City of Sorcerers (13 page)

With an effort, the warrior shook his head. "Even with her gone, there is still more for me here." His voice nearly choked off, then he pushed on. "It seems so senseless. I can't believe she's gone." There was little Rafnir could say to that. He couldn't believe it either. The fact of his mother's death was too enormous for him to face so soon. He swallowed hard and said, "Lady Gabria asked me to find you. She wants your help."

Sayyed bowed his head and turned Afer back toward the gathering. He didn't ask what Gabria wanted. He was too numb to care. All that mattered in the haze of his pain was that she needed him.

The council grove was in an uproar when Sayyed and Rafnir returned. Seven new tents, borrowed from several different clans, had been erected in the grove near the council tent. A surprising number of people were moving back and forth between them.

"At last count over eighty people are sick," Rafnir explained. "The healers gave up trying to handle it alone. They've decided to allow anyone who dares attend to the sick---as long as they stay quarantined." Sayyed accepted this news with a dull nod.

Then his attention was drawn to two widely separated knots of people that had gathered on the point of land between the rivers near the shore of the sacred island. It was obvious from the distant noise and angry gestures on all sides that several arguments were in full cry.

The two Hunnuli lengthened their stride to a trot that carried them across the river's ford and up the bank into the grove. Sayyed saw Gabria, Gehlyn, and several healers standing in one isolated group while Lords Athlone and Koshyn, in the forefront of another group, were standing nearly in the water of the river's confluence.

Athlone had finally urged' Ordan to leave the temple long enough to talk to him, and he was speaking animatedly with the priest as several clan chieftains, a party of bazaar merchants, and a handful of other people quarreled and jostled around them.

"Lord Athlone, this situation is intolerable!" a merchant from the south was hollering. "We will not be held here against our will." Lord Fiergan, his eyebrows bristling, was berating Gabria and the healers across the space that divided them.

"Why aren't you doing more to find a cure? What good are all of your powders and teas if you can't even stop a fever?"

"We're running low on fresh meat. If we don't send hunters out soon, we'll have to start butchering some of the stock," a second chieftain was saying.

And Lord Terod, a jagged edge in his voice, was telling anyone who would listen,

"I think we should leave this place. The gods have put a curse on us here. Let's go back to our own holdings where the plague can't reach us."

In the midst of all the racket, Athlone ignored the merchants and his fellow chiefs and continued to talk urgently to Ordan. His hands made short, pointed gestures as he spoke.

Sayyed watched it all as if from a long distance. He had no real interest in what was being said, for it was taking all of his concentration and strength to keep the fierce grief in his heart from tearing him apart. He sat on Afer near the healers' group and waited for Gabria to acknowledge him.

He might have sat there all day if a frantic yowl hadn't suddenly pierced through the noise around him. Sayyed's back snapped straight, his hands clenched into fists, and a roar of fury burst from his lips.

A priest in red robes was striding through the grove toward the river, carrying Tam's cat by the scruff of the neck. He held the struggling animal up high, and over the voices of the people he shouted, "Here is the cause of our affliction! This foreign vermin beast! Look at it. It is white, the color of sorcery, the color of evil. I say drown it! Sacrifice this creature to appease the gods!"

Before he could think about what he was doing, Sayyed raised his hand and sent a blast of blue energy exploding into the ground at the priest's feet. The man stopped as if he had walked into a tree. The whole council grove was stunned into silence.

"Put that cat down!" bellowed Sayyed. "She is nothing more than an animal, a pet. She is no more evil than a dog or a horse, and if you harm one hair on her, I'll sear you where you stand!"

"Blasphemy!" screeched the outraged priest.

"Put it down, Serit," Ordan demanded in a voice that brooked no argument. "The cat is not the cause of our calamity."

The younger priest's arm dropped reluctantly. Red-faced and fuming, he flung the cat away and watched in disgust as she streaked through a forest of human legs and leaped frantically up Sayyed's boot to land in his lap. Once there, she crouched, ears flat, and hissed at the priest.

"And you, Sayyed, owe these people an apology," Ordan said fiercely. "I know you are distraught, but it is against clan law to use the Trymian force in the council grove."

