City of Sorcerers (2 page)

Cheerfully the lord chieftain greeted his friend and brushed a kiss on Gabria's cheek. She smiled at the tickle of his mustache and at the humor in his dark eyes.

"Hi, Mamma. Hi, Sayyed," her son, Coren, piped up. "I've been helping the men set up the tent!"

Athlone said, "I didn't expect to see you this morning. Have you been to the Reidhar camp already?" Gabria shook her head. "Not yet. I can't find Kelene." She kept her expression bland and decided to tell him about her vision in a quieter moment.

Athlone made an irritated noise. "Puppies have more sense of responsibility than that girl. Is she ever going to grow up?"

No one bothered to answer, since the question was one they had all asked at some time in the past few years. Of the four children Gabria had borne, their oldest daughter, Kelene, had always been the most challenging. Unlike her oldest brother, Savaron, and her younger sister, Lymira, Kelene at eighteen rebelled against virtually everything her parents suggested. She was independent, willful, and stubborn.

Athlone had seriously considered forcing her to marry or even sending her to another clan for a few years. But Gabria had bid him wait. She could see quite a few of Athlone's traits, without the strengthening of maturity and wisdom, in Kelene.

Lord Athlone grimaced at the lack of an answer to his question and added, "I guess she's out with that gelding of hers."

"That's not a difficult guess," Sayyed said. "She probably wants to check the

.competition for the Induran tomorrow."

"I forgot about that," Athlone admitted.

A hearty laugh burst from Sayyed, and he waved a hand toward the flats. "How could you have forgotten that? Your daughter has talked of nothing for the past year but her gelding and its chances to win that race. My son is probably over there too, goading her into another rage."

Athlone's mouth twisted in annoyance. "We should have known better than to expect Kelene's cooperation when the race is on." He stopped, his gaze lost in the distance. Some of the irritation eased from his face. "Since the accident," Athlone went on finally, "she hasn't even considered her talent."

"I thought she would turn against horses, not magic. It was not the fault of magic that that brute of a stallion rolled on her," Sayyed said.

"She had no business being on him," answered the chieftain, a father's frustration plain in his voice. "She was lucky that only her foot was crushed."

Gabria laid her hand on her husband's arm. "Give her time.

She will learn in her own way." "Perhaps," Athlone said. "But in the meantime we could certainly use her help!"

"I'll help, Papa!" Coren piped up with all the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old trying to outshine an older sister.

"You know, I think you could," Gabria replied, bending down to his level. "I want to visit a boy about your age. His name is Bennon. Would you like to come and talk to him?"

"Can he wield magic, too?"

"I think so."

"Good! I've got lots of spells I can show him!" Coren announced proudly.

Sayyed grinned, his teeth shining white against the black of his neatly trimmed beard. "Take Nara. She always impresses the children." Coren matched his grin.

"Could we, Mamma?"

As an answer, Gabria blew a sharp, piercing whistle that cut over the noises of the busy council grove. The men by the chieftains' tent looked up at the sound and turned their heads again when the call was answered by a distant neigh. From the far fields, where the clans' horses grazed, a black form cantered over the grassy valley floor---Nara, Gabria's Hunnuli mare.

Unlike the clan-bred Harachan horses, which were the pride and livelihood of the semi-nomadic clans, the Hunnuli were a breed of legend. Descended from a single stallion blessed by the clans' goddess, Amara, the Hunnuli had greater intelligence, strength, size, and longevity than any other horse. Originally bred to be the mounts of clan magic-wielders, they were endowed with the ability to communicate telepathically with the clanspeople who had the inherent talent to use magic. After the fall of Moy Tura, city of the sorcerers, and the slaughter of the magic-wielders that followed, the Hunnuli slipped into obscurity and almost died out. Then, two hundred years later, Gabria found a Hunnuli mare, Nara, trapped in a mudhole. She saved the horse's life, thus forging a friendship that had remained inviolable.

With that friendship came a renewed understanding of the Hunnuli horse and its purpose within the clans. It was partly because of the people's awe and respect for the Hunnuli that they learned to accept Gabria's power to use magic. Since that time, the numbers of magic-wielders and Hunnuli in the clans had slowly increased to about thirty each, and the admiration for the fabulous horses had continued unabated.

