“Our ways may be different from the men of horses and iron, but we do not sit lightly by when threatened by the likes of a miserable chieftain.”
Savaric ignored the insult. Despite his blood kinship to an Oathbreaker, he could not understand what turned a man from the ways of the clans to the dark secrets of a bloodthirsty goddess. Seth was beyond his comprehension, and, because of that, Savaric took a perverse pleasure in cracking his brother’s shell whenever possible. “You’re skittish tonight, Seth,” he retorted.
The Oathbreaker’s expression went deadpan again. Even after years of training, he still could not maintain complete control before his brother. “We need you to take us to the council. Clan sentiment has never been with us and, without your endorsement, we would not be permitted to enter the council,” he said in strict formality.
Athlone slammed his wine cup down. “You still haven’t told us why.”
“Medb promised to destroy our citadel if we do not help him.”
“And you want our help defending that nest of assassins?” Athlone cried.
Seth stiffened. The mask in his eyes slipped slightly and, for a moment, Athlone fancied he saw the glow of a raging inferno in the depths of those black orbs. The wer-tain tore his gaze away and stared at the floor.
“You would do well to learn tact, Athlone. You are stirring embers that are best left alone.” Seth paused. “We came to warn the council of Medb’s book and his growing powers-and to ensure that he does not threaten us again.”
Savaric nodded. Only the men of Krath’s cult knew what was in the library of their citadel, but if the Oathbreakers wanted to break their self-imposed exile to warn the clans, it would be best if someone listened. “You may come.” He paused and smiled at Athlone. “We will have several surprises for Medb in the morning.”
“I hope he has none for us,” Athlone muttered. “Father, you are not going to go through with your plan after hearing this.”
“We will see. Perhaps, with the right bait, Medb will trap himself.”
Seth drained his wine and said, “Only fools believe in an easy road.”
11
At midmorning, Nara appeared by Piers’s tent to fetch Gabria. Savaric decided for appearance as well as safety to let her ride the Hunnuli. The effect would be worth a thousand words when they came to the council.
When Gabria walked out with the healer, she saw Savaric, Athlone, several of the hearthguard warriors, and the four Oathbreakers already waiting for her. She was surprised by the presence of the men of the lash, but she only gave Seth and his companions a cursory glance. Seth, on the other hand, exchanged looks with his men, and, when Nara pranced to Gabria’s side, he gave his brother an appreciative shake of his head.
Athlone helped the girl mount Nara’s broad back. He looked into her drawn face and recognized the fires burning her within. He squeezed her knee. When she glanced down at him, her eyes were bright and distant.
“Keep a guard on your tongue. Do not do anything to risk the lives of this parry. Do you hear me?” Athlone demanded.
His emphatic tone drew her back to the present. She nodded with some surprise.
The Hunnuli nudged her thoughts. He is right, Gabria. Do not challenge the man yet. You are not ready.
Gabria was watching Athlone talk to his father. “I am more than ready. My sword thirsts for his blood,” she snapped.
I do not mean swordplay.
Gabria was jolted. “What do you mean?”
But the mare said nothing more, for Savaric was gesturing at them to lead the group. Gabria did not pursue the answer. Her mind was already set on her course of action and she did not want Nara dissuading her for any reason.
The Hunnuli tilted her nose down, arching her neck into curved ebony. She snorted.
“Are you ready, Gabran? It is time,” Savaric said.
In answer for her rider, Nara threw her head high and neighed a challenge that reverberated through the camps. Boreas answered her from a distant meadow, and other horses neighed in return until the meadow echoed. The mare pranced forward, and the men fell in behind her. Gabria straightened her back. The girl flipped the edges of her cloak back until it lay neatly over the Hunnuli’s haunches and flowed in a crimson tide to her boots. Behind her, the men walked, silently admiring the horse and her rider. Clan Khulinin gathered to watch them leave.
Gabria knew the effect the red cloak would have on people who did not know a Corin still existed, but she was not prepared for the impact her arrival made on the volatile atmosphere of the gathering. Nara’s neigh had stirred the camps like a stick in a wasp nest. Hundreds of people were crowding the riverbank, staring toward the Khulinin tents. The chieftains, who were waiting for Savaric at the council tent, went outside as word of the Corin’s coming spread through the gathering.
When the Hunnuli and her escort crossed the Isin, a babble of voices broke out. A wall of clansmen stood on the riverbank, blocking the way to the council tent. For a moment, Gabria wondered if they would let her pass. Confusion, fear, and amazement were on every face. The crowd shifted and grew.
There were many people she recognized, but they seemed like strangers to her. Several people shouted at her; a few cursed her. Everyone now realized one Corin still remained, and they were bitterly reminded of their own negligence in honoring the memory of Clan Corin. Gabria ignored them all and raised her eyes to the banners flying above the council tent.
They reached the edge of the crowd. For the space of a breath, no one moved. Then Nara neighed again, imperiously. Immediately, the mob’s attention focused on the mare, and a sigh drifted through the press. They moved aside, forming a corridor. Nara pranced forward, just as a short gust of wind unfurled Gabria’s scarlet cloak like a chieftain’s banner. Every eye followed the horse and her rider. Few noticed the Khulinin chieftain behind the Hunnuli, or the Oathbreakers who walked beside him. When Nara came to the council tent, Gabria dismounted. The chieftains met her at the entrance. Only Medb remained inside.
“My lords.” She bowed to the other nine chiefs as Savaric joined her. “You may not remember me; I am Gabran of the Clan Corin. I would like permission to attend the council.”
The nine looked at one another uneasily. Koshyn caught Savaric’s eye and smiled with a twist of irony.
Malech, the Shadedron chief, said dubiously, “No uninitiated warrior is permitted to enter without his chieftain.”
“I am the son of Dathlar and the only Corin, so by rights of the survival, I am chieftain,” Gabria said coolly.
Athlone choked at her audacity and looked away. The lords any talked among themselves for a moment, and Savaric held back to allow the chiefs to make their own choice. Around the tent, men from every clan watched and waited and held their own council.
Finally, Malech nodded and gestured to the tent. “You may join us, Gabran.”
Before anyone moved, Savaric stepped forward. “Lords, I have given permission for a high priest and three members of the Cult of the Lash to attend the council as my guests. They have several important matters to discuss with us.”
The chieftains suddenly noticed the four strangers with the Khulinin. Noise broke out anew as the men presented themselves. Several chiefs blanched and every clansman seemed to move back, away from the hated black whips.
“Treacherous filth,” Caurus, the red-haired chieftain of the Reidhar, snapped. “Leave this gathering at once.”
The others murmured in agreement. The members of the cult had forsaken their vows of fealty to the clans and the chiefs, rightly earning the title “Oathbreakers.” They were not specifically banned from the gathering, but they were certainly not welcome.
A dark cloak of fear hung on the Oathbreakers’ shoulders, a fear born of whispered rumors and stories of heinous deeds. Few men knew the secrets of Krath’s followers because few survived who broached the confines of the Citadel of Krath. Only the Oathbreakers’ reputation as highly trained killers and their aversion to metal were known to all. Because they used metal, their only weapons were their bodies, their whips, and their finely crafted killing instruments of leather or stone. It was said an Oathbreaker could snap a man’s neck with bare hands or remove a head with a flick of a vicious black whip. Their religious goal was to perform the perfect kill in the service of their demanding mistress.