The clans greeted the Wylfling with none of their usual enthusiasm. They watched warily as each cart rolled by, and they silently counted each warrior. In a short year’s time, Medb’s clan had ceased to be a part of the whole. It was now a threatening force that loomed over them all and foreboded changes that few welcomed.
Savaric and Athlone stood at the edge of the encampment and nodded civilly when Medb rode by.
“Medb has had a most prosperous year,” Koshyn said, coming up beside them.
Savaric nodded, his face bleak. “The Wylfling women have been most prolific. His werod has increased by several hundreds in a mere winter.”
“The sun must be hotter in the south this summer, too. Did you observe a few of his outriders?” Athlone remarked.
“Even dust and distance cannot hide dark skins,” Koshyn said.
Athlone shaded his eyes against the sinking sun and watched the riders maneuver the Wylfling herds to pastures across the Goldrine. “Turic mercenaries. I’ve seen one of them before.”
Savaric followed his son’s gaze and studied the distant horsemen. “Interesting.”
“Care to increase the wager?” Koshyn suggested.
“Seven mares,” Savaric replied.
Koshyn grinned. “Savaric, I believe you are hiding something.”
The Khulinin chief tried to look astonished. “What have I got to hide?” he asked.
“How about a rider for that Hunnuli mare?”
“Oh, him,” Savaric said casually, scratching his head. “He’s ill.”
Koshyn did not believe him for a moment. “How sad. May he recover soon.”
“He will.”
“I’m sure. Well, whoever he is, this unknown man cannot be the rumored Corin survivor. None of them had a Hunnuli. If there was a survivor, he was probably lost in that spring blizzard.”
“Probably,” Athlone said blandly. He was finding it difficult to keep his expression innocent.
Koshyn shot him a quick look, then shrugged. “Seven mares it is. I’ll be Interested to see who wins. Medb is going to move fast, so if you’re going to pull the rug out from under him, you had better start soon.” He walked off.
“Seven mares?” Athlone asked.
Savaric clapped the wer-tain on the shoulder. “The Dangari have the swiftest horses in the clans. Our stock needs new blood.”
“What if you lose?”
The chief smiled, a slow lift of his mouth that belied the sadness in his eyes. “If I lose, I doubt I will live long enough to regret my debt.”
Athlone chose not to comment on that. Instead he said, “I had heard recently that Medb was injured by a Hunnuli. Did you notice he was tied to his saddle?”
“Hmmm. Medb’s injuries must have been crippling,” Savaric noted. “That puts a different slant on things.”
“I was glad to see it.”
The chief knew what his son meant. “Yes. Gabran’s duel becomes impossible now.”
They walked back toward their own camp, keeping their I heads close and their voices low.
“Why hasn’t Medb tried to heal himself?” Athlone asked. “I thought sorcery could change anything.”
“I doubt he has reached his full strength yet, so he may not I want to reveal his power.” Savaric slapped his scabbard. “And that, my boy, is our hope. Most of the clansmen do not know for certain that Medb has resurrected sorcery. This is his one chance to gain control of the council, so we must stop him while we can.”
“But even with the mercenaries and the Geldring he does not have enough men to overpower the rest of us.”
Savaric jabbed a finger in the air. “He does as long as we stay separated.
“You mean unite the clans?” Athlone was skeptical. “Has it ever been done?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“How are you going to pull them together? It would take nothing short of a cataclysm to make these chiefs unite against Medb.
“How about the truth?” Savaric said mildly. “An irrefutable revelation of Medb’s sorcery? In front of all the chiefs.”
Athlone stopped dead. He immediately understood what his father was suggesting. “No! You cannot do it.”
“It is the only way the chiefs will recognize their danger.” Savaric stopped, too.
“They will recognize it well enough! They’ll see you goad Medb’s power and die in a blast of arcane fire, then they will run screaming back to their holdings, where Medb will be able to take them at his leisure.” Athlone started walking again, his hands working in agitation. “Father, be reasonable. If you try to force Medb to reveal his sorcery, he’ll kill you. You are the only one who could possibly hold these clans together against him.”
Savaric caught up with his son and took Athlone’s arm. The chief’s eyes burned. “I have to try this. You said ‘nothing short of a cataclysm.’”
Athlone stared at the chieftain for a long moment. He knew the determination that showed on Savaric’s face would not be shaken. They had no real proof that Medb was a sorcerer, nothing tangible to show the council. Now Savaric wanted to provide the council with proof at the risk of his own life. Athlone doubted it would serve to unite the clans. They had been independent too long to see the sense of standing together, even in the face of the resurrection of sorcery. But maybe one or two would join the Khulinin to fight Medb.
“Will you at least talk to the others first?” Athlone asked, although he knew that talking would probably be useless.
Savaric’s eyes softened. “Of course. I do not relish incurring Medb’s wrath.”
“We’ll do that anyway,” Athlone said, “when he finds out I have no intention of bringing the Khulinin to his heel.”
Savaric suddenly laughed. “Then we have nothing to lose.”
With the eleven clans together at last, the priests crossed to the island that evening and, from a secret cavern, brought out the gigantic council tent. In a large space on the bank of the Goldrine, under a few trees that grew by the water the tent was raised with the help of men from every clan. Ten supporting poles on each side stretched the tan material over enough space to accommodate fifty men. Rich carpets were spread over the ground, and a fire pit was unearthed. Sections of the wall were rolled up to allow the breeze off the rivers to cool the interior. Cushions and stools were brought for the men’s comfort.
Early the next morning, the banners of the eleven clans were hung outside the council tent. Dark gold, blue, green, brown, gray, black, purple, yellow, orange, dark blue, and maroon—they unfurled in the wind like flames. Only the scarlet of Clan Corin was missing. Everyone tried to disregard the banners around the tent, but the scene was strange and foreboding council without the familiar splash of red. Time and again, men caught their glance wandering to the poles of the huge tent.
At noon the horns were blown, calling the chieftains council. Forty-four men—eleven chieftains with their sons wer-tains, elders, and priests—gathered within the cool breezy tent. Women passed around flagons of wine and ale, and set bowls of fruit within reach, then they silently withdrew, for no woman was permitted to attend the council. Malech, chief of the Shadedron, called the men to order and the high priest blessed the gathering. The council began.
The first day the men only discussed minor problems. Savaric asked for information about Pazric’s disappearance but received no news. Lord Branth was welcomed into the council and the damage caused by the spring rains was discussed. Every man avoided looking at Medb, who sat ominously quiet with seven of his men. Few outside the Wylfling clan had known the extent of Medb’s crippling injuries and no man dared comment. Crippled or no, it was obvious that Medb still had control of his clan and his power.
Nor did anyone mention the issues that were uppermost on every man’s mind: the Corin massacre, Medb’s unlawful bribes to the chiefs, the banding of the exiles, and the rumors of Medb s heretical practice of sorcery. The men were not ready yet to broach those explosive subjects. Instead, they talked everyday events and watched each other, waiting for someone else to make the first move.