Gabria snatched the cloak out of his hands and held it tightly to her breast. Fury blazed in her eyes. “Yes, sorcery formed the fog at Corin Treld, sorcery spun by the hand of lord Medb. Not I!”
It was the first time Lord Medb had been mentioned, and the significance of his name was not lost on the watching warriors. They muttered uneasily among themselves and no one looked surprised at her accusation. Athlone was not surprised either, and he made no attempt to hide his suspicions of Lord Medb’s rumored heresies.
“Perhaps not. But you could be a servant sent by Medb to spy on us. Certainly you could not have survived the massacre or obtained a Hunnuli mare without help,” Athlone replied with deliberate derision.
“Certainly not,” Gabria retorted. “Since you are convinced it cannot be done.”
“I know it is not possible for a mere boy to earn a Hunnuli’s respect. I ride a Hunnuli stallion and taming him was no task for a child.”
“I can see why it was so difficult for you,” Gabria noted with heavy sarcasm. “The Hunnuli are good judges of character.”
Several of the guardsmen laughed. Savaric crossed his arms, watching the exchange with interest. The boy had pride and courage to stand up to a wer-tain. He certainly learned that from his father.
Athlone shrugged. “Then you accomplished it the simple way, with sorcery or coercion, knowing a Hunnuli could help you worm your way into our clan. How can we not think you are an impostor?”
“Why do you think that?” Savaric interrupted conversationally.
“Impostor!” Gabria nearly shrieked, cutting him off. She cringed at the high note her voice had hit and quickly lowered it again, hoping no one had noticed its feminine tone. She knew Athlone was deliberately baiting her, but she had had enough of him and his arrogant accusations. He did not realize how close he was to the truth. “You faceless, din-eating, dung shoveler. . .”
She continued on at length, richly describing Athlone’s habits and character with every appellation she had heard her brothers use, until the men around her began to choke with ill-concealed laughter. Even Savaric was taken aback. Athlone’s face began to turn red and his mouth hardened to a granite slash. Finally, before his son’s temper exploded, Savaric cut Gabria off with a curt word.
“Now,” he said to Athlone in the sudden silence. “I would like to know why you think this boy could be an impostor.”
Athlone stood by the dais, his body rigid. There was something wrong about this boy—he could sense it. But he could not recognize what it was. Incredible as the boy’s story sounded, it was plausible. Athlone knew full well that the Hunnuli could not be won by coercion or treachery. Yet a niggling little warning disturbed him. The boy was not telling the truth about something.
He stared hard at Gabria, at a loss to explain his suspicion.
“Medb would like to have an informer in our camp. Why not a boy with a story of kinship to Dathlar?” He curled his lip. “Or maybe he is just a miserable exile using a stolen cloak to gain acceptance.”
“I am an exile,” Gabria cried. “Medb made me one. Because of him my clan no longer exists.” A bitter sadness seeped into her heart, stifling her outrage. “I came to ask for a place in the Khulinin, to seek aid against Lord Medb, for he is too powerful for me alone. There was no magic in my coming to you, or treachery. Only blood ties. There was only pain and hard work in winning the Hunnuli.” She held out her hands, palms up, and the men saw the raw cuts for the first time.
The cold left Athlone’s eyes and his anger receded under the pain he saw in Gabria’s face. He glanced at his father and briefly nodded.
Savaric stood up and the hearthguard moved to his side. “I would gladly accept you into this clan and do everything I can to help you attain your rightful blood debt. To my eyes, you are Dathlar’s son, and to my heart, you are honest and very courageous. However, it is the clan that must sustain you. In this case, I will let them speak. Come.”
He walked to the entrance, followed by Athlone, Gabria, and the others. Nara, seeing the girl surrounded by the guardsmen, firmly pushed between them and Gabria until the men drew off to a respectful distance. Gabria reached up and twined her fingers into the horse’s glossy black mane.
You are well? Nara asked.
Gabria nodded, her face turned to the watching clansmen. The people were quiet as Savaric told them Gabria’s tale and her reasons for seeking the Khulinin. They listened intently. The men, in warm woolen jackets, baggy pants, and boots, stood to the front of the crowd. The women, dressed in long skirts and tunics of bright colors, stood as a brilliant backdrop behind their men. Many faces were expressionless, despite the fear that pervaded the encampment.
When Savaric was finished speaking, several men detached themselves from the crowd and conversed together for a few minutes. Gabria recognized them as the elders of the clan, Savaric’s advisors. One wore the emblem of the herd-master, the head stockman, and one was a priest of Valorian. No one else from the throng offered a word. The decision, it seemed, rested on the elders.
The herd-master finally approached Savaric and said reluctantly, “Lord, we do not want to endanger our clan with the evil and taint of sorcery this boy brings, but there are too many sides to this tale to refuse him outright. He does ride a Hunnuli, and to turn the mare away might bring the gods’ displeasure. If you agree, we feel it would be just to allow him a time of trial. If he serves you well and follows the laws of the clan, then let him be accepted. If he does not, then he is truly exiled.”
Savaric nodded in satisfaction. “Gabran, you may stay with the clan. You and the Hunnuli are welcome. . . for now.” He smiled at her as the clanspeople slowly dispersed. “Athlone will be your mentor,” he said, ignoring Gabria’s horrified look. “When you have washed and had some food, I would like to continue this conversation about Medb and how you won your Hunnuli.”
Gabria leaned against Nara and said weakly, “Yes, Lord.”
The dazed young girl was too drained to even react when Nara said in her mind, The first contest is yours.
4
“How can you be so certain it was Lord Medb who ordered the massacre,” Lord Savaric asked as he leaned back on his fur-draped seat. “You have not given us sufficient proof to believe your accusation.”
Gabria slumped in frustration. “I have told you everything I can.”
“It is not enough. You are bringing serious charges against a clan chieftain. How can you know what happened at the encampment? Or that it was an exile band that slaughtered the clan? You say you were not there.”
“No, I was not there during the killing, but I know! I can read the signs of battle and I know what led up to the massacre,” she cried.
Gabria was sitting before the dais, facing Savaric, Athlone, and the clan’s elders, who were seated in a semicircle before her. They had been interrogating her for several hours, and she had told them repeatedly everything she could remember of that awful day at Corin Treld and the days following. Still they were not satisfied.
Behind her, the men of the werod had gathered to hear her story. They clustered in silent groups around the fire pit. Gabria was very self-conscious sitting before this large crowd of men. It seemed as if any second, one of them would see through her disguise. They were so quiet and watchful. If she turned her head slightly she could see them, their dark, muscular faces regarding her with a mixture of surprise, disbelief, and speculation. A flagon of wine was being passed around, but few of the warriors were enjoying it.
The girl wished they would finish this inquisition. It was night and getting quite late. During the day she had had a chance to eat, clean off a little of the dirt, and rest. But now she was getting tired. Gabria had refused to part with her cloak and sat with it bunched up on her lap.