City of Sorcerers (8 page)

"We'll send some men in the morning to rebury the mound," Athlone told the other chiefs. They quietly agreed.

The mound lay black in the gathering night, cloaked in shadow and mystery.

More than a few clansmen muttered a prayer to stifle the fear that chilled them. They rode away hurriedly without looking back, leaving the opened grave to the mercy of the night.

* * * * *

The canyon fell deathly still. Nothing moved. No living creature set foot within its boundaries. Night passed slowly into the deep, chilled hours before dawn.

Within the mound, darkness as black and thick as ink filled the chamber much as it had for over two hundred years. But, something was different now. The seals that had shut out life, light, and air were broken; the heavy stone lid of the sarcophagus was lying on the ground; the wooden coffin itself, so carefully built and nailed shut, was cracked. For the first time since the coffin had been sealed, fresh air was leaking into the interior.

Outside the tomb a waning moon rose above the hills and cast its dim radiance into the canyon. A finger-thin beam of light eased through the small hole in the mound's roof to shine into the darkness of the chamber. As the moon rose higher, the pale shaft of light moved until it came to rest on the coffin directly below.

Something began to stir. A faintly luminous wisp of air curled from the crack in the coffin. It hung almost hesitantly between the stone and the wood before it wafted upward. More followed it like a thin, reddish smoke. The glowing air writhed and twisted about the moonbeam, slowly rising toward the ceiling. The mist began to pour our faster, as if encouraged by the fresh air and the light. Soon it filled the whole chamber with a ghastly phosphorescence.

The shaft of light faded and vanished as the moon sank toward the west, but the mist continued to glow with its own bloody radiance. It stopped writhing and hung in the chamber, motionless and still.

Another tendril of red mist began to creep out of the crack in the coffin. This one was darker and thicker; it spilled over the edge of the sarcophagus like a heavy scream of fog. Silently a shape took form from the dark mist. As tall as a man and as nebulous as smoke, it hovered by the platform drawing the last of its substance from the coffin. Then it deliberately moved toward the chamber's entrance. At the door the reddish form paused and extended a part of itself through the stone. When nothing happened, a strange sound like harsh laughter emanated from the figure. Eagerly the shape plunged through the stone into the dark night and was gone as quickly as it had formed.

The mist left in the tomb began to settle. By dawn it was gone, leaving only a barely discernible coating of red dust over everything in the chamber. The coffin rested in its stone housing, as still and enigmatic as death.

CHAPTER THREE

By late morning, the clansmen had returned to the canyon. A small party of ten, drawn from the Khulinin, Dangari, and Jehanan clans, came clattering into the box canyon with spades and orders to rebury the mound. There were no chieftains, priests, or elders among them since the council was meeting again to debate the difficult subject of magic and the training of magic-wielders. The young men had come willingly for the chance to see the mound and the opportunity to turn a hot, dirty job into a merry-making gathering. They started shoveling dirt back onto the sides and top of the mound while they talked and laughed and looked forward to the food and cooled wine they had brought in their saddlebags.

Four men went to the entrance. Priest Ordan had specifically asked them to replace the lid of the sarcophagus before they covered the door. They pushed the stone entrance open and entered the dark chamber.

"Krath's blood!" the Khulinin exclaimed. "What is that stench?" A foul putrescence filled the room as thick and gagging as smoke.

"It wasn't here yesterday," the young Dangari rider said. "Maybe the old man is rotting in the fresh air."

"He should be dust and bones by this time. Let's just get the lid on and get out of here," a third man replied.

In complete agreement, the four clansmen walked around the sarcophagus, not noticing the little puffs of dust kicked up by their feet. They heaved the lid up, moved it over the stone box, and were about to set it down when the Dangari lost his grip on the corner. The heavy stone slid from his fingers, knocking the entire lid off-balance.

All four men yanked their hands out of the way as the lid crashed down on top of the sarcophagus. There was a loud crack; the lid split in half and fell with a cloud of dust into the box.

In dismay, the men stared at the lid then at each other. It was one thing to open a tomb and look inside; it was another thing entirely to deface the contents.

