But the messenger only gave her a cursory glance as he passed, for his mind was on the news he brought. He bowed before Savaric and offered his chieftain’s greetings. “Lord Branth bids me tell you—
“Savaric straightened in amazement. “Branth! When did he become chieftain?”
“Just before the massacre at Corin Treld. Lord Justar died quite suddenly of a heart ailment”, the messenger said.
“Did a dagger cause his heart ailment’?” Savaric asked dryly.
The messenger looked uncomfortable, as if that thought had occurred to him before. “I do not know, Lord Savaric. Only his wife and Branth were with him when he died and his body was prepared for the pyre by his wife’s hands.”
Athlone and Savaric exchanged glances of silent speculation. Gabria was relieved she had not tried to seek refuge with the Geldring. Lord Justar had respected her father, but Branth hated the Corin with a passion. If she had gone to him, he would have turned her over to Medb. It was well known he supported the Wylfling chief.
Savaric shrugged slightly. “All right. Continue.”
“We found Corin Treld two days after the killing, and we spent some time reading the signs of the battle. We discovered there may be a survivor, but we do not know who or what that person was or where he went.”
“How do you know this?” Athlone asked.
“There was a makeshift funeral pyre near the ruins and five bodies had been burned. One, by the shield and helmet, was Dathlar. No enemy who slaughtered the clan like that would have afforded the chief such honor. We also found foot tracks leading out of the treld. They went south, then we lost them in a storm. Lord Branth feels we should search the foothills and send word to every clan to seek this survivor.”
“Absolutely,” Savaric agreed with the right amount of enthusiasm. “This survivor could be the last Corin.”
Athlone shot a quick look at Gabria, who was sitting motionless, as if carved from stone.
“The rest of the information was not clear either.” The messenger hesitated as if unsure how to continue. “But it appears that a large band of exiles attacked the treld.”
The reaction the Geldring was expecting did not come. Savaric merely raised an eyebrow and said, “Indeed.”
“You may not believe me,” the messenger replied stiffly, “but Lord Branth believes it to be true. The hoof prints were those of unshod horses, and we found several broken arrows with colorless feathers. The attackers took or burned their dead.”
Savaric drummed his fingers on his knee and looked thoughtful. “Branth is a minion of Lord Medb’s, is he not?” he asked casually.
The Geldring started at the unexpected question and his hand came to rest on his sword. “I do not know, Lord.”
Savaric raised his hand to reassure the man. “Forgive me. That was not a fair question to you. I merely wished to know if there were other reasons besides my ignorance to warn me of the exiles’ infamy.”
“I only report what I am told.” The Geldring paused. “But you are not surprised about the exiles banding together and carrying weapons? It could mean more death and pillage for us all.”
“Did they pillage the treld?” Athlone inquired.
Surprise overcame the young man’s face as the realization dawned on him. “No. No, they did not. They burned everything and drove off the animals.”
“There were other motives for the attack besides the greed of a few brigands.” Savaric suddenly looked tired. “If that is all your news, then please rest yourself and take Lord Branth my greetings.”
The messenger bowed again and left. A silence dropped in the hall. In the doorway, the guards stood in the sunlight that streamed down from the west.
Finally, Savaric stirred and rose slowly to his feet. He looked as if his mind were still grappling with the meaning of the Geldring’s news. “Gabran,” he said at last.
Gabria glanced up at Savaric’s face. For a moment he seemed so old, as though the growing flames of tragedy and deceit that burned among the clans were more than he wanted to deal with. Then the look passed, the weariness and defeat were gone, and his eyes glittered.
Unconsciously, Gabria straightened her shoulders. “Yes, lord?”
“It seems that your story is falling into place. You were careless, though. Medb will soon know his bandits were not thorough.”
“I expected he would find out one way or another, lord.”
The chieftain smiled humorlessly. “True. But we must be more circumspect. You will wear the Khulinin cloak from now on. I do not wish to startle any guests.”
Gabria nodded. She wanted to keep her cloak with her. It was her only link to her past and the happiness she had known. Nevertheless, she understood that wearing it would be unsafe, as well as an insult to the Khulinin who had tentatively accepted her. She would obey. For now.
“Also,” Savaric continued, “you have the choice of sleeping with the other bachelors in this hall or with Athlone in his tent. He has no woman, but it would be more comfortable than the hall.”
Gabria did not even consider the choice. “I will sleep in the hall.”
Savaric chuckled. It was Athlone’s duty to care for his apprentice, but if the boy chose to be on his own, then so be it. The chieftain stretched his legs as he stepped off the dais. “You will ride with the evening outriders for now.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“And, boy, be careful. You are the last Corin.”
5
The smells of cooking food for the evening meal were warming the treld when Athlone took Gabria to the leader of the clan’s outriders and left her in his charge. The man, a pleasant-faced warrior of thirty some years, wore his black hair bound in an intricate knot and had several gold armbands on his right arm.
He gave Gabria a pleasant smile. “My name is Jorlan. I am pleased to have the Hunnuli with us. I hope she does not mind such menial tasks as guard duty.”
Nara nickered her impression of laughter and rubbed her nose on Gabria’s back.
With Athlone gone, Gabria relaxed a little and enjoyed the leader’s unexpected friendliness. It made it easier to ignore the hostile glances of the other outriders and the blatant gestures they made to ward off evil.
“She does not mind at all. Besides, she has to do something to earn all the grass she eats,” Gabria said.
Jorlan laughed. He sent his men to their tasks, then mounted his bay horse and gestured to the meadows where the clan’s herds grazed. “You will be riding with the brood mares tonight. They are due to foal soon.”
Gabria was surprised. No wonder the outriders had been so hostile. The brood mares were the most coveted herd to guard and the duty was usually given to the favored warriors in the werod. She, as the newest warrior-in-training, should have been sent to the farthest fringes of the valley to stand sentry duty.
On the other hand, if she considered the leader’s point of view, it was excellent sense to put the Hunnuli mare and her rider with the valuable brood mares. Nara was the best possible protector, combining the speed, strength, and senses of several men and their mounts. The duty was not given as a reward but for expediency.
“Right now, I will take you to the meadows to meet the meara,” Jorlan added.
They followed the well-worn track down the hill to the extensive meadows that filled the valley. To the north, where the fields were protected from the winter winds by the backbone of Marakor, the Harachan horses were divided into several herds, each led by a stallion or mare of high rank. The largest herd was the work horses, the second was the yearlings and young horses in training, and the third was the brood mares.