City of Sorcerers (4 page)

--a blank set of the face that was as frustrating and unyielding as a stone wall.

Kelene had withdrawn again to her own thoughts, shutting out the moment of closeness with her mother.

Gabria almost reached out to stop her daughter and draw her back, but she didn't.

She knew the gesture would not be appreciated and wondered sadly if it ever would.

Once Kelene had been a loving, open, warm-hearted child who adored her parents and family. Now an eighteen-year-old, unmarried woman with a crippled foot, she was almost a stranger to them all.

Gabria bit her lip as she watched Kelene limp away, leading the gray gelding.

She was not sure she could bear the thought of losing the Kelene she had known to this distant cool person. She wanted somehow to break through the blank mask and find the love and happiness that still remained inside. If only she knew how.

* * * * *

Later that evening when the cooking fires were burning in the Khulinin camp and the sun was sinking into an orange haze toward the horizon, Sayyed came to join Lord Athlone and his son Savaron under the awning of the chieftain's big tent. They sat on low stools, enjoying the peace of dusk and talking comfortably as old friends. Goblets of cool wine sat on a tray by their feet. Athlone's three dogs lay close by and chewed on the last scraps of the evening meal. The men could hear Gabria, Lymira, and Coren inside the tent laughing and talking as they got ready for the evening's dancing and music competitions to be held in the council grove. Kelene was nowhere to be seen.

The three men were almost finished with their wine when someone hailed them from the nearby path.

"Lord Athlone, good evening! I was hoping to find you still here." The speaker and a companion, both wearing light summer cloaks of indigo blue, came walking up the path to meet them. Two members of Athlone's hearthguard snapped a salute from their posts by the chief's tent.

Sayyed and Savaron rose peacefully to their feet. "Greetings, Lord Koshyn,"

Sayyed said.

Koshyn of Clan Dangari returned the greeting. "I didn't Want to interrupt your time at home," he said to Athlone, "but I thought you ought to hear something interesting,"

Stools and more wine were brought out, and the five men sat down under the awning. Lord Koshyn grinned broadly at his old friend. Only a year younger than Athlone, he had been a chieftain for a longer time, though the years had not been as kind. His fair hair was gray and thinning, and the faded pattern of blue dots tattooed on his forehead was almost lost in the weathered brown of his skin. His once athletic body was stockier, slowed by aching joints. But his smile was as infectious as ever.

Although not a magic-wielder himself, he was one of sorcery's most influential supporters among the chiefs and one of Athlone's closest friends.

He sat thankfully on his stool, stretching his legs out before him, while Savaron poured some rich honey wine in a flagon and passed it to him. Koshyn sipped his drink and thought, for the thousandth time, how closely Savaron resembled his father.

They were so much alike, not only in their tall physical build, their brown hair, eyes, and mustaches, but in their characters as well. Savaron even had his father's habit of cocking an eyebrow when he was questioning something. Like now.

Koshyn, noticing both men were looking at him the same way, couldn't help chuckling. 'Tm sorry," he said between gusts of laughter. "Athlone, as a sire, you certainly have thrown true in your son. By Surgart's sword, you couldn't have done better." He wiped his face with his sleeve and grinned again a bit wistfully, thinking of his own sons, dead before they reached manhood. Athlone, he decided, was a very lucky man.

Lord Koshyn settled back on his stool and said, "So, I didn't come here to compare you two. I brought someone who has a tale to tell." He turned to the other Dangari beside him. The young man, just out of boyhood, was staring at Lord Athlone with something close to awe. He had never met the sorcerer-chieftain face-to-face, but he had heard all the tales about his deeds. He bowed his head to the Khulinin lord and glanced at his own chief.

"Go on, lad," Koshyn prompted.

The young man tugged at his dirty blue tunic. "I rode in the Induran today, Lord,"

he said. "At least part of it. Unfortunately, I went with your daughter, Rafnir, and Moreg from Clan Wylfling down a box canyon."

Athlone nodded. He had already heard about that wrong turn.

"Well, while we were trying to turn around in the canyon, Moreg rode his horse over a big mound. I was the only one who saw the horse fall, so I stopped to help him." He leaned forward, his excitement overcoming his shyness. "Lord Athlone, I've never seen anything like it! His horse stepped through a crust of dirt onto what looks like a roof."

