Piers watched her expressions and was satisfied. The boy was telling the truth about this at least. After years at the court in Pra Desh, he had learned to recognize truth and deceit hidden in people’s faces. The green eyes that met his were free of guile. Piers saw only bewilderment and a desperate plea to be believed.
The healer sighed as he stared into those eyes. Before, Piers could not have said what color they were; now he knew they were as green as the sea with the same subtle lights and the same feeling of power. He shook his head, surprised by the depth of Gabria’s gaze. It seemed to the healer that even if the boy did not have a talent for magic, he certainly had the inner strength to wield it.
“All right, sit down,” he ordered. He poured a cup of warm wine into which he added a small dose of poppy extract. “Here, drink this.”
Gabria glared at him and did not move. “What is it, a truth drug? ”
“No, boy. Now sit down. It will dull the pain so I can examine your ankle.”
Gabria hesitantly accepted the cup and returned to the stool. Piers’s attitude had changed. The suspicion was gone from his voice and had been replaced by a tone of resignation. She wondered what conclusion he had reached. It was difficult to read this city-bred man, for he kept himself behind an unbreakable façade—motionless features, still eyes, and a modest manner. He had none of the unrestrained character of the steppe clans. The endless, wild, easily given emotions of the clanspeople were alien to Piers’s way of life. Nevertheless, the healer had abandoned his lifestyle and sought a new life on the plains. Whether he did this to forget his past or to find a new existence, Gabria did not know, but she wished she knew what had made him leave Pra Desh. The answer might explain much.
Gabria left her drink on the table for the moment and watched as Piers continued grinding the powder. Neither spoke. The healer seemed content to let the problem settle for a while and rationality return before taking the next leap. Gabria was relieved by his silence. The acknowledgment of the possibility of sorcery was made. But now that it was said, she was not sure she wanted to know if she was the source of that magic. It was enough to have to bear the weight of her grief and the need for revenge, without the fearsome burden of a heretical power she did not even want. No, she implored silently, gripping her hands. It had to be impossible. Sorcery was learned, not an inherent talent.
Piers laid aside the bowl and opened his medicine chest again. The large wooden chest, the only thing he had brought from Pra Desh, was filled with a myriad of drawers and trays. Gabria noticed each one was crammed with packets, bags, vials, bottles, boxes, wrapped bundles and scraps of paper, all clearly labeled. The healer poked through several drawers, then, from one of the smaller trays, he drew out a smooth red stone the size of an eagle’s egg. He juggled it several times before he spoke.
“Forty years ago, when I was an apprentice to the senior physician of the Fon of Pra Desh, I met an old man in the market square. He claimed he was the son of a clansman and had been exiled because he accidentally murdered a cousin with sorcery. He had escaped death only by fleeing before anyone caught him.”
Gabria stared at the stone in the healer’s hand. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because the man was a Corin.”
She came alert. “You lie,” the girl snapped, though she said it with more hope than conviction.
Piers shook his head. “My master was a fancier of magic and studied the history of its use. He thoroughly examined this man and confirmed the truth. The Corin, who had no training and had never witnessed a performance of sorcery, had been born with a talent to call the powers to his bidding.”
Gabria felt numb. Whether she wanted it or not, the truth was coming out. Somewhere she would have to find the strength to face the awful possibility that she could be a sorceress. “What is the Trymian Force?” she asked. The fear in her voice threatened to spill into tears.
Piers saw the tense lines that altered the boy’s face. There was a stubborn dimension to that face that showed his strength and will to survive. He had noticed it before, and now it was very apparent in the clenched jaw, the tight muscles around the mouth, and in the way the boy did not hide from the truth. It was good. Gabran would need every advantage to live to the next wintering. The healer knelt by Cor and stared at the warrior. A tremor moved beneath Cor’s jaw where the blood raced under the skin, and the heat of his fever beaded into sweat on his forehead.
“The spell,” Piers said slowly, as if remembering a long forgotten passage, “is the marshaling of the different flows of energy that constitute magic into one destructive force that can penetrate most defenses. It often appears as a blue flame. It is only as strong as the person who wields it, but if it is not controlled, it can appear as an automatic reflex in times of intense emotion.”
“I do not understand. Do you believe this force came from me?” Gabria asked quietly.
“It’s possible that it originated from someone else in the room, but that is unlikely,” he replied.
“Piers, I know nothing about this sorcery. How could I have cast a spell of any kind?” Piers looked straight at Gabria and said, “There are only two ways. If Medb did not give the ability to you, then your ancestors did.”
“No, it cannot be,” Gabria cried, her voice edged with fear.
Piers gripped the stone and rubbed his chin with his free hand. “I am a stubborn old man, Gabran. I see something I do not understand and I try to force an answer because I am afraid. You are the only answer I see. If you did not use the Trymian Force, even inadvertently, than the alternative is beyond my understanding. I am not certain there was sorcery. Only this can tell us.” He held up the stone to the firelight and watched the warm glow of color spread over his hands like blood.
“My master told me once the steppe clans long ago produced the greatest sorcerers because they were empathetic to the primal forces that govern magic. He believed whole heartedly that the ability to draw on that power was an inherited talent.” He paused and then said, “Unfortunately, the legends of those years are hazy with time and prejudice. After the destruction of the city of Moy Tura and the persecution of the sorcerers, no one wanted to remember where the talent came from.”
In Piers’s hand, the large stone began to flare suddenly. For a moment, Gabria thought it was just the flicker of firelight reflected in the gem’s opaque interior. But the radiance brightened, driving out the opacity until the stone shone with a scarlet luminosity and crowded out the light of day and fire. The entire tent filled with the ruddy gleam.
“Now we know. Fasten the tent flap,” Piers ordered. He held the stone gingerly over Cor’s face as brilliant flashes flared out of the stone in radial bursts.
Gabria limped to obey and tied the fastenings tight with trembling fingers. She moved to the healer’s side and watched in fearful awe. The rays of light from the stone seemed to probe into the warrior’s head. “What does that stone do? What is it?” she whispered.
Piers answered slowly. “I do not know exactly what it is, only what it does.” A weak smile touched his mouth. “I have never had to use it before.”
“Will it help him?”
“I hope so. My old master gave it to me before he died. He said it was a healing stone that could only be activated by the presence of magic. The stone is supposed to remove all traces of magic from an injured person.”
Piers laid the stone on Cor’s forehead, and they watched in silence. The direction of the light beams focused into a downward spray that danced over Cor’s face. Gabria noticed in amazement that the rays did not illuminate his skin, but sank into it like bright needles. She felt she ought to be horrified by this display of blatant heresy and leave before she was tainted further, but she held back and watched the light with an unacknowledged fascination.