learn of it.”

Sayyed ran a finger along the hilt. Although gryphons were extinct, they were still powerful symbols of loyalty and courage in the Turic faith. “A beautiful knife,” he said.

“A gift from the Shar-Ja,” Hajira replied, unable to completely disguise the ironic bitterness in his voice.

The sorcerer tucked away the knife and took something from his saddlebag. It was a rope as thick as his little finger. “Many years ago magic wards were made of ivory or wood, carved into balls of great beauty,” he explained to Hajira and Tassilio. As he talked he deftly cut a length of the rope and began tying an intricate knot in the middle of the section. “Unfortunately, I do not have time to carve. This will have to do for now.” He laid the knot on the ground and before Tassilio’s fascinated gaze, he touched the knot and spoke the words to a spell he had memorized from the Book of Matrab.

The magic glowed red on the rope knot for just a minute before it sank into the twisted fibers. Sayyed picked it up, tied it into a loop, and gave it to Tassilio. “This is not as strong as the old ones, but this magic ward will help protect you against all but the most powerful of spells.”

Tassilio marveled at the gift. He accepted the knot without his usual blithe smile and hung it gratefully around his neck.

After morning prayers, the four ate a quick breakfast together, saddled the Hunnuli, and made their farewells.

“Watch your back,” Sayyed told his brother. The two men embraced, both thankful for this unexpected meeting after so many years. The clansmen mounted and waved to the lone guardsman and his royal charge. Hajira lifted his arm in salute.

The Hunnuli unhurriedly trotted through the outskirts of the caravan camp toward the settlement. The camp bustled with preparations to leave, and everyone was too busy to pay attention to two tribesmen minding their own business.

Before long the camp and the oasis with its slow bubbling springs were left behind. As soon as they were out of sight of the camp, Rafnir and Sayyed split up, each taking a side of the beaten caravan road. The chances of finding the tracks of one wagon, particularly the right wagon, were very small. On the other hand, the men knew the conveyance had left the caravan somewhere between the Impala Springs and Oasis Three, and they planned to search every square inch of territory along the road until they found some trace of the missing van.

With the help of their stallions’ keen sense of smell and their own knowledge of tracking, the men examined the Spice Road for leagues. It wasn’t easy. The Shar-Ja’s vast caravan had left a huge trail of hoofprints, wheel tracks, boot marks, trash, and dung piles, while subsequent traffic had added its own signs. Well-traveled side roads joined the trail here and there, and the route passed through two tribal settlements, each with its own collection of carts and wagons.

The clansmen asked for information at the tiny villages, and they questioned other travelers, but no one remembered seeing a wagon of that description. They fought a constant struggle between their desire to hurry in case the wagon was somewhere ahead of them on the road and the need for slow, careful scrutiny for tracks in case the wagon had been driven off the road to some remote destination. Through most of the day, the men forced their frustration aside and worked their way slowly northeastward.

The afternoon sun slanted toward evening when Sayyed and Rafnir returned to the road and walked their horses side by side. The caravan route passed through a hump of tall hills, forcing travelers to go through a narrow cut walled with steep slopes and shaded with fragrant cedar and pine. Father and son rode quietly, each occupied with his own thoughts, until they rode out of the hills and came to a long, rolling stretch of road.

There is another track to the left, Afer told Sayyed. The stallion was right. It was faint and overgrown, but a two-wheeled track split off from the main road and wended its way into the barren, brown range. The horses followed the track a short distance and stopped to allow Sayyed and Rafnir to dismount.

“Something heavy has traveled this way very recently,” Sayyed observed. He pointed to wheel marks in the dirt and crushed clumps of grass.

Rafnir bent to look. “But is it our missing wagon?” He looked back the way they had come toward the hump of hills. “If you were planning to leave a caravan with little notice, this would be a good place to do it.”

Sayyed studied the hills and saw what Rafnir meant. A wagon lagging behind could easily veer off the road when the rest of the baggage train turned out of sight into the tree-lined cut. “So, do we continue along the road or try this track?”

“Try the track,” Rafnir suggested. He shaded his eyes with a hand and looked down the course of the trail as far as he could see. If the track continued its apparent direction, it would eventually reach the mountains.

