By dawn, Lord Jol pulled the purple banner from the council tent and moved Clan Murjik north toward home.
Lord Medb watched them go with pleasure. He was angry at himself for losing his temper and revealing his power so early. He had planned to rope the council into his control first, then wait to unmask his sorcery when the manuscripts from the Citadel of Krath were in his hands. Not that it really mattered. There was no man who could dispute his rise to overlord now, and if the clans chose to return to their own holdings rather than fight together, then so be it. It would take longer to crush them, but in the long run it would mean a more final collapse. Each clan would be brought to its knees in its own treld and each chief would have to capitulate alone.
Of the twelve clans, only seven presented problems for Medb. The sorcerer counted the clans mentally: he had regained control of the Wylfling after his accident six months ago with the combined weapons of sorcery and fear; the Corin were exterminated; the Geldring were his thanks to the treachery of Branth; Quamar had given him the Ferganan that afternoon; and Ferron would soon come crawling with the Amnok. That left only the Shadedron, Murjik, Reidhar, Dangari, Jehanan, Bahedin, and, of course, the Khulinin. If all went smoothly, the Oathbreakers would soon be eliminated and, by spring, the council of chiefs would cease to exist.
Of course, several of the chieftains were exceedingly stubborn. Lord Caurus of the Reidhar was a temperamental hothead, as well as a ferocious fighter and a man intensely devoted to his clan. And while Koshyn of the Dangari was young, he could not be treated lightly. No, what was needed was a demonstration that would break their spirits and bring the chiefs to heel, a demonstration that would also salve Medb’s pride and give him intense satisfaction: the destruction of the Khulinin. With Savaric dead and the powerful Khulinin weeded down to more manageable numbers, the other chiefs would soon realize their deadly mistake.
Defeating the Khulinin would also enable Medb to finish the destruction of the Corin. That boy, Gabran, was a nuisance and a loose end. Medb did not like loose ends. He planned to have a word about that with the exile leader as soon as they arrived. Such carelessness was unforgivable.
The next morning, the merchants read the signs of war in the clansmen’s faces, packed their goods, and quickly left. That afternoon, the Shadedron gathered their herds to depart.
Lord Malech’s shoulders slumped as he brought down his black banner, and he glanced apologetically at Savaric. Without a word or gesture of farewell, he mounted his horse and led the Shadedron south. Lord Ferron only waited until dark before slipping fearfully into the Wylfling encampment and kneeling before Medb, giving the oath of fealty for the Amnok clan.
By dawn of the second day after the splintering of the council, the remaining clans had separated into armed camps, bristling with suspicion and anger. The Khulinin remained isolated on the far bank of the Isin. Only Athlone and Savaric crossed the river to talk with the other clansmen. They tried desperately to convince Caurus, Sha Umar, Babur, and Koshyn to ally with them, for with the addition of clan Amnok, Medb’s forces were overwhelming. Already there were rumors that Medb was bringing more men to his camp, including the band of exiles.
But Caurus was secretly Jealous of Savaric s wealth and authority. He did not trust the Khulinin to lead the combined forces, nor did he want the responsibility himself. Medb’s magic terrified Caurus more than he cared to admit. Eventually, he too, gathered his caravan, and the Reidhar clan sought ay the familiarity of their own holdings near the Inland Sea of Tannis.
Koshyn refused to commit himself one way or the other. He had only recently become chief, and he could not decide what was best for his clan. He listened and watched and waited for the final lines to be drawn.
Lord Babur, too, vacillated between Savaric’s pleas and Medb’s threats. His illness had grown worse, and he knew didn’t have the strength to fight a long war. But that night he died, some said by his own hand. His young son, Ryne, immediately threw Medb’s emissary out of his tent and went to join the Khulinin. Sha Umar, a long-time friend of the Bahedin chieftains, came with Ryne and pledged the aid of the Jehanan to Savaric.
Even with the promised help of two clans, the days were long and bitter for Savaric and Athlone, and the stress began to tell on the whole clan. Pazric was sent to the Hall of the Dead on a funeral pyre, which Savaric lit at night to ensure the entire gathering would witness it. After a violent argument with Athlone about his negligence in telling her about Lord Medb’s crippled legs, Gabria spent most of her time sitting on the banks of the Isin River.
Cor, on the other hand, thrived on the tense atmosphere of the camp, and his verbal attacks on Gabria grew vicious and more cunning. Only Nara kept him at bay, and Gabria wondered how long it would be before he gathered enough courage to change his weapon from his tongue to a sword. It would not be difficult to kill her in the night and blame it on an agent of Medb. She kept her dagger close to her side and stayed within Piers’s tent after dark.
During the day, Gabria had little to do, and time dragged interminably. She lay for hours on the grassy bank of the, in the hot sun and tried to order her thoughts. The shock and disappointment of losing her chance to duel Medb had not diminished and Gabria found herself examining more and more the possibilities of sorcery. Half a year ago, she would have been aghast at the mere suggestion of the arcane, but that short time she had lost her clan and been exposed to more sorcery than she ever dreamed possible. It had gone a long way to changing her views of magic—as evidenced by her willingness to even consider it.
Still, whether or not she had a real talent for sorcery was inconclusive in her mind. Piers had his theories and Gabria had been lucky in guessing the truth of the brooch, but nothing had given her absolute proof. And if she did have a talent, what could she do about it? There was no one to teach her and he she did not have the knowledge to use the Book of Matrah or the manuscripts in the archives of Krath’s citadel. She might have an inherent ability, but if it could not be honed it was useless. Piers could not help her—he knew too little—and Nara was untrained in the rules of sorcery and could only protect her from others. The problem was like a sword in the hands of a woman. Gabria laughed at that analogy; she could handle a sword quite well.
Gabria was still debating the dilemma when she and Nara walked back to the camp for the evening meal. Cor had disappeared, and Gabria was happy for the reprieve as she trudged toward the tents. The camp was unnaturally quiet that evening, and people seemed to move with one eye over their shoulders. Smoke from the cooking fires rose sluggishly and hung overhead in the breathless air. Dogs lay in the tents’ shadows and panted.
To the east, in the distance, two massive thunderheads piled against the hills and rose like twin battlements before a wall of strained steel-gray cloud. The setting sun etched the snowy heads of the thunderclouds with gold crowns and mantles of rose, pearl, and lavender. Deep in the clouds’ cores, lightning flickered endlessly, warning of the violence of the coming storm.
Extra outriders were posted that evening, and the herds were moved closer to the shelter of the valley ridges. Other men tightened tent ropes and checked the stakes. After the evening meal, the fires were putout. As the dusk deepened, the storm front moved closer and the lightning became visible in brilliant flashes or wicked streaks that cracked like an at Oathbreakers whip.
Gabria sat restlessly on the ground before Piers’s tent and watched the approaching storm. Piers was in another part of camp, helping a woman in labor; Savaric was with Koshyn; and Athlone rode with the outriders. Gabria wished that she were out there with the men rather than sitting in camp. Anything would be better than her edgy, frustrating loneliness. The wind sprang fitfully and rugged at her hair. Abruptly, the breeze died.