Even now, eyes were turning to watch Nara as she galloped past the Khulinin camp and swept into the shady council grove. Like every Hunnuli, the mare was ebony black with a white mark, in the shape of a jagged lightning bolt, on her right shoulder. Her thick mane and tail flew like black smoke as her long, powerful legs carried her easily over the ground. She stopped neatly in front of Gabria and nickered a greeting.

Gabria mounted and settled happily on the mare's warm back. She always felt safe and comforted in her old friend's presence. The prospect of a gallop to the Reidhar camp drove the confusing shadows of her vision to the back of her mind. She would probably learn soon enough what had caused that strange episode, but in the meantime she could do something she enjoyed---share her love of magic with children.

"Come on." She smiled to her son and held out her hand.

Coren whooped in delight and bounced up onto Nara's back in front of his mother. With a wave to the two men, Gabria and Coren rode off to visit the Reidhar clan.

CHAPTER ONE

For the third time in as many minutes, Kelene gritted her teeth and tightened her knees as her gelding vented his feelings in a bad-tempered hop and a buck. Head lowered, back arched, the horse barged around the starting line while the other riders cursed and kept out of his way. The gelding was feeling murderous---Kelene could sense it in every stiff jolt of his body.

Of course, that was nothing new for Ishtak. The gelding was a stone-gray Harachan, as hard, bleak, and difficult as a rock cliff. A more bad-tempered animal Kelene had never seen. She knew he tolerated her only when he felt like it, and she also knew he would dump her at the first opportunity. Yet she had chosen him, learned his moody ways, and put up with his ugly temper for one reason: the horse could race. When he channeled his anger into competition, he was as surefooted as a goat and as fleet as the wind. Few Harachan horses could beat him.

The trick was to stay with him long enough to get him started. For Kelene that was sometimes tricky. Unlike the other riders, she had no saddle or stirrups, only a saddle pad strapped to Ishtak's back. She had learned the hard way that her crippled foot and ankle were too weak to bear her weight in a stirrup or remain in a bent position. The pain had finally forced her to ride bareback and to develop the balance, strength, and firm seat needed to help her control a recalcitrant horse.

She had learned too, that the usual women's skirts were a hazard on a cross-country race. Today she wore the special split-legged skirt her mother had made for her, a gold tunic, and soft boots. Her thick, dark hair was braided and coiled on the back of her head.

The girl cursed as the gelding crow-hopped out of line again, jarring her teeth.

There was no way to cajole this foul tempered beast with soothing words, encouraging pats, or treats. Nothing pleased him except getting the best of his rider or winning a race---whichever came first. Kelene pulled his head up and forced him back into the milling line of riders waiting for the start of the race. Just another moment or two and they would be away.

Twenty-five other horses waited with Ishtak, some of them prancing with excitement, some of them quiet and unimpressed by the crowds, the noise, and the mounting anticipation. There were no Hunnuli in line since the race was no contest to the big blacks, but some of the finest Harachan horses on the plains were there to represent the different clans. Dust billowed up under their stamping hooves, and the clan colors on the riders' tunics gleamed in the morning sun.

It was a perfect day for the Induran race: clear, warm, and dry---a typical summer morning. The sky arched over the river valley in a flawless dome of blue; a light breeze stirred the grass. The bazaar and the camps were quiet that morning and the council grove was empty. Everyone had gone to the flats to see the start of the most important race of the gathering.

The Induran was a cross-country endurance race that tested the stamina, skill, and courage of horses and riders alike. There were very few rules, and the race was open to anyone with the desire and the horse to ride. The fact that women rarely rode in the rough-and-tumble race was only an added challenge to Kelene. The year before she had entered and ridden well only to lose her favorite mare when the animal stepped in a hole and shattered its leg a league before the finish line. This year Kelene had Ishtak and was more determined than ever to win.

The girl glanced toward the starter on her right, but he had made no move to raise his horn. He was still waiting for last minute entries. Someone several horses away caught her eye: a slim, young man on a chestnut horse. He grinned mockingly at her and waved. Rafnir, Sayyed and Tam's only son, was as fine a rider as the clans had ever produced and one of the few serious contenders who could beat Kelene in this race.

