By the time the company stopped to camp by a watering hole, Gabria had rejoined the men. Her earlier frenzied anger was apparently put aside. She laughed and talked with Sayyed and Piers, chatted with Khan’di, and teased Bregan about his short-legged horse. She tried to talk with Athlone, without much luck. The chief was taciturn all evening and seemed to have his thoughts a thousand leagues away.
For the next several days the company continued on their northern route, riding fast on the heels of Gabria and the Hunnuli. She pushed them all hard, for the sense of urgency that had awakened during her dreams grew stronger by the day. They were losing precious time. They had to reach Pra Desh before Branth attempted his spell again.
Although Nara and Eurus tried to keep a pace the smaller Harachan horses could tolerate, the constant, hard traveling began to take its toll on the weaker horses.
One afternoon, four days from Jehanan Treld, Bregan’s horse tripped in a rodent hole at the side of the road and fell heavily on his head. Gabria, riding beside the warrior, heard a sickening crack as the horse went down and saw Bregan thrown violently to the ground. She slid off Nara immediately and went to the warrior’s side. His head was bloodied, and his eyes held a vague, dazed look. He tried once to get up before he fell back in her arms.
The other men dismounted and came running. Piers examined the injured warrior, then looked up at Athlone with obvious relief. “He’s cut and bruised. He might even need stitches, but he should be all right.”
“Stubs won’t be,” one of the other warriors said glumly.
They turned to look at Bregan’s gelding, still struggling on the ground. The three Hunnuli were standing beside the stricken horse, their muzzles close to his to quiet and comfort him. Everyone could see the shattered, bloody end of his foreleg.
Athlone cursed. He knew how much Bregan loved his horse. Silently, Athlone drew his sword and knelt beside the gelding.
“No! Wait’” Bregan pulled himself painfully to a sitting position. Blood poured down his face from the deep cut on his forehead. He snuggled to focus on his horse and, as the realization hit him, tears mingled with the blood on his face. Slowly he crawled to Stubs and cradled the horse’s head in his lap.
The gelding nickered once and relaxed in Bregan’s arms. Without a word, the old warrior gently pulled the horse’s nose up until the base of the throat was exposed. Athlone drove the point of his sword through the soft throatlatch, deep into the brain. Stubs died instantly.
Bregan, blinded by blood and tears, closed the gelding’s eyes and passed out.
They removed the bridle and saddle and erected a cairn of rocks over Stubs’s body. Piers and Secen gently lifted Bregan onto the healer’s mare. It was almost dark by the time they rode on, so they soon stopped in a sheltered, wooded valley only half a day’s travel from the winter camp of the Reidhar clan.
While the other hearthguard warriors set up the small traveling tents and Gabria starred a cooking fire, Piers tended to Bregan’s injuries. The warrior had roused from unconsciousness and was muttering between his clenched teeth as the healer gently cleaned the wound on his forehead. That done, Piers began to stitch it closed with a tiny bone needle and horsehair thread. Athlone and Khan’di came to sit beside them.
“The blow to Bregan’s head is serious,” Piers said without preamble. “He’s going to need at least a day of rest.”
The chieftain glanced an inquiry at Khan’di. The nobleman rubbed his mustache and said, “There is not much time left. If the Fon stays with her original plan, she will invade Portane in fifteen days.”
“My lord, I . . . Ouch!” Bregan flinched away from Piers’s needle.
“That’s what happens when you move! You’re worse than a child,” the healer admonished. He pushed Bregan’s head around so he could see the gash better in the firelight.
“If you were about to say that you don’t need the rest,” Athlone told the old warrior, “forget it. All of us could use a respite from the road.” A look of concern crossed his face. “We could also use several new horses and some supplies.”
Piers looked sharply at the chieftain. “Do you intend to stop at Reidhar Treld? Is that a good idea?”
“No. But they’re close, and we have little choice.”
Khan’di asked, “What is wrong with the Reidhar?”
“There’s nothing particularly wrong with the clan,” said Piers, tying off a stitch on Bregan’s forehead. “The trouble is their chieftain, Lord Caurus. He hates sorcery, and he’s suspicious of the Khulinin’s wealth and influence. Last summer, when Medb threatened the clans with war, Lord Caurus would not side with Medb, but he wouldn’t side with Lord Savaric either. He took his clan back to their lands and waited to see what would happen.”
“I don’t know what he expected to do there,” Bregan commented. “His clan would never have survived an attack by Lord Medb if the sorcerer had survived the battle at Ab-Chakan.”
Athlone chuckled. “Caurus still can’t believe my father and Gabria destroyed Lord Medb without his help.”
“He won’t be happy to see us,” Bregan said, frowning.
“He will abide by clan hospitality,” Athlone stated flatly. “We will receive the supplies we need to continue.”
Piers finished the stitching and began to put away his tools. “Will he include Gabria in that hospitality?” he asked carefully.
Khan’di turned to watch the sorceress as she helped Sayyed fix the evening meal. “She travels with us. Doesn’t clan law make it clear that she must be included?”
“Caurus might not pay attention to the details of the law, but I don’t intend to give him a choice.” Athlone replied.
Bregan and Piers exchanged glances at the stone-cold tone of the chieftain’s voice. “I hope you’re right.” Piers said. “Gabria needs rest more than any of us.”
There was a pause. The chief shifted slightly and said, “Why?”
“I think this confrontation with Branth is affecting her more than we realize. She has been pushing herself too hard.”
Athlone’s eyebrows went up. His cold, dark eyes softened a little, and he nodded once to himself. “We have all been pushing her,” he said quietly. He slapped Piers on the shoulder and went back to work.
After the meal, Athlone passed the word of their destination to the rest of the parry. Gabria’s heart sank. She did not like Lord Caurus. He was loud, arrogant, and very unpleasant to anyone who annoyed him. He had also made it clear last summer that he despised sorcery—an attitude he had impressed upon his clan.
While the men settled down for the night, Gabria went for a long walk beside the creek that meandered through the valley. She took only her thoughts with her and tried to find solace in the solitude of the spring night. She did not have much success.
On her way back to camp, she passed the meadow where the horses grazed and saw Athlone standing in the grass with Eurus. The chieftain was brushing the Hunnuli’s ebony coat with a steady, unconscious stroke.
For a time the young woman stood in the shadows and watched the chieftain. She wanted to talk to him, to ask him what was wrong, to learn if he still loved her. But an uncomfortable reluctance to know the truth made her hesitate.
Her heart pounding, Gabria finally walked out of the trees to Eurus’s side. The big horse nickered a welcome, and Athlone started, dropping his brush. To hide his nervousness, he slowly leaned over to retrieve it, then took the time to clean it of din.
Nara came to join them, and Gabria leaned gratefully against the mare’s warm side. “Athlone, I . . .”
The chief did not seem to hear her. He resumed brushing Eurus and immediately said, “Tomorrow, when we ride to the Reidhar camp, I want you to wear your skirts. Put your sword away and keep quiet.”