“That’s impossible,” Gabria mumbled.
“What?” Sayyed and Athlone said at once.
The woman quickly gathered her wits and turned to the tribesman. “How can you be a magic-wielder? Only clan blood carries that talent.”
Sayyed flashed a grin at her. “My mother was of Clan Ferganan. She was captured one day near a waterhole by my father. He sought a slave to sell in the market that day, but it was he who became a slave to a wife and twelve children.”
“You are half-clan?” Piers exclaimed.
Khan’di shrugged. “It is enough.”
“How do you know you are a magic-wielder?” Athlone demanded.
A mischievous twinkle danced in Sayyed’s glance. He stooped down, picked up a handful of dirt, and tossed it into the air. The earth and stones flew high, then exploded into a cloud of shimmering blue butterflies.
The unexpected fluttering startled Khan’di’s gelding. It snorted in fear, spun around, and slammed into Athlone’s stallion. The Harachan horses picked up the gelding’s panic and leaped into a frenzied attempt to escape.
“Of all the stupid things to do,” Athlone yelled from the back of his bucking stallion. “Get rid of those things!”
Sayyed spoke a command and the butterflies vanished. He tried to look contrite as the riders calmed their mounts.
He is a magic-wielder, Nara told Gabria, though how much use butterflies will be against Branth I cannot say.
“All right,” Gabria said, trying not to laugh. “You are who you say you are. Why do you want to come with me?”
Sayyed threw his arms wide in excitement. “To learn! My father has enough sons to bother with, so I can do what I want. I want you to teach me about sorcery.”
“It looks like you know enough already,” Khan’di remarked dryly.
“Only a trifle I have learned by accident. I want to know more.”
“No,” Gabria said. She was thoroughly taken aback. “I can’t teach you, I hardly know enough myself.”
“Well, then, I might help you. They told me at Khulinin Treld that you are going to battle another sorcerer. Let me come. If you can’t teach me, maybe I can help.”
“I don’t think . . .” Gabria began.
“Isn’t sorcery forbidden by the Turic?” Athlone interrupted in annoyance.
Sayyed locked his gaze with Athlone’s and said, “Yes. And since I have been outlawed from my people, I decided that I should die doing what I was born to do.”
His words and their obvious sincerity touched Gabria to the core, stirring the similar feelings she had about magic. To hear another person state a desire for sorcery so honestly was all she needed to win her trust. The King Stallion had advised her to take other humans with her. Why not another magic-wielder?
She held out her hand palm up. “Come, Sayyed Raid-Ja. If you’re so certain, maybe I can use your help.”
“No!” Athlone snarled, but his protest was lost in Sayyed’s shout of glee as he clasped Gabria’s hand to seal the deal.
Nara began to move, and the whole party fell in beside her, leaving Athlone fuming on his mount. The chieftain kicked his horse forward and caught up with Gabria. To him, her expression looked maddeningly pleased.
The chief gritted his teeth. Unless the Turic changed his mind and left, it looked like they were stuck with him. The man had already swung his horse in behind Nara and was whistling a tune to himself. Short of driving him off at swordpoint, there was nothing Athlone could do about him.
“What possessed you to invite him along?” Athlone said coldly to Gabria. “You don’t need his help. And we don’t have time to mollycoddle an irresponsible boy.”
Gabria was stung. Her eyes £lashing dangerously, she leaned over and snapped, “The King Stallion told me to bring others with me. I am following his advice.”
“Why him? He’s a Turic. He’ll just be in the way,” Athlone replied, his fury mounting.
Gabria glared at him, hurt and angry. On this journey she needed all the support and trust Athlone could give her. She could not understand why he was being so vehement about this stranger. “Because he sought me out. Because he cares about what he is. Because he is a magic-wielder and I may need him!” Her last word broke off sharply, and she lapsed into silence.
Athlone studied her for a long time, watching the way her blond hair curled around her ear, how her small nose turned up slightly at the end, and how the freckles on her cheeks stood out when she was angry. She was so lovely it made his heart sing and yet, sometimes she was so strange and distant to him; he did not know how to reach her. All he could do was try to understand, but that hardly seemed enough.
The chieftain let out a long breath. “Perhaps you’re right,” he told Gabria, his voice still sharp with anger. “Not all magic-wielders are willing to use their powers. One like the Turic might be useful.”
“You have the talent, too, Athlone,” she said quietly.
“And no desire to use it.” The chief shifted his weight and kicked his horse forward. For the rest of the afternoon he rode the point, well ahead of Gabria, Sayyed, and the others.
Gabria and Athlone had little chance to bridge the rift over the next few days. Gabria felt she was in the right in their dispute over the Turic’s presence and did not try to approach the chieftain with apologies or contrition. Athlone, in turn, had few opportunities to talk to her. Every time he tried, he was called away by the warriors or interrupted by Piers or Khan’di.
Sayyed did not help matters, either. The young Turic made himself at home with the company. He laughed and joked with the warriors—Secen, Keth, and Valar; helped Bregan hunt for meat; talked medicine with Piers; and discussed the merits of fabrics and spices from the South with Khan’di. But he saved the best of his attentions for Gabria. He used every chance he had to be near her, whether Athlone was there or not.
The sorceress was resting upon Nara’s back one afternoon while the mare paused for a drink. Seeing an opportunity to talk to Gabria alone, Athlone waved his men on and went to join her and the Hunnuli on the riverbank. She looked at him curiously and a little warily, as if expecting the outbreak of another argument.
“Gabria, I—” he began. Then he stopped, for it dawned on him that he really did not know what he wanted to say to her.
“Lord Athlone!” Bregan yelled. “Secen is signaling.”
The chieftain cursed under his breath and looked for the warrior, who was riding the point. Secen was atop a far hill, signaling the presence of other riders. Athlone left Gabria and hurried to investigate. By the time he checked the two riders Secen had spotted and made sure they had not seen his party, Gabria had joined Sayyed.
The chief’s face darkened with anger as he watched the two of them together. Sayyed had found some early wildflowers and had made a crown for Gabria. They were talking and laughing like old friends as she fastened the ring of flowers in her hair.
Athlone spurred his horse away so they could not see the doubt and anger on his face.
On the evening of the twelfth day, Gabria and her companions reached the Tir Samod—the name given to the holy joining of the Goldrine and Isin Rivers—where the clans of Valorian had gathered every summer for countless generations. They arrived before sunset and made camp in the grove of cottonwood trees near the place where the council tent usually stood. To the clansmen the meadows looked empty and strange without the big camps, the bustling market, the huge council tent, and the throngs of people, dogs, and horses that crowded the site every year. Except for the ripple and rush of the two rivers and the wind sweeping through the bare trees, the place was quiet and peaceful.
For the first time in several days the sky was cloudless and the sun set with the promise of another clear day. After the evening meal, the warriors settled down by the fire to clean their weapons and tack. Piers examined his medical supplies to see if any had been spoiled by the intermittent rains of the past twelve days. Khan’di sat on his cushion and cleaned his nails.