As the day approached when she would meet Lord Medb face to face, Gabria was beginning to understand more of the ramifications of her demand for weir-geld. One night she was sitting with Athlone in Piers’s tent, listening to the two men discuss the coming council meeting. The healer and the wer-tain had found a common ground in their shared knowledge of Gabria’s secret and had become tentative friends. It dawned on Gabria, as she considered their words, that her claim to Medb was only a small portion of the charges against him. Although she was the only survivor of her clan and could give evidence of Medb’s complicity in the massacre, the other chieftains would probably not allow her to fight him. They had too many other matters to settle with him besides her desires for revenge. Even the destruction of an entire clan paled in the light of Medb’s revival of the forbidden arts of sorcery. She doubted even Savaric would have an influence over the council’s decisions.
The thought that her struggles would be worthless was almost more than Gabria could bear. She was so close, yet Medb could still slip through her fingers. A specter rose unbidden in her mind of the smoking, charred ruins of Corin Treld, and a small moan escaped her. The men’s voices stopped. She glanced up, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and saw Piers and Athlone looking at her strangely. Without a word, she bolted from the tent. Gabria ran blindly through the tents and wagons, pursued by the black phantoms of her memory.
All at once a figure leaped out of a shadow, grabbed Gabria’s arm, and whirled her around. She caught the smell of old leather and wine when the man began to shake her violently.
“It is the wer-tain’s favorite,” Cor’s voice hissed. “And where are you going in such a rush, my pretty little boy?”
Gabria twisted fiercely in his grasp, but his fingers crushed into her elbows.
“Not so fast, Corin. You and I have things to talk about.” Cor dragged Gabria into the shadow of a tent and pushed his face close to hers. His breath reeked of liquor.
“I have nothing to say to you,” Gabria snapped. Her tears were threatening to spill over. She fought him, frantic to escape.
Cor grinned wickedly. “Now, now. Is that any way to treat a friend? I know someone who might be interested in meeting you.”
The mocking triumph in his voice chilled her and she Stopped struggling. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
“That’s better. You’ll like this man. I heard he was a close friend of your father.”
Gabria stared at him in growing alarm. There was only one man in this camp Cor would be pleased to take her to and that was the one man she desperately wanted to avoid. “No. Let me go, Cor. I’m busy.”
“Busy,” he sneered. “Running errands for your precious wer-tain? This will only take a minute.”
Suddenly, Gabria was furious. With a curse, she wrenched away from Cor and swung her fist into his stomach. Then she bolted into the darkness, leaving him doubled over and swearing in futile pain.
She wove through the camp like a fleeing animal, to the dark fields and the comfort of the Hunnuli. Nara came before she whistled. Together they walked along the banks of the river until long after the moon rose. But even the company of the mare did not ease Gabria’s fear and depression. Voices and memories came to haunt her, and Cor’s rude laugh echoed in her mind. She was still frustrated and angry when she went back to camp, her tears unshed. To her surprise, Athlone was waiting for her.
He fell into step beside her as she walked past his tent. “I do not want you disappearing like that,” he said.
Gabria glanced up at him irritably and was amazed to see his face showed worry. “Surely you were not concerned about me. My loss would hardly be noticed.” Her voice was full of bitterness.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said dryly. “Cor would be so bored without you.”
She came to a stop. “You know about him?”
“He is one of my men.” Athlone leaned back against a tent pole and watched her in the dim moonlight. Somewhere nearby, a woman was playing a lap harp and singing softly. Her music filled the darkness around them like a distant lullaby. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly.
“Cor is my problem.”
“He is a self-serving, weak bully who is harassing and distracting one of my warriors from training. That makes him my problem,” Athlone replied tightly.
Gabria crossed her arms and said, “I am not one of your warriors.”
“While I train you, you are.”
Unexpectedly, Gabria laughed. “Do you realize what a strange remark that is to say to me?”
Athlone was about to say more, but he changed his mind and laughed with her. “I never believed I would be telling a girl this, but you are getting quite good with your sword.”
Gabria laughed again, this time with resentment and anger. “Little good it will do me, Wer-tain. I will not be able to fight Medb. The chieftains will not let me near him. There will be too long a line.”
“Perhaps you’re right. But watch and wait. Your opportunity may come when you least expect it. Just continue your training.”
“May I practice on Cor?” Gabria asked irritably.
Athlone glanced at her, a strange, thoughtful look in his eyes. “Maybe you already have.”
Her fingers clenched at her sides and she took a deep breath. What did he know? She searched his face for any indication of his thoughts, but his features were impassive and his dark eyes glimmered without guile.
Athlone returned her look. He was intrigued by the play of shadows on her face. Fascinated, he reached out and pulled off her leather hat. The shadows vanished, and her visage was bathed in moonlight. He wished he had not done that, for the moon stole the colors from her face and transformed her into a pale ghost. There was nothing to show the deep feelings and desires that moved beneath the surface of that pallid flesh. Her skin looked so cold in the silver gleam; he wanted to touch her cheek to see if it was soft. His hand twitched, but he held it out of sight.
This girl was unreal to him. She had more determination and courage than many of his warriors and a way of meeting one’s eyes that was disconcerting. She did not meekly submit to the laws governing women, nor did she bow to the devastating events that changed her life. Although Athlone did not admit it aloud, he was glad she was not submissive. Her stubbornness and strength of character made her unique.
Briefly, Athlone tried to imagine her as his lover. He did not remember very much of their fight at the pool, yet he did recall her body was too shapely to be called boyish. Nevertheless, he could not reconcile the image of a warm, passionate woman with this stiff-backed, sword-wielding, fierce-eyed girl. He decided that she would probably never make any man a good wife—if she lived long enough for any man to offer.
Unexpectedly, the thought of Gabria dead made Athlone queasy. He had grown to like her, despite her strange behavior, and he was horrified when he fully recognized what the consequences of her actions would probably be. Even if the council refused her challenge to Medb, the Wylfling lord would mark her for death. If she fought him, the end would be the same, for Gabria had no chance to kill Medb in a fair duel.
Bitterly, Athlone tossed her hat to the ground. If the girl chose to revenge the murder of her clan, then so be it; he honored that choice. But that did not mean he had to like the price of her decision. He brushed past her without another word and went back to his tent. .
Gabria stared at her crumpled hat in dismay. Something had upset Athlone. She thought back over their conversation to see if she had said something to anger him. She picked up the cap. It could have been her remark about practicing on Cor. Maybe Piers had told Athlone of Cor’s injury and the healing powers of the red stone. Maybe Athlone, too, thought she was a sorceress and was trying to dissuade himself. Or perhaps he just did not appreciate her remark.