The reminder brought a grimace to Kelene’s tanned face. Unexpectedly the delight in the morning dwindled, and she muttered between her teeth, “I am getting just a little tired of that ruin.”
As if the words had opened a dam, her frustrations welled up uncontrollably, like gall in her throat. Kelene shook her head fiercely, trying to deny them. What did she have to be angry about? She had the most wonderful horse in the world, a winged mare who could fly her to any place she chose to go. She had a husband who adored her, parents who loved her, and a rare and gifted talent to heal that made her one of the most respected women in the clans. The weather was glorious, spring was on the way, and this flying ride was everything she had ever dreamed. So why, Kelene asked herself, why do I feel so dissatisfied?
She pondered that question while Demira winged her way home on the northern track of the wind. Truth to tell, Kelene decided, her frustration hadn’t been a sudden thing brought on by the thought of her parents or the reminder of unpleasant work. It had been building, layer by thin, brittle layer, for quite some time, and that bothered her.
After all, she knew frustration and setbacks all too well. As a girl she had been crippled and willful, afraid of her own power and too stubborn to ask for help. Then three years ago during the clans’ annual summer gathering, an old evil escaped and a virulent plague struck the clanspeople. In a desperate attempt to help, Kelene, her brother Savaron, his friend Rafnir, and several other magic-wielders journeyed with the sorcerer, Sayyed, to the forbidden ruins of Moy Tura to look for old healing records that could help save the clans.
Through the midst of the monumental tragedy, Kelene grew to become a competent, caring woman. She learned to accept her strengths and weaknesses and to use her gift of empathy and magic to her utmost. With Rafnir’s help, she gave wings to Demira; she befriended the Korg, the sorcerer in the shape of a stone lion who guarded Moy Tura; and she learned to use the healing stones that helped cure her dying people.
When the dead were buried and clan life began to return to some semblance of normal, Kelene and Rafnir took her parents to Moy Tura and made a startling proposaclass="underline" they wanted to rebuild the city. Kelene still remembered the exhilarating excitement and anticipation of their hopes and dreams. It would be a monumental task, but they had been empowered by their own optimism and newfound maturity.
That had been three years ago.
Demira’s light thought teasingly interrupted her reverie. Do you mean that ruin?
Kelene glanced down and saw they had already reached the huge plateau that bore the ruins of Moy Tura on its flat crown. “Don’t land yet,” she said.
Obligingly the mare stretched out her wings to catch a rising draft and lazily circled the city.
Kelene sighed. From this bird’s-eye view there certainly wasn’t much to see. There wasn’t much to see from the ground, either, even after three years of unending work. Moy Tura had proved to be a tougher problem to crack than either she or Rafnir had imagined.
At one time Moy Tura had been the jewel of the clans’ realm and the center of wisdom and learning.
Magic-wielders, those people descended from the hero-warrior Valorian and born with the talent to wield the unseen, gods-given power of magic, built the city.
But over the years the clans grew fearful and suspicious of the sorcerers’ powers. In one bloody, violent summer, the clanspeople turned against their magic-wielders and slaughtered every one they could find. A few fled into hiding, but Moy Tura was razed to the ground and magic was forbidden on pain of death. So it had remained for over two hundred years.
Until Mother came along, Kelene thought with a sudden grin. She still wasn’t certain how Lady Gabria had done it. Gabria had faced incredible odds, including the massacre of her entire clan and the opposition of a clan chieftain turned sorcerer, and somehow returned magic to clan acceptance. It was her determination, strength, and courage that made it possible for Kelene to be where she was.
“But where am I now?” Kelene asked the sky above.
I believe you are with me above Moy Tura, Demira answered for the cloudless sky. When Kelene didn’t respond to her teasing humor, the mare cast a quick look back. You are certainly pensive today.
Kelene’s hands tightened on the leather flying harness Rafnir had made for her. It was the only tack the Hunnuli wore. “This morning was fun, Demira. I needed it.”
But it has not helped.
Kelene snorted in disgust. “Moy Tura is still nothing more than a heap of rubble. For every building we clear out or rebuild, there are a hundred more to do. We can’t get enough help. No one wants to leave their comfortable clan to come live in sortie cold, drafty, haunted pile of rock and, since the plague, there aren’t even enough magic-wielders to go around the clans, let alone resettle Moy Tura. The clan chiefs won’t support us. And where in Amara’s name are the city wells? The Korg told us there were cisterns, but he couldn’t remember where.
Why can’t we find them?”
Kelene stumbled to a startled silence. She hadn’t meant to explode with such an outburst; it just came pouring out, probably loosened by the first taste of spring after a long winter’s drudgery.
Actually you have accomplished a great deal, Demira reminded her in a cool, matter-of-fact manner. You learned the craft of healing, you are an accomplished sorceress, and you are the only clanswoman to do an inside loop.
Kelene laughed at that. The “inside loop” was a trick she and Demira had accomplished—once. It had scared the wits out of them and sent Rafnir into fits of rage at their foolhardiness. He had promptly constructed the flying harness to hold Kelene on Demira’s back and forbade them from flying without it. Kelene had to admit it proved very useful.
“Looking at it that way, you’re right,” Kelene conceded.
But Demira knew her rider’s every nuance of speech and character. It is not just the city that bothers you, is it? You have been there only three years. You knew it would not grow overnight.
“No,” said Kelene, her voice flat. “It is not just the city.” She couldn’t go on. There was one fear left she could not put voice to, one emptiness inside her that ached with a cold dread and made every other setback more difficult to face. After all, what good was building a home if there were no children to fill it? She had not said anything to Rafnir about her inability to bear babes, nor he to her, but she felt his disappointment and concern as poignantly as her own.
Perhaps that was why she was struck with such a desire to see Lady Gabria again. Her mother would provide a loving, sympathetic ear for her worries, and maybe she could suggest something Kelene had overlooked. Unfortunately, there was too much to do at Moy Tura to even consider a journey to Khulinin Treld.
The young woman sighed again. The clans would be gathering at the Tir Samod in three months’ time. Maybe Rafnir would agree to go this year. They needed various tools, herbs, and foodstuffs even magic couldn’t supply, and they could use the time to talk to other magic-wielders. Surely there were a few who would be willing to give Moy Tura a helping hand. Kelene could then talk to her mother and share her anxieties. Until that time she would have to be patient. As Demira pointed out, neither cities nor babies grew overnight.
Kelene was about to ask Demira to land when the Hunnuli turned her head to the south. Someone is coming, she announced.
Kelene’s spirits rose a little. It was always pleasant to see someone new. “Who?” she asked.
In reply the mare veered away from the ruins and followed the pale track of the old southern road where it cut across the top of the plateau. At the edge of the highland the trail dropped over to wend its way down to the lower grasslands. He is there, on the lower trail. Coming fast.