The men mounted again, and the Hunnuli stretched out into a slow, easy canter. There were few places a wagon could leave that track, and the trail wound on, clear and obvious even through the dry vegetation. They had ridden for almost half an hour, one in front of the other, when Tibor veered off the path so abruptly, Rafnir was unseated. Reacting quickly, the sorcerer grabbed the stallion’s mane and hauled himself back into the saddle.

Look! Tibor sent excitedly before Rafnir could voice any of the words that came to his lips, and the stallion nosed something on the ground.

Rafnir could not see the object over Tibor’s big head, so he slid off and pushed the stallion’s nose aside. All he saw was a thin strip of red dangling from the long, sharp leaves of a dagger plant. His eyes suddenly popped wide, and he whooped with delight. “It’s Kelene’s hair ribbon,” he yelled, waving the trophy in the air.

“Are you sure?” Sayyed’s brow rose dubiously.

I am. Tibor neighed. It has her smell.

“They’re just ahead of us!” Rafnir crowed. “She must have left this as a sign.”

The two men grinned at each other. For the first time in five days they had a definite lead, and they did not want to waste it. Rafnir quickly tied the ribbon around his arm and leaped into the saddle. The Hunnuli sprang away.

The wagon had a day’s lead on them, but no living creature could outrun or outlast a Hunnuli. The horses ran for the rest of the daylight hours, until the sun slid behind the mountains and night fell. They saw no more signs of the women, only the wagon track drawing nearer and nearer to the mountains.

As soon as the sun set, the Hunnuli were forced to stop. Although they could have run all night, a high veil of clouds covered the sky and hid the light of the moon and stars. The men were afraid to proceed for fear of missing another sign or losing the faint trail in the darkness. Reluctantly they made a cold camp and bedded down for some much-needed sleep.

Just before dawn the men roused, ate a quick meal, and made their prayers on bended knee. Rafnir felt comfortable now with this morning oblation, and he silently sent his plea to the mother goddess to watch over his wife and her mother. By the time the light was strong enough to see the trail, the men and the Hunnuli were on their way. The path went on before them, like two pale parallel ribbons that led ever westward into the foothills of the Absarotan Mountains.

Swiftly the land rose into bleak, rumpled uplands whose brown slopes lay bare to the arching sky. Dry creekbeds and gullies ran like cracks down the slopes, and rough outcroppings of weathered stone poked up like ancient ruins through the grass. Not far ahead the mountains reared their towering peaks above the parched plains and sat like brooding giants over their deep, unseen valleys.

A warm wind from the east blew steadily during the day and slowly piled clouds up against the mountains’ lofty heads. By midafternoon, towering thunderheads began to form, and the elemental forces of a storm were spawned in the battle between air, stone, and fire.

On the ground the men and Hunnuli sensed the coming storm in the magical energies around them. In a phenomenon little understood by the magic-wielders themselves, thunderstorms strengthened the forces of magic and enhanced the sorcerers’ ability to wield it. Even before the sky turned to steel and the first bolt of lightning streaked to earth, the two sorcerers could feel the tingle in their blood and the building exhilaration as the storm brewed along the mountain’s face.

Worriedly they hurried on, but there was still no sign of the elusive wagon except for its tracks winding ever higher into the inhospitable flanks of the mountains. In the late afternoon they rode up a rocky ridge, crested the top, and stopped to look around. Although the van was nowhere in sight, they saw two shepherds hurrying a flock of goats down a valley below. Afer and Tibor quickly caught up with the shepherds, and the clansmen cordially greeted the two Turics.

The shepherds eyed them and the big horses suspiciously until they recognized the Raid crests on the riders’ robes.

“The True God go with you, travelers,” the younger shepherd said over the bleating goats. “We thought you might be taxers or collectors for the Fel Azureth.”

Sayyed chuckled. “The Raid ride only for honor, which is why we’re so poor.”

The shepherds relaxed a little, but they shifted their feet, anxious to be away. Their goats, the long-legged, rangy mountain breed, crowded around them, noisy and impatient. Sayyed quickly asked about the wagon.