Apologizing was the last thing Sayyed wanted to do. His fury was aroused and any emotion felt better than the grief that filled his heart. Unfortunately, Ordan was correct. Sayyed knew he could not make matters right by venting his rage with magic.

He dismounted and, holding the cat tightly, bowed before Ordan. "Forgive me," he said, forcing the words past his anger. "This cat has become very precious to me."

Ordan's eyebrows eased out of their frown. "That is no excuse for breaking the council's laws," he said a little less angrily.

"So punish him!" shouted Serit. The priest came stamping up to Ordan. He was a Murjik, short-legged, stocky, and flat faced. His disgust for magic was a fact he voiced at every opportunity. "If it is not that beast, then what is the reason for this plague that kills us? I say it is the flagrant use of magic that has angered our gods."

Athlone made a warning noise in his throat that Serit ignored. "Fulfill the laws, Ordan! Perhaps the death of this heretical heathen will appease the gods' wrath against us."

Sayyed clenched his jaw and ground out, "There have been too many deaths already, priest. Your gods should be delighted by now!" He felt a warning hand on his sleeve and looked to see Gabria by his side, her grimy, tired face full of concern.

"Magic has nothing to do with this," Lord Koshyn argued.

Fiergan snorted. "How do you know? How can we be certain that sorcery has not angered the gods?"

"Why would Sorh wait twenty-three years to punish us for allowing sorcery to return to the clans?" demanded Koshyn irritably.

The Reidhar chief glared. "Why not? Who is to say why the immortals do anything?"

"Your priests!" Sayyed snapped. "Don't they study the stars and the omens? Don't they pray and sing day and night? Why don't they have an answer?"

"Sometimes there is no answer," Ordan replied heavily.

At that, the uproar broke out again on all sides. Serit shouted at Ordan, and Lord Koshyn exchanged heated comments with Fiergan. Gehlyn was trying to say, "It's just a disease, like smallpox or the sleeping fever. Does there have to be an excuse?"

"I still think we should take our clans away from here," Terod insisted.

Voices rose higher and louder until finally a piercing whistle split the noise. All eyes turned in astonishment to Gabria. Her husband smiled gratefully.

"Thank you," she said into the silence. "Ordan, my husband has told you of my vision and the strange apparition I have seen. Do you know what to make of that?"

Ordan looked troubled. "Others have reported to me of seeing this glowing figure, Lady. It is apparently growing stronger and becoming more visible. But nothing in our traditions can tell me what this portends."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Fiergan.

Lord Athlone answered, "An unearthly form like a man that walks at night and glows with an eerie light. Several of us have seen it."

"Could that be the cause of our plague?" Koshyn asked the priest.

"Possibly. The coincidence of its appearance at this time is very provoking," said Ordan.

Gehlyn threw up his hands. "Apparition, poisoned water, magic, or curses. The results are the same. People are dying! We must find a way to cure this disease!"

"There is one possibility," said Gabria. She deliberately looked at Ordan, Sayyed, and Gehlyn in turn before she finished, "The city of the sorcerers: Moy Tura."

Fiergan sneered. "Of all the dung-headed ideas. How is that cursed old ruin going to help us now?"

But Gehlyn understood. "The healers," he breathed.

Gabria nodded. "Before the downfall of sorcery and the massacre of the sorcerers, the art of healing was more advanced. Maybe these healers who lived in Moy Tura knew of plagues like this; maybe they found a way to fight them and left a description of that cure in their records. If we could find those---"

"And if horses had wings they could fly!" Fiergan interrupted scornfully. "Are you sure you're not feverish, Lady? Those sound like the ravings of an over-heated head."

"I haven't heard you offer any suggestion, feverish or otherwise," the sorceress retorted. "It's a chance only. A slim one at best. But what do we have to lose? Send a small party of magic-wielders---their Hunnuli are the only horses that could get there in time---and have them search the ruins."

"What about the Korg, the stone lion that guards the city?" asked Rafnir.

"That is a danger they will have to face," admitted Gabria.

Gehlyn said, "What if they get sick?"

