Выбрать главу

At last only Tungoli remained, along with the final stores.

The busy crowd had moved on to other jobs, leaving Gabria and Tungoli in the storeroom in a backwash of peace. There was still one jar left to empty when Tungoli was called to another task; she left Gabria to finish the last bags. By that time, the girl was pleased to be alone in the cool, quiet storeroom. The tapestry over the doorway was pulled back to admit the afternoon light, and she could hear other people passing back and forth in the main hall. Gabria worked unhurriedly and became lost in her own thoughts. She didn’t notice when everyone left the hall and two men entered. .

Gabria was scooping the last grains into the leather bag when she heard a horribly familiar voice. Her body froze. The jar, balanced on her hip, slipped from her fingers and dropped to the floor. Its fall was muffled by the flied bag and Gabria managed to grab the jar’s edge before it struck the ground. She shakily sat the jar upright and leaned against the wall, trying to regain her breath. Like her heart, her lungs seemed to have stopped at the sound of that voice: the voice with the slight lisp that came from the throat of Medb’s most trusted emissary.

The last time she had heard that hateful voice had been in her father’s tent when the Wylfling delivered Medb’s ultimatum. Now he was here, soliciting Lord Savaric’s aid. She realized that the chieftain and the envoy did not know she was in the storeroom. Gabria thanked all the gods that she had been out of sight when the Wylfling arrived, for he had seen her several times at Corin Treld and could have recognized her.

Gabria slipped quietly to the door and flattened against the wall in the shadows, where she could see the two men. Savaric was seated on his chair, watching the short, brown-cloaked man who was standing before him. The Wylfling had his back to Gabria, but she knew the figure immediately, and in her mind she saw his face. The emissary’s face was not easy to forget: it was hollow like a wind-eroded rock, and its clean-shaven skin was as immobile and as pallid as limestone. The envoy reminded her of a statue.

She wondered what message he had for Savaric. It was difficult to read the chief’s reactions. Surely the emissary was not offering Savaric the same bribes and threats that Medb had offered her father. That would be a mistake with a clan this big. Perhaps the Wylfling had been here before.

“The Khulinin is a powerful clan,” the man was saying.  “And a large one. It is well known your tents lap the edges of the valley and your herds overgraze the meadows before you leave each summer. Soon your young men will be pressing for tents of their own and there will be nowhere to go. You need more land, perhaps new valleys, to begin holdings for another encampment before the Khulinin burst apart.”

“I was not aware the Wylfling were paying so much attention to our problems. I am honored. I suppose you have a solution?” Savaric asked with barely concealed sarcasm.

“Oh, not I, Lord,” the emissary purred. “But Lord Medb. He feels the lands to the south of Marakor should be relinquished to you and your heirs for a second, even a third holding. He would be willing to endorse your petition to the council for the formation of another holding.”

“That is most generous of him, but I doubt the tribes of Turic would appreciate my claims to their holy land.”

The emissary waved aside the notion. “You would have nothing to fear from that rabble. They will come to heel when they see the combined swords of Wylfling and Khulinin.”

“Combined?” Savaric asked, his eyes glittering.

“Of course. After all, our clan holdings border the Turic’s land as well. They would be trapped between two enemies. My Lord Medb is so pleased with the idea he is willing to aid you in, your claim on the southern hills.”

“In return for what?”

The man shrugged eloquently. “A small tribute—once a year, perhaps—to help feed our growing werod. We, too, are pushing the limits of our winter holdings.”

“I see.” Savaric raised an eyebrow and asked thoughtfully, “Why does Medb concern himself with the welfare of other clans? If he wants use of the Turic lands, he could take them himself.”

“It is no secret that Lord Medb’s ambitions exceed the position of chieftain. He needs strong, loyal allies, and he is willing to pay well for them. His generosity can be endless.”

“With lands and favors that are not his to give,” Savaric said with deceptive mildness.

The emissary’s manner shifted subtly from ingratiating to a self-confident superiority, the arrogance of a man assured of his future position. “The lands will be his soon. Lord Medb’s hand is growing stronger and if you do not accept his proffered friendship. . ,”

“We will end our days in smoking ruins like the Corin,” Savaric finished for him.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Possibly.”

“May I have time to consider this generous offer?”

Gabria smiled to herself and regretted her father had not taken the same tact. Perhaps if Dathlar had controlled his temper and not thrown the emissary out, they would have had time to escape Medb’s wrath.

The emissary was taken aback. He had not expected any cooperation from the obstinate Khulinin; he assumed even the vain hope of gaining the rich grasslands to the south would not sway them to Medb’s rank. Perhaps the Corin massacre had affected the clans more than the Wylfling imagined.

The emissary hid his surprise and smiled coolly. “Of course. You may tell Lord Medb in person at the gathering,” The man hoped that would discomfit the chieftain, since it was very difficult to say no to Medb’s face.

Savaric only leaned back and nodded. “Fine. I will do that. Was there anything else?”

“Yes, Lord. My master asked that I give you this as a small token of his esteem,” The emissary drew a small bag out of his belt and dropped something onto his palm. Gabria craned her neck around the door to see what it was as the man handed the object to Savaric. The chief held the thing up to the light, and Gabria gasped when a flash lanced through the hall with brilliant beams of color. It was a gem called a fallen star, a rare and very precious stone once loved by the sorcerers.

“The stone is a flawless blue taken from one of Lord Medb’s mines in the hills. He wants you to have it as a reminder,” the man said blandly.

Savaric’s brows rose together. “Indeed. This is quite a reminder,” He sat back in his seat and nodded toward the door. “Tell your master I will think about his offer.”

The emissary accepted Savaric’s abrupt dismissal with ill-concealed irritation. He bowed and left. The chieftain sat for a moment, juggling the gem in his hand as he stared at the floor.

Gabria wondered what Savaric was thinking. She knew the chief well enough to know that he was not seriously considering Medb’s offer, but she did not understand why he had accepted the stone. Medb’s gifts were always double-edged.

The girl was about to return to her work when Lady Tungoli called to Savaric from their private chambers. The chief tucked the jewel under his cloak, which was lying on the dais, and went to talk to his wife, drawing the tapestry closed behind him. The hall was empty. Gabria knew she should not pry into the chieftain’s business, but her curiosity got the better of her.

She waited a full minute, listening for voices or footsteps, then she slipped to the dais and pulled aside the gold fabric. The gem was set in a cloak brooch of finely woven gold, and it glittered on the dark fur of the seat like its namesake, the star. It was an unusual gift to give a chief such as Savaric. The offer of land was a fat better bribe to the lord of the Khulinin. Why had Medb sent it? He had offered no gifts like this to her father, and Gabria could not believe that Medb was giving a fallen star to Savaric out of the generosity of his heart.