“Oh, please, speak in your tongue,” the boy insisted. “I’m trying to learn it.” He had a pleased, open expression that paid no heed to the weather or the tension around him.
Sayyed grinned. “What is your name?” he called back, raising his voice to be heard over the ranks of soldiers.
“Tassilio. Are you a chieftain?”
The sorcerer’s grin grew wider. “No. They won’t let me.” Several guffaws came from the men around him, and Sayyed pushed himself a little higher on Afer’s neck to see the boy better. “These men,” he explained, pointing to the lords beside him, “are chieftains. They’re waiting to see the Shar-Ja.”
The light abruptly faded from the boy’s face. He tilted his head as if listening to something beside him and shook it fiercely. “Tell them? Of course I can’t tell them!” he shrilled.
The officer of the guard rolled his eyes.
“I can’t take them to see him either, you know that!” Tassilio said forcefully to the empty air. “He’s very sad. He won’t talk to anyone. Why? I don’t know why! No one ever tells me anything!” He suddenly turned on his heel and stamped back the way he had come, the dog close to his heels.
The clansmen watched him go in surprise, the boy’s unhappiness obvious even from a distance. The Turics paid no attention.
When Sayyed asked the officer about the boy, the man shrugged and answered indifferently, “The Shar-Ja’s son by a concubine. But he’s a sandrat and a simple one at that.”
Most of the northern chiefs looked blank when Sayyed translated that bit of news, so he explained. “A sandrat is another name for a bastard.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “The concubine was probably not his own, but the Shar-Ja was honorable enough to accept the child.”
“Too bad he’s a simpleton,” growled Fiergan.
To everyone’s relief, a small contingent of counselors arrived at that moment led—to no one’s surprise—by Zukhara. The elegant counselor tried to look apologetic for the first time since they’d met him. He marched his companions just to the first rank of guards and there stopped, once again keeping his distance and forcing everyone to shout.
“My lords,” he called, “we have received your message. Unfortunately, the Shar-Ja is unable to accept visitors. His grief has taken a serious toll on his stamina and has forced him into seclusion.”
“I’d like to bet on that one,” muttered Fiergan.
“Then perhaps we can talk to you, Counselor,” Sha Tajan shouted back. “The treaty we worked so hard to bring about is at risk. Grant us, we ask, time to work through this tragedy. We can prove to you that none of our magic-wielders is responsible for the murder of the Shar-Yon.”
Zukhara replied, his words crisp and forceful. “I’m afraid that is impossible. The Shar-Ja is leaving tonight to return to Cangora for the burial of his son. His only words to me were that he would not sign the treaty until the murderer of his son was found and brought to justice.”
The chiefs slumped in their saddles, discouraged and cold. They were at an impasse, and no one knew yet how to get around it.
“Counselor,” Athlone tried again, “I give you my word that the magic-wielders in our camp had nothing to do with—”
“So you say, Lord Athlone,” Zukhara interrupted through a thin veneer of civility. “But only clan blood carries the talent to wield magic, and magic killed Bashan. If you wish to make peace with us, you must find the killer! So the Shar-Ja has spoken.” He sketched a bow to the clansmen, turned his back on them, and led his followers away.
Fiergan made a disgusted noise somewhere between a grunt and a snort. “So that’s that.”
A blood-red look of fury crept over young Peoren’s face, and the Ferganan reached for his sword. Shaking with emotion, he kicked his horse past the chieftains and wheeled it around in front of the officer of the guard. The archers in the trees raised their bows, but Peoren, if he saw them, paid no attention. He flung his sword to the earth point-first, where it stuck upright in the mud, an emphatic confirmation of his outrage.
“The Ferganan called the Turics ‘friend.’ We have given your people our hospitality; we traded on good terms. We dealt with them honorably, and they slaughtered my family!” he shouted with all his despairing fervor. “Until the Shar-Ja fulfills his vow to pay the weir-geld, our clan will seek our revenge in Turic blood!”
The tribal guards surged forward to unhorse the boy, but their officer roared, “Stand off!” and thrust himself between Peoren and the angry men. “Be off, boy,” he snarled to the Ferganan, “before your blood is spilled.”
Not the least bit daunted, Peoren reined his horse around and galloped it back to the Ramtharin shore. The older men, subdued and grim, followed close behind.
3
The coals were hot, the herbs had steeped, and Gabria and Kelene settled down at last in the empty peace of their tent for the long-awaited cup of tea. The hot drink was a special mixture of Gabria’s made with lemon balm, tea leaves from Pra Desh, a hint of wild mint, and a sweetening of honey. On this chilled, wet clay the tea reminded the drinkers of summer and wild-flowers and simmering afternoons.
Kelene sipped carefully and sighed her pleasure. She made a mental note to ask her mother for some cuttings of lemon balm to grow in her garden at Moy Tura. A smile crept across her face at the thought of her garden. At Khulinin Treld, Gabria’s herbs grew wild in the sun-warmed glades beside the Goldrine River. At Moy Tura, the plants, like the stone, the wood, and the earth, were shaped to men’s will—an accomplishment clanspeople were still learning to perfect.
Kelene’s thoughts were interrupted by Gabria’s gentle laugh. “You and I have been together for days now, and this is the first quiet moment we’ve had alone. Tell me about Moy Tura.”
So, over the tea, Kelene talked about their lives in the ruins. She told her mother about the temple, their house and garden, the guests who came and went so frequently, the numerous underground passages they had found under the city, Sayyed’s excavations, and all the many problems they had had. She talked for a long time while the sleet pattered on the canvas over their heads and the brazier softly glowed.
Gabria listened and asked a few questions and watched her daughter’s face. When Kelene’s words finally dwindled to silence, the older sorceress squeezed her hand and said lightly, “What a tale to tell your children. You should have a bard there to record your adventures.”
Kelene stilled. She had not said a word about her failure to have children or her hope that Gabria could advise her. She looked around at her mother almost apologetically and said, “What if we have no children?”
Gabria’s fingers tightened over Kelene’s. “I was wondering when you were going to talk to me about that. As much as you and Rafnir love each other, your city should be full of babies.”
“I have tried everything I know,” Kelene murmured sadly. “Prayers and gifts to Amara, herbal remedies. I even went to Wylfling Treld last spring for the Birthright to be blessed by a priestess of Amara.”
“You found no help in the healers’ records?”
A few tantalizing records, medicinal recipes, murals, and healing stones had been found under the old Healer’s Hall at Moy Tura, but they had been sadly lacking in pregnancy information.
Kelene wrinkled her nose at her remembered disappointment. “No. Nor have the healers who come to study the old records.” She broke off, feeling a sudden prickle of tears behind her eyes. “Oh, Mother, to be a healer and not know how to heal yourself! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why can’t I have children? Rafnir and I wanted a big family to fill that shell of a city with life! But I feel as empty as the ruin.”
She fell quiet while her own words echoed in her head. Empty. It sounded so final! So pitiful. She shook herself and drove away the threatening tears. Self-pity would get her nowhere; that lesson she had already learned. But as she sipped the last of her tea and smiled wearily into Gabria’s loving face, she had to admit she felt a little better for having poured out her worries to her mother.