All at once the dream vanished and Gabria came awake. She lay on her pallet, staring at the darkness and wondering if the dream had been a true vision or merely her own wishful imagination. Then again, the source of the dream did not really matter. The image of the burial mound gave her peace and remained with her through the darkest hours of the night, helping to ease her terrible tension.
By the time the light of dawn leaked through the tent, Gabria was composed. The shadowy phantoms were gone; her nervousness had passed. The tension had drained from her mind and body. There was nothing left but a single, clear flame of resolution. Only the memory of the burial mound remained to remind her of her duty.
Gabria straightened her clothes and drew on her boots. Her weapons, now a part of her, were gently laid aside for the time they would be needed. The sword was already honed to a killing edge and her father’s dagger glistened from constant rubbing. She folded her gold cloak and surprised herself by running a regretful finger over the light linen. She had grown comfortable with the Khulinin. It would be hard if, for some reason, she had to leave them, too.
Turning her back on the gold cloak, Gabria drew her scarlet cloak out of a leather chest and shook out the folds. The red wool cascaded to the ground. Such a true color, she mused, clear and pure like a gemstone; not muddied like blood. She swung the cloak over her shoulders and pinned it in place with the brooch her mother had given her. She smiled to herself. Medb was in for a surprise.
Piers watched her worriedly as she finished dressing. He wanted to say something to ease his own tension, but he could, find no words. The healer recognized the look of intensity that altered Gabria’s face. Her eyes glowed with an untarnished light, and the dark circles that ringed her eyes made them look enormous. Her skin was flushed, and her movements were brief, as if she were preserving all her strength. Piers wanted to tell her, to warn her that her hopes of fighting Medb were in vain, but when he looked into her face, he could not find his voice. The girl was too withdrawn to listen. Only the sight of Medb and his crippled legs would convince her that her challenge for a duel was impossible.
Piers hoped that the realization would not break her. Gabria had survived so much and planned for so long to destroy the Wylfling lord in a duel that it might be difficult for her to see other possibilities for revenge.
When Gabria was ready, she sat silently with Piers and waited. The council was to begin at midday, so she had some time before Savaric came for her. She could not eat and she tried not to think, so she detached herself from everything except her resolution. Piers respected her solitude and simply sat with her in wordless support.
Earlier that morning, Savaric and Athlone had risen before the dawn. A messenger found them as the moon was setting and he bid them follow. To their astonishment, he carried a thin, long whip with a silver death’s head crowning the butt. Only one small group of men bore such strange weapons and they had not come to the gathering for untold years.
Bridling their curiosity, the two Khulinin belted on their swords and walked soundlessly past the guards, toward the two rivers and the sacred island. The flow of the rivers made the only sound in the cool night, and a short breeze tugged at their clothes. The messenger stopped them at the water’s edge and whistled softly. Three figures detached themselves from the shadows of the standing stones and waded across the rapids. Each wore no cloak, only a simple tunic and an ankle-length robe belted with leather. They carried no visible weapons except for whips, which hung curled at their waists. Behind them, the dark gray stones waited like sentinels, watching but not listening. Athlone shivered under their gaze.
One of the men came to Savaric and held up his hand in a gesture of peace. “Good hunting, Brother,” he said. He was the same height as the Khulinin, and they eyed each other for several minutes.
Savaric tilted his head to one side. A slow smile spread across his face. “Seth. You are most welcome.”
The strangers with the newcomer seemed to relax. They remained as stiff as statues, but they tucked their hands into the sleeves of their robes and moved back to give the chief and his brother more room.
Seth nodded imperceptibly. “I am glad to hear you say that. Does your hospitality extend to us all?”
The chieftain’s glance swept over the four men, then returned to his brother’s face. “Are all of you here?”
“No. Only the four of us. We need your help.”
Savaric’s eyebrows lifted. “Since when do the men of the lash need help?”
“Since the clans named us Oathbreakers. We wish to attend the council.”
“What?” Athlone gasped.
Seth raised an eyebrow much like his brother. “What is the matter, Nephew? Has the council passed a law forbidding us entry to the gathering?”
Savaric put his hand on Athlone’s shoulder. He shared his son’s surprise. The men of the religious cult of the goddess, Krath, had shunned the gatherings for generations. Savaric wondered why, of all times, the men of the lash chose this year to come. Then he remembered that they were in sight of the guards and the camps, and he gestured to his brother. “Perhaps it would be better if we talked in my tent.”
Seth agreed. He said something in a low voice to his companions and they disappeared into the darkness.
Savaric, Athlone, and Seth skirted the encampment and slipped into the chieftain’s tent unseen. Tungoli was waiting for her husband and she nodded politely, barely hiding her surprise, as Seth entered. She fetched wine before retreating behind the sleeping curtain. The three men squatted by a small lamp and watched each other thoughtfully. In the dim’ light, Athlone recognized a strong resemblance between the two brothers.
The Oathbreaker was younger than the chieftain, but years of rigorous training, self-denial, and life in wild lands had aged him. His skin was dark beneath his thick beard. His eyes were carefully deadpan. It was said the followers of Krath could look into men’s hearts and reveal the hidden evils that lurked there; they pried into secrets and opened guarded hatreds that were buried beneath facades. Because of this, few men dared to look an Oathbreaker in the eye and they themselves kept their eyelids half-closed as if to contain the horrors they had seen.
Savaric was the first to break the silence. “Maybe now you will tell us why you have come.”
Seth leaned back on his heels and wrapped his robe carefully around his knee. “Medb.”
“I did not realize he took an interest in Krath’s cult,” Savaric said.
“He has the Book of Matrah.”
Athlone and Savaric were badly shaken. The wer-tain paled. He looked at his father, for the first time showing real fear.
“We suspected that he was reviving the black arts, but we never imagined he had such help.” The chieftain stared into the flame of the lamp, his face grim.
“He asked us to translate passages for him,” Seth continued. “The library in the Citadel of Krath contains the only sources available for such an undertaking.”
“What was your answer?” Athlone’s voice was harsh.
A glint of irritation escaped Seth’s eyes and his mouth tightened. “We said no.”
Savaric looked up. “I’m surprised. I thought Krath would have appreciated Lord Medb’s methods.”