The Khulinin, a young warrior named Ritan, threw up his hands in disgust. "Now what do we do? Tell Ordan?"

"Not on your sword belt, we don't," the fourth man said. A thin-faced Jehanan who was already in his chieftain's bad graces, he was not going to aggravate anyone else in authority, especially a priest. "We'll just leave it. After all, we're going to rebury the mound. No one will see it."

"But the sarcophagus must have a new lid," the Dangari said worriedly.

"Why? That body isn't going anywhere," replied Torel the Jehanan.

One man gave a sharp, nervous laugh. "You're right. What the priests don't know won't hurt us. Let's just get out of here."

The Dangari nodded reluctantly. They arranged the broken pieces of the lid as best they could over the coffin, then filed out. Torel, the last one out, hesitated while the others went through the doorway. When he was sure no one was looking, he picked up a small jade box, a horn comb decorated with silver, and a slim flask embellished with garnets from the belongings on the platform and slipped them into the pouch hanging from his belt.

His eyes glittering with amusement, he went outside and helped close the door of the chamber. The four men immediately began to shovel dirt over the stone steps and doorway before anyone else asked to see the inside of the chamber. They were so busy, they didn't pay attention to the red-colored dust that clung to their pants, boots, and hands.

It was a happy group that rode back to the gathering late that afternoon.

Laughing, boasting, handing the wineskins around, they rode toward the council grove just as the chieftains' council was finally ending for the day.

Torel saw his chief leaving the tent and turned his horse away before Lord Sha Tajan could see him. He hurried past Clan Murjik's camp and skirted the bazaar until he came to the painted booth of the Pra Deshian merchant. He waited until the booth was empty of customers, then slipped into the' tent, pulled the jade box, the comb, and the flask out of his pouch and laid them on the counter in front of the proprietor.

The Pra Deshian, his broad face impassive, leaned over and examined the items carefully. He picked up the jade box, wiped the dust off with a cloth, and held it up to the light. It was only a simple box with a fitted lid and had any number of uses, but it was made of opaque, dark green Ramtharin jade and had the added bonus of being very old. There was a ready market in the Five Kingdoms for such an item. The comb and the flask were marketable as well.

"What did you have in mind?" the merchant asked casually.

Torel tried to keep his face expressionless. "These items belonged to my wife's father. They're very old and precious." He shrugged sadly. "But, there are things we need more."

The merchant studied the Jehanan's face, his dusty clothes, and dirty hands. He didn't believe the clansman's flimsy story for an instant. The Pra Deshian, though, kept up with the news of the clans and had an excellent idea where the man actually found them. Not that it was necessary to know. The important fact was that these three items had been brought to him and no other.

"Indeed," said the merchant. "Perhaps I have some of those items you need."

Torel's face lit up. The bartering began and ended fairly quickly to each man's satisfaction. When the Jehanan left bearing his goods, the proprietor quickly wrapped up his prizes and put them away. There was no point displaying them at the gathering and drawing needless questions.

He picked up the cloth he had used to wipe the jade box and was about to throw it aside when he noticed something odd. The dust on the cloth was a peculiar shade of red, almost like dried blood. There was dust on his hands as well. He studied the cloth momentarily, then dismissed it when Tam walked in to visit his horses. He tossed the cloth under the counter and went to greet her like an old friend.

* * * * *

Torel's companions were having such a good time, they did not notice he'd left.

They were still laughing and talking as their horses splashed into the river for a well-deserved drink.

Just across the water, Lords Athlone and Koshyn came out of the council tent, feeling drained by the long, hot afternoon of negotiations and arguments. They saw the party of young men nearby, and Koshyn hailed his young rider. The Dangari broke off from the group and came trotting over. Although he saluted promptly, his eyes seemed to look everywhere but at his chief’s face.

"Is it done, lad?" Koshyn asked.

"Yes, Lord. We finished it a while ago."

"Good work."

"Thank you, Lord," he said hastily, riding off before Koshyn could ask him anything else.

Athlone watched him go. "Did he seem a little nervous to you?"

