The Fon calmed down as she thought about this creature.
Gorthlings, as some named them, were quite tiny in stature and rather mild in appearance. Nevertheless, they embodied great evil, and, according to Matrah’s book, their essence greatly enhanced the powers of a sorcerer strong enough to capture one and pull it from the realm of the dead to the world of mankind. More importantly, to the Fon’s mind, gorthlings could impart the power to wield magic on a human who did not have the inborn talent. In his tome, Matrah had explained the dangers inherent in summoning a gorthling, but the Fon paid little attention to that. There would be no danger, because she was certain she could control the creature.
The Fon smiled to herself. Once the gorthling bowed to her command, she could take the next step in her plan. She would use her sorcery and the armies of Pra Desh to quell any unrest in Calah and conquer the other four kingdoms of the Alardarian Alliance. From there it would be an easy step to conquer other realms to the north and the east, and with the might of the East in her grasp, she could swoop down on the barbarian clans and add the rich Dark Horse grasslands to her domain.
All at once, the Fon threw back her head and laughed. An empire would be hers-not a mere city, but a world! She sobered as her glance fell on the exiled clansman staring blankly at the floor. She would have to watch him closely after this failure. When the gorthling was hers, Branth would go to the deep, natural pit in the dungeon where she often rid herself of inconveniences.
The only threat the Fon could imagine was the other clan magic-wielder. One of her spies had picked up a rumor in court that Khan’di Kadoa had secretly sent for the sorceress to rid the city of Branth. The woman snorted. She hoped the sorceress would come, though she had not decided whether it would be more beneficial to kill the clanswoman or capture her for her power. She wanted to study that problem a while longer, but there would be time for such pondering later. Her primary concern now was to capture a gorthling.
Irritably, the Fon put away the makings of the spell. She hid the golden cage and the Book of Matrah in a secret compartment she had constructed beneath the floor of the old storeroom. The room was forbidden to the palace inhabitants on pain of death, but she was taking no chances with her precious book or the golden cage.
As soon as Branth was completely rested they would try again. Until then, she would have to tighten her security and continue to lay her plans for the invasion of Portane, the first of the neighboring kingdoms that would fall to her might.
With a snap of her fingers, she ordered Branth to move to his pallet of straw by the wall, where his chains hung. The man ignored her, and she was forced to yank him to his feet. For just a moment, his eyes flashed hatred.
“Branth!” she said, her words cold and deadly. “Go to the wall.” The emotions snuffed out of the man’s gaze. He shuffled to his place like a whipped dog. The Fon chained him with the shackles, left him some food and water, and locked the heavy door of the storeroom.
Although it was night and the palace inhabitants were probably asleep, the Fon took the precaution of using hidden passages to reach her private rooms on the third floor of the palace. With a chuckle of pleasure, she stepped out onto the balcony of her bedroom and looked down on the sprawling city of Pra Desh. The harbor was a silver crescent in the moonlight. Her glance found the reflection of the Serentine River and slowly followed the water’s path north through the city and beyond into the rich farmlands of Calah. The river’s trail vanished in the darkness, but the Fon followed it onward in her imagination, past the borders of Calah to Portane and the other lands of the Five Kingdoms.
“Soon,” she whispered to herself. “Very soon.”
“Gabria!” The shout came from a long distance behind her, its urgency clear over the sound of galloping horses.
The young woman tried to ignore the call. She knew what the shout meant: they had been riding for hours and the men wanted her to slow down. But the memories of her dream still burned in her mind and urged her on. She had to keep going. She had to get to Branth before it was too late.
The call came again. “Gabria!”
Gabria, this road is treacherous. We must slow down, Nara said in her thoughts. The others cannot keep pace with us.
“Then leave them. I don’t need any of them,” the woman cried. Although Nara continued to run, Gabria could feel the mare’s reluctance breaking her smooth stride.
I know the men are causing you confusion, but you cannot leave them. You need them with you.
Gabria’s hands tightened on the horse’s mane. She had a wretched headache from both the wine and the vision, and her thoughts were a whirlwind of frightening, half-seen dreams and tangled memories of Athlone, Sayyed, and the night before. She was angry, confused, and in no mood to be reasonable. “No. I don’t need them. They’re making me crazy.”
Nara nickered, the sound like gentle laughter. So I have noticed. Still, we cannot go on like this. My son cannot keep up.
Gabria turned to look back and saw the small, black form far behind, struggling gamely through the mud to catch up with his mother. Eurus was staying with him, and farther behind were the seven men and the other horses. She said, “Oh, Nara, I’m sorry.”
The Hunnuli immediately slowed to a walk, and in a moment, Eurus and the colt cantered to her side. Their black coats were spattered with reddish mud, and their hooves were caked with the stuff. The colt was so tired he could not even nicker his relief.
The men caught up shortly. Their horses were muddy, too, and sweating heavily. Atop his steed, Piers looked thoroughly miserable.
Athlone, who looked much less put out by the hard ride, started to say something, but Gabria glared at him, turned her back on the company, and rode ahead up the trail—this time at a more manageable pace. The men glanced at one another, yet no one spoke their thoughts. They were a very silent group as they followed the road north in the wake of the sorceress and her Hunnuli.
The rain ended shortly after midday, and a warm wind from the south pulled the clouds apart and cleared the huge sky. By late afternoon, the green-gold hills basked in the warm sun, and a verdant smell of herbs and grass rose from the damp earth.
The comfortable heat of the spring sun dried the travelers’ cloaks and hoods, their packs and horses. It also warmed their spirits. Gabria slowly felt her tension and frustration melt away in the mellow sunshine. Although her dream still bothered her and urged her on to Pra Desh, she slowly realized that much of her inner turmoil was caused by the men. They were making her crazy.
She was already worried and nervous about a confrontation with Branth and the Fon. Now her emotions were being torn apart by the two men she cared for more than anyone. She still loved Athlone, but he did not seem to want her. Sayyed, on the other hand, obviously adored her, but she did not know if she wanted him. She was being pushed and pulled in too many directions.
The other men were not much help, either. Piers, her usual counselor and supporter, was either miserable with his cold or arguing with Khan’di. For his part, the merchant was constantly urging the party to keep moving toward Calah as fast as they could go. Bregan never let Lord Athlone out of his sight long enough for Gabria to talk to the chief, and the other three warriors never said a word to her.
This journey would be enough to try the patience of Amara, Gabria noted silently. Nevertheless, she knew Nara was right.
She did need the men to help her reach Pra Desh and find Branth. Without them she would be lost. The young woman took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. It would do little good to antagonize her companions with her bad temper. She would have to calm down and find a way to deal with her tangled feelings.