Yet the clans, in their fear and ignorance, turned a blind eye to the power in their midst. Even after two hundred years, their prejudices had not allowed them to see the truth. Magic was not an evil, corrupting power. It simply was a force that existed, a force that could be formed into something as lovely or as hideous as its wielder desired. For the first time in her life, Gabria recognized how foolish her people had been to ignore magic.
Just then, Nara turned her head and her ears pricked forward. Gabria followed the mare’s gaze and saw Cantrell walk carefully down the steps of the palace. He had a bundle under his arm.
Nara neighed and the bard called, “Gabran, are you there?” Gabria walked over to him and took his arm.
“Come,” he said. “Walk with me a moment.” They walked slowly around the courtyard, out of earshot of any casual listeners. The Hunnuli stayed close behind.
Gabria finally spoke. “Will the clans never learn to accept magic for what it is?”
“Not as long as Medb lives,” Cantrell replied.
She sighed. “Then perhaps they need to see magic as something positive as well.”
The bard gripped Gabria’s arm tightly. “I heard Medb’s ultimatum. There is not much time left.”
They came to the front of the palace again and Gabria stopped walking. She knew what she had to do to free Athlone and save the clans—the conflict had stood at the end of her path since the day she left Corin Treld. But the very idea terrified her. She was no match for Lord Medb and she knew the consequences of her failure. Unfortunately, there were no more alternatives.
Cantrell held out the bundle he had been carrying. “I thought you might need this.”
She opened it and found her scarlet cloak with the buttercup brooch, and a long, pale green tunic.
“The tunic was the closest I could find to white,” the bard joked with a faint smile. He embraced her quickly. “The gods go with you, Gabria.” He turned and left her.
Gabria wound her fingers in Nara’s mane, and they went back down the road toward the main gate. Behind a ruined wall, Gabria stripped off her clothes. The rags that bound her breasts, the filthy tunic, and the Khulinin cloak were tossed aside, though she hesitated taking the gold cloak off. The Corin kept only her leather hat, her boots, and her pants. She tucked her father’s dagger into her boot, then pulled the green tunic over her head and belted it with her sash. She thought about using her power to change the tunic’s color to white, but she changed her mind. It was time magic-wielders had a new color. Gabria laid her red cloak over her shoulder and sighed with relief. Never again would she have to play the boy. Soon the clans would know her for exactly what she was.
Gabria took a slow breath and opened the sorceress’s bag. A long, needle-thin diamond splinter fell glittering into her hand. Gabria stared at it, puzzled. The sorceress had told her this thing was the sign of a true magic-wielder, but she had not said what Gabria was supposed to do with it.
“You will need an assistant to help you complete the rite,” someone said behind her.
Gabria nearly jumped out of her skin. Nara snorted, but it sounded more like an agreement than a warning.
Seth walked around the wall and joined her. “It is too difficult to insert the splinter alone.”
“How do you know?” she gasped.
“The men of my cult have guarded the knowledge of the magic-wielders for years in hopes someone would need it.”
“But how did you find me?”
His eyebrows arched. “I followed you.”
Gabria studied him for a long time before she gave him the diamond. Seth took her arms and extended them, palms up.
His weathered face was impassive. He spoke the words of the ancient rite as if he had spoken them every day of his life, without hesitation or distaste. The words were still hanging in the air when he raised the diamond splinter to the sun to capture the heat and light. The sliver glittered in his hand. Then, with a skill as deft as a healer, he pierced Gabria’s wrist and slid the splinter under her skin.
The pain lanced through Gabria’s arm, and she could feel the heat of the diamond burning under her skin. Immediately the splinter began to pulse with the pounding of her heart. A tingling spread through her hand and up into every part of her body. The sensation was warm and invigorating. Gabria looked into Nara’s wise eyes and smiled.
Seth turned her wrist to look at the splinter pulsing under her skin. “Use this wisely, Corin. You are the last and the first, and it would be best if you survived.”
“Thank you, Seth.”
He grunted. “Go.”
The girl mounted the Hunnuli, and the horse trotted toward the main gate. The one-hour reprieve was over. Medb had returned.
The Wylfling lord rode arrogantly up to the fortress. His army was ready to attack; his face was alive with triumph.
“What say you, clansmen?” he shouted to the defenders.
Lord Savaric, Koshyn, and Ryne leaned over the parapet. “We will not deal with you,” Savaric called.
“But I will!” a strange voice shouted below him. Hoof beats clattered over the stone road and the Hunnuli galloped forward. The mare reached the entrance and went up and over the fallen gates with a terrific heave of her hind legs. Gabria’s scarlet cloak flared like wings. The horse landed lightly and cantered a few paces forward to a stop.
Savaric shouted, “Gabran! Come back here!”
Gabria ignored him and calmly faced Medb. Her hat and her cloak still disguised her femininity and the embedded splinter that pulsed in her wrist. “I will make you an offer, Lord Medb,” she said coldly.
“I do not deal with mere boys,” Medb sneered. He snapped a word and magic fire flared around Athlone. The wer-tain jerked in agony.
“Gabran!” Savaric cried.
Gabria was silent. With deliberate slowness, she raised her hand and the ruby light of the splinter gleamed on her tanned skin. The flames around Athlone snuffed out, the cords binding his wrists parted, and his body sank to the ground. The wer-tain shivered once and his eyes opened. A Wylfling warrior, his sword drawn, jumped toward the fallen man. A blue flare of Trymian Force surged from Gabria’s hand to the warrior’s chest, flinging him backward into a smoking, lifeless heap.
The silence on the field was absolute.
“Oh, my gods,” Koshyn breathed.
Medb stared at the Corin thoughtfully. So that was the answer to those many, puzzling questions. He parted his thin lips in a twisted smile. “What is your offer, boy?”
“You may have me and the Hunnuli in exchange for Athlone’s life. But you must fight me to win your prizes.” He shrugged. “A duel? That is impossible. A boy cannot fight a chieftain.”
“I am chieftain of the Corin, thanks to you. But I do not wish to use swords in this duel.”
“An arcane duel? Against you?” Medb laughed. “If that is what you want, I will humor you.” The sorcerer knew his strength was low. He was not fully recovered from the battle two days before, and he had expended a great deal of energy shattering the fortress gates. Still, he thought it would take little effort to crush this upstart. Smiling, Medb ordered his warriors back. He dismounted on the level space by the fallen gates.
“You are a fool, boy. Did the bard not tell you the riddle of my doom?” the Wylfling asked.
Gabria looked down at Medb. Standing straight and tall, he was a powerful, handsome man. “It is a riddle no longer.”
“Oh?” He fixed her with a cold stare.
“I am the answer to your riddle, Medb, for I am no boy and my name in the northern dialect means buttercup.” Before her stunned audience, Gabria peeled off the leather hat and shook her head until the loose curls fluffed out and framed her face in gold. Then she unpinned the cloak and let it drop over Nara’s black haunches. The wind molded the green tunic against her breasts and slender waist. The sun glittered in her eyes, as hard and as bright as any sword.