The whispers spread as far as the distant clans, whose chieftains were little concerned with Medb’s plans for dominance. Medb’s name was in every mind, and the influence of his deeds, real or rumored, spread like a thickening mist. The tale of the massacre at Corin Treld was passed from clan to clan.
The first horror and outrage sparked by the news was eventually dampened with excuses. People listened, but no one wanted to accept the fact that the Corin had been slaughtered. Clan fighting was a normal pastime for entertainment, revenge, or profit. But for a clansman to deliberately annihilate an entire clan was inconceivable.
Yet the massacre was a reality, and the chieftains knew in their hearts that something like it could happen again. Unfortunately, no one was certain why the Corin had been murdered in the first place. It was common knowledge that Dathlar loathed Medb. Perhaps the Corin chieftain had angered the Wylfling lord once too often and had received the full force of Medb’s wrath. Several chiefs thought that, if this were true, it would be wise to avoid Medb’s displeasure. Secretly, they began to accept the Wylfling emissaries and to listen to the promises of wealth and power that could be theirs in exchange for alliance.
Lord Branth of the Geldring waited only until the period of mourning for Lord Justar was over before he married the dead chief’s widow and swore allegiance to Lord Medb. Meanwhile, scores of exiles—banded together, well armed, and mounted—began to ride the steppes like marauders. No violence occurred, but often livestock was found slain or horses were missing after the band swept through a clan’s territory.
The clansmen were left furious and alarmed by the depredation, but the band was so large and moved so swiftly, there was little the individual clans could do against them. Only the council of lords who met at the clan gathering each summer would be able to instigate any united action against the exiles. Unfortunately, the council did not meet for another three months.
In his huge hall near the southern fringes of the steppes, Medb gathered the news from spies and messengers and watched with growing pleasure as the fruits of his plans began to fall into his lap. At night, he retired to a hidden chamber and pored over the fragile pages of an ancient tome he had bought from a beggar in Pra Desh. He was still shaken that the fabled Book of Matrah had fallen into his hands. Matrah, the greatest of the clan sorcerers, had died in the destruction of Moy Tura, but despite years of searching, no one had ever found his manuscript. His book held references to three hundred years of arcane study, and many men had coveted its priceless contents. Now, after all this time, the manuscript had been discovered by a ragged man poking through the ruins of the sorcerer’s city, and delivered to Medb as if by divine providence. The book could have so easily been destroyed or given to another man. Instead, it had come to Medb. Now, he had the means to overcome his crippling injuries—caused by an enraged Hunnuli—and the power to fulfill his dreams. No man or army could stand against him while the forces of magic lay within his grasp. An empire would be his.
To Medb’s great amusement, the heavy rains were not of his making, but they fell like another link in the chain of events that was leading irrevocably to his victory. The destruction and unrest caused by the weather further undermined the confidence of the clans, and the constant storms kept them separated while Medb strengthened his hand. Before long, he would be ready to launch the next pan of his plan.
In late spring, the rains finally ended. The Khulinin gratefully set to work repairing the rotted tents, clearing the flood debris, gathering the first fresh food of the season, and caring for the livestock. Many of the shaggy, long-legged goats had sickened in the wet, and too many of the newborn kids died. Days passed before the last goat recovered and the losses were counted. The brood mares fared a little better and, as their valley dried out, they were released to graze on the verdant grass that sprang from the mud like a carpet.
Cor recovered and returned to duty, although it was clear to everyone that Gabria’s blow had destroyed more than his chances for fatherhood. He was surly and withdrawn and nursed a hatred that ate at his soul. When the hills finally dried enough to resume the hunt for the lion, he went out alone and after five days returned with the lion’s body slung across his saddle. He ignored the cheers and congratulations and Savaric’s gifts of thanks, and dumped the dead cat at Gabria’s feet.
“Your servant,” he snarled at her and stalked away.
Gabria did not need to look in his eyes to know this was not the last word she would hear from him. She was only relieved that Cor had moved his belongings out of the hall to his father’s tent and, for the time, was leaving her alone.
Life slowly returned to normal. The goats were sheared and new felt mats were made for new tents. The women spun and wove. The men and horses returned to training. There was too much for every person to do to worry about phantoms. Medb dwindled to a distant irritation and the thought of war was pushed aside by the demands of life.
The only blight in the pleasure of spring was Pazric’s disappearance. The second wer-tain had not returned from the desert, and Savaric worried about his absence. It was not like Pazric to not send a message or be gone so long. Still, the clan had other things to worry about. The Foaling time was coming and all had to be prepared. Excitement grew with the length of . the days. Many people silently prayed to the gods that the Corin’s bad fortune would not affect the coming event.
Then, one night, Nara sensed the stirring among the mares. Gabria woke the clan, and by morning the first foal was born.
Wet and clumsy, he struggled to his feet while the Khulinin watched in silent awe and thanksgiving. By all the signs, the Foaling would be good: the firstborn was a bay colt as strong as a lion. .
As if to make up for the disastrous rains, the following days were gorgeously warm and dry. The brood mares responded eagerly and a night did not pass without the birth of a foal or two. In the burgeoning meadows, the babies capered by their dams’ sides, little knowing they were the continuation of the clan’s existence.
Gabria took little joy in the time of Foaling. Her heart was wrapped in her own thoughts and desires as she grappled with her changing belief in magic. The growth of the Khulinin herd meant little to her, except for the lessening animosity toward her. She was glad for Savaric’s sake, because she had become fond of him, but the affairs of the clan seemed distant and unimportant to her at the time.
Athlone, still suspicious of the Corin, sensed her detachment and kept a close watch on her. Their training times grew longer and more strenuous as Athlone sought to break her guard. Gabria disliked him intensely, and it frustrated her endlessly that she could do nothing to avoid him.
In spite of Athlone’s temper, Gabria had to admit that he taught her well. The wer-tain was quick to find fault, but he was highly skilled and fair in his judgment. The girl understood why he earned the unhesitating loyalty of the werod. Athlone was fiercely proud, courageous, and dedicated, and he received in full measure what he gave.
By the time early summer came, Gabria felt a grudging respect for the wer-tain. Because of his meticulous training, her muscles were tough, her balance and coordination were improved, and she could wield her sword like an extension of her arm. He gave her no mercy—and she knew Medb would have none—nor friendship. Rarely, Athlone would give her brief encouragement, urging her on to greater efforts. Gabria knew that she would never have attained such proficiency as a warrior without his help. If only he would forget his suspicions.
Gabria had little time for relaxation during the Foaling and even less as the Birthright approached. The Birthright was the celebration of thanks to the forces in the spiritual world that bestowed fertility on the clans and their herds. The-predominating spirit of life was Amara, the mother goddess. It was for her that the Birthright was celebrated. She was the giver of life, the power that preserved it, and the guardian of the clans’ continuance.