At the far end of the hall, the chieftain sat on a dais of dark stone. He watched thoughtfully, his dark eyes veiled behind half-drawn lids, as the stranger was brought before him. Behind him, in a semicircle, stood his personal retainers, the warriors of the hearthguard.
The men shifted uneasily as the boy walked toward them. Savaric could feel their angered tenseness. It was little wonder they were ill at ease, for they all had been disturbed by the rumors of sorcery and the horrors of the massacre at Corin Treld. Such a thing had never happened to the clans before. The reverberations of this hideous deed might never end, and the gods alone knew what aftershocks this boy was bringing.
Savaric masked his own concerns for the sake of the boy, but he knew the others were openly wary. Even Savaric’s son, Athlone, who stood at the chief’s right hand, was watching the boy with unconcealed suspicion.
Four paces before the warrior-lord, the boy knelt and extended his left hand in a salute. “Hail, Lord Savaric. I bring you greetings from my dead father.” His voice was low and forced.
Savaric frowned slightly and leaned forward. “Who is your father, boy? Who greets me from the grave?”
“Dathlar, my lord, chieftain of the ghost clan of Corin.”
“We have heard of the tragedy that befell that clan. But who are you and how is it-you have survived if you are indeed Dathlar’s son?”
Gabria felt a spasm of pain. She had expected the question of her survival to be raised, but she still could not answer without guilt. She hung her head to hide her face, which burned with her inner shame.
“Are you ill?” Savaric asked sharply.
“No, Lord,” Gabria replied, keeping her eyes downcast. “My eyes are not used to the shade of this hall.” That part at least was true. After the bright morning sun, the gloom of the hall made it difficult for her to see. “It is my greatest shame that I am alive. I am Gabran, youngest son of Dathlar. I was in the hills hunting eagles when I became lost in the fog.”
“Fog?” Athlone broke in sardonically. Murmurs of astonishment and skepticism from the watching warriors echoed his disbelief.
Gabria glared at Athlone, seeing him clearly for the first time. He was different from the men around him, for he was taller, of heavier build, and fairer in skin. His brown hair was chopped short, and a thick mustache softened the hard lines of his mouth. There was a natural assumption of authority in Athlone’s manner, and an unquestionable capability. Since he wore the belt of a wer-tain, a commander of the warriors, he could pose more of a threat to her than Savaric. Savaric was chieftain, but as wer-tain, Athlone was captain of the werod. If Gabria were accepted, she would be under his direct command. That thought unnerved her, for he came across as a man of power rather than charm, resolution rather than patience.
He could be a formidable opponent.
Still, the way Athlone looked at Gabria irritated her. The man’s brown eyes were narrowed in distrust, looking as cold as frozen earth. His hand was clenched on his belt, a hairsbreadth away from the hilt of a short sword.
“Yes, fog!” She snapped the word at Athlone, daring him to doubt the truth of it again. “You know we do not have fog in the afternoon of a cool spring day. But it came! Because of it, the outriders brought in the herds, and the women and children Stayed in the tents.” Except me, she thought bitterly. She had become lost in the fog on her way home and would never forget its dank smell.
“That fog was cold and thick, and when the attack came from every direction, there was no warning. They slaughtered everyone and combed the woods to ensure no one escaped. When they finished, they drove off the horses, scattered the livestock, and burned the tents.” Gabria turned back to Savaric, her head tilted angrily. “It was well planned, Lord. It was an intentional massacre, done by men with no desire to plunder or steal. I know who is responsible. I am going to claim weir-geld.”
“I see.” Savaric sat back in his seat and drummed his fingers slowly on his knee. The chieftain was as handsome as Gabria remembered, of medium height with a dark, neatly trimmed beard and eyes as black and glitteringly dangerous as a hawk’s. His face was weathered by years of sun and harsh wind and bore the marks of numerous battles. His right hand was missing the little finger.
He sat now, studying Gabria, waiting for a weakness or a slip of the tongue. He recognized a family resemblance in the boy, but oddly Gabran reminded him more of the mother, Samara, than his friend, Dathlar. Savaric was inclined to believe the boy’s story, as incredible as it was. The chief’s instincts told him that the boy was not treacherous and his instincts were always right. Still, he had to satisfy his warriors before he considered taking the boy into the clan.
“You have the red cloak of your clan, Gabran, and your story fits what little we know of the ambush. But I have no obvious proof that you are who you say you are.” Gabria bit back an angry retort. It was only to be expected that they would not accept her tale immediately. Rumors of war had been growing since last autumn, and, after the annihilation of an entire clan, every chieftain of the plains would be cautious.
She removed her cloak and swept it onto the floor before her. Its brilliant color drew every eye and held them like a spell. “My father was Dathlar of Clan Corin. He married Samara, a Khulinin, twenty-five years ago. They had four sons and one daughter.” She spoke slowly as if repeating her history by rote.
“My mother was beautiful, as fair as you are dark. She could play the lyre and the pipes, and she wore a gold brooch of buttercups. She died ten years ago. My father was your friend. He told me of you many times. In token of that friendship, you gave him this.” She pulled the silver dagger out of her boot and threw it on the cloak. It lay on the scarlet fabric, a silent messenger, its red gems glowing in the light like drops of blood.
Savaric stood up and reached out to pick up the dagger. “My guards are growing careless,” he said quietly. He stared at the shining blade and turned it over in his hands. “If you are truly the son of Dathlar and he was slain in treachery, then I must also seek weir-geld for my blood brother.”
Gabria was stunned. Blood brother! She had not expected this. If Savaric believed her and the garbled news he had received about the massacre, he was bound by his oath of friendship to Dathlar to settle the debt owed to Dathlar’s family—what was left of it. Blood friendship was as binding as a blood relationship and carried the same responsibilities. The fact that Gabria was an exile was now irrelevant to Savaric. She had only to convince him that she was telling the truth and, most difficult of all, that she really did know who was responsible for the killing. Then he would do everything possible to help her.
“Lord Savaric,” she said. “By the Hunnuli that bears me and the gods that nourish us, I am the child of Dathlar and I know who had my clan murdered.” She spoke forcefully, her eyes matching Savaric’s black gaze.
Savaric sat down again, still holding the dagger, examining it as if it bore a vestige of the man who had once carried it. “If nothing else, the Hunnuli is the strongest plea in your favor. She alone vouches for your character.”
Athlone stepped to his father’s side. “Hunnuli or no, there was sorcery at Corin Treld. We cannot accept this boy’s word so easily.” He leaned over and grasped the cloak. “Anyone with a little ingenuity could obtain a scarlet cloak and an interesting tale.”