Gabria deliberately stumbled and slammed into Athlone’s calves as she fell. He lost his balance, tripped over a tent rope, and fell on top of her. Gabria froze in fright. His weight crushed her into the mud, but it was nothing compared to the fear of what he might discover as he lay on top of her. She had not meant to bring him down like this!
“I’m sorry, Wer-tain,” she blurted from under a tangle of cloaks and swords. Athlone moved off her. Every bruise and ache in Gabria’s body complained. It took all the willpower she had to control a cry of pain. The warrior stood up and offered a hand to her. Once again the wer-tain surprised her-he was laughing.
She staggered up and looked down at herself ruefully. Athlone would never cease to amaze her. Instead of berating her for her clumsiness, he was laughing like it was a joke. They were both covered with mud—at least she did not have to worry about her face for the moment—yet he was not angry. Thank the gods he had not put his hands in the wrong places.
“Keep this up, boy, and you will not live long enough to claim your weir-geld,” Athlone said.
She smiled shakily at him and replied, “I will have my revenge if I have to crawl to Medb and stab him in the knees.”
“No one has tried that yet.” Athlone took her weight again and his humor disappeared. “You are the most stubborn whelp I have known. That trait is infuriating, but it can be a good advantage.” He lapsed into silence, and they crossed the distance to Piers’s tent in thoughtful quiet.
The healer’s eyes widened as they came in, whether in surprise at Athlone’s action or at their appearance, Gabria could not guess, for he only motioned to a water skin and bent back over his patient.
Gabria felt an unexpected warmth for the wer-tain at her side. It was the first sign of friendship he had offered since she had arrived, and the coldness in her heart retreated a pace as Athlone sat her down on the low stool, poured a bowl of water, and handed it to her with a rag.
Athlone paused at the tent flap before he left. A streak of mud creased his face and dyed half of his mustache. More mud was smeared on his gold cloak and down his legs. His soft boots were caked. “When you are through here, go to the Lady Tungoli. But do not expect to be coddled by her for long. I will be waiting for you.” The wer-tain’s voice turned glacial again.
The veiled threats had returned.
Gabria stared after the warrior as the dark flap closed behind him. It was as if their moment of companionship had never happened. The wer-tain’s suspicions closed around her again like a trap. The girl shivered. For just a moment, she had nourished a hope that he would leave her alone or maybe help her as Nara suggested. But his confusing manipulations leaped ahead of her and blocked her speculation like a granite cliff.
“The wer-tain is an interesting man,” Piers said.
Gabria tore her gaze from the entrance and watched the healer as he worked swiftly over Cor. “Do you always know what I am thinking?”
“It does not take a mind reader to interpret that look on your face. You are overwhelmed by the good chieftain’s son.” He shook his head. “You are not the only one.”
“I noticed you are not comfortable with him,” Gabria noted dryly.
“No. Athlone has a strong presence. Savaric rules the clan, but Athlone is its mettle. Where he goes, the werod follows. Not even Pazric, the second wer-tain, wields the immediate obedience of the riders.”
Gabria stretched her legs out to ease her ankle to a more comfortable position and dabbed half-heartedly at the mud on her face, considering Piers’s words all the while. Cor was lying motionless on the mat she had slept on, his face still captured in pain. Piers was wrapping the warrior’s body in warm blankets.
“Who is Pazric?” she asked when the silence had gone on too long.
“He is Athlone’s second in command,” Pier replied.
“I do not remember him.”
“He is in the south, meeting with one of the Turic caravans.”
“Does the werod always follow Athlone without question?” Gabria asked. She was trying to think of some way to lead the conversation around to her dream and Cor’s condition. As repugnant as the answer might be, she had to know if there was any connection. The dream was such a strange coincidence, and only Piers would have the openness of mind to help her understand it.
“I realize you and Athlone do not approve of each other. It takes time to know him.” Piers shrugged as he stood up. “Even that may not help. But don’t ever go against his authority, or the entire werod will tear you to pieces.” The healer removed some items from his chest of medicines and poured a small heap of dark gray grains into a mortar. As he ground the grains, a pungent smell filled the tent. It reminded Gabria of cloves, and she inhaled deeply.
Piers worked for several minutes before he spoke again. “What happened between Cor and you? May I assume he started it?”
“I don’t know,” Gabria muttered, feeling guilty again. “He wanted a fight with me, for what happened in the fields last night.”
Piers added a few dried leaves to his powder and continued grinding, his robe swaying gently with his movements. “You are not accustomed to fighting, are you?”
Gabria stiffened. “What do you mean?” she asked carefully.
“It’s obvious. You are beaten bloody and he does not have a mark on him. You won by luck. . . or something else.” When Gabria did not answer, he laid the pestle down and turned to face her. His pale eyes were sad, but his face had a strange look of wariness. “Do you know what is wrong with this man?” His words were soft, but edged with steel.
Gabria felt as if her mind would shrivel into dust. A cold fear clenched her stomach and her breath failed even as she drew it. Piers obviously thought Cor’s condition was not just a simple illness. All the terrors of her dream surged back in the face of his unspoken accusation. “No,” she whispered. The word escaped her lips and leaped at his silence. “What have I done to him?” she cried, clenching her fists to her sides.
“So you admit this injury was caused by you.”
Gabria stared at the healer miserably. “I don’t know what I caused. I only hit him with a bow. . . but later I had a dream of a blue flame that sprang from my hands and struck a man. I don’t know why I would dream of something like that. All I did was hit Cor to make him stop beating me.” She suddenly stopped the flood of words, then took a deep breath and asked, “What is wrong with him?”
“I am not certain either,” Piers said quietly. “I have a very good idea, if I can only believe it.” Gabria hunched over as if a pain stabbed her stomach. “What?”
“He has suffered a severe shock. He has a high fever and rapid heartbeat. Unusual symptoms for a mere blow to the groin.”
“Will you just tell me?” Gabria cried.
“No,” Piers strode over to her side and leaned over her, no longer hiding his anger. “You tell me, Gabran. You only hit him with a wooden bow, you say, but this man has been wounded by an arcane power called the Trymian Force. Where did it come from?” Abruptly, his hands dug into her shoulder, and he hauled her to her feet. She swayed, staring at him in dumb dismay. “That man may die, and I want to know why. Did your power come from Medb?”
The sound of that name galvanized Gabria like a shock. She wrenched away from the healer and grasped the center tent pole for support. “I received nothing from Lord Medb but death, and that is all he will receive from me,” Gabria gasped, shaking with anger.
Piers eyed her dubiously, his arms crossed. He wanted to believe the boy was not an agent of Medb, yet the Wylfling lord was the only one rumored to be delving into sorcery and Gabran was the only one Piers knew of who had struck Cor in the past day. “Then how is it that Cor suffers from the Trymian Force?”
“I don’t know! I don’t even know what you are talking about.” She leaned into the pole, her eyes beseeching him. “I didn’t want to hurt him. I just wanted him to leave me alone.”