“Haven’t seen it today,” the older shepherd replied. “We’ve had the herd in the meadows up there.” He pointed toward one mountain rather isolated from the rest, a savage, lonely peak with its crown buried in the clouds. “Had to bring ’em down early, though. The Storm King grows angry.”

“The who?” Rafnir asked.

“You are strangers here.” The shepherd grimaced. “Yonder lies the Storm King,” he pointed to the same peak. “The old man can force ferocious storms when his anger is up.”

“Well, do you know where that road goes?”

The shepherds looked at one another as if trying to jog each other’s memories. “Doesn’t it go to that old fortress?” the young one offered.

The other shrugged. “Could be. The main trail to the place is south of here, but I’ve heard there was a back road going up there. I just never followed this one. Won’t go up there myself.”

Something in his tone caused Rafnir to ask, “Why not?”

Both men were startled when the shepherds crossed I heir wrists to ward off evil. “There’s something dark far back in those mountains. Some old evil that won’t die away. Something I wouldn’t risk for all the gold on Storm King,” the old shepherd said.

“If you’re going on that road,” suggested the young one forcefully, “don’t stray off it. Find your wagon and get out as fast as you can.” Without waiting for an answer, the shepherds rounded up their herd and hurried away.

The Hunnuli returned to the track and resumed a canter. The men saw now that the trail headed toward the peak the shepherds had called the Storm King. True to its name, the mountain sat under a roiling gray—and-white mantle of cloud that obscured its upper slopes. Lightning crackled around its crown.

“We’d better find shelter soon.” Sayyed called.

Faster now, the stallions galloped along the open path on the rising slopes of hills and ridges, but all too soon they reached the treeline and were forced to slow-to a trot through the scattered groves of trees and heavy brush.

The hunters pushed on and on into the higher reaches, while the sky darkened and the wind began to roar through the trees. Dust and leaves whirled, and the warm, sultry air suddenly turned cold. Thunder rumbled in a continuous drumroll that echoed from peak to peak. The daylight died to a ghostly twilight.

Sayyed was scanning the trail ahead when a bolt of lightning snaked down from the clouds and exploded a tree close by. The thunderous shock wave nearly blew him from the saddle. Afer and Tibor neighed in pain from the horrendous sound. With that fanfare, the fury of the Storm King broke loose in a wind that came screaming down from the peak, snapping off branches and flattening grass.

Half-blinded by flying dust and grit, the men clung to the horses as the wind howled by them. The Hunnuli struggled on as best they could. In seconds, they had lost the trail in a whirlwind of dirt, debris, and leaves.

“Go on,” Sayyed cried to Afer. “Find shelter!”

Obediently the old stallion plowed ahead, using his wits and his senses to locate any kind of shelter out of this terrible wind. Tibor struggled to stay close on his tail. Neither could see where they were going. All they could discern were darker shapes through the flying wind and the direction of the slopes under their feet. Lightning continued to explode, with shattering crescendos of thunder around them.

They had not yet found a safe place to stop when the hail came pelting down in curtains of stinging pellets. Mumbling an oath, Sayyed tied his burnoose tightly across his face and stopped Afer. He hunched down, his back to the wind, and waited for Tibor to come close.

“We don’t have much choice. We’ll stay here until the storm passes,” he shouted to Rafnir. “Let’s make a shield.”

Rafnir nodded a reply. They started the spell to form a storm-proof dome against the wind and hail.

Afer lifted his head. I smell something! I cannot tell what it is, but it smells man-made, the Hunnuli told both men.

Sayyed grimaced. “Do we look for it?”

“Let’s try. There’s no knowing how long this storm will last, and shelter would be welcome.”

Excitedly now, Afer plunged ahead into the wind and whipping ice. Using the magic they had already summoned, the men formed small shields of power and used the energy to ward off the worst of the weather. Tibor hurried after Afer along a saddleback ridge and down into a steep, narrow valley.

Dusk came and went too quickly, and an impenetrable night blanketed the mountains. The hail finally dwindled to a stop only to be replaced by a heavy torrent of rain. In moments Sayyed and Rafnir were soaked by the cold downpour in spite of their shields. Still Afer went on after the elusive scent, leading them farther up the valley along the banks of a small, tumbling stream. In the dense darkness and pouring rain, they were unaware that the valley walls were rising steeper and higher the deeper into the mountains they went.

