City of Sorcerers (12 page)

Gehlyn said, "Piers told me when he gave me the healing stone."

Ah, yes, the red healing stone---a priceless link to an ancient art, made solely to remove traces of harmful magic from a victim. Piers Arganosta had had it for years before passing it on to his apprentice. Gabria's face grew very thoughtful.

She was about to reply when a voice called to her from the night. Sayyed came hurrying toward her. Gehlyn ordered him back, but Gabria laid a hand on the healer's sleeve and shook her head. “I’ll talk to him," she insisted softly.

The healer nodded once to her request and slipped back into the tent with the angelica.

"Gabria!" Sayyed called. "I saw you come out. I know she's still alive. Is she getting better? May I see her?"

Gabria tried to find the words to answer, but her expression told him everything he needed to know. His handsome face seemed to age before her eyes.

"For two days I've hoped," he murmured. Abruptly he strode forward and seized her arms. "Please! Let me see her! I don't care if I get sick. I have to see Tam!"

"I care!" Gabria snapped. Her hands clenched his arms in turn, and she shook him. "She wouldn't want you to see her like she is, or to catch this plague. If you go into that tent, you will have to stay there under quarantine. Then who will be with Rafnir? Who will take care of Tam's animals?" She spat out anything she could think of to change his mind, but she might as well have argued with a wall.

He pulled her hands off and ran into the tent before she could stop him. By the time she reached him, he was squatting by Tam's pallet, carefully mopping her face with one hand and scratching her white cat with the other. Sadly Gabria left him alone. Sayyed had made his own decision and could be as implacable as she.

She spent the rest of that long, long night caring for her son, organizing the apprentices to clear up the mess in the tent, and feeding cupful after cupful of warm tea to every victim who could still swallow. Four more people died, including Lord Morbiar, in the cool hours before dawn. Fifteen new victims were left by terrified relatives at the entrance to the tent.

At sunrise the healers decided that they would need more tents for the sick and more help. They sent a message to arrange a meeting with the clan chieftains, then bitterly carried the bodies of the dead out to the meadow where the previous funeral pyre had left a black, smoldering ring. There, grieving families identified their dead and another pyre was built. Gabria had a dread feeling that it would not be the last.

The clans struggled as best they could that day to adjust to the panic and fear that was spreading through the camps faster than the plague. Not a clan had been left untouched by the disease; not an age, rank, or sex was immune.

The worst of it was that no one could say for sure where this epidemic had sprung from. It had come from nowhere like a lightning bolt that strikes dry tinder and sets off a fire storm. Priest Ordan, Lord Athlone, and Lady Gabria were forming their own vague opinions about what had bred the deadly pestilence. But the vast majority of the clanspeople had only their superstitions and imaginations. Speculation ran rife and, despite the patrolling guards and the strictly enforced curfews, rumors and unrest spread through the camps like locusts as the people tried to find something or someone to blame.

Some believed the opening of the sealed mound had brought the wrath of Sorh down on the clans; some thought the rivers had been poisoned; and others blamed the foreign merchants. A few, especially among the priests and the Reidhar clan, blamed magic, and even they couldn't agree. Several priests decided the gods were punishing the clans for not rooting out the heresy of magic at their first opportunity, while the Reidhar speculated that magic, an evil corrupting power, was itself out of control and destroying all who stood in its way.

Whatever their reasoning, the people of Valorian did everything they could think of to defend themselves and their families against the silent killer. They drank bitter draughts of bayberry and wine vinegar to keep up their resistance to disease. On the advice of foreign merchants familiar with plagues, the clanspeople hung bundles of rue and feverfew in their tents, burned incense, and wore amulets of amber to ward off the disease. All to no avail. People fell ill in every corner of the gathering with no apparent cause or reason.

To the clans the world around them became disjointed and terrifying. The people didn't know who or what to trust or where to turn for help. Nothing seemed to be safe.

Families were torn apart by the disease. Fights broke out among clan members over minor things, and discipline became increasingly difficult. A party of Turic merchants had to be tracked down and forcibly returned to the gathering after they tried to sneak away.

