City of Sorcerers (28 page)

Rafnir sighed once and pulled his gaze up into Kelene's eyes. Those dark orbs were bright and steady, forged with determination, and they made him realize, belatedly, that the decision was not really his to make.

Kelene had changed so much in the past days that he had forgotten she was no longer Savaron's little sister with the crippled foot and the self-pitying attitude. She was a proud, courageous woman who was willing to risk her life for her people. That was why he loved her, for Amara's sake! He could not deny her the right to decide for herself.

"By the living god and the gods of the clans," he prayed. "Keep her safe." Then he put his hand in Kelene's and said, "If this is what you want to do, I'll go with you."

Sayyed's hand came down on their two, and he clasped them both. "Be careful,"

he said in a strained croak. "Talk to him first, gauge his mood before you enter that cage."

Kelene squeezed the warrior's fingers in agreement. She brought out the small packet of angelica Gabria had sent and brewed a warm tea of the herb for Sayyed.

After she helped him drink it, she covered him with his light cloak. She left him to sleep with the cat by his side and followed Rafnir and Savaron silently outside to the entrance of the warehouse.

Morad, standing guard by the shield, looked at her questioningly. At her gesture he stepped, with the other two men, to the side of the doorway, out of the Korg's sight.

Kelene stood before the doorway just a step away from the glowing energy field.

She didn't have to call the Korg, he was already standing in the same position he had been in yesterday. His jewel eyes gleamed gold in the dim light of the warehouse; his mane tumbled over his pricked ears. He was so tall she had to look up to see his stone face. He did not snarl or show his teeth, he only stared at her as if waiting for something.

From his throat rumbled a low grinding noise that sounded something like a question. "What did you say?" Kelene asked, leaning closer.

The Korg growled again. This time Kelene heard the words more clearly.

"Kelyra, where have you been?" The pain in the query was so plain it tore her heart.

"Far away," Kelene answered. "But I am back now. Will you talk to me?"

"Yes."

She studied him, from the huge paws to the curving mouth that hid the rows of wicked teeth. He was a dangerous beast, she knew that, but she couldn't shake the belief that he was not going to hurt her. "If I take down this shield, what guarantee do I have that you will not attack me or try to escape?" She waved sharply to stifle Rafnir's protest.

The Korg deliberately lay down on his belly, his paws crossed in front of his chest and his hind legs stretched out to the side. Kelene had seen Tam's cat in that pose often enough to know it was a relaxed position. The Korg was trying to show her he was not going to make any sudden moves. "Before Amara, Sorh, Krath, and Surgart, I give you my word," the old lion stated.

That was enough for Kelene. If the Korg was sane enough to swear before the gods, Kelene had to accept that he understood the consequences of the gods' wrath if he broke his oath.

The names of the deities seemed to ease Rafnir's reluctance, too, for he glanced at Savaron and nodded once to Morad. All three men eased closer to the doorway as the Geldring dissolved the shield.

Kelene stepped through into the cool interior. Standing, she was just able to look the reclining Korg in the face. However, she decided to assume his relaxed posture and sat down cross-legged just inside the doorway---where Rafnir could yank her out if there was trouble. She held out her hands in peace.

The Korg lowered his head so he could see her. "It has been so long, Kelyra . . . .

I missed you," he said in his harsh voice.

"And I you," Kelene responded. She had to swallow hard to force down the nervousness in her stomach. She reached out warily and put her hand on the lion's paw. It felt hard, yet surprisingly warm under her fingers. "What has happened to you?" She cautiously probed with her touch into his mind as she had done with Demira.

But the Korg was no Hunnuli with a psyche receptive to human contact. His was the mind of a sorcerer, highly trained and very powerful. The moment he felt her touch he deliberately snatched control of her mind and drew her thoughts helplessly into the vivid pageant of his memories.

She flashed through thousands of images going back in time past his entrapment, Niela's death, through years of solitude and despair. She saw her parents and Sayyed, looking so young, face the Korg in a walled courtyard; she watched a ragged exile poke through the ruins and flee in terror with an old tome under his arm. The brief glimpses flashed by and moved on into an endless cycle of seasons and unutterable loneliness. The images were brilliantly colored and bitter, and they flashed by so fast Kelene could barely comprehend them.