Then, without warning, a towering shape loomed out of the darkness. Twice as tall as a man, thick and ungainly, it sat in the middle of the canyon floor like a misshapen row of large human heads set one on top of the other. The topmost head, its gruesome face nearly lost in the gloom, glowered down the valley at any who approached it.

It is stone, snorted Tibor.

“Yes, but what is it?” Rafnir exclaimed, not really expecting an answer. The huge statue was unlike anything he had ever seen.

“It is an ancestor pole, an ancient device used to warn evil spirits.” Sayyed replied wearily.

Rafnir shivered in the icy blast of the wind. “I don’t think it’s working. Is this what you smelled?” he asked Afer.

Some of it. But now I sense other things, Afer answered.

So do I. Man smells on wood, stone, and smoke. Horses, too. added Tibor.

“Then let’s go,” Sayyed sighed. The need for shelter outweighed his caution and curiosity. They circled past the strange statue and pushed ahead up the canyon.

In the dark and the storm they did not see the top head turn slowly around to watch them ride up the valley.

Although they found a faint animal track that followed the course of the stream, the going proved very difficult. The path wound through heaps of boulders, rock outcroppings, marshy pools, and heavy brush. Sayyed and Rafnir had to dissolve their power shields because they could not concentrate on maintaining the magic and finding the path at the same time. Sayyed settled on a small globe of light instead. Once set alight, the magic sphere would glow without much attention, and its light was a welcome help in the storm-wracked night.

Barely an hour had gone by after they left the unknown statue when the canyon ended abruptly in a sheer wall of striated stone. At the foot of the wall, the stream bubbled up out of a deep, clear pool that steamed and frothed in the pouring rain. Instead of stopping, Afer turned left into a cleft in the walls that was so narrow the men would have missed it. The passage within was deep and dark and cut off nearly all the force of the wind and rain. The Hunnuli continued up the crevice without pause, ignoring the walls that closed in on both sides and towered nearly forty feet above their heads.

The men and horses walked in single file along the passage for several minutes, grateful for the respite from the weather. The Hunnuli’s noses lifted high, and their ears strained forward to catch more sign of the humans they knew were close. They were so attuned to what lay ahead, they did not notice anything behind until they heard something akin to thunder followed by a rumbling, crashing noise from the mouth of the crevice.

Tibor neighed stridently, but in the flash of a moment, two ropes that glowed a pale silver in the darkness snaked down from above. The ropes looped around both men’s necks and hauled them off their saddles. Jerking and twisting, they were pulled upward so swiftly the Hunnuli could only scream their rage and paw the empty air.

Hands grabbed at Sayyed just as he passed out, and for the second time he and Rafnir were taken prisoner by an enemy they could not see.

In the crevice below, the magic sphere died out, and the Hunnuli were left in darkness.

The gag bit deep into Kelene’s mouth, drying her tongue and forcing her mouth open to such an impossible angle she could barely work her jaw. Her lips were dry and swollen, and her entire head ached with a pounding throb that brought tears to her eyes. Ignoring the pain in her right arm, she struggled again to reach the gag, but her hands had been tied tightly to her sides and the knots would not budge. Already her hands were swelling, and she could feel blood trickling down her wrists.

She had tried several times to break the ropes with magic, to no avail. Whoever had tied them knew magic-wielders well and had crafted bonds woven from the hairs of a Hunnuli’s tail. Like the horse itself, the hair was impervious to magic. Briefly, Kelene wondered what horse the hairs had come from.

She subsided onto the pallet and thought of several vile curses she could heap on the head of the person who did this as soon as she worked her hands and mouth free. Close beside her she felt the heat and closeness of Gabria’s body trussed in the same painful manner. She wasn’t sure if her mother was asleep, unconscious, or simply biding her time. The older sorceress had awakened some time earlier, struggled against her bonds, and then slipped into a stillness without motion or sound.