"A roof?" Sayyed exclaimed.

The Dangari demonstrated by slightly steepling his hands. "A timbered roof like we use in burial chambers. I think we found an old burial mound."

Athlone leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his interest piqued. "A burial mound? In a hidden box canyon? How curious!" He paused, mulling over this news.

"You said Moreg fell. Is he hurt?"

"He's got a bad headache, but his clan healer said he'll be fine." The Dangari's face saddened as he added, "The horse snapped its leg; we had to kill it."

Lord Athlone laced his fingers thoughtfully and said to Koshyn, "Are you thinking of riding out there tomorrow?"

The Dangari chief gave a slow smile. "Of course. Late afternoon, after the council meeting. I thought I might bring some strong men and shovels."

Athlone returned his smile. "I know some others who might be interested in a little digging."

"There you are, lad," Koshyn said, slapping his young companion on the shoulder. "Your wrong turn may be propitious after all."

Pleased, the rider sat a little straighter on his stool and grinned at his chiefs approval.

The men were still discussing the mound and its strange location when the clan horns were blown a few minutes later. The call was to signal the sunset and the changing of the outriders who rode guard on the grazing herds.

Sayyed rose to his feet. "My lords, if you will excuse me," he said. "It's time to make my prayers."

Both chieftains nodded farewell, and Sayyed cook his leave. He walked across the broad open space in front of the chieftain's home and passed in among the felt tents that comprised the large Khulinin encampment. Automatically his feet stepped down slightly onto the bare path that led from the center of the camp. Whistling, he wove his way past playing children, cooking fires, and a few tethered horses coward his own home.

Two large dogs and a smaller shaggy one lying beside his tent saw him coming and bounded to their feet to bark a vociferous greeting. A lamb and two goats bleated hungrily from a small pen by the entrance. In a wicker cage hanging on an awning pole, a small owl with a splinted wing blinked at the sudden noise and ducked its head down into its shoulders in annoyance.

Without even looking in the tent, Sayyed knew his wife Tam was not there. She would have been out in an instant at the sound of all of that barking and bleating. He shook his head and quieted the dogs before he pushed back the wolfskin flap and stepped inside.

Sayyed glanced around. He was right; the tent was empty except for another large white dog nursing a litter of puppies on Tam's favorite rug. He found his prayer rug by his pallet and hurried out to find an open spot where he could recite his prayers in peace.

Although he had been with the Khulinin for many years and had adopted most of their customs, there were still a few habits from his youth in the Turic tribes that he had refused to give up. He still wore a burnoose under the traditional cloak of the clans. He still carried the long, curved blade he had earned on the eve of his manhood ceremony. And he still prayed twice a day to his god.

The clans worshipped four deities---Amara, mother of life and birth; her sister Krath, goddess of fate and the darker passions; Sorh, god of death; and Surgart, god of war---but they were not usually fanatical about it and had not tried to force Sayyed to give up his belief in a single god. It was a tolerance that Sayyed deeply appreciated.

Finding a quiet place in the meadow not far from the edge of camp, Sayyed spread out his small rug, knelt, and bowed low to the south where the tribes of his father believed the holy city of Sarghun Shahr was located. As the quiet words of the evening prayers flowed from his lips, the peace of the moment filled his mind and the familiarity of the ritual gave him comfort.

He hadn't quite finished though, when he suddenly felt disquieted. Something had changed. His peaceful solitude had been interrupted by something or someone. He rose to a kneeling position and turned his head to see Tam standing behind him. She was waiting for him to finish, but her foot was tapping the ground and her hands were tightly clasped as if trying to hold in her impatience. Sayyed closed his eyes to shut her out for a moment longer, shifted to ease the stiffness in his legs, and finished the final chants of his prayer. Then he slowly pushed himself to his feet.

I'm growing too old,
he thought wryly as he stretched and worked the pain from his knees. He had barely time to roll up his rug before Tam grabbed his arm and hustled him back through the camp toward the Goldrine River and the bazaar on the other side.