The chieftains did their best to calm their people and maintain some semblance of order, but they were hard-pressed by the overwhelming demands of their responsibilities. The death of Lord Morbiar hit them hard, reminding them of their own vulnerability.

The chiefs spent most of that day supervising efforts in their own clans, so it was late afternoon before the healers had the chance to talk to them in a group. Across an open space of fifteen paces, Gehlyn and his companions faced Lord Athlone and seven other chiefs. Lord Terod was nowhere to be seen, and Lord Dormar was already within the tent in a fever-induced delirium.

"We need more tents, more blankets, clothes, buckets, and Water. We also need more food," Gehlyn told them.

Athlone turned to the other chiefs, who wearily nodded. Healers and chieftains alike were exhausted from lack of sleep and overwork. Lord Koshyn especially was looking haggard under his tan. "Done," Athlone replied.

Gehlyn went on grimly. "It would also be a good idea to send crews to cut more wood and to dig a large pit in the meadow."

The significance of his words was not lost on any of the chiefs. They stirred uneasily. "Is that necessary?" demanded Lord Fiergan, his eyebrows drawn together in a fierce anger.

Gehlyn made a convulsive gesture of frustrated anger. "The dead must be burned.

Do you want to make matters worse by leaving them to rot? Do we dishonor our kinsmen by throwing their bodies in the river? Do you want to be left for the dogs and the carrion birds?"

Fiergan's scowl deepened. "All right, all right. We'll find woodcutters. Is that all?"

"Yes," Gehlyn sighed. "For now."

The healers nodded their thanks and walked back toward the tent. The chiefs, looking grim, prepared to leave to make the arrangements for the badly needed supplies.

Lord Athlone was talking to Koshyn when he saw Gabria come out of the tent.

Relieved to see her, he lifted his hand to wave. She was raising her hand to return the greeting when all at once she stiffened. Athlone saw her head jerk toward Tam's Hunnuli; he yanked his attention to the stallion just in time to see the horse suddenly shudder from nose to heel. At the same instant, Athlone and every magic-wielder in the vicinity were assaulted by a mental scream of grief that brought them to their knees.

The black stallion reared, his hooves slashing at the canvas tent, his head thrown so far back the stunned people thought he would crash over backward. A long, heartrending cry tore from his throat. The terrible sound echoed through the camps and brought everyone to a shocked standstill.

Everyone but the other Hunnuli. They came galloping to the grove from every direction until all thirty-three Hunnuli in the clans were gathered by Tam's stallion.

He reared again, and this time the other horses neighed to him a message that sounded as mournful as a dirge. The moment his feet touched the ground, he spun on his heels and galloped from the grove toward the west. Transfixed, the clanspeople watched him until he vanished somewhere into the hills.

Movement came back to the people in fits and starts as they tried to understand what had just happened.

"By all that's holy," exploded Fiergan. "What was that all about?"

Athlone knelt on the ground, his body shaking. With Koshyn's help, he managed to climb to his feet and straighten under a crushing weight of sorrow. "A magic-wielder has died," he told them. "Tam, the wife of my friend, Sayyed. That was her Hunnuli." He closed his eyes, wishing more than anything he could break quarantine and go to his wife.

Gabria was kneeling by the tent entrance, her head buried in her hands. "Nara!"

she cried in misery. She felt the Hunnuli mare close by, and she reached out to grab the horse's knee.

Using Nara's foreleg for support, Gabria pulled herself to her feet. She buried her face in the mare's thick, black mane.

"What happened? Where did he go?" she cried.

He is gone
. Nara told her.

"Gone! Gone where?"

The mare's thoughts were almost more than Gabria could bear.
He and Tam were
as one. Without her he cannot be whole again. He will go where he can join her.

Grief rolled over Gabria. She clung to her horse, sobbing for the double loss of her dear friend and the Hunnuli that was Nara's second-born. It was all Gabria could do to leave the mare and stumble into the tent. She made her way to Tam's pallet where Sayyed was sitting, staring down at his wife's still body. Her face was peaceful in spite of the ravages of the plague, but the vibrant expression and the lively light of her eyes was gone.

Sayyed did not move when Gabria sat down beside him. He said nothing as she leaned against his shoulder, tears still streaming down her face. His entire body was rigid and straight as a lance.

