Gabria laughed again, hearing the excited shouts of the men around her. She grabbed for the Hunnuli’s mane and hauled herself up. “Go, please!” Nara spun around and ran to find the wind on the plains.
Jorlan watched them disappear and grinned. “I would give my best mares to do that.”
The mare carried Gabria along the banks of the Goldrine River to the entrance of the valley, and swiftly passed between the two guardian peaks to the plains.
Beyond Marakor and its twin, the foothills fell away to the steppelands of Ramtharin. The semi-arid grasslands rolled out of the mountain’s shadow and away into a dusky horizon. The plains were endless leagues of land that awed men by their sheer vastness and a subtle intensity, traits not found anywhere else in the land inhabited by the clans. The character of the high steppes was found in the ceaseless winds that shaped the rocks and bent the long grass, in the rough colors that blended in a myriad of shades, in the pungent aroma of the tough shrubs that grew in every gully, and in the bitterness of a winter blizzard or the heat of a summer drought. The steppes were an empty land that did not invite easy acceptance, yet the land suited the clans and their restless herds, and was beloved by them.
Nara galloped east, following the Goldrine River. She sensed something was worrying Gabria, but she kept her thoughts to herself and waited for her rider to speak of it.
When Marakor dwindled behind them and Gabria could no longer feel the eyes of the Khulinin watching her, she relaxed and settled down on Nara’s broad back. The Hunnuli slowed to a walk, and they wandered quietly along the shallows of the broad river. The wind breezed by them, cool from the morning rain and heavy with the smell of wet land. Ducks paddled in the backwater and several antelope watched them curiously from a safe distance.
Gabria breathed a long sigh. “He accused me of sorcery, Nara,” she said at last.
Who?
“The healer. He thinks I used some form of power to strike down Cor in a fight last night. The worst of it is, I do not know if Piers is right.”
Why did the healer think you had used magic?
Gabria shook her head despairingly. “Cor was injured by this power called the Trymian Force. Piers says I was the only one who could have struck the man. He feels I have an inherited ability to use magic . . . but he has no proof.” She was silent for a while, then added, “I did have a dream last night. It was horrible.”
About sorcery?
“Yes. Oh, Nara, I have been told since I was born that magic was something foul and corrupting. But I am not like that. I can’t be,” Gabria flung her arms around the Hunnuli’s neck and held on. The girl wanted to believe in herself, in the inherent good that was a part of her and her beloved family. If she did have a talent for sorcery, she hoped that her beliefs about magic were wrong, for she could never accept that she was evil.
Nara stopped. She swiveled her head so her lustrous black eyes were staring into Gabria’s unhappy face. How do you think the Hunnuli became as they are?
Gabria’s throat tightened. “They were created by the gods. Amara shaped the first mare, and Surgart, in the shape of a Storm, bred her.” She spoke hesitantly, as if uncertain.
That part is true, but our creation goes farther. In the dawn of the world, we and the Harachan horses were as one.
Gabria took a deep breath. She felt as though she was standing on the edge of a crevasse. To her back lay her life, its basic beliefs and morals unchanged. Before her lay new concepts and strange truths, the strangest of which being the idea that magic was not an evil power. All she had to do was jump the crevasse and ask the Hunnuli the rest of the unspoken question. The girl already divined the gist of the answer, but the unknown realms that the knowledge might lead her to frightened her more than anything she had ever faced. It could mean a total disruption of her entire way of thinking and living. It could mean that, for two hundred years, the clans had believed in a lie.
Nara remained still, her gaze compassionate, while she waited for Gabria to speak. Gabria slowly traced her finger along the white lightning mark on Nara’s shoulder and tried to find the courage to even form the words of the question in her mind.
The jagged streak, she thought, was the mark of the gods on an animal they, too, loved. The Harachan did not have the lightning mark, yet Nara said they and the Hunnuli were born from the same source. So why did the Hunnuli have the mark of favor and the Harachan did not?
“What happened?” she whispered so softly even Nara barely heard it.
But the Hunnuli understood the depth of the question. In your legends, you have a tale of Valorian in which he rescues the crown of Amara from the demons of Sorh. In his escape he was helped by a black stallion. The horse was badly wounded by a bolt of fire, and, after Valorian returned the crown to the goddess, he nursed the horse back to health. In gratitude for his help, the goddess decreed the stallion would forever be Valorian’s mount and that his offspring would always bear the white scar to honor him. After that, Valorian taught the horse to communicate and to protect him. He made the stallion invulnerable to magic and to evil. With his sorcery. the hero gave the Hunnuli a new existence.
The chasm had been leaped. Gabria felt her body grow hot and her hands began to shake. “Valorian was a sorcerer?”
There are many things your priests neglect to tell.
“Nara, I think I want to go back to the treld.”
The Hunnuli nickered softly and complied. She trotted easily back to the encampment to give Gabria time to consider the information that was now shaking her belief. It would take days before the girl could fully accept the magic that was a part of her—Nara had known the truth from the first day she had seen Gabria—and many more days before she would understand the reality of her power. But it would happen. Gabria would have to break her bonds of prejudice and accept her talent to wield magic if she hoped to fight Lord Medb and survive.
On the edge of the treld, Gabria slid off and stood for a moment, fighting back the tears that balanced on her lids. She rubbed her fingers over the ebony hair on Nara’s withers. “I have despised sorcery all my life.” She paused and swallowed hard. “You tell me you are a creature of magic, but I can’t hate you. You are my friend.” Gabria clenched her jaw and marched up the hill to the hall. Nara watched her for a moment, then she neighed and returned to the quiet pastures on the outskirts of Khulinin Treld.
7
The rains of early spring fell heavy that year. The water filled the streams and rivers, and drowned the low valleys. The rain fell for days in a fitful downpour, until the tents began to rot and the animals sickened and tempers frayed. The Goldrine washed over its banks and threatened the brood mare herd in the valley, so the horses had to be moved to shelters within the encampment. The work fields became a quagmire, and the paths through the treld turned to treacherous gumbo.
Before long, the hall was the only dry place in Khulinin Treld and the floor was crowded with people seeking relief. Around the fires at night, the clansmen drained the last of the wine and whispered of Medb’s heretical practice of sorcery. Could it be, they wondered, that Medb had grown so powerful he could control the weather? Did he hope to demoralize the clans by endangering their herds, ruining their tents, and spoiling their food? Was he trying to prove the strength of his power?