Later that day, just after noon, the Khulinin were still packing and cleaning their camp. Gabria had slept most of the morning and, after a light meal, she went outside for a breath of fresh air. Her side hurt abominably, despite Piers’s medicines, and her throat and head felt worse. To avoid attention, she wore her hat pulled low over her eyes and stayed in the shadows of Piers’s tent. She could see Nara standing in Isin’s rapids, pawing playfully at the water. Boreas stood nearby, watching her. For a moment, Gabria thought of calling Nara, then changed her mind. The Hunnuli were enjoying each other too much for Gabria to consider interrupting them.
Besides, Gabria didn’t really want company. All morning she had mulled over the tragedy of the night before. She could hardly believe that she had killed a man with an arcane power that she knew nothing about. It was a terrifying truth to face. She could deal with her family’s murders, her exile, and her unlawful acceptance into Savaric’s werod, because those things were external. Sorcery was far different. It affected her being and nothing short of death would ever change her or take away this heretical talent. Dispiritedly, she pulled her hat lower over her face and wondered what she should do. Medb was so far beyond her reach.
Something caught Gabria’s attention just as Nara neighed. She looked toward the other camps and saw an old man working his way hesitantly through the ford in the river toward the Khulinin camp. He almost fell in the water. She walked curiously toward the river bank, thinking the man might be drunk. His head was down, almost as if he were having trouble seeing where he was going, and he leaned heavily on a staff.
Gabria stopped a few paces from the water and called, “Do you need help?”
Startled, the old man raised his head, and Gabria gasped in dismay. A bloody bandage was wrapped around the man’s face, covering his eyes, and on either side of his nose, dried blood was caked in patches and matted in his beard. Horrified, Gabria clambered down the bank into the water and caught the old man’s arm. He gratefully leaned on her and followed her guidance toward the tents. Several guards came running to help. They led the wounded man into Piers’s tent, where he sank thankfully onto a stool.
“Get the healer quickly,” Gabria whispered to one of the guards. He nodded, his mouth tight with anger. They all recognized the bard and were stricken by his hideous injury. The the warrior dashed out and the other guard stepped outside to watch the tent’s entrance.
“Thank you,” the bard murmured. “I was beginning to think I would never cross the river.”
Gabria looked at the bard unhappily. He was a distinguished man, and he wore a dark blue robe cut in an ornate pattern popular among the Wylfling. He wore no cloak and had no weapons. His hands were long and supple. He carried himself well despite the agony of his wound, but she saw that his skin was gray beneath the dried blood, and he gripped his knees with the effort of hiding his pain.
“Why did you come here?” she asked, kneeling by his feet.
“I was not welcome elsewhere.” He pointed to his crude bandage. “I also hope to see your healer.”
“Of course. He’s on his way.” Gabria leaped up to see if Piers was coming.
“Wait. Sit a minute. He will be here soon enough.” The old man felt for Gabria’s arm and pulled her gently to the ground by his side. “I am Cantrell.”
“I know,” she mumbled. Although Clan Corin had not been able to afford a bard, Gabria had heard this man many times at past gatherings and had loved his soaring tales and sweeping music. “You were with the Wylfling.”
“Until recently. Medb took offense to one of my riddles,” he replied calmly.
“Medb did this to you?”
He nodded. “And you are the Corin who tongues are wagging about?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“By the inflection in your voice. The Corin always rolled their R’s as if they appreciated the sound.” He cocked his head in puzzlement. “But you are a woman. That is interesting.”
Gabria bolted upright and stared at him. “How—”
“Don’t worry. I know you are trying to pass as a boy, but you’ cannot hide the telltale characteristics of your voice from a trained bard.” He smiled wanly. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help showing off a little.”
Gabria moved stiffly away from the old bard, her heart in her throat.
But Cantrell reached out for her. His hand found the girl’s shoulder and groped down her arm to take her hand. His skin was cold and clammy, but his grip was strong. “Do not fear for your secret,” he said gently. “I have heard a great deal about you at this gathering. I simply had no idea you were a woman. It makes your survival more intriguing. I—”
Without warning, the bard straightened. He gripped Gabria’s hand tighter, and his ravaged face grew still. He sat for a long time, quietly rubbing her palm with his thumb, lost in deep concentration. Gabria watched him curiously; Cantrell sighed and his chin sank to his chest. She waited for him to speak. After a while he dropped her hand.
“I was right. You are intriguing. Seek the Woman of the Marsh, child. Only she will be able to help you.”
“Who is she?”
But Cantrell shook his head slightly, and, at that moment, Piers and Savaric came into the tent. Puzzled, Gabria moved to the rear of the tent to keep out of the way while Piers unwound the blood-stained bandages. When the dirty material fell away, revealing the slashed, oozing remains of the bard’s eyes, Gabria looked away. Savaric blanched at the sight and his face paled under his tan. With gentle hands, Piers tended to the hideous wound.
Cantrell sat like a statue during the operation, as if his face were carved of wood. Only when the healer finished wrapping new bandages around the bard’s head did Cantrell allow his shoulders to sag and the breath to escape his lungs in a ragged sigh. The men remained quiet while Cantrell drank a cup of wine laced with a mild dose of poppy.
The bard was the first to speak. He felt for the table by his side and laid the cup down. “Thank you, Piers. You have well earned your reputation as the gentlest of the clan healers.” Piers glanced questioningly at Savaric, then replied, “You are welcome, Bard. You should have come to us sooner.”
Cantrell leaned toward the chieftain. “There were many interesting things to hear in Medb’s camp. Unfortunately, he wanted to listen to me as well, and he did not like what I told him.”
“Which was what?” Savaric asked.
“A riddle.”
“Oh?”
The bard tilted his head. “You keep your curiosity in check.
That’s good because I doubt you will understand the riddle any more than I did. My riddles, like most prophecies, are very confusing. If they were clear to us, they would negate the future they were created for. All I can do is give a man a riddle to accept as he wishes. Medb did not accept his.
Gabria turned her head and stared at the old man’s face, engrossed in his words.
Cantrell said softly:
“And for that Medb blinded you,” Piers said in disgust.
“He took offense at the implications.”
Savaric smiled ruefully. “Is there a meaning in that riddle that holds anything for us?”
Piers said, “I don’t like that part about no man will kill him.”
“And no war will destroy him,” Savaric added. He moved to the tent flap. “Medb has heard his doom and we are well aware of ours. Flower or no, we will have to fight.”