His face was drained of all humor, feeling, and warmth. He sat oblivious to everything: to Gabria, the activity in the tent, to the Hunnuli still gathered outside, and to the white cat huddled miserably by his knee. He simply stared at Tam's white face as if he could not believe what he was seeing.

Gabria watched him and felt her heart break. When he made no move to cover Tam's face, Gabria gently wrapped a blanket over the woman's body and left Sayyed alone. Cold and aching, she went to sit by her son and wondered how much longer Coren would be able to fight for his life.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly enough. The clanspeople, deeply shocked by the disappearance of Tam's Hunnuli, were subdued and pensive. A magic-wielder and Hunnuli had not died in the years since Gabria befriended Nara, and no one, not even the magic-wielders, had realized how permanent the friendship between horse and rider could be. The people wondered what was going to happen if another magic-wielder died. Had Tam and her horse been unique, or would other Hunnuli leave to join their riders in the realm of the dead?

No one felt inclined to ask the Hunnuli themselves. The horses remained outside the council tent, keeping vigil with Sayyed in his grief. Silent and still, they waited while the long, difficult day waned to a close.

It was late evening before Sayyed stirred. From outside the tent, the loved voice of his Hunnuli, Afer, spoke soundlessly into his thoughts.
Rafnir is here, Sayyed. He
wishes to come in.

A jolt of dread brought him out of his stupor. "No!" he rasped. "Keep him out."

With an effort he climbed to his feet, his knees stiff as old wood, and lifted Tam into his arms. Her slight body was lighter than the last time he had carried her, but the weight of his grief was almost more than he could bear. Oblivious to those around him, he staggered outside and came face-to-face with the Hunnuli herd waiting for him. Their large, luminous eyes glimmered with pale stars in the deep twilight; their shapes were ebony shadows.

Behind them, he saw Rafnir pacing, sadness, anger, and frustration clouding his lean face. The young man stopped when he saw his father and the wrapped body in his arms. Lord Athlone, Kelene, Lymira, and Savaron came to stand beside Rafnir.

Gabria emerged from the tent and joined the Hunnuli.

In silence, Afer stepped up to Sayyed. The warrior placed his wife's body on the stallion's broad back, and they walked together toward the meadows where the other bodies of the dead had gone to the funeral pyres. Nara, Demira, Eurus, the rest of the black horses, the six Khulinin, and one little white cat followed behind.

The funeral fires from that day had burned down to hot embers that glowed yellow and orange in the dusk. A priest of Sorh stood guard over the place and two more bodies that had been brought that afternoon. He made no protest when Sayyed and Gabria began to pile more wood onto the coals. In minutes the fire was blazing again in long, dancing flames that leaped toward the stars.

While the priest chanted the prayers of the dead and the Hunnuli watched, Sayyed carried Tam's body to the pyre. He paid no attention to the smoke that stung his eyes or the heat that singed his hands and sleeves; he didn't hear the roar of the hungry flames. All he could see was Tam's long, brown braid that dropped out of the blanket wrappings as he pushed his wife into the fire. He stared, hollow-eyed, while the brown hair and its bright ribbons smoked and burst into orange flame. Gabria had to pull him back before his own clothes caught fire.

The priest, the mourners, and the Hunnuli watched the fire burn long into the night. So intent were the people on the pyre, they did not see Sayyed mount Afer and disappear into the night.

* * * * *

The sun was hot and high in the sky before Rafnir found his father sitting on Afer at the top of a ridge several leagues from the Tir Samod. The warrior was staring out over the bluffs of the Goldrine River toward the south. His expression was hopelessly bleak; his body sagged in the filthy, smoky clothes he had worn for four days.

Rafnir's Hunnuli came quietly to stand by Afer, who turned his head in greeting.

The young man sat on his horse without saying a word and waited for his father to notice him.

Sayyed stirred after a while. "I almost left," he said, his gaze still far to the south.

"I was going to go back to the desert."

Rafnir shifted on his horse's back. He wasn't surprised. There was still a lot of Turic left in Sayyed's heart. "I hope you won't," he murmured.