Kelene sighed a short breath of frustration and looked through the dim light at her surroundings. She already knew by hean the few things she could see, yet she continued to hope she would notice something new that could help her. She and Gabria were in a wagon—that much she had realized the moment she regained consciousness hours ago. It was not a clan wagon, since the box was too big and enclosed with wooden sides and a slightly peaked wooden roof. One door at the rear allowed access into the wagon, and a tiny window opened under the roof for ventilation. The vehicle reminded Kelene of the merchant wagons she sometimes saw at the clans’ summer gatherings, the kind that had room for sale goods and a small living space for the merchant.

She and Gabria were lying on a fold-down bed rather than on the floor, and from her place she could just make out a small table folded up against the wall and a short bench. The interior of the wagon was dark, except for a few pale glimmers of light that leaked in through a crack by the door frame and around the roof.

Just beyond their pallet, in the darker end of the van, stood Nara and Demira, side by side in a wooden stall Kelene guessed had been specially built for them. The wall separating them from the women was built from thick, heavy timbers that looked strong enough to contain even a Hunnuli. Neither mare had responded to Kelene’s noises, and she wondered if they had been sedated. If she lifted her head as high as her bonds allowed, she could barely make out the two horses standing with their heads facing the front of the wagon. Each mare wore a halter and Demira’s wings appeared to be fastened to her sides by a wide strip of fabric. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble.

Angrily Kelene struggled upright until she was sitting on the edge of the bed board. Knowing they were in a wagon was useful, but she still did not know who had taken them or why, or where they were going. She tried to think back to that night they were attacked by the river. Was it last night or two nights ago? She couldn’t be certain. Everything that had happened since she and her mother rode to the riverbank was a blank. She remembered seeing several dark men coming at her, and she recalled the pain and fear when Demira fell. Her arm had been hurt when she struck the ground, and then everything had gone black. She did not know how she, Gabria, and the horses had been moved to the wagon, nor did she see who had done it. Her memory was blank until this morning, when she woke with a crushing headache and a desire to see the perpetrator drawn and quartered by teams of slow horses.

Outside the wagon she could hear the crack of whips, the thudding of many hooves, and the creak of other wagons. Dust from the road filtered between the old wall boards and swirled in the tiny, pale beams of light that shone through the cracks in the roof. Kelene guessed their wagon was part of a caravan, but without further clues she had no clear idea which way they were going.

The wagon gave a sudden lurch, and Kelene lost her precarious perch on the bed. Unable to catch herself, she crashed to the floor on her injured arm. The pain almost knocked her out again. She lay on her back and gritted her teeth on the gag while tears trickled along her temples. Her stomach felt nauseated.

On the pallet above her, Gabria rolled over to the edge and looked down. Her green eyes were shadowed and sunken in her thin face, but they gleamed with awareness and concern.

The creak of the door alerted both women, and they lifted their heads just as daylight flooded the interior. A dark silhouette stood balanced in the open doorway in a block of light so strong neither sorceress could see who it was.

“Good. You’re awake,” a flat voice said. The speaker ignored the fact that Kelene lay on the floor and went on in a cold, deadpan tone. “We will be arriving at an oasis soon. I will bring you food and water then. If you cause any trouble, try to raise attention, or cast any spell I will kill your Hunnuli.” The figure stepped down and slammed the door shut without further speech.

The women’s eyes met in a silent exchange of confusion, worry, and anger. Kelene lay back on the floor. It seemed better to stay where she was than to struggle painfully back to the raised bed. At least her arm had quit pounding with such intensity.

She closed her eyes and turned her mind inward to the spells she had used the winter before to repair her crippled ankle. She wished she had the healing stones from Moy Tura, for one was spelled to help set broken bones. Some medicinal herbs like comfrey or boneset would be nice, too, but those and the stones were in her healer’s bag and the gods alone knew what had happened to that. Her bag, their cloaks, boots, and jewelry were gone, probably stolen or thrown away.

She concentrated instead on the magic, turning it inward to seek the damage to her upper right arm. At least that part of the arm had only one bone to work with, unlike an ankle and foot that were a puzzle of small bones and tendons. She knew the bone was not shattered, but it felt badly bruised and probably fractured.

Using only a small pulse of magic in her spell, she smoothed over the crack in the bone and gently increased her body’s natural defense against pain.

The throbbing eased to a dull ache and, as the spell ended, Kelene became drowsy. In spite of the dust and the hard floor, she bowed to her own medicine and soon fell asleep.