Wearily she nodded, more hope than conviction in her heart, and the healer took her arm. “Come,” he said. “I have your old sleeping place ready for you.” He led Gabria out of the hall and down the path toward his tent. She looked back at the hall entrance, hoping Athlone would call to her, but the lord was talking to a warrior and did not even seem to notice she had left. She bowed her head and hurried on with Piers.
In the hall, Lord Athlone paced back and forth by the fire pit. The hall was momentarily empty, save for Bregan. The warrior was standing silently by the dais, waiting for his chieftain to speak.
Bregan was twenty years older than Athlone and a handspan shorter. His dark hair, worn short, was graying, and a black and silver beard trimmed his square face. He was dressed in a warm tunic and pants with none of the ornamentation or gold jewelry that was the privilege of a warrior of his experience. His features were well-defined, but in the past winter a deep sadness had left permanent lines on his forehead and face. Bregan watched his lord despondently, for he knew what Athlone was going to ask him and what he would have to answer.
Lord Athlone finally stopped pacing and said, “Bregan, I have asked you twice to be wer-tain and both times you refused. I have to ask you again. I need you as commander of my warriors.”
Bregan shifted uncomfortably. “Lord, you know I can’t.”
Athlone held up his hand. “Before you refuse again, hear me out. I am going to Pra Desh with Lady Gabria.”
The warrior did not look surprised. “Good. Branth must die,” he said flatly.
“And Gabria must not,” Athlone muttered. He put his hands on the older man’s shoulders. “I understand how you feel, but I am chieftain now and I must leave this clan in capable hands. The journey will take months. You have the wisdom to rule in my stead, and you still hold the respect of the werod. There is no one else I trust as much.”
“Lord, you do me great honor, but please choose another! I cannot go back on my vow.”
Athlone studied the man before him and saw the adamant refusal in Bregan’s eyes. Of Lord Savaric’s five hearthguard warriors who had been with him the day of his murder, only two still survived. Two of the warriors had chosen suicide instead of facing the shame and dishonor of their failure. One warrior had died of an illness on the way back to Khulinin Treld—some said he had lost the will to live. The fourth withdrew from the werod and each day drank himself into a stupor.
Only Bregan remained a warrior. After Savaric’s death, he voluntarily stripped himself of his status and the gifts he had won for distinguished service, then placed himself in the bottom rank with the young warriors in training. He would begin again, he had told Athlone, and work to regain his lost honor.
The chief shook his head. He could respect Bregan’s choice, but it did not help him solve his dilemma. He had not yet chosen a wer-tain for the clan in the hope that Bregan would eventually accept. Now he had to decide on someone else quickly. He dropped his hands from Bregan’s shoulders and resumed pacing.
“Do you have any suggestions?” he asked.
“Guthlac would serve you well.”
“He’s too young.”
Bregan’s mouth lifted in a slight smile. “He is several years older than you were when you became wer-tain.”
Athlone stopped pacing, his face thoughtful. “I will think about it.”
“He is a good warrior, and the others approve of him. He has been an excellent mentor for the younger men.”
“Isn’t he also your cousin?” Athlone asked, his eyebrow arched. The older man smiled, then the chieftain found himself mirroring the expression. “I will think about it,” he repeated.
Bregan stepped forward. “Lord, will you consider something else?” Athlone turned slightly, surprised by the note of pleading in the warrior’s voice.
“Allow me to come with you,” Bregan said. “I failed your father, but I swear by my life I will not fail you. You will need guards. Let me be one of them.”
“This will not be an easy journey. Gabria goes to face a sorcerer.”
“I know that. Lady Gabria will need protection, too.”
“Pack your gear,” Athlone ordered.
“Thank you, Lord.” Bregan saluted the chief and withdrew, leaving Athlone in the chaos of his own thoughts. The young lord paced for a few more minutes, then left the hall and walked up a path to the top of the hill overlooking the camp. A large, flat rock lay among some scrubby bushes at the edge of the slope. It was Athlone’s favorite place, for it afforded a view of the entire valley.
He gathered his cloak close against the night wind, sat on the rock, and studied the glorious clouds and patterns of stars breaking the monotony of the black sky. In front of him, a full moon sailed high above the plains. He looked down on the encampment. The black tents melted into the darkness, but here and there pools of firelight gave shape to the sleeping camp.
Usually this view of Khulinin Treld gave Athlone solace and strengthened his sense of purpose. Tonight, it only made his confusion more acute. Duty to his clan had always been his sole obligation. When his father had been alive and Athlone was only wer-tain, that duty was clear and simple: defend the chieftain and the clan with his strength of arms and his battle-wit. Now he was chieftain and his sense of duty was split. He still had to care for and defend the Khulinin, but he also had to avenge his father’s murder, sustain the honor of the clan, and struggle to maintain peace with the other clans on the plains. To make matters more complicated, he loved a heretical sorceress more than life itself and feared for her safety. He Was still ambivalent about sorcery, especially his own talent, yet his love for Gabria was undeniable.
Athlone looked up at the deep black firmament and prayed he had made the right decision to go to Pra Desh. He would choose Guthlac to serve as wer-tain while he was gone. Hopefully the clan gods would watch over the Khulinin until he could return.
The chieftain shook his head and stood up. The decision was made; nothing could be served by worrying the matter to death. There were problems to settle, plans to make, and a journey to begin. For good or ill, he was going to Pra Desh with Gabria.
Calmer now, he strode back down the hill and returned to his quarters in the hall. He thought about going to Piers’s tent to see Gabria, but the night was late and she had suffered from the long journey. He decided to wait until morning, when she was rested. He knew he hadn’t given her a very pleasant welcome that evening; in the morning he would - apologize and make up for his bad temper.
With a yawn, Athlone laid his sword by the bed and settled down on the wool-stuffed mattress. He was asleep in moments, dreaming of Gabria.
4
Gabria was glad to be back in Piers’s tent, lying on her own pallet and listening to the familiar sounds of the sleeping camp. Her body was tired, and her thoughts were weary of spinning over the same paths. She wanted to sleep, but she could not. A strange restlessness coursed through her mind and kept her tossing and turning. The girl could not identify the cause of her uneasiness. It did not seem to spring from her own worries. It was a vague anxiety that stirred the deepest levels of her consciousness and kept her on edge throughout the night.
It was near dawn when Gabria was brought upright by a pain that lanced through her abdomen.
“Nara!” she said aloud.
Gabria! The call came clear in her mind. Please come. It is time.
The woman paused only long enough to pull on her boots and grab her belt and dagger. She bolted from the tent and ran down to the pastures. Nara was waiting for her by the river. Gabria recognized immediately the signs of approaching delivery. The foal had dropped down toward the birthing canal, and Nara’s sides were wet with sweat from her labor.