"That, too, is a chance they must be prepared for."

Fiergan was still not convinced. "This sounds like a fool's mission to me."

Gabria rounded on him, fire in her eyes. "Yes, but with the survival of our people at stake, shouldn't we try every possibility . . . no matter how foolish?"

Sayyed had been silent during this exchange while he stared at the white cat in his arms. He knew now why Gabria had summoned him. This plan of hers was not an inspiration that had popped into her mind at that moment. She had been thinking about it for some time. That was as obvious as the look of inquiry that she was giving him, as clear as the dark smudges of grief that darkened her jewel-green eyes. She didn't want to ask him, he knew, but he was the oldest, most experienced magic-wielder after Athlone and herself, and he had been to Moy Tura once already.

Sharp and biting, his anger flared again. Something he could not feel or see or sense had killed his wife, some invisible enemy he could not burn with magic or hack with a sword. If there was a chance, no matter how risky or foolish, to fight this cruel killer, he would find it for the sake of Tam, for the sake of those people he loved poised on the brink of death.

He held the white cat close and said to everyone, "I'll go." Ordan's wrinkled face creased into a half smile. "Your crime of using sorcery in the council grove is absolved, magic-wielder. The journey to Moy Tura should be punishment enough. "

CHAPTER FIVE

Kalene stood flabbergasted when her father told her she was to go with Sayyed's party to Moy Tura.

Her first reaction was "No!" Her response did not spring from fear. Part of it came from simple habit---her father informed her she had to do something, she automatically said "no." The rest of it was simply confusion.

"Why?" she demanded. "Why do I have to go? What possible good will I do?"

Lord Athlone had no real answer for that because he wasn't sure why Gabria had insisted that Kelene go. "Because we want you to," he said flatly.

"That's ridiculous'" Kelene limped around the tent, flinging newly washed clothes around in a flurry of agitation. She and Lymira had taken over the duties of keeping the family tent and preparing meals, but Kelene was so upset she gave no thought to the laundry she had just finished. She turned to her father again, her dark eyes as hard and piercing as her grandfather Savaric's used to be when he was in his worst temper.

"Father, you know I can't ride Ishtak that far, and I have no Hunnuli to ride. I would be better off here where I can help you than traipsing off across the plains after some moldy old records that probably don't even exist. Send Savaron or Lymira if you have to send someone."

Athlone crossed his arms, his expression implacable. "Savaron is going. Lymira is too young. We will find a mount for you to ride. Now you will pack some clothes and whatever belongings you need and you will be in the council grove before the sun moves another handspan." Kelene was about to argue further when the tight note in her father's voice made her stop pacing and take a good look at him. She was immediately struck by how the past days had taken their toll on the powerful chieftain. His tanned face was gray, and lines of worry and grief cut deep around his features. His eyes were sunken into dark circles of fatigue.

For the first time, Kelene was forced to face the fact that' her strong, loving father and mother were not invulnerable. They could become victims of this hideous sickness as readily as Coren. What if they fell ill and there was no help for them?

Kelene could not bear the thought of losing her parents. So, what if her mother was right and there really was an answer in Moy Tura?

Kelene's stubborn resistance crumbled, and she squared her shoulders in a gesture that was totally hers. "All right! If you think it will do any good to send me, I'll go,"

she announced.

Athlone made a mock half bow. "Thank you." He turned on his heel and left the tent without another word.

Kelene stared after him, torn by resentment, anger, love, and fear. Then she snatched up her saddle pack and began to scuff clothes into it without thought or heed.

Her sister's favorite gauze veil, her father's leather gloves, and Corin's torn pants found their way into her pack before she realized what she was doing. Irritably she pulled everything out, bit her lip in thought, and started over.

She was about to toss Coren's pants aside when an idea occurred to her. Why not?

the young woman thought. If her mother had done it, so could she. She dug around in a bundle of old clothes---things too old to fit their former wearers but too useful yet to throw away---and found a pair of Savaron's drawstring pants cast aside when he moved to his own tent. Woven of undyed heavy cotton, they would be tough enough for a long journey but not too heavy for summer heat.