Sayyed went along willingly, although he wondered what she was up to. In spite of her obvious hurry, Tam hadn't said a word to him. Of course, Tam rarely said anything to anyone. A difficult, sometimes cruel childhood had driven her behind walls of silence that even a loving marriage and maturity had not completely broken down. Sayyed looked across at her lovely, fine-lined features, at her enormous eyes outlined by black lashes and delicate eyebrows, at her mouth pulled to a firm line by determination, and he thought that she had the most expressive face he had ever seen in a woman. She did not need to talk; she could say almost anything she wanted with her face, her gestures, and her body.

Now she was radiating excitement. Her face glowed pink and her eyes sparkled.

She rushed on past the camp and down to the temporary footbridge that spanned the river to reach the bazaar. Her long black hair braided with bright ribbons danced a jig on her back.

Sayyed was pushed to keep up with her as she fairly flew across the narrow bridge to the opposite bank. He chuckled to watch her. Knowing Tam, she had probably found another bird or animal held by one of the numerous merchants that came to the clan gathering. While most women shopped in the bazaar for fabrics, spices, jewelry, utensils, or pottery, Tam prowled the shops looking for animals being misused or abused by the traveling merchants. Whenever she found one, she would acquire the animal and either set it free or add it to her growing collection of four-legged charges.

This time she didn't seem to be angry, Sayyed noticed, so if it was an animal she wished to show him, it was probably in good health.

They hurried on into the marketplace of booths, stalls, and stands that sat on the east side of the Goldrine River. Every year merchants from the Five Kingdoms to the north and the Turic tribes to the south came to the gathering bringing goods from many lands in exchange for the clans' livestock, horses, saddles, rugs, woven work, jewelry, and handcrafts. The bazaar was a busy place and open from dawn to dusk.

Sayyed hadn't been to the bazaar yet this year, but Tam didn't give him a chance to look around. Without slackening her pace, she hustled him to a large, richly caparisoned booth on the far edge of the bazaar.

The booth was spacious by any standards, with a roof and walls of brightly painted canvas. One entire wall was rolled up, allowing the breeze and customers to enter. A banner identifying a merchant from Pra Desh hung above the entrance.

It was obvious the owner of the booth did not specialize in anyone ware. There seemed to be a little of everything from all over the civilized world crammed into every available space. Bolts of fabric crowded clay pots and rare glass vessels on shelves; swords and dried herbs hung from the roof; children's toys, helmets, and rugs filled the countertops. There was barely room to turn around.

Sayyed's eyes narrowed. What in the world had Tam found here? He followed her into the interior and waited as she walked up to the proprietor and tapped his arm.

The merchant, a huge, pale-skinned Pra Deshian turned, saw her, and beamed.

"So you came back for her! I knew you would."

Her?
Sayyed thought. He watched while the merchant went to the back of his tent and came back bearing a large, well-made crate. The man set the box down on a counter in front of Tam and stood back, a smile of satisfaction on his broad face.

Very carefully she reached into the crate and drew out a small, furry animal.

Sayyed rolled his eyes. Of course. Nothing but animals ever got Tam that excited at the bazaar.

"She is a beautiful beast, yes?" the Pra Deshian said. "And very rare. I brought her mother, already pregnant, from the city of Macar far to the east. This little one is the last I have left. I sold the mother for a fine price to the Fon of Pra Desh himself.

"How fine?" Sayyed asked, trying to keep the sharpness out of his voice. He was not going to be beggared for the sake of an animal, no matter how much his wife liked it.

The merchant cast a speculative eye at Tam and then at Sayyed, as if weighing his opportunities. Tam had the little creature cradled in her arm and was gently scratching the base of its small, pointed ears. It was pushing its head against her hand and making a faint rattling noise.

"The lady is obviously pleased by my little pet." He paused and added with a broad gesture, "For her, I am willing to negotiate."

Before Sayyed could answer, Tam plopped the furry animal into his arms. He held it up in both hands, and it dangled there watching him with equal curiosity. The creature was a pure shade of white with fur as thick and soft as thistledown. Its legs and tail were long compared to its lean body, and its head was round with a short nose and round, golden eyes. Sayyed decided the animal reminded him of a tiny copy of a cave lion. "What is it?" he asked.