“Stop it!” Gabria cried, stumbling away from him. “Go away,”
“Go away,” he sneered. “Not for a while, my little man, not until you crawl at my feet and plead for my forgiveness.” He swung at her again and smashed her in the face. Gabria crashed into the wall and collapsed on the floor, her head ringing with pain, blood pouring from her nose.
“Crawl, worm,” Cor shouted gleefully. He kicked her in the side. Waving to the others in victory, Cor stood over Gabria like a conqueror, gloating at his prize. He reached down for her again.
Gabria was lying still, panting in shock and fear. Then she saw Cor’s hand coming. Deep within her emotional prisons, the frustration and anxiety she had suffered the past few days fused together in a furious surge of power. Unbeknownst to her, an aura began to glow faintly around her hands as the white-hot energy of her emotions burst outward to every muscle and nerve ending, overcoming her pain and weakness. The, power ignited in her eyes. She screamed like a cat.
Without a conscious thought, Gabria reached behind her shoulder and grasped her new bow. The unseen aura in her hands flowed up the weapon. Before Cor could react, she rolled off the bow and, with both hands, swung it upward between his legs. The stave caught him neatly in the groin. Just for a second, there was a burst of pale blue sparks.
Cor howled in agony and doubled over. Gabria rolled away, stood up, and crouched, her bow held before her like an axe. But Cor could barely move. He slowly toppled to the ground and lay curled in a ball, moaning. As the warriors moved to him, Gabria backed into the corner, still gripping her bow and trembling with rage. Her green eyes glinted dangerously.
“Nicely swung, boy,” one of the warriors said with a grin.
“Cor won’t be riding for a day or two,” added another man. “Especially the wenches.” They all laughed uproariously.
Gabria stared at them speechlessly. The warriors shook their She heads and left her alone while they picked up their whimpering companion and tossed him unceremoniously on his blanket. Then, the sleepers returned to sleep, the chess players continued their game, and a subdued quiet settled over the hall—all as if nothing had happened. Only Cor’s soft moaning was out of place in the illusion of friendly peace.
Gabria stood in her corner without moving. Her anger and the pale blue aura that no one had noticed subsided, leaving her drained and empty. She dared not move for fear of disturbing the fragile peace.
Gabria knew fist fights and brawls happened constantly in the hall, often just for the fun of competition. But the violence and hatred of Cor’s attack was not pan of the camaraderie. He blamed his disgrace on her and wanted his revenge. Gabria glanced at Cor, as if he might jump on her again, but he remained curled like an infant, whimpering and weeping. She dreaded to think what Cor would do when he recovered. He did not have the manner of a man who forgave readily.
Gabria shuddered and sank to her knees. Maybe she should accept Athlone’s tent. At least he would not beat her. No, she reminded herself sharply, he will kill me if l reveal my identity. And it will be much more difficult to hide in the confines of a tent. But is it safer here with more ears to listen and eyes to watch? Safer with Cor’s dagger within easy reach of my heart? Oh, gods, what am I going to do? Either choice could mean death.
The girl clutched her blanket about her shoulders, thankful for its warm comfort, and huddled into the corner. Her face felt horrible—swollen and caked with blood—but she was not going to move from her corner. She was safe there, for the night at least. Perhaps she could decide what to do tomorrow. Cor might decide to leave her alone, although she doubted it, or perhaps her goddess would provide a way to protect her. Amara had always been with her. Gabria took solace in that, and, after a long while, when the fire had died down, she fell asleep.
Gabria awoke long before dawn. In the deepest hour of the night, she dreamed of a blue fire in the core of her mind tried to banish it, but it was a pan of her and it would not be denied. It grew in intensity and surged outward from her hands, taking the form of a lightning bolt that seared a path through the surrounding darkness and burned with the vengeance of a dying star. Unerring, it struck a half-seen figure of a man and burst him into countless flaming fragments.
Gabria bolted awake in horror. She knew without question what that deadly flare had been. Sorcery. She cringed as she gazed at her hands in the dim light of the single lamp that still burned. She vaguely expected to see a glow of blue still on her fingers where the bolt had sprung.
How could it be? Why had she dreamed of magic? She knew nothing about the arcane except the half-truths of legends and the clan strictures that forbade its profane use. Sorcery had been eradicated generations ago and anyone guilty of trying to resurrect it was put to immediate death. So where had that dream sprung from? Gabria had never considered using such power, and she did not think wielding magic was an inherent ability.
Since birth, Gabria had been taught that sorcery was an evil heresy. The priests claimed sorcery was an abominable sham of the gods’ power, an insult to the deities and the cause of hideous retribution upon anyone who tried to use it.
Gabria shuddered at the memory of her dream. It was impossible that she could create that blue fire herself. She did not have the knowledge or desire to do so. Yet why had she dreamed of that power now? She sat frozen in a crouch, musing over the fading images of her dream, very afraid of falling asleep and dreaming again.
When the horn of morning faintly echoed in the hall, Gabria was still awake. The warriors rose from sleep, laughing, yawning, and grumbling. They rolled their gear out of sight, into a storeroom behind a tapestry, and prepared themselves for another day. A serving girl brought cups of steaming wine and heaps of meat-stuffed rolls. Gabria remained still.
Athlone, back from the night’s hunt, found her as she had been most of the night, hunched in the comer beneath her blanket, her eyes fixed on something in the distance. The wer-tain breezed into the room, smelling of morning dew and horse’s sweat, and greeted the men. He saw Gabria in the corner and anger pulled at his mouth. Muttering a curse, he ripped off the blanket and yanked her to her feet.
“I warned you about shirking. . .” His voice trailed off as she slumped against him and he saw the bruises and dried blood on her battered face. She feebly pushed against him and tried to stand alone, but a searing pain melted her ankle. With a moan she could not stop, she fell to the floor. Sometime during the fight with Cor, she had wrenched her barely healed ankle again.
“What happened?” A look of pity intruded into. Athlone’s stony eyes.
“I fell down the steps last night,” Gabria answered listlessly. She shoved against the wall and painfully levered herself to a standing position. She teetered on one foot, glaring at the wer-tain, daring him to gainsay her.
The pity faded and Athlone turned to the warriors who were watching as they ate. “What happened?” he repeated harshly.
One man jerked a thumb at Cor, who was still lying curled on his bed, apparently asleep. Athlone’s brow lifted, and he strode over to the recumbent warrior. He leaned over to shake Cor’s shoulder. At the first touch, his hand leaped back as if scorched.
“Good gods,” Athlone said in astonishment. “This man is burning with fever. Tabran, call the healer quickly.” Then he remembered Gabria standing in the comer with blood on her face, and his nagging suspicions turned to a noisy warning. But he still was not sure why.
“The rest of you men get to your duties,” Athlone ordered. “Now.”
The men glanced at each other uneasily, and fetching their weapons, filed out the door. Athlone stayed by Cor. The wer-tain’s face was bleak and his body was tense with his unnamed suspicions.