She hoped that was all it was. Gabria desperately needed the wer-tain to continue her training and further her cause at the council. She also didn’t know if Cor was serious about taking her to the Wylfling emissary, but she would take no chances. She would tell Savaric about Cor’s threat in the morning so the chief could keep the emissary distracted with other matters.
Gabria crumpled her hat in her hand and moved slowly back to Piers’s tent. For the first time in her life, she prayed to Surgart, the warriors’ deity, to guard her and give her strength for the challenges that lay ahead.
Five days later, the Khulinin reached the junction of the two rivers. By this time, the Goldrine had widened into a broad waterway. It wound through a wide, level valley and converged with the Isin, which flowed down from the north. An arrow-shaped island, named the Tir Samod, had formed long ago at the junction of the two rivers. On the island, in a circle of standing stones, was the only sacred shrine dedicated to all four of the immortal deities. It was a holy place, filled with the magic of spirits and the powers of the gods who protected it. Even in the years of heavy rains or snowfall, the shrine had never been flooded. Only priests and priestesses were allowed to set foot within the circle of stones. But on the last night of the gathering, every man, woman, and child came to the island to worship in a ceremony of thanksgiving to all the gods.
Around the island, on the banks of both rivers, gathered the clans. The gathering was the only place and time in the span of the seasons when all the clans were together. In that short time, the business of many thousands of people was dealt with.
The clans as a whole had no leader. Each clan was led by an independent ruler who was accustomed to being a law unto himself. These men did not easily yield to a greater authority, save tradition and the laws of the gods. But the clans liked to maintain their ties and traditions, and so once a year the chieftains met in council. The council had the power to alter laws, punish certain criminals, settle arguments or feuds between clans, establish new holdings, accept new chiefs, and continue the traditions handed down from their fathers.
Clan gatherings were also a time to reestablish old acquaintances, see relatives from other clans, and exchange gossip, stories, and songs that would enliven many cold winter nights to follow. Young people, unable to find mates within their own clans, vied for each other’s attentions. Games and contests were held, horses compared, and races run every day on the flat stretch of the valley.
Merchants from the five kingdoms to the east and the desert tribes to the south arrived early and quickly set up shop to trade with the enthusiastic clanspeople. A huge bazaar sprang up even before the last clan arrived. There, people could barter for anything their hearts desired: rich wines from Pra Desh, fruits, nuts, grain, salt, honey, sweets, figs, jewelry, perfumes, silks from the south, salted fish, pearls, metals of all grades, medicines, livestock, and rare spices. Besides the foreign merchants, each clan fostered its own group of artisans who specialized in particular crafts and always displayed their work at the gathering. The foreign merchants had a ready market for the clan wares and bartered hotly for everything they could get.
When the Khulinin arrived at the Tir Samod late in the afternoon, four clans—the Geldring, the Dangari, the Amnok, and the Jehanan—had already encamped along the rivers. After countless gatherings, the clans had unwritten rights to their preferred areas. These grounds were blessed with the clan’s particular tokens and were considered inviolate. The Khulinin’s place was on the west bank of the Goldrine, not far from the site of the giant council tent.
But this year, as the head of the Khulinin caravan crested the ridge that overlooked the valley, Savaric saw the green banner of the Geldring floating above Lord Branth’s tent in the place where Savaric’s tent should be. Savagely, he reined his horse to a halt and stared down at the offending clan in astonished fury. The hearthguard and several outriders gathered about him, their outrage plain on their faces. The caravan ground to a halt. No one behind Savaric could see over the hill, but word of the Geldring’s insult flew down the line of wagons until the warriors in the rear began to edge toward the hilltop.
Gabria watched Athlone gallop Boreas to Savaric’s side and, even from her distant position, she could see him explode in anger. Watching his Hunnuli prance in agitation, she wondered worriedly what he might do. If Athlone had his way, the Khulinin could sweep down on the Geldring and begin a war before Medb arrived. Savaric might even decide to turn the caravan around and leave the gathering in a fit of honor. Lord Branth’s move was a grave insult, but there were more important problems brewing at the gathering that required the Khulinin’s presence.
Gabria pulled her hat low over her forehead and urged Nara up the slope. A short way behind the warriors, she slipped off the Hunnuli and ran the last few yards into the crowd of milling riders. The chieftain, Athlone, the Wylfling emissary, and the guards were all watching the encampments below, where warriors were suddenly swarming at the sight of the Khulinin. With a cautious look at the emissary, Gabria squeezed among the horses and heard Athlone’s disgusted voice.
“If that conniving snake thinks he can do this . . .”
“Obviously, he already has,” the emissary interrupted, trying to hide his amusement.
Athlone drew his sword and crowded near the Wylfling. “One more word, and I will relieve you of your duties as the Mouth of Medb.”
The emissary shrank away from the sword poised near his throat and glared fearfully at the wer-tain. “My master will hear of this.” Savaric glanced down at the brooch on his cloak. “He probably already has,” he said resignedly.
The emissary froze. His eyes narrowed to slashes, and his face seemed to shrink around his skull as he analyzed the meaning of Savaric’s remark. He was shaken, but he rearranged his demeanor and hoped he had misunderstood the chieftain. “I am sure word has already reached my master of Lord Branth’s petty attempt at insult. However, it appears it is too late to do anything but accept the situation. The council must convene.”
Athlone slammed his sword back into its scabbard. “I will see Branth dead before he gets away with this.”
Savaric shook his head. His initial wrath was cooling and tempering into a more devious anger. “He will not get away with anything. But now we have to move carefully. He is testing us. Somehow, we need to draw his teeth without drawing our swords.”
Gabria smiled to herself. She had misjudged Savaric. She knew that she should stay behind the men and out of sight, but she was curious to see the camps. She wriggled past a guard’s horse and stood by Athlone’s heel, where Boreas’s bulk hid her from the emissary.
Gabria looked down at the two rivers, where the tents of the four clans lay stretched out like dark birds. To the north of the island, in a wide, quiet bend of the Isin, was the ground where her clan would settle. The area was far from the bazaar and the council tent, and rather isolated from the rest of the encampments, but the Corin had always used it, preferring the convenience of water and pasture. Now it was empty, and Gabria knew that the other clans would avoid it like a curse. If the Khulinin took it, they would pay an honor to the dead clan as well as irritate Medb’s faction. She grinned at her idea.
The Khulinin men were deep in consideration of their next move. No one knew she was there. “You could camp on the Corin’s land,” Gabria suggested into the tense quiet.
Athlone turned furiously, taken by surprise. “Get back to the caravan. Now!” The emissary was looking curiously over his shoulder so Athlone nudged Boreas into his way.