“I doubt it. Raiders like that take women and plunder. This attack was total destruction. No, I think the boy was right, and if he is, then Medb is getting bolder.”
Savaric nodded, the worry plain on his face. “And stronger. We have ignored Medb’s ploys for power for too long, Piers. If we do not break him soon, he will become too strong for any of us.”
Piers’s mouth hardened. “You are talking war, you know. A war that could destroy the clans.”
“Medb will destroy us if he becomes overlord. I would rather die a free chieftain than live as his underling.”
Piers drained his cup and poured more of the light, fragrant wine he loved. He took a long swallow, then said, “They say Medb is reviving the black arts.”
Savaric glanced at the sleeping form under the cloak, then back at Piers. “They say many things about him, but that fact I find hard to swallow. His clan would not tolerate their chief practicing magic. It would mean dishonor for all the Wylfling.”
“Not if they were already under his thumb. Magic can be used for other things besides creating fog.”
“So you heard about that already, too.” Savaric chuckled. “Was there anything you missed?”
The healer stared at the tiny fire in his hearth for some time before he answered. “Have you had any word from Cantrell or Pazric?”
“No. I am not worried about Cantrell. The bard has been gathering information for me for a long time. He can take care of himself, even in Medb’s camp. But Pazric should have been back from the south by now. It does not take this long to negotiate a trade with the Turic tribes.”
Piers nodded. The men were quiet for a while, each wandering in his own thoughts. Their silence was companionable, born of a long friendship and respect.
Finally, Piers said, “That boy is an enigma. Perhaps he holds a key you can use to unlock Medb’s doom.”
Savaric shook his head and straightened. “That is very unlikely. Even grown men can’t kill Medb.” He walked to the entrance. “But take care of him, Piers, or you will have an angry Hunnuli trampling your tent.”
“Did this mere lad truly rescue a Hunnuli?”
“He certainly did.”
Piers raised his wine cup in a mock salute. “Then he shall be treated like a hero,”
Savaric matched his salute and left the tent.
Gabria slept through the night and most of the next day, lying motionless beneath her cloak, too weak to move even in sleep. Piers watched her anxiously, and several times he checked her to be sure she was still breathing. Outside the healer’s tent, Nara waited patiently. Savaric visited once to check the boy’s progress, but Gabria made no sound and still lay as if lifeless.
In the late afternoon, Piers was giving Gabria a sip of mild tea between her slack lips when, without warning, she began writhing and lashing out at him. Her face was twisted in hatred and her breath rasped in her throat. “No!” she cried hoarsely. “You can’t have me, too.”
“Easy, boy, easy.” The healer held Gabria down and soothed her until the dream passed. With its end came a slow awakening to consciousness. Gabria’s body relaxed, her breathing eased, and her eyes crept open until she was staring into the healer’s concerned face.
“I don’t know you,” she whispered.
Piers sat back on his heels at the edge of the pallet and allowed himself a rare smile. The boy was obviously on the way to recovery, for there was no fear or hesitancy in his voice.
“I am the healer of the Khulinin. Piers Arganosta.”
“That is a strange name for a clansman,” Gabria said. Her voice was stronger and color was returning to her skin.
Piers was relieved to see the boy was not withdrawn or dwelling on his grief. Savaric was right: the lad was very strong. “I am not a clansman,” he explained. “I am from the city of Pra Desh.”
“What are you doing on the plains?” she asked curiously.
“Amongst the barbarians?” he asked with a touch of irony. “The city lost favor with me.”
Gabria bristled at the word “barbarian” until she realized that Piers was not being insulting; he was merely repeating a phrase he had heard too often. His face was rather pleasant, she thought, if a little sad, and his pale eyes reminded her of mica: smoky and opaque. There was nothing pretentious about him, a characteristic she did not expect from a man from Pra Desh, the greatest of the eastern cities. In fact, he seemed to deliberately avoid drawing attention to himself. There was little bright color about him, nothing to draw the eye. He was pale with light skin and fair hair cut short.
His tent was plain and simply furnished with a portable medicine chest, a few light pieces of furniture, and an undyed carpet. Hangings of cream-colored wool hung on the walls of the tent, and another curtain hid his sleeping area. The soft rose of his healer’s robe was the only extravagant color Gabria could see.
“I have never been to Pra Desh,” Gabria said as the man stood up and fetched a bowl of soup from the small pot on his hearth.
“Then you are very blessed.”
Gabria was unexpectedly irritated. How dare he say something like that. He knew nothing about her. “I have not been blessed,” she snapped. “By anything.”
“You are alive, boy. Enjoy that!” Piers exclaimed.
“I have no right to be. My place was with my clan.”
“Your place was where the gods chose to put you.” He handed her the bowl, but she ignored it and glared at the open tent flap, where the afternoon sun was slanting through.
“You are a stranger. What can you know of our gods and their ways?” she retorted.
“I do know self-recrimination is useless. It does not bring back the dead, so do not waste your gift of life on guilt or lost opportunities.”
Gabria continued to stare outside. “May I get up now? It must be late.”
Piers sighed. Obviously, his advice was being ignored. “If you feel like it. The Hunnuli is waiting for you, and I am sure you can find food in the hall.”
“Thank you, Piers,” she said coolly.
“You are welcome, Gabran.”
The girl flinched at the name he used and wondered if she would ever grow used to the pain that clung to it. She stiffly climbed to her feet. Immediately, she wished she had not. Her muscles trembled, her head whirled, and dizziness shook her like an ague. She took a few faltering steps, then her ears roared and her stomach threatened to rebel. Piers wordlessly handed her a stool. She sank down gratefully and rested her head on her hands before the nausea overcame her.
“What is wrong with me?” Gabria groaned.
“Do you expect to go through all you have and not pay for it? You have used your body beyond its limits. And you have hardly eaten a thing. Give yourself time to snap back.” He gave her the soup. “Now, eat this.”
She took the bowl and sipped the meaty broth. “Thank you,” she said again, this time with more sincerity.
Piers stepped to the tent flap and summoned a passing warrior. “Tell Lord Savaric the boy is awake.” The man hurried away and within minutes, Savaric entered the tent. He was caked with dust and sweat, and a large falcon gripped his padded shoulder where his golden cloak had been pushed aside.
“The hunting was fair today, Piers,” the chieftain said, his eyes on Gabria.
She sat on her stool, staring into the distance. Lost in thought, she had forgotten her precarious disguise and did not rise to give her chieftain a warrior’s salute of fealty. Just then Gabria realized the men were looking at her and she sprang to her feet, spilling the hot soup over her leg.
“Forgive me, Lord,” she stammered.
Savaric waved off her apology. “Your forgetfulness hardly matters here. But do not lose your memory before my other warriors.”
Gabria nodded and sat down, chagrined. Her face reddened with embarrassment. Piers gave her a rag to clean the spilled soup and refilled her bowl.
“Your newest warrior will soon be ready to assume his duties,” the healer said to Savaric. “He will be tender for a day or two, but he will toughen.”