Branth snorted. “Then why? Because the exiles did not like the color of their cloaks?”
“I should think that would be clear, especially to you, Branth, whose holdings lie next to Dathlar’s. And to all of you who have listened to Medb’s promises of wealth and power. There is only so much power to go around.”
Lord Jol, oldest of the chieftains, said fiercely, “I received no offer from Lord Medb. What is this?”
“Empire building, Jol,” Koshyn said.
The chief barked a laugh. “Absurd. No one man can rule the clans; they are too far apart. Mine is almost in the northern forests.”
Savaric turned to Medb. “But it is true, isn’t it, Medb? Why didn’t you negotiate with Jol’s Murjik? Are they too distant to be of use . . . or were they next for the sword?”
Jol paled, and the warriors began arguing heatedly about the exiles, Savaric’s accusations, Gabria’s evidence, suspicions of others—everything but Lord Medb’s complicity. Some wanted to believe Savaric was right. Despite Medb’s offers, most of the chieftains were appalled by the idea of the clans in the chains of an overlord. They knew in their hearts why Clan Corin had died, but they did not know what to do about it. One of their own had never turned on them in this manner.
Even if Medb did confess to ordering the exile band to massacre the clan, the chieftains were fearful of punishing him. His strength had grown beyond any imagining and, with his mercenaries, he outnumbered every individual clan. The chiefs were also afraid of knowing the truth about his sorcery. If Medb truly had reconstructed the ancient spells, the clans were doomed. There was no one left who could fight him.
But Savaric would not let the chieftains evade the truth forever. He strode to the center of the tent and glared at Medb. “My blood brother died at Lord Medb’s order. I cannot challenge him to a duel, but I demand the council take action to punish this most hideous crime.”
For the first time since his greeting to Gabria, Medb spoke. “Fools,” he hissed quietly. He held out his hand, palm up, and began to speak. His voice was gently compelling, as if he were speaking to a group of rebellious children.
Gabria looked at Medb in surprise as the noise ended abruptly and every man turned to listen. Their faces were blank and their eyes seemed to yearn toward him. The girl looked at Athlone and he, too, was staring at Medb with rapt attention. Even Medb’s own men were craning over his shoulder to hear what he would say next.
“Are you weak-kneed girls who must hang on every word mumbled by a simple boy? For reasons I cannot fathom, I am being unjustly charged with a crime that is most foul. I had no cause to slaughter the Corin. They were fellow clansmen, horsemen like myself. Would I cut off my own fingers?” He sounded aggrieved. “And to what purpose? Their lands lie far beyond the farthest hoof prints of my outriders. It is absurd.” He settled back on his litter and curled his lip in a smile. “Yet I can understand how you could be deceived by this boy’s fable. You are blinded by the red cloak and an earnest air. The boy was coached well by Savaric, was he not?”
The men murmured to themselves, their eyes still pinned on Medb. His words made sense to them. Gabria’s and Savaric’s arguments began to melt away like ice in the warmth of the sun. Medb’s voice was so pleasant, so logical. He could not have harmed the Corin; it had to have been the exiles acting on their own. Athlone, too, looked puzzled and wondered if maybe his father were wrong.
Gabria felt confused. She knew that Medb was lying, but his words were sensible and his tone was so sincere that she wanted to believe him. Something strange was happening in her mind, and she struggled to find the cause.
“I cannot help but wonder why Lord Savaric is trying to lay the blame at my feet. I have done nothing to him.” Medb paused as if in thought, letting the warriors feel his wounded innocence. “And yet if I were to be deposed by this illustrious council, who would care for the interest of my clan? I have no son. Would my considerate neighbor thus feel charitable and watch the Wylfling’s holdings while a new chief is chosen?”
Savaric struggled to utter a word, but his voice seemed to be lost. Furiously he stepped toward the Wylfling. Medb lifted his hand and the Khulinin stopped abruptly, as if walking into a wall.
Medb came to his point with slow relish. “I am not the only one who is threatened by Lord Savaric’s greed. Even the Turic may fall to his guile. Already he is making plans to overthrow the tribes and steal the southern foothills of the Darkhorns, lands that border mine!”
Suddenly, Gabria laughed. This man, perched on his litter, bloated with his own monstrous arrogance, was daring to sully another man with accusations of deceit and greed? And these warriors, taken in by Medb’s spells, were sitting like enchanted frogs, taking in every word. It was more than Gabria’s battered self-control could tolerate, The effects of Medb’s spell evaporated in Gabria’s mind, and she stared around her and laughed again.
The sound of her mockery was bare of humor and sharp with frustration, and it sliced through the clansmen’s stupor like a scythe. They started in surprise and looked at each other guiltily. Savaric’s body jerked as the spell broke and he nearly fell. Seth reached out and caught him by the arm.
Medb’s face tightened unpleasantly. He shot a considering look at Gabria. He gestured to two of his guards, whispered an order, and turned back to the chiefs to continue the thread of thought he had spun in their minds. This time, he set aside his spells and fanned the flames that he hoped would bring the council to his feet. His two guards slipped out of the tent.
“Corin,” Medb addressed Gabria. “There were valid reasons for forbidding uninitiated boys into the council; your outburst is one of them. Please contain yourself.”
“So, you do recognize my blood,” she replied, holding her cloak up in her fist. “And I shall soon know yours.” With the sorcerer beyond her reach, her obsession for revenge burned in her head. It warped her common sense into a blind carelessness.
Malech glanced apologetically at Savaric, missing the imperceptible movement of Medb’s hands. But Seth noticed it, and he recognized the forming of an arcane spell. He quickly leaned over to Gabria.
“Take this,” he whispered and thrust a small ball into her hand. “Keep it with you.”
Gabria opened her hand and found a white stone ball, intricately carved. Within its hollow core were three other balls of graduating sizes, one inside the other. It took a moment before she recognized the object and then she nearly dropped it. The Oathbreaker had given her an arcane ward. But when she raised her eyes, she too saw the strange movement of Medb’s hand. The air hummed briefly in the tent; one warrior slapped at an imagined fly, and Gabria felt a slight pressure in her head. Then it passed and she sighed in relief. She should have known better than to tamper with the anger of a sorcerer. Her carelessness had almost cost her. Gabria hid the arcane ward in her tunic and threw Medb a look of pure hatred.
Medb caught her look and pursed his lips in annoyance. He had seen Seth pass something to the boy, and now he knew what it was. He was not surprised the Oathbreakers still had a few of the relics left by the old sorcerers, but he was irritated to see that the priest had given one to an outsider-and that the I ward operated so well for the boy. There was something very curious here. The fact that the boy was alive was strange. The exiles had sworn they had killed Dathlar and all of his sons. Obviously they had been careless.
Malech interrupted his musings. “Savaric, keep the boy quiet or he’ll have to leave.”
The men were still considering Medb’s words, and Koshyn asked angrily, “Do you have proof of your ridiculous accusations against Savaric?”
Savaric crossed his arms. “Your arrogance astounds me, Medb.”
“Only when the cloak fits,” Medb replied. “Perhaps this will convince you.”