“Gods,” Koshyn whispered.
“How?” Malech asked, his voice shaking.
Seth answered, speaking for the first time. It was too late to warn them now. It had been too late the moment they walked into the council tent. “He has the Book of Matrah.”
Medb turned his dark gaze on the Oathbreakers. “And despite your inconvenient refusal to translate the sections I requested, I have mastered more sorcery than your feeble minds can comprehend. And beware, whip lovers, soon I will have all your books in my possession and your citadel will be rubble.” The translucent dome around the sorcerer was almost finished, and Medb pointed to Pazric’s body. “Take your dog, Savaric. He served us both well. Then count your days. By the next gathering, I will be ruler of the clans. This council is over.” Medb gestured to his guards and four of them picked up the litter. The dome hovered around his body.
Imperiously, Medb ran his gaze over each man, as if pronouncing his fate with a single look. He gave a negligible nod to Branth. To Athlone and the Oathbreakers, he showed only contempt. At Medb’s order the bearers carried him toward the entrance. When he passed Gabria, he snarled, “You’re the last of the Corin, boy. Do not hope to continue the line.”
The Wylfling left the tent, and the council disintegrated. Lord Ferron left before anyone could stop him. Everyone else rushed to their feet.
“Is Medb serious?” Malech asked weakly.
Koshyn threw out his arms. “Gods, man. You saw him.”
Seth said without emotion, “He has gained control of the arcane. What do you think a man like that will do with that kind of power?”
Athlone knelt by Pazric and gently pressed his fingers beneath the fallen man’s jaw. “He’s dead,” he said dully.
Savaric shook his head. “He was already dead when Medb brought him in.”
Gabria removed her cloak and laid it over Pazric’s body. She was shaking badly, and the scarlet wool quivered in her hands when it settled over Pazric’s battered face. The memory of the blue flame burned in her mind. Before, the Trymian Force had only been a word on Piers’s lips and a nagging bad dream. Now she had seen it. It was a reality, a force that killed at a man’s calling.
Gabria paused. A tiny thought nudged into her despair. It was a wild, frightening grain of an idea, yet it stirred her dead hopes. Perhaps revenge was not totally beyond her grasp.
“You were right, Gabran, weren’t you?” Lord Jol said with bitterness. He appeared to have aged rapidly in that short afternoon. “Medb ordered the massacre of the Corin.”
Gabria nodded. The clansmen were suddenly subdued, as if they did not want to share each other’s despair.
“Yes, he did!” Savaric stated, turning to face them. “To make an example to all of us and to weaken our resolve. If he has succeeded in doing that, then the Corin died in dishonor.”
“What do you expect us to do? Fight the monster?” Lord Caurus demanded, his face as red as his hair.
“Yes!” Sha Umar shouted. He was chief of Clan Jehanan and he intended it to remain that way. He stood by Savaric and shook his fist at the other chiefs. “Our survival depends on it. Medb has not gathered his full strength yet. Now is the time to attack—before he marshals his forces.”
Branth laughed. “Attack? With what? Lord Medb would destroy you before the first bow was drawn. The only way the clans will survive is to swear fealty to him.”
“I will never allow a broken-kneed, murdering sorcerer to rule my clan!” Caurus threw his wine cup into the fire pit.
“Then we must join together. We must unite our werods to fight him or we are lost.” Savaric felt the chiefs’ unspoken resistance, and he fought down a rising sense of despair.
Branth curled his thin lips in a sneer. “And who will command this united rabble? You, Savaric? And after you have disposed of Medb, will you pick up his sword and take his place?”
The Shadedron chief stepped forward. “And what about that band of exiles? We don’t dare leave our clans undefended,” Lord Malech said.
Caurus agreed. “We do not have a chance against Medb here. I say we’d be safer defending our own holdings.”
“Better than putting ourselves between two greedy chieftains,” Lord Babur of the Bahedin said with a glare at Savaric. Babur was ill and had said very little at the council meetings.
“I still think it is impossible for him to succeed,” Jol said stubbornly. “The clans are too far apart.”
“This is getting us nowhere. The council is over.” Malech stalked out of the tent, trying not to hurry, followed by his wer-tain and advisors.
The remaining chiefs looked at each other unhappily. Branth strutted to the entrance. “If any of you wish to talk to me, I will be in my tent. Everyone knows where that is.” He too, left with his men.
Koshyn sighed and pulled his hood over his head. “There is little point staying here to argue with the wind, Savaric. The clans will never unite.”
“But he wants us to bolt for our holes so he can take us one by one. We must try to work together,” Savaric implored.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Good-bye, Corin. Take care of your Hunnuli.” Koshyn and his warriors filed out.
Without another word to each other, the remaining men left the council, propelled by shame and shock. They had not yet recovered from witnessing the blatant and heretical use of sorcery in the sanctuary of the council tent. After two hundred years of ingrained prejudice and hatred, they had seen the object of their scorn resurrected before their eyes. For the first time, they were witnessing the bitter folly of their ancestors. The men were also recoiling from the truth of the Corin massacre and Medb’s shocking declaration of his intention to rule the clans as overlord. The frightening possibilities of the arcane and the logic of Savaric’s arguments were lost in the morass of the chieftains’ fears for their clans.
In moments the tent was empty, save for the Oathbreakers and the Khulinin. Savaric stared at the entrance as though trying to draw the others back. His eyes were bleak and his lean body sagged with dismay. Gabria and Athlone carefully lifted Pazric’s body and carried it outside, where Nara consented to bear it back to the encampment. Savaric and the four cultists followed behind and stepped out into the hot afternoon sun.
Seth picked up his whip, coiling it carefully in his hands. “Our journey was for naught. It was too late to warn the council.”
“I thank you for trying,” Savaric replied. “Will your citadel be able to withstand Medb’s attack?”
“For a while. Some of the old wards still operate, but our numbers are dwindling. In the end, it will be the same for us as for you, and Medb will have free rein in the archives.”
“You could bum the books.”
Seth shook his head. “It is difficult to destroy a sorcerer’s tome, and we would not do it. Someone else may have need of them one day.”
“Then defend them well.” Savaric watched the people moving through the camps. Some word of the events of that afternoon had already spread, for no women were in sight and the men moved with nervous haste.
Seth spoke to his companions briefly and turned to his brother. “Take care of the Corin. And yourself.” The brothers clasped hands, then the Oathbreakers gathered their whips and disappeared among the tents.
The Khulinin and the Hunnuli silently bore Pazric back to camp.
12
Time confirmed Savaric’s worst fears, for the gathering did not survive the night. He argued desperately with every chief except Branth that evening, trying to weld them together against Lord Medb. Unfortunately, the traditions of generations and the stubborn individuality of every clansman were too ingrained. Most of the chieftains turned deaf ears to Savaric’s pleas. The lords vacillated through the night while their clans seethed with emotions. The truth of the Corin massacre and Medb’s sorcery was told and retold, and the stories grew with every telling until fact and rumor were tangled in knots. Fear ran rampant through the camps.