Khan’di laughed once, a sharp, bitter bark. “Leave her to me.”
Gabria studied him for a long moment. It was still possible the Pra Deshian was leading her into a trap. If not for the warning of the King Stallion, she might not have accepted Khan’di’s plea so readily. Now, as she examined his fleshy face and watched the way his hands tightened around the reins in suppressed anger, she thought that he was probably telling the truth, at least as he saw it.
“That will have to do,” she finally answered. “Do not go back on your word.” She plucked the scroll out of his fingers, nodded once again, and turned Nara away.
The man watched her go, his mouth pulled tight. The woman was ignorant, but she was not stupid. He would have to tread carefully with her. And her Hunnuli. Khan’di could not swear to it, but just before the big mare turned, he thought he saw an almost human glint of warning in her dark eyes.
5
For five days the party followed the Goldrine River as it flowed northeast then east across the grasslands of Ramtharin, toward its junction with the Isin River.
Ignoring the cold winds and incessant rains, the riders traveled fast from dawn to dusk, stopping only at noon to eat and rest the horses. True to Nara’s word, the foal had no trouble keeping up with the other horses and seemed to thrive on his mother’s milk and the constant exercise. The people slowly settled into the routine of the trail, too, as their muscles adjusted to the long hours of riding and their minds grew accustomed to each other’s constant company.
Gabria divided her time between Athlone, Piers, and Khan’di. Although she did not care for the nobleman from Pra Desh, he enjoyed talking to her and was a fountain of information and advice. While Piers told her about Pra Desh’s history, culture, and society, Khan’di filled her in on the changes that had been taking place in the government, economy, and politics during the past few years.
“The kingdom of Calah is ruled by a king,” he explained one afternoon, “but the capital city, Pra Desh, is ruled by the Fon.”
“The king allows that?” Gabria asked in surprise.
Khan’di chuckled. “He usually doesn’t have much choice. The Fon controls the vast flow of goods to and from the Five Kingdoms, so he or she holds more wealth and power than the king. It is not the easiest of situations. There has been constant feuding between the king and the Fon for generations.”
“Where is your king now?”
The nobleman’s brow lowered in anger. “About eleven years ago, the king of Calah died in a mysterious accident, leaving a son too young to rule. Fast on the heels of that disaster, the Fon was poisoned. His body wasn’t even cold when his wife snatched control of the city and the kingdom. She still holds them both—in the name of the young prince, of course.”
“Why hasn’t the prince reclaimed his throne?”
“No one knows where he is. The Fon held him prisoner for a few years, but we have not seen him recently. I’m afraid she may have disposed of him.” The nobleman fell silent after that and rode with his expression frozen and his eyes as hard as rock.
The next day, during another talk, he told Gabria more about Branth’s arrival in Pra Desh.
“The man was a fool,” Khan’di said in disgust. “He ensconced himself in a big house in one of the wealthiest districts of the city and began flaunting himself in the highest social circles. He made no secret of his talent as a magic-wielder, but he was smart enough not to use his power openly. Then odd things began to happen. Gold was stolen out of locked safes, gem shipments disappeared, and ships sank in the harbor for no apparent reason. Men who angered Branth were financially ruined.” Khan’di shook his head. “By the time someone tied the crimes to Branth it was too late. The Fon sent a detachment of her own guards to arrest him, but he’d had plenty of time to set up his defenses. His house was fortified and his power too great to overcome. He blasted the captain of the guard with a strange blue fire.”
“The Trymian Force,” Gabria said softly.
“The what?”
“It’s a force drawn from the magic-wielder’s own energy.” She grimaced. “It can be very deadly.”
Khan’di nodded. “It certainly was. Branth wiped out an entire company of heavily armed men with it.”
“How did the Fon finally capture him?”
“The way she takes anything—through guile. She played on Branth’s vanities and lured him to the palace with the promise of an alliance.” The man broke off and surprised Gabria by glancing over his shoulder at Piers riding behind him. She thought for just a moment there was a flicker of regret in his dark eyes.
“I suppose the healer told you,” Khan’di continued, “that the Fon is an expert at poison?”
“He mentioned it,” she replied carefully.
“Well, she used a special poison of her own concoction to gain control of Branth’s mind and render him helpless. He still has his talent, but she has the book and controls his actions.”
Gabria looked pale. She despised Branth, but it was hard to imagine the powerful, ambitious chieftain trapped in the grip of an insidious poison. It gave her the shivers. “Can she make him do anything?”
“The man is a total prisoner.”
“What will happen to him if we take him away from the Fon and her poisons? Will he regain his will?”
“I don’t know or care. Just remove him or kill him.” Khan’di twisted his mustache, a habit that showed when he was agitated. “We must get him away from the Fon before she invades Portane. If she attempts that, the entire Alardarian Alliance will shatter. Pra Desh will be ruined! I—”
Nara suddenly tossed her head, interrupting him. Gabria, someone comes. The mare whirled and faced a hill they had just passed. Eurus neighed a warning to the men, and the party drew in close to Nara and came to a halt.
At that moment, a lone horseman appeared on the crest of the hill and waved to them in apparent excitement. He was too far away to recognize, yet they all saw he was not a clansman. He was a Turic tribesman from the southern desert. Gabria glanced worriedly at Athlone, and the hearthguard gathered around their lord, their hands resting on their swords.
The horse came toward them at a full gallop, his ears pinned back and his tail flying. The man leaned back in his stirrups and greeted the party with a wild, high-pitched ululation. The afternoon sun glittered on the great curved sword by his side, and the burnoose he wore flew out behind him like a flag.
He reined his horse to a snorting, prancing stop directly in front of Nara and Gabria and swept off his hood. “Sorceress!” he cried. “I have been looking everywhere for you!”
Gabria was so surprised she could only stare down at the man. He was young and lean, with the dark skin and brown eyes common to Turic tribesman. His black hair was worn in an intricate knot behind his head. His face was clean-shaven, revealing the strong, narrow lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Gabria thought he was compellingly handsome, and he met her confused stare with a bold, masculine look of pleasure.
He ignored the other men, who were watching him with varying degrees of curiosity and wariness, and dismounted from his horse. He came to stand by Gabria’s foot. “You are Gabria of Clan Corin,” he stated, looking into her face. “I know it. I am Sayyed Raid-Ja, seventh son of Dultar of Sharja. I, too, am a magic-wielder. I would like to travel with you and learn your sorcery.”
Gabria felt her jaw drop.
“Absolutely not!” Athlone thundered.
“Why not?” Sayyed asked reasonably, turning to the chief for the first time. “Lord Athlone, forgive me. I was so pleased to find the sorceress that I forgot my duty to you. Greetings!”
Athlone nodded curtly. He had taken an instant dislike to this man, and he did not appreciate the way the Turic was looking at Gabria. “Good day to you, son of Dultar. Please stand aside. We must be on our way.”