"Like a dog caught with his nose in the dinner pot," Koshyn said. His eyes crinkled with amusement. "What do you suppose they were up to?"

"A lot of drinking by the looks of them," Athlone said.

"True. But that wouldn't set a burr up that boy. I just hope they finished the job before they started celebrating."

"We could send someone to check."

Lord Koshyn nodded. "Good idea."

Both chiefs picked up their weapons from the pile left guarded by the entrance and began to walk slowly toward the camps. Athlone stretched his arms and groaned,

"Gods' truth, I'm tired. I thought Fiergan would never give up on that kidnapping accusation against Gabria."

Koshyn laughed. "The man could argue a gorthling to death. I suppose he'll come up with something equally as perverse tomorrow. Speaking of Gabria," he said, "how is she? I heard she's had a few strange turns lately."

"Very strange. Truth is, I'm worried. We talked for a long time last night and could find no real answer. She is certain her brother was trying to warn her of something in a vision she had three days ago. She thinks these sudden feelings of dread and fear she's had since are somehow connected. We just can't figure out how."

Koshyn whistled softly. "I didn't know she'd had another vision."

"Of the Corin massacre again," Athlone said grimly. They reached the edge of the grove and stopped at the last pool of shade.

Koshyn mulled over that news. "I can't believe that was really her brother. Spirits don't leave the realm of the dead. Maybe she had a premonition of some unknown danger that revealed itself as something familiar?"

The Khulinin chief shrugged in frustration. "The gods only know, and they seem to be tight-lipped right now."

"Have you talked to Ordan about it?"

"Ordan is tolerant of magic, but he makes no effort to understand it. I don't think he can help," said Athlone, his tone short.

Koshyn understood his friend's reluctance. After so many years of dealing with prejudice and hatred, especially among the priesthood, it was difficult for any of the magic-wielders to believe that a few of the clan priests were making an effort to accept them. "You may be underestimating him, Athlone. Talk to him. If nothing else, he may give you a different perspective on Gabria's vision."

“I’ll think about it," Athlone said reluctantly. He clapped his friend on the back and suddenly grinned. "How about a shady seat and a cool drink?"

Koshyn's blue eyes lit with pleasure. "My thoughts exactly."

The two chiefs walked to the Khulinin camp and were soon taking their ease under the awning of Athlone's big tent.

Late afternoon slowly mellowed to evening, bringing with it a few scattered thunderstorms and an invigorating coolness that drew the clans from their heat-induced drowsiness. As the flies and the herds settled down to rest, the people came awake, excited and enthusiastic for the night's entertainment.

After the evening meal, men, women, and children of all ages swarmed to the council grove for the competitions between bards, both apprentice and master, from all eleven clans. It was always a long, exciting night, and it gave the clanspeople an opportunity to hear many of the tales known among the clans. Some were old, beloved stories of the clans' deities; some were more recent tales about Lady Gabria and her battle with the gorthling. The Khulinin bard, to the delight of his audience, told Gabria's tale of Valorian. When he was through, he rose to the sound of thunderous applause and bowed to Gabria in her seat among the chieftains.

All the bards had brought their musical instruments, and as soon as the story and poetry competitions were over, the singing and music began. The space in front of the musicians was filled by dancers of every age, who reveled in the wild whirling tunes from the pipes and the slower, throbbing I;>eat of the drums. The dancing and music lasted far into the night, long after the prizes had been awarded and the children put to bed. When the final bard bowed to exhaustion, the light of dawn was streaming over the eastern hills.

The fifth full day of the gathering had begun.

The morning passed quietly since many of the clanspeople slept later than normal. By midday when the council reconvened, the day's heat wilted what little activity was stirring. The camps were almost lifeless as people dozed in their tents or splashed in the shallows of the rivers.

As soon as the council meeting was over, Sayyed hurried back to his tent. He tucked his hammock under his arm and went to a place he knew at the far edge of the Khulinin camp where two trees grew a perfect distance apart to hang a hammock. The hammock was a favorite of the Turic tribes, but it had become more popular among the clanspeople after Tam wove one for Sayyed. He liked to show off its comforts at every opportunity.