Rafnir was laughing at Ishtak's tantrums, but Kelene refused to give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, she concentrated on the open stretch of land in front of them.

From the corner of her eye she saw the starter raise his horn. The twenty-six horses were abreast of one another and the riders were ready. The crowd roared with excitement.

Automatically Kelene wrapped her hands deep into Ishtak's mane and leaned forward over his neck. Ishtak had been known to bolt out from under her at the start of a race, and she did not want to end up ignominiously in the dust before the Induran really began.

The horn call came loud and sweet, and the horses sprang forward almost as one.

Except for Ishtak. For once the gelding did not leap forward but threw up his head and dug in his heels. Kelene kicked him, which only made him buck and crab-step sideways. When he finally deigned to go forward, he was mulish, reluctant, and trailing by twelve lengths.

"You'll never get me off, you dung-headed sack of dog meat!" Kelene screamed at him.

He gave two more bronco kicks for good measure and swerved toward the spectators who were watching the show with mixed astonishment and amusement.

Kelene's feelings rose to a full fury. She wrenched on the rein to pull his head around and shouted at him. "Run, you stupid mule! Go, or I'll feed you to the buzzards!"

The gelding fought her hard. Then his head came around, and he saw the tails of his competition disappearing in the dust far ahead. He snorted angrily, all at once deciding to race. His stride smoothed out to a flowing run, his rage disappeared, and the fighting spirit that Kelene admired came surging back. He sped into a full gallop, his temper forgotten.

With a grin, Kelene settled down and let him have his head. There was a long way to go in this race, and much could happen. She was not bothered by the fact that they were dead last.

For two leagues the horses cantered south, paralleling the Goldrine River along the flat grassy valley floor, running at an easy pace so as not to tire too soon. They stayed in a tight bunch for a while, then gradually spread out as the faster horses began to pull ahead. It was not long before Ishtak caught up with those at the rear.

Stride by stride, the gelding pulled even with several runners and passed them.

Kelene kept her weight firmly planted on the saddle pad, her hands light on the reins, her legs just tight enough against her horse's sides to keep her balance. Ishtak didn't like fussy riders who interfered with his running with a lot of useless gesturing and urging. Like one creature, the girl and horse united in a common goal as they moved over the grass-covered flats: to win.

So far, the course had been open and fairly level, but as the racers neared the end of the two-league mark, the route turned east across the river and proceeded up into the more rugged hills that lined the valley.

Kelene squinted her eyes against the wind and flying dust to peer ahead. Already the front-runners were turning east toward the tree-lined bank of the Goldrine where she could see the sun glinting off the slow, broad river. A tenseness gripped her body as she turned Ishtak slowly left. She glanced back and saw several others cantering close behind. Using the gentlest pressure of her heels, she urged Ishtak forward until he was running in a clear space between several groups of racers.

They passed some scattered trees, jumped a fallen tree trunk, and raced for the river's edge. Then, before Kelene could draw another breath, the front-runners slowed and' dropped from sight. Those behind the leaders pulled up just long enough to put some space between the horses, then they, too, rode their mounts over the edge.

When Ishtak reached the bank, he did not hesitate. Placing his hind feet perfectly, he lunged over the drop-off without a pause. Kelene caught a glimpse of a steep bank dropping ten feet down to the river, then she was holding on with all her strength and skill as the gelding fought to keep his balance and stride on the slope. He leaned so far back his tail scraped the muddy ground. Down he scrambled in a slide of dirt, gravel, and weeds.

One horse in front of Ishtak leaned too far forward, lost its balance, and careened into the path of two others. They fell into the river in a heap of flailing legs and yelling riders. Fortunately none of them were hurt, but the riders were unhorsed and automatically disqualified from the race.

In a jarring thud, Ishtak reached the narrow strip of mud bank at the bottom. He had to swerve to avoid another struggling, fallen horse, but he kept to his feet on the slippery mud and plowed into the river. Great fountains of silver spray splashed up from his feet.