At some time, she sensed the Korg's perception change into a man's view and soon thereafter, he slowed the visions and brought them to a stop when Moy Tura was whole and alive with people.

"Ah, there you are," she heard him say, and the image came into sharp focus. She stared out of the Korg's eyes and saw herself coming toward him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

So alike, and yet unalike. The resemblance was uncanny, Kelene thought, watching the woman draw closer. She was tall, slender, and dark-haired with the same narrow eyebrows and stubborn tilt to her chin. But this woman walked with a graceful, fluid stride. Her eyes were light brown, not black, and she greeted the Korg with the happy smile of a woman greeting her lover.

Kelene felt the Korg's onrush of love like a hot intoxication---a new, wondrous, unbelievable emotion that the man had never felt before this woman had entered his heart.

Kelene had never felt anything like it either, and its painful, joyous intensity rocked her soul.

"Kelyra," he murmured.

From that point he shifted his memory forward. Kelene suddenly found herself looking around at a semicircle of eleven other men and women seated in high-backed chairs.

She knew from the Korg's memory that this was the audience chamber of the Council of Twelve in the Sorcerers' Hall. The council was the head of the clan magic-wielders and the ruling body of Moy Tura.

A man stood before them, a chieftain by his golden torque and rich clothing. His furious face and forceful arguments reminded Kelene of Lord Fiergan. The man had the burning Intensity of a zealot and a streak of violence that was barely under control. Lord Gordak of Clan Reidhar. The name came to Kelene's mind, and she knew the Korg didn't like or trust this man.

"This tribute you demand is absolutely intolerable!" the chief was ranting. "The clans will not support this pack of heretics any longer."

"Heretics!" a sorceress cried in anger. "How dare you!"

Gordak cut her off. "No, Lady, you are the ones who dare! You take our children away from us on the slightest pretext of magic. You demand that we feed you and clothe you and pay tribute from our hard work; you treat us like dogs when we try to talk to you. And what do we get in return? Grieving mothers, empty bellies, and the scorn of the very people who are sworn to serve the clans." Lord Gordak was pacing now, his hands swinging in furious gestures.

What startled Kelene the most though, was the blank, almost bored expressions on the faces of most of the council members. They seemed to be paying no attention at all to Lord Gordak's grievances---grievances that Kelene thought were very valid.

Only the lady sorceress was looking irritated, and a second sorcerer was watching the chieftain with some worry. But the rest did not appear to care at all.

The odd thing was Lord Gordak seemed aware that his audience wasn't listening.

Yet he carried on anyway, haranguing them with a long list of minor complaints against the council and other magic-wielders. He doesn't care either, Kelene decided.

He has already planned something else; this verbal tirade is nothing more than a prelude.

The vision suddenly stopped.
You're right
, the Korg's voice spoke in her mind.

Kelene gave a mental start of alarm. She hadn't realized he could understand her thoughts.

Do not fear. I know now you are not my Kelyra. I should have realized earlier,
but I was blinded by wishful hope and memories I thought I had forgotten.

His mental voice rumbled in her mind. The presence was very strong, yet Kelene sensed an aura of incredible age and abiding sadness.
Then why do you show me this?

she replied in both respect and curiosity.

His reply was rather hesitant.
You do not have the splinter in your wrist, but I
know you are a magic-wielder. All these years I thought the magic-wielders were
dead. You are the first who has spoken to
me since this city fell.

Well, why didn't you stop to talk to Niela? She was a magic-wielder!
the accusation flared in Kelene's mind.

Your friend? I am deeply sorry for my error.
Remorse colored his thoughts.
I did
not recognize the Hunnuli. I saw only intruders in my home, and I reacted as I have
for two hundred years. The time in this prison has forced me to think and remember,
to see in you the blood of Valorian.

Kelene held back her resentment for Niela's death and allowed herself a tiny feeling of victory. The Korg, at least, was communicating. He was not as crazy as Rafnir feared, and his memories were clear. She could not permit anger or any misplaced sense of revenge to jeopardize a possible rapport with him. The old sorcerer within the stone lion was the only one who could help them find records of the healers' work.

I understand,
she told the Korg.
But why do you show me these visions of Moy
Tura?

I want you to see who I was and why I became what I am. Showing you helps me
to remember myself, too. It has been long since I thought of Kelyra or Lord Gordak.

Kelene smiled tentatively and asked,
Had Lord Gordak planned something else?

May his soul rot in Gormoth, yes!
the Korg answered, fiercely hostile.

Was he right to call the council heretics?
Kelene queried. The last days of Moy Tura had been a subject that had been hody debated by priests and clanspeople alike, and everybody had their own opinions on the causes and the actions of all the known participants. But now Kelene had an eyewitness, and she found herself growing more fascinated by the minute.

Some of them. That was one reason why our people turned against us. The
Council of Twelve was supposed to be comprised of the most talented and
incorruptible magic-wielders in the clans. Unfortunately, it didn't always work out
that way. Some of our number stirred up a great resentment and hatred among the
priesthood when they tried to take away the holy ones' power and authority and
assume it themselves.

Kelene was aghast. Magic-wielders stole the sacred rights of the gods' chosen?

No wonder the priests were some of her parents' bitterest opponents. The reasons for the schism may have been lost in time, but the hatred for magic had been rigorously passed on.

It was the priests,
the Korg went on,
and Lord Gordak who incited the hatred and
prejudice against us. It was our own folly that encouraged it. There was one man I
remember vividly, a priest of Sorh. He vowed to destroy every magic-wielder living, to
wipe our filth from the plains. Filth. Quite an insult coming from a man who
sacrificed children and slaughtered helpless captives.

Kelene quelled a shiver.
Did he betray Moy Tura?

Not in person. He plotted with Lord Gordak to bring down the Council of Twelve
and helped plan the attack on the city. But he was too obvious even for our unseeing
eyes to ignore. He became so dangerous we dealt with him ourselves. Sadly, that
backfired, too. After his disappearance, he was made into a martyr for Lord Gordak's
cause.

Well, what happened to the city? How did the clans get through your defenses?

The Korg's memory abruptly returned to the council room and zoomed in on the sorcerer with the worried expression.
That man. Cirys, one of our own! He brought
Moy Tura to her grave.

Kelene was rocked back by the fierceness of his reply. She could feel his anger shooting through his mind from the incredibly intense memory. She studied the image of the rather ordinary, sandy-haired man huddled in a yellow cloak.

He was a Reidhar, too, she noticed. Lord Gordak's clan.

The memory images began again, clear and poignant with the knowledge of what was coming. It was summer. The plateau was still green from the spring rains; the herds of horses and Hunnuli grazed on the high pastures, and the clanspeople were trekking to the Tir Samod for the summer gathering. All except the inhabitants of Moy Tura. A few had left, but most were content to remain at home.

No one was surprised when Clan Geldring stopped by the city on their way south.

Clans often camped near Moy Tura in the summers. Clan Amnok soon joined them, and still no one was concerned. Not even the unusually large numbers of armed men in the camps worried anyone. When Clan Reidhar appeared, however, and deliberately camped across the main southern road into the city, the council grew alarmed.

I have had years to think about that summer,
the Korg told Kelene.
I still can't
believe how blind and arrogant we were. We had three large, heavily armed werods
at our door, and we did nothing about it. We never strengthened the wards, set a
watch, or armed our citizens. We just assumed the warriors would never dare attack
magic-wielders of their own blood.

But they did,
Kelene thought.

Gods, yes. They did.
There was a long pause before the Korg went on.
I don't
know everything that happened that night or why Cirys chose to trust Lord Gordak. I
think perhaps he was trying to make amends for something. The gods only know! Late
one night he shut down some of the wards on the southern gate and let Lord Gordak
into the city. I saw Cirys later, brought bound and gagged to Gordak's feet. Gordak
bragged about what was happening and reviled him for being a traitor. They slit
Cirys's throat for his reward.