“Oh, Piers,” she breathed.
“Athlone has been struck with the Trymian Force,” Piers said with controlled calm. “And this time you were the only one with him.”
“You still cannot prove that. How do you know I did not find him like this?” Gabria demanded. She was grasping at straws and they both knew it.
“You said you were with him.”
“Not the entire time.”
“You were not there?” Piers picked up the red stone from Athlone’s forehead and put it back in its wrappings.
Gabria shifted nervously. “I brought him home.”
The healer returned the stone to its tray and slammed the chest door shut, then turned back to Gabria. “Granted. But should I tell Savaric the injury in his son’s shoulder is a knife wound?”
Gabria stared at the healer in alarm. She had forgotten that Piers would recognize the cause of the wer-tain’s injury. If the healer told Savaric the truth, no one would believe it was only self-defense. Savaric would kill her. Of course, if Athlone’s rage recovered with him, her fate would be the same.
“Tell me the truth, Gabran,” Piers prompted. “I think you did this, however unintentionally.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” she mumbled.
“And the Trymian Force?”
Suddenly, Athlone’s last words began to pound in Gabria’s head. “Sorceress, what have you done to me?” He had felt it! Somehow he had realized that she had struck him with something more than a dagger. Her fear and confusion closed in as the truth came crashing down around her.
“But I don’t know how to cast a spell,” she cried.
“You have to face the truth, Gabran,” Piers demanded. “You have the power and Athlone nearly died of it. The next time, you might kill someone.”
“You are wrong. I am not a sorceress!” She flung the last word at him and fled from the tent. She ran furiously through the treld, dodging dogs and children, but the word followed her like a curse. Sorceress. A creature despised. It could not be true. She had never felt this arcane power and, the gods knew, she did not want it. Piers has to be wrong, Gabria concluded desperately. He’s only a foreigner and knows nothing about me.
Gabria nearly slammed into an old woman carrying an armload of newly dyed wool before she regained her composure. With a quick apology, she helped the woman with the heavy wool, then she walked tiredly to the hall. Sorceress or not, it would hardly matter if Piers or Athlone revealed the truth. Her punishment for anyone of her crimes would be irrevocable.
The cool gloom of the hall was comforting, and, luckily, the long room was empty. Gabria poured a cup of wine and sat in a corner by the main door to wait. There was nowhere else to go.
8
The wind died down at twilight, and the dust settled in the fields. One after another the cooking fires were lit, and the weary women prepared the evening meal. The men gratefully set aside their work and came home, until all but the outriders were comfortably settled by their hearths. In the hall, Lady Tungoli and her women lit the lamps and torches, then served the bachelors from a pot of simmering stew.
Through the noise and activity of hungry, raucous men, Gabria sat in” her corner in stony silence. She ignored their questions and offers of food, and stared at the entrance, waiting for one man to walk through and accuse her. But Savaric never came. His place at the table remained empty. After a while, the others forgot her and she was left alone in her self-imposed solitude. The fire was allowed to burn low in the central hearth since the weather was warm. Most of the warriors wandered outside to take advantage of the pleasant evening. Gabria still sat in tense expectation, wondering how Savaric would feel to learn the truth about Dathlar’s “son.”
Moonlight was flooding through the open doors when a young warrior slipped into the hall. Many of the men had returned for the night, and he squinted at the sleeping forms as if looking for someone. Finally he moved next to Gabria.
“Gabran,” he whispered loudly.
Gabria stood up stiffly. So, Savaric had sent a messenger. The girl was surprised he had not come himself or sent the hearthguard, but perhaps he felt she did not deserve the honor.
The warrior waved her over. “Come on, hurry up. The wer-tain wants to see you.”
She paused in surprise. Athlone. Not Savaric? “The wer-tain?” she repeated.
“Yes, now. He woke up a while ago and moved back to his own tent,” the warrior said impatiently.
He led Gabria down the paths to Athlone’s tent and left her’ by the entrance. Her knees felt weak and, for a moment, she had to stop. The night air was cool and refreshing, and the sounds of the camp were pleasantly familiar. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the similarity to Corin Treld, even to the smell of wood smoke and the barking of a dog. The thought gave her comfort, just as the memories of her clan gave her strength. Gabria leaned on that strength now as she pushed the tent flat aside. She wondered why Athlone had requested her presence, but she realized that he probably just wanted her there when he revealed her lies to his father.
Resolutely, she stepped inside. The only light in the large tent was from a lamp burning on the center tent pole. On the edge of its glow, she could see Athlone lying on a low bed. The sleeping curtain was pulled back and he was watching her in the flickering shadows. To her astonishment, they were alone and his sword was propped against a chest, too far away to be easily reached. She stayed by the tent flap, keeping the light between them, and stared at him through the flame. They stayed silent and eyed each other like two wolves on a narrow path.
Athlone gingerly sat up. He waved to a stool, then poured two cups of wine. “Sit down,” he ordered. He tasted his wine and set the other cup on the floor for her.
Her heart in her throat, Gabria obeyed. She took a quick swallow of wine to ease the dryness in her mouth and let the liquid warm her stomach before she spoke. “You have not told Savaric.”
He grunted. He was still very weak and any movement was an effort. “Not yet. I have some questions I want answered.”
“Why haven’t you?”
With an ironic grimace, he pointed to the cut on his throat. “First you tried to kill me, then you changed your mind and brought me back. Why?”
“Nara said I should trust you,” Gabria replied.
“She puts much faith in me.”
“Too much.”
Athlone cocked an eyebrow much like his father. “Yet you did not kill me, even though I could sentence you to death.”
Gabria looked away and her fingers tightened around the cup. “It was a chance I had to take. I need your help.”
“Blunt. After nearly killing me, you ask for my aid.” He took a drink and considered her. “Remove your hat.”
Surprised, Gabria pulled off the leather hat and shook her head. Her hair had grown out a little since she cut it at Corin Treld, and it curled in uneven waves around her neck.
“Who are you?” Athlone muttered as if debating the answer himself. His eyes were no longer suspicious, only puzzled, and he leaned toward her, ignoring the pain in his wounded shoulder.
“Gabran’s twin sister,” she said, her voice hesitant. “I am Gabria.”
He snorted. “Gabria? Doesn’t your name mean buttercup? What an ill-matched name for a lioness. At least you are a child of Dathlar, that is obvious. You have his stubbornness.” He paused. “How did you escape?”
Gabria bit her lip. It still shamed her to remember that disgraceful argument with her father, but she was not going to lie about it now. “I had a disagreement with Father and I ran away to be alone.”
Athlone refilled his cup. “What about?”
“Marriage,” she said angrily. She took another gulp of wine to hide the flush that burned on her cheek.
The wer-tain laughed outright and nearly spilled his wine. It was the first time Gabria had seen Athlone laugh, and she was amazed by the pleasant change. The hard lines of his face relaxed and his eyes warmed to a rich, dark amber.