I am going to the meadow. If you need me, I will come.
Gabria nodded and gave the horse a. final pat. When Nara trotted away, the girl pulled her new golden cloak tighter about her and walked wearily to the camp. The light from the torches and campfires danced around her. The black tents sat like noisy, humped creatures with their backs turned against her. The clanspeople were busy preparing to hunt the lion, and, to Gabria’s relief, no one noticed her. She passed by, a sad shadow in all the hubbub, unseen by all but one.
Athlone stood in the darkened entrance of his tent and watched as Gabria came up the path. His handsome face was hooded in darkness, so she did not see him as she went by. He waited until she was past the guards at the hall before he turned to fetch his spear from his tent.
Something still bothered him about that boy. The nagging suspicion would not stop. Why? The Corin showed spirit and courage despite his grief, and his determination seemed unshakable. Jorlan had reported favorably about the boy and his actions during the lion attack. Neither these attributes nor his unmistakable love for the Hunnuli were the usual characteristics of an exile on the run or a spy for an ambitious chieftain.
The mare was another curious aspect of the boy. The Hunnuli had accepted him, and the horses of that breed were impeccable judges of character. Even Boreas liked the Corin, although the big horse found something humorous about the mare and her rider. If the boy was treacherous or wicked, no Hunnuli would come within smelling distance of him.
Athlone had heard very recently that Lord Medb had tried to win a Hunnuli by capturing it and keeping it penned in a box canyon. As he understood the story, the horse had nearly killed Medb before throwing itself over a cliff, preferring death to serving the lord of the Wylfling clan. Athlone did not know how true the rumors were of Medb’s injuries, but he was greatly saddened and not at all surprised by the Hunnuli’s death.
Nevertheless, Athlone could not reconcile himself to Gabran’s presence. Something was not right with the boy. There were too many little details in speech and movement that did not fit. What was he?
For a fleeting second, Athlone remembered the Shape Changers, the sorcerers of ancient legend who had learned shape changing to avoid punishment for practicing magic. He shuddered. But that was long ago. The heretical magic was dead and its followers died with it. It did not matter, though. The boy was no magician, simply a clansman with a secret that might prove dangerous to all.
Athlone found his spear and walked out of his tent to join the hunt for the lion. He could only hope that he would discover what the boy’s secret was before it proved fatal for someone in the clan.
The huge doors of the hall were still open when Gabria returned from the fields. She entered the hall reluctantly and stood blinking at the sudden light. A fire was burning low in the pit and a few lamps still glowed from the ceiling beams. As she became accustomed to the light, the girl saw her pack and the new bow lying by the nearest pillar. Looking up, she saw several men already asleep on blankets and furs along the right-hand wall, beneath the colorful tapestries of Valorian’s adventures. The storerooms were closed and the heavy curtain was drawn over the entrance to Savaric’s private quarters. Four other men were sitting on the opposite side of the fire at a trestle table. Two were playing chess, one was watching, and the fourth was slumped over a wine flask.
Every clansman was entitled to a tent of his own once he reached manhood. The huge, black felt tents were made by the man’s family and presented to him at the initiation of his warrior status. However, the tents were difficult to maintain, and it was usually the women who kept the fires burning, patched the holes, and kept the tents neat and pleasant. Most bachelors, therefore, chose to sleep in the hall. It was warm, relatively comfortable, and did not have to be packed every time they moved. They could eat there and entertain themselves long into the night without disturbing the treld.
Yet, despite the freedom and convenience of the hall, most men did not stay there long. Marriage and the tents, even with their numerous problems, were preferable to the conditions of bachelorhood. A man needed a woman, his own hearth, and the privacy of the felt walls. The clans survived because of unity and cooperation, but they retained their identity because each man valued his own individuality and the strength drawn from his home, even one that was packed into a cart every summer.
Gabria certainly did not feel at home in the strange, pillared hall. She was nervous being with these men in such close and intimate quarters. She could see at least one of the sleeping men was wearing nothing beneath his blankets. With her own family that would not have bothered her, for she was used to seeing men in various stages of undress. But here she had no brothers to defend her, no chieftain’s quarters for security, and no protection as the chief’s daughter. She had nothing but a disguise—and a flimsy one at that.
Quietly, she slipped along to the right-hand wall to the gloomiest corner, away from the sleeping men. Gabria fervently hoped no one would notice her. If she could curl up in the blanket Piers had given her, perhaps they would not realize she was there.
“We have a new member in our illustrious ranks,” a voice called out in a raucous tone. “Take note of him, men, a boy who has barely left his mother’s breast and already he has lost his clan and killed our mares.”
Gabria cringed at the words. Slowly she turned and stared at the speaker. It was Cor. He was sitting at the table, waving a wine cup in her direction. The other three men had previously ignored him, but now they watched in anticipation of some entertainment. Gabria turned her back on them and tried to disregard Cor’s sniggers. Cor was swaying gently, but his voice was not broken or slurred.
“He sits on his great black horse and spits on us while he deafens the lords with his whining and pleas of innocence.” Cor staggered toward the girl as the others watched in interest. Gabria listened apprehensively.
“But I know you. I can see what you keep hidden beneath your bold face,”
Gabria stiffened and her eyes widened.
“You are a coward!” he hissed. He was so close to Gabria, his breath brushed her neck. “A spineless pile of sheep dung who fled his clan instead of standing and fighting. Or did you lead the attackers to the camp? You are so brave when you are sitting on that black horse, but how brave are you, worm, when you are low to the ground on two puny legs?” Viciously, Cor grabbed Gabria’s shoulder and spun her around.
The girl stepped back against the wall, too terrified by the drunken rage that distorted Cor’s features to run. The other warriors cheered them both and taunted Cor with bets and jibes. No one moved to help Gabria. Disgruntled yells came from the men who had been awakened. The shouts, jeers, and insults crashed together into an unnerving cacophony. Gabria threw her head back.
“Stop it!” she shouted. “Leave me alone.”
“Leave me alone,” Cor mocked. “Poor little worm is not so brave after all. He needs his mama. But she’s dead and rotting with the other Corin.” He rocked back and forth in front of Gabria, exuding wine fumes. His muscles seemed to bunch beneath his tunic.
Without warning, Cor slapped her. Gabria gazed at him speechlessly. “You brought the lion. It is your fault the mare died and I lost my duty. No one would listen to me . . . but you will. You are going to listen to me until you are crushed beneath my boot.” He chuckled at himself. Getting no reaction from Gabria, Cor hit her again savagely. She tried to avoid it, but she was too late. The blow sent her reeling, and blood spattered her tunic from her split lip. The other men looked on, neither helping nor hindering. Cor came at her again.