For a short time, Gabria watched Nara and her baby as the colt frolicked in some shallow water. Beyond the horses, the gold light of sunset illuminated the circle of standing stones on the holy island of the gods in the middle of the rivers. Gabria looked at the island and then beyond to the far banks.
Every year when the clans gathered, each one encamped on the same site. The Corins had always made their camp to the north of the island on a wide, grassy bend of the Isin.
With little thought, Gabria took off her boots and waded across the gentle rapids of the Isin to the opposite side. She climbed the low bank and meandered slowly toward the trees that identified her clan’s ground. As in the treld far to the north, there was little here to mark the passing of the Corins: a few old fire pits, a refuse pile that would last only until the next flood, and some cut trees. Like the Corins’ meadow, there was also a burial mound. It had been left by the Khulinin when they camped on the Corin ground the previous summer.
Gabria wandered to the mound and stood gazing at the one spear and helmet that still adorned the single grave. The rustling of the grass alerted her to the presence of someone else in the campsite. She turned, smiling, thinking it was Athlone.
“Someone you know?” Sayyed asked.
The woman shook her head and pushed her disappointment aside. She had wanted Athlone, but Sayyed was good company, too. In the few days she had known him he had already become a close friend, someone with whom she felt comfortable and happy. She crossed her arms and said, “I didn’t know him except by name. He was Pazric, second wer-tain of the Khulinin. He was the first to be deliberately murdered by sorcery in over two hundred years.”
“Oh? I hadn’t heard about him. Tell me.”
“Lord Medb killed him during a council meeting of the chiefs last summer. It was the first time Medb displayed his powers.”
Sayyed stared down at the mound. “That must have been terrible,” he said with sincerity.
Gabria turned away. All at once she was overwhelmed by memories of that harrowing, event-filled day—the day Pazric had died; the day she had attended the council to accuse Medb; the day Savaric had forced Lord Medb to reveal his sorcery. Her throat tightened, and she blinked as the light of sunset blurred and shimmered through sudden tears.
Quickly Sayyed put his arm around her waist. He was rather short for a Turk and Gabria was tall for a clanswoman, so their heads were level as he pulled her close. She leaned against him and drew solace from the comfort of his strong arms and the warmth of his presence.
Her sadness slowly disappeared until her mouth curved up in a faint smile. “You remind me of my brother, Gabran.”
Sayyed masked a grimace with a chuckle. “Why?” he asked, hiding his disappointment. “Was your brother handsome?”
She laughed. “Yes, and kind, as strong and cunning as a wolf. He could also make me laugh.” She sighed softly. “I loved him very much.”
He tightened his arm around her. They stood for a long while in the afterglow of twilight, silhouetted against the pale gold luminescence that hung in the western sky.
From his place by the fire, Athlone watched the two distant figures and felt his heart grow heavy. The Turic was intruding deeper and deeper into Gabria’s life. He had only been with the travelers for seven days and already she was fascinated by him, this energetic tribesman who plainly worshiped her. A boil of jealousy emptied in Athlone’s mind, fed by his pride and uncertainty.
To the chieftain, the most frustrating thing was his own confusion. His relationship with Gabria was still new to him—they never seemed to get a chance to let their feelings develop without something getting in the way. Now this Turic was with them, and Athlone was no longer sure where he stood. Worst of all, he didn’t know what to do about it! Gabria was intelligent, self-reliant, and determined. She had proven her courage and worth ten times over. If she wished to give her love to Sayyed instead of him, then Athlone felt she had earned that right. Gabria had suffered enough heartache and pain without being forced into a relationship she no longer desired. Of course, that did not mean Athlone had to like being put aside.
He slammed the sword he was cleaning into its scabbard and strode out into the darkness. It was easy to tell himself that he could let her go if she chose to leave, but the thought of losing her was tearing him apart. Without thinking, he wandered to the small field where the horses grazed. There he stood, staring into the night, searching for the familiar shape of his old friend, Boreas.
The search was futile, and Athlone knew it; Boreas had been slain in the final battle with Medb the previous summer. That didn’t lessen the chieftain’s need for his old steed, though. Just as Nara was Gabria’s friend and confidant, Boreas had been his companion and advisor.
Athlone frowned and readied himself to return to camp, but something moving in the darkness stopped him. It was the great black bulk of a Hunnuli, a stallion like Boreas. The chieftain’s heart leaped with hope and fear. His ghost, perhaps, returning from the dead to aid me when I most need his advice?
The Hunnuli came to his side, but it was not Athlone’s long-dead steed. An unfamiliar pair of wise eyes gleamed at him, and a deep, soothing voice said, I am not Boreas, Eurus told him. But I am here.
Thankfully the man leaned against the big horse and ran his hand through the stallion’s long, thick mane. He stood, stewing over his problem, his mind working like a boiling pot with bits of thought and feeling bubbling to the surface faster than he could follow them. He loved Gabria and did not want to lose her, yet he did not know how to win her back.
On the heels of those thoughts came the guilty notion that, perhaps, it would be better if he didn’t win her back. She was a sorceress. She should be with other magic-wielders, people like Sayyed who would appreciate and support her talent.
Athlone was chieftain of the largest and most respected clan on the plains. Even if Gabria survived this journey and the clan chieftains changed the laws forbidding sorcery, there would always be suspicion, distrust, and hatred for magic-wielders. He was not completely sure he was ready to accept the controversy and the constant battle for acceptance.
With that thought, a bubble of remorse boiled out of his mind. He was a magic-wielder, too. But it was so much easier to ignore that truth, to let Gabria go, and to live peacefully as a mere chieftain with his clan-like his father and his father’s father before him.
Athlone twisted the black mane into his fingers. He knew full well he couldn’t take that path and live with himself. No, winning Gabria’s heart was the important thing; somehow he would have to find a way to reconcile himself with his talent. If only he knew what to do.
He shook his head in frustration and pushed himself away from the Hunnuli.
The black horse nudged Athlone’s chest. Sometimes the heart speaks dearer than the mind, lord chieftain.
Athlone laughed humorlessly. “And sometimes they argue unmercifully.” He patted the horse and went back to the camp. After a word with the sentry, he retired to his small traveling tent. For Athlone, it was a very long night.
6
Gabria and Nara stood in rippling grass on the point of a high bluff and looked down on the green plains below. The woman shielded her eyes from the noon sun and peered downhill to the caravan trail that wound over the rolling grasslands like a giant snake. The route was not like the stone road near the fortress of Ab-Chakan. It was really nothing more than a dirt path worn into the ground by years of constant use. Nevertheless, it was wide and well marked, and the hooves of countless pack animals had pounded the surface to a rock-hard consistency. In some places the wagons and traders’ carts had cut wheel ruts several handspans deep.