Sha Umar looked startled. “Do you mean those old ruins on the spur of the ridge?”
Cantrell barely nodded, for his wounds still ached.
“I remember that vaguely,” Lord Ryne said. His dark blue eyes shifted from one man to another. He was still nervous in such illustrious company, but his self-confidence was growing. “There was another fort near Bahedin Treld, along the Calah River. But that one was razed by the men of Pra Desh years ago.”
“That’s true,” Cantrell replied. “But this fortress still stands. It has withstood many attacks. I believe there are wards set in the gates to protect it from arcane assault.”
Sha Umar nodded and the other men looked both interested and apprehensive.
Cantrell continued. “When the western empire began to crumble, the strongholds along the frontiers were abandoned to bring the armies closer to home. After that, the fortress was used by other tribes and a self-proclaimed king or two. In the past years, its only enemy has been time.” He stopped for a moment, then his voice began a slow chant.
Cantrell fell silent, letting the images of the song play through the listeners’ thoughts. “It’s rather archaic,” he said after a time. “But that is a fragment of a song I found long ago.”
Savaric stared thoughtfully into his cup. Unlike the other men, he had not traveled the eastern slopes of the Himachal Mountains and was not familiar with the ruins or the defile Cantrell mentioned. He was reluctant to remove his clan to lands he did not know, and he had only the bard’s reputation to give any value to the consideration of the fortress. “This place—Ab-Chakan—what is it now?”
“Well, the clans never had any use for a fortified garrison, so it has been abandoned for years. But the walls still stand and the defile has many caves that bore deep into the mountains.” Cantrell paused, his face turned toward the chiefs around him. “For men with a little ingenuity, it could be an answer to a prayer.”
Sha Umar smiled slightly. “The werods will riot like it. Fighting within walls goes against the grain.”
“So does dying needlessly at the hand of a paid mercenary,” Savaric said dryly.
The Jehanan chieftain laughed. “I shall remember to tell them that.”
“Lord,” said Cantrell. “I do not know if this is sound advice. Ab-Chakan may be useless to your needs, but if it fails, the defile can be defended for months by a mere handful. And Medb would not anticipate such a move. It might give you a little more time.”
Savaric looked past the open tent flaps into the distance. “How far is this place?”
Cantrell pondered. “Several days journey north of Dangari Treld . . . perhaps thirty leagues from here.”
“I hope that Koshyn doesn’t try to get in our way,” Lord Ryne spoke up. “We have few enough men as it is.”
“I doubt he will,” Sha Umar replied. His lean, aquiline face broke into a smile, and he gestured to Savaric with his wine cup. “Koshyn respects you even if he does try to straddle two horses at once. It’s that band of exiles I’m worried about.”
“Yes. They were called forth five days ago. If they find us before we reach shelter, there will be much blood spilled,” Cantrell noted.
“Then we must move fast,” Savaric said, suddenly reaching his decision. He felt more hopeful than he had in days. At last there was an objective to reach for that offered a semblance of success. “Are we agreed?” he asked the others. The men nodded. “Then we will turn north and go to this fortress.” He paused and added, “Cantrell, if you wish to leave, I will provide a guide, horses, and supplies. Unfortunately, I can ill afford to send an escort.”
Cantrell waved off the suggestion. “I knew what I was walking into when I came for help. I have read the Khulinin’s riddle of doom, my lord. Now I want to understand the answer.”
Savaric’s mouth curled up in a weary smile. “I hope you do not regret your curiosity.”
Beyond the rim of firelight, where the herds dozed in the warm darkness, the outriders passed in silent vigil. They rode around the livestock, humming a soft song or stopping to exchange a quiet word with the sentinels around the camp.
On a low knoll near where the horse herd lay, Nara stood, darker than the night itself. Only her large eyes sparkled with faint starlight. Occasionally she swung her head to sniff the breeze or swished her tail at a mosquito. Except for these brief movements, she remained still. On the mare’s back, Gabria shoved her bow aside, leaned on Nara’s rump, and tried uselessly not to fidget. She was bored with the inactivity of guard duty and too anxious to sit still.
Time and again she remembered Cantrell’s strange reaction to her—and his advice to seek the Woman of the Marsh. Gabria had tried to ask him to explain what he’d meant, but the days had been too hectic and at night he was too ill and tired to answer. Piers could not help her, and she didn’t know who else to ask.
The marshes, as well as Gabria could remember, were southeast of the Tir Samod, where the Goldrine River, swollen with the waters of numerous tributaries, flowed down into a low, half-drowned land of reed-choked channels, pools, and treacherous mires before filtering into the Sea of Tannis. She had never heard of a woman living in the marshes. If there was such a woman, why was she important? Why would Cantrell tell her to seek this woman? Gabria wondered if the bard sensed her inherent ability for sorcery. Perhaps that was why his response was so odd. Maybe this Woman of the Marsh had something to do with magic.
For the past few days, Gabria had been able to put aside the realization of her power in the frantic departure and the hurried march of the caravan. It was easy to ignore Piers’s thoughtful looks and Cor’s absence, and it had been simple to keep the truth from Nara. But here, in the darkness, the shadows and distractions were dispelled and Gabria was forced to come face to face with a self she did not know. The girl she once had been, the girl who happily kept a tent for her father and brothers and who ran laughing through the days, had somehow become this short-haired stranger who wielded an unknown Power and set herself above clan law. She had tamed a Hunnuli, ridden with a werod, and killed a man with the Trymian Force. Gabria did not recognize herself any longer, and what she found instead was frightening.
It did not matter how Nara might reassure her or Piers might protect her; she could not shake off seventeen years of ingrained distrust of sorcery. To her, magic was a power that corrupted any soul it touched and caused nothing but grief. Lord, Medb was exactly what she expected a sorcerer to be: ruthless, deceitful, murderous, lusting for more power. If she were a true clanswoman, she would immediately turn herself over to Savaric and suffer the proper punishment before she became like Medb and threatened the welfare of the clans.
But the sense of survival that had sent Gabria walking out of Corin Treld refused to consider the notion. She would have to find a way to control her talent so she would never use it inadvertently again. Perhaps Cantrell had told her to seek the Woman of the Marsh because he knew this woman could help her deal with this unwanted ability. If only she knew how to find her.