“I am sorry,” Athlone finally apologized. “I just cannot imagine any man taming you. You are much like your Hunnuli.”
Gabria was relieved by his compliment, however undeserved, and her hope grew. Perhaps Athlone would keep her secret. His rage from their earlier confrontation seemed to be cooled, and, if he could laugh at her and apologize, he was not planning to have her head removed immediately.
“Why did you come to us?” the wer-tain asked, returning to seriousness.
“For the reasons I told your father,” Gabria answered.
“To claim weir-geld against Lord Medb?” He shook his head. “You don’t have a chance. The man is a chieftain and a reputed sorcerer.” Suddenly Athlone stumbled over his words and stared at Gabria as if something had jogged his memory.
The girl slammed her cup down and said too quickly, “Yes, I want weir-geld. I am the only Corin left to claim it, and man or woman, I am entitled to revenge. That chieftain,” she spat the word contemptuously, “is responsible for the murder of an entire clan!”
“And for your revenge, you want Medb’s death?” Athlone asked slowly. He was taken aback by this girl’s vehemence and was uncertain how to deal with her incredible behavior. And yet, she fascinated him like nothing he had ever known.
“Of course.”
“Even if you break clan law to obtain your revenge.”
Gabria’s face hardened. “I will do what I must to see Lord Medb dead.”
“He will destroy you.”
She nodded. “Maybe. But I have to try. And, Wer-tain, I will use any means or any person to attain my vengeance. Even you.”
For a long moment Athlone was silent, and, as he stared into the flame of the lamp, his eyes seemed to soften and his body sagged back on the pallet. The last of his indignation and hesitation vanished. “Warning accepted,” he said at last. “Despite my earlier temper, I have not told Savaric yet that a woman is a warrior in his werod. You intrigue me. Your will and persistence go a long way to balancing your deceits.”
“Will you tell him?” Gabria asked.
“You didn’t leave me in the mountains to die. I owe you that at least. I won’t tell him, but know also I will do nothing to save you if he discovers your secret from someone else.”
Gabria nodded. That was fair. She was beginning to understand why Nara and Boreas trusted Athlone. He was a man of honor and, as long as one stayed within his boundaries, he would do everything to keep his word. She only hoped he had forgotten any suspicions of sorcery he might have. Gabria had seen the glint of speculation in his eyes when he mentioned sorcerers. The gods only knew what fantastic ideas he might have about her connection with it.
“If I’m not to be executed,” she said, “what now?”
“You are still in training. If you insist on fighting Medb, you’ll have to know more than the simple tactics of the practice field. Your dagger attack was atrocious.”
Gabria nodded and replaced her hat. She stood up and saluted him with boundless relief. “Thank you, Wer-tain,” she said gratefully.
He smiled wearily. “I hate Medb almost as much as you do. Perhaps between the two of us we can at least discomfort him.” Gabria had turned to go when he added, “You have been courting disaster sleeping in the hall. Move to either my tent or Piers’s.”
Gabria was jolted by the mention of the healer. “Piers. He knows I stabbed you.”
Athlone lay back and laughed softly. “He knows more than that. He has kept your secret for some time.”
“What?” she gasped. “How could he have known?”
“A healer learns many things. You should ask him why he did not expose you.”
She walked dazedly to the tent door. “Good night, Wer-tain. Nara was right.”
As the flap closed behind her, Athlone sighed and murmured, “So was Boreas.”
Piers was drying herbs when Gabria stalked into his tent and dropped her belongings on the floor. She stood in the middle of the pile and crossed her arms as if daring him to challenge her presence there. The felt tent was steeped with earthy smells of mint, hazel, and wild rose. Piles of freshly cut plants lay on the wooden table.
At the sound of the weapons and bundles hitting the carpeted floor, Piers glanced over his shoulder. “Good evening, Gabran. There is a pallet for you over there.” He pointed to the sleeping area and turned back to his work.
Gabria saw another cream curtain already dividing the sleeping room in half and a wool-stuffed mat and several furs and blankets waiting for her. After the heated words of the afternoon, Gabria was not certain Piers would want her as a guest; but he had obviously already thought of it. Nevertheless, the girl did not want him to feel pressured into being a reluctant host. She wanted the arrangement to be acceptable to him as well.
“You were expecting me?” Gabria asked, surprised.
Piers hung another bundle of herbs on his drying rack. “It is safer for you to move out of the hall; I am the older of two bad choices.” Gabria still had not moved, and the healer smiled briefly when he turned and saw her standing in her heap of clothes and weapons. “You are most welcome to stay,” he added gently. “I had a long talk with the wer-tain this afternoon. We thought you would choose my tent.” He paused, then added, “In case you were wondering, Athlone does not remember much about the stabbing except that you did it.”
Gabria was relieved to hear that news. She studied the healer for a moment and thought about their earlier argument on magic. She was relieved that she could move out of the hall, but living with Athlone was out of the question. Staying with the healer who called her a sorceress was almost as objectionable. On the other hand, Piers had not betrayed her. Gabria’s curiosity prompted her to give him a chance.
“How long have you known about my disguise?” she asked.
Piers chuckled and came over to help pick up her belongings. “From the day I bound your ankle.”
“Then why didn’t you tell Savaric?”
His brief humor faded and was replaced by an abiding sorrow. “I will just say you reminded me of someone.”
“That is quite an excuse for risking your life for a stranger.” Piers picked up the girl’s blanket and cloak. “It was enough.” He helped her pack her clothes in a small leather chest ornamented with brass. She hung her weapons on the tent supports.
As they worked silently, Gabria wondered if this someone the healer mentioned was responsible for him leaving Pra Desh. A sadness was still in his face, and his mind seemed to be years away.
“Did this person resemble me or just pretend to be a boy?” Gabria asked the question lightly to draw him back to the present.
Piers did not answer at first. He stored his fresh herbs in a damp cloth, then poured a cup of wine and sat staring into its depths for a long while. Gabria had decided he was not going to answer when he said, “I drink too much of this. Before she died, I never touched wine.”
“She?” Gabria prompted. There was a bitterness and grief in Piers that echoed her own. This shared pain, whatever had caused it, began to dispel her anger toward him.
He continued as if he had not heard her. “You resemble her in a vague way: fair hair, young. But you are stronger. She was pretty and delicate like silk. When she married the Fon’s youngest son, I did nothing to stop her.”
“Who was she? What happened to her?”
Piers stood up. His reverie was reaching into places he wanted to forget. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said curtly. “She is dead. But I want to keep you alive, so get some rest.” He went to his own pallet and drew the curtain.
Gabria sighed and sat down. She had not meant to push him so hard. Whoever this girl was, she must have been very close to Piers to kindle such a response. The mysterious girl’s influence was still quite strong if she were the only reason for Piers not telling Savaric of Gabria’s disguise. Maybe later the healer would reveal the rest of his tale. Until then, she would accept Piers’s hospitality, whatever his motives were.