Dark Horse (12 page)

"All right, all right. The boy is yours for as long as you need him. Just don't spoil him,” Athlone exclaimed.

Tungoli crossed her arms and nodded. "Of course."

Gabria felt as if a great weight had been taken from her shoulders. She was free from Athlone for a time and she was free of Cor long enough to gather her wits. Gabria still had to decide where she was going to sleep in the future, and she wanted to consider her dream. Perhaps Piers could help her understand. Being from Pra Desh, he would not have the horror of sorcery any clansman would. Maybe the healer would talk to her and give her some reassurance that her dream had been only a figment of her imagination.

Gabria still felt unreasonably guilty for Cor's sudden illness. Although she was certain it was not her fault, she could not forget the flare of blue power that struck from her hands with such deadly swiftness, or the nameless fear in her heart that there was a connection between the fight and her dream.

"Come on, boy." Athlone walked to her side. "I'll get you to the healer and back before my mother scans on another speech."

To Gabria's surprise, he slipped her arm over his shoulder and helped her up. Gabria was too stunned by his move to object. Speechless, she looked at Athlone from a few inches away. He met her eyes and, for the first time, his brown eyes did not clash with her green. The wer-tain gave her a sketchy smile, and they moved out the door.

Rain was falling when Athlone and Gabria left the hall, a cold, steady drizzle that soaked through clothes in minutes and chil ed everything into a lethargy. The low-slung clouds moved sluggishly over the mountains, as if they too were reluctant to hurry on. Gabria closed her eyes, not wanting to see the dismal dawn, and leaned wearily into Athlone.

His gesture of help surprised her. She would have expected him to urge her out with the flat of his sword rather than the Strength of his arm.

"The healer was right. Cor beat you badly," Athlone said, looking at Gabria from only a hand span away.

The girl quickly turned her face away. If he was this close and watching her so intently, he could notice details she did not want him to see, like the smoothness of her cheek. There was no dirt to disguise her skin and not enough tan to hide the softness of her face at such a close range. The bruises helped, but the wer-tain was beginning to look puzzled.

Gabria deliberately stumbled and slammed into Athlone's calves as she fell. He lost his balance, tripped over a tent rope, and fell on top of her. Gabria froze in fright. His weight crushed her into the mud, but it was nothing compared to the fear of what he might discover as he lay on top of her. She had not meant to bring him down like this!

"I'm sorry, Wer-tain," she blurted from under a tangle of cloaks and swords. Athlone moved off her.

Every bruise and ache in Gabria's body complained. It took all the willpower she had to control a cry of pain. The warrior stood up and offered a hand to her. Once again the wer-tain surprised her-he was laughing.

She staggered up and looked down at herself ruefully. Athlone would never cease to amaze her.

Instead of berating her for her clumsiness, he was laughing like it was a joke. They were both covered with mud—at least she did not have to worry about her face for the moment—yet he was not angry.

Thank the gods he had not put his hands in the wrong places.

"Keep this up, boy, and you will not live long enough to claim your weir-geld," Athlone said.

She smiled shakily at him and replied, "I will have my revenge if I have to crawl to Medb and stab him in the knees."

"No one has tried that yet." Athlone took her weight again and his humor disappeared. "You are the most stubborn whelp I have known. That trait is infuriating, but it can be a good advantage." He lapsed into silence, and they crossed the distance to Piers's tent in thoughtful quiet.

The healer's eyes widened as they came in, whether in surprise at Athlone's action or at their appearance, Gabria could not guess, for he only motioned to a water skin and bent back over his patient.

Gabria felt an unexpected warmth for the wer-tain at her side. It was the first sign of friendship he had offered since she had arrived, and the coldness in her heart retreated a pace as Athlone sat her down on the low stool, poured a bowl of water, and handed it to her with a rag.

Athlone paused at the tent flap before he left. A streak of mud creased his face and dyed half of his mustache. More mud was smeared on his gold cloak and down his legs. His soft boots were caked.

"When you are through here, go to the Lady Tungoli. But do not expect to be coddled by her for long. I will be waiting for you." The wer-tain's voice turned glacial again.

The veiled threats had returned.

Gabria stared after the warrior as the dark flap closed behind him. It was as if their moment of companionship had never happened. The wer-tain's suspicions closed around her again like a trap. The girl shivered. For just a moment, she had nourished a hope that he would leave her alone or maybe help her as Nara suggested. But his confusing manipulations leaped ahead of her and blocked her speculation like a granite cliff.

"The wer-tain is an interesting man," Piers said.

Gabria tore her gaze from the entrance and watched the healer as he worked swiftly over Cor. "Do you always know what I am thinking?"

"It does not take a mind reader to interpret that look on your face. You are overwhelmed by the good chieftain's son." He shook his head. "You are not the only one."

"I noticed you are not comfortable with him," Gabria noted dryly.

"No. Athlone has a strong presence. Savaric rules the clan, but Athlone is its mettle. Where he goes, the werod fol ows. Not even Pazric, the second wer-tain, wields the immediate obedience of the riders."

Gabria stretched her legs out to ease her ankle to a more comfortable position and dabbed half-heartedly at the mud on her face, considering Piers's words all the while. Cor was lying motionless on the mat she had slept on, his face still captured in pain. Piers was wrapping the warrior's body in warm blankets.

"Who is Pazric?" she asked when the silence had gone on too long.

"He is Athlone's second in command," Pier replied.

"I do not remember him." "He is in the south, meeting with one of the Turic caravans."

"Does the werod always follow Athlone without question?" Gabria asked. She was trying to think of some way to lead the conversation around to her dream and Cor's condition. As repugnant as the answer might be, she had to know if there was any connection. The dream was such a strange coincidence, and only Piers would have the openness of mind to help her understand it.

"I realize you and Athlone do not approve of each other. It takes time to know him." Piers shrugged as he stood up. "Even that may not help. But don't ever go against his authority, or the entire werod wil tear you to pieces." The healer removed some items from his chest of medicines and poured a small heap of dark gray grains into a mortar. As he ground the grains, a pungent smell filled the tent. It reminded Gabria of cloves, and she inhaled deeply.

Piers worked for several minutes before he spoke again. "What happened between Cor and you?

May I assume he started it?"

"I don't know," Gabria muttered, feeling guilty again. "He wanted a fight with me, for what happened in the fields last night."

Piers added a few dried leaves to his powder and continued grinding, his robe swaying gently with his movements. "You are not accustomed to fighting, are you?"

Gabria stiffened. "What do you mean?" she asked carefully.

"It's obvious. You are beaten bloody and he does not have a mark on him. You won by luck. . . or something else." When Gabria did not answer, he laid the pestle down and turned to face her. His pale eyes were sad, but his face had a strange look of wariness. "Do you know what is wrong with this man?"

His words were soft, but edged with steel.

Gabria felt as if her mind would shrivel into dust. A cold fear clenched her stomach and her breath failed even as she drew it. Piers obviously thought Cor's condition was not just a simple illness. All the terrors of her dream surged back in the face of his unspoken accusation. "No," she whispered. The word escaped her lips and leaped at his silence. "What have I done to him?" she cried, clenching her fists to her sides.

"So you admit this injury was caused by you."

Gabria stared at the healer miserably. "I don't know what I caused. I only hit him with a bow. . . but later I had a dream of a blue flame that sprang from my hands and struck a man. I don't know why I would dream of something like that. All I did was hit Cor to make him stop beating me." She suddenly stopped the flood of words, then took a deep breath and asked, "What is wrong with him?"

"I am not certain either," Piers said quietly. "I have a very good idea, if I can only believe it." Gabria hunched over as if a pain stabbed her stomach. "What?"

"He has suffered a severe shock. He has a high fever and rapid heartbeat. Unusual symptoms for a mere blow to the groin."

"Will you just tell me?" Gabria cried.

"No,” Piers strode over to her side and leaned over her, no longer hiding his anger. "You tell me, Gabran. You only hit him with a wooden bow, you say, but this man has been wounded by an arcane power called the Trymian Force. Where did it come from?" Abruptly, his hands dug into her shoulder, and he hauled her to her feet. She swayed, staring at him in dumb dismay. "That man may die, and I want to know why. Did your power come from Medb?"

The sound of that name galvanized Gabria like a shock. She wrenched away from the healer