“I am going to ask you again,” he said without turning around. “What happened?”
Gabria heard the change in his voice immediately. He suspected something strange had happened between her and Cor. “I hit him with a bow,” she snapped.
“Why?”
“I should think that is obvious, Wer-tain.” Piers’s voice came from the entrance. “Just look at him. The boy was being beaten.”
Athlone and Gabria turned to the healer as he came into the hall. “I asked the boy,” Athlone said, rankled by the man’s immediate defense of Gabria. “I want to know what happened to Cor.”
“I know what you meant.” Piers’s pale eyes were like the clouds of a winter storm as he helped Gabria to the fire pit and made her sit on the stone rim.
Gabria watched the two men surreptitiously. Even through her listlessness and pain, she could recognize the signs of a long-lived dislike between the healer and the wer-tain. Piers’s movements were hurried and brusque. It was as if he could not wait to be away from Athlone’s demanding presence. Athlone, on the other hand, seemed to be edgy and impatient dealing with the quiet foreigner. Gabria found Athlone’s discomfort interesting, and she drew closer to Piers’s supporting arm.
Athlone glared at them both, annoyed that the boy had found such a quick ally in the healer. “The boy will live. I called you here to see to Cor.”
“If Gabran lives, it will not be because of your efforts. I asked you to go easy on him yesterday until he recovered, but you deliberately ran him into the ground.” Piers squeezed Gabria’s shoulder and went to examine the unconscious warrior. The healer’s mouth opened slightly in surprise when he touched Cor. He quickly straightened out the man’s body and checked him over carefully.
“How strange. I have never seen anything quite like this,” Piers said worriedly. “What did you say happened to him?”
Athlone gestured to Gabria. “He hit him with a bow.”
“Certainly a mere blow could not have caused this.” Piers checked Cor again, and a small frown creased his forehead. “Hmmm. I wonder. . . have some men take him to my tent.”
Athlone called the guard and gave his orders. He asked Piers, “What is wrong with him?”
“I am not sure. He has a high fever, among other things, but this is something quite unusual. Gabran, you had better come, too.”
“He has work to do,” Athlone said flatly.
The healer shook his head. “Not today. Not in his condition.”
“Your defense of him is misplaced, Healer. He can obviously care for himself,” Athlone stated as he picked up Gabria’s fallen bow.
Gabria could not look at Cor. She stared at the floor, and the memory of her dream returned like a hidden shame. A pang of guilt made her shiver, but she could not believe it was possible that the dream held any truth. She had only hit Cor with a wooden bow, not magic. There was something else wrong with him, something very easy to explain.
“The healer is right, Athlone,” a woman’s voice came from the back of the hall.
“Good morning, Mother.” Athlone smiled at the small, fair-haired woman standing by the curtain to the chieftain’s quarters.
“Good morning, son, Piers, and you, Gabran. I am Tungoli, lady of Lord Savaric.”
Gabria returned her greeting and, for the first time since she came to Khulinin Treld, she felt that she was meeting a friend. Tungoli’s eyes were as open and as green as summer, and her expression was warm and smiling. She was a comely woman whose true age was hidden by a gentle beauty that grew old with grace and radiated from her contentment within. Her hair was braided and wound with a dark gold veil. Her hands were slender, yet strong and confident. She walked toward them with a loose-jointed stride that swirled her green skirt about her feet.
“The boy needs rest,” Tungoli said to Athlone. “There is no sense having two warriors ill. But,” she added soothingly, cutting off Athlone’s next words, “if you insist he stay busy, I have a few things he can help me with.” She slipped her arm through Athlone’s and led him aside, continuing to talk to him all the while.
Piers sighed, an audible sound Gabria barely caught, and he shook his head. “Tungoli and Savaric are the only ones Athlone bows to,” he said softly to Gabria. “Tread carefully around him.”
Several men arrived then and helped Piers lift Cor’s body onto a makeshift stretcher. The healer said, “Wait here, Gabran. I’ll send them back for you.”
In the corner of her eye, Gabria saw Athlone watching them, and her pride dragged her to her feet. The pain sucked the breath through her teeth. “No. I’ll come now,” she managed to gasp.
“Do not be long about it,” Athlone demanded.
Tungoli lifted her eyes to her son in mild reproof. “Athlone, your thoughtlessness is atrocious. Gabran, let them come for you. When the healer is through with you, come to see me.”
“Mother, you are interfering again.”
“I know. But if I do not, who will? The entire treld is terrified of you,” she said, laughter in her voice.
Gabria collapsed on the stone rim again and gazed at the woman thankfully. Tungoli reminded Gabria of her own mother, in a vague, comforting way, and it would be delightful to spend some time with this lady and be out from under Athlone’s iron hand.
Piers nodded to Gabria and followed the stretcher bearers out the door. Gabria did not respond, for she was too engrossed watching Tungoli and Athlone. The small woman looked so incongruous standing up to the tall, muscular warrior, but Gabria was certain the mother won most of their battles. In her own gentle way, Tungoli was just as stubborn as Athlone.
“All right, all right. The boy is yours for as long as you need him. Just don’t spoil him,” Athlone exclaimed.
Tungoli crossed her arms and nodded. “Of course.”
Gabria felt as if a great weight had been taken from her shoulders. She was free from Athlone for a time and she was free of Cor long enough to gather her wits. Gabria still had to decide where she was going to sleep in the future, and she wanted to consider her dream. Perhaps Piers could help her understand. Being from Pra Desh, he would not have the horror of sorcery any clansman would. Maybe the healer would talk to her and give her some reassurance that her dream had been only a figment of her imagination.
Gabria still felt unreasonably guilty for Cor’s sudden illness. Although she was certain it was not her fault, she could not forget the flare of blue power that struck from her hands with such deadly swiftness, or the nameless fear in her heart that there was a connection between the fight and her dream.
“Come on, boy.” Athlone walked to her side. “I’ll get you to the healer and back before my mother scans on another speech.”
To Gabria’s surprise, he slipped her arm over his shoulder and helped her up. Gabria was too stunned by his move to object. Speechless, she looked at Athlone from a few inches away. He met her eyes and, for the first time, his brown eyes did not clash with her green. The wer-tain gave her a sketchy smile, and they moved out the door.
6
Rain was falling when Athlone and Gabria left the hall, a cold, steady drizzle that soaked through clothes in minutes and chilled everything into a lethargy. The low-slung clouds moved sluggishly over the mountains, as if they too were reluctant to hurry on. Gabria closed her eyes, not wanting to see the dismal dawn, and leaned wearily into Athlone.
His gesture of help surprised her. She would have expected him to urge her out with the flat of his sword rather than the Strength of his arm.
“The healer was right. Cor beat you badly,” Athlone said, looking at Gabria from only a hand span away.
The girl quickly turned her face away. If he was this close and watching her so intently, he could notice details she did not want him to see, like the smoothness of her cheek. There was no dirt to disguise her skin and not enough tan to hide the softness of her face at such a close range. The bruises helped, but the wer-tain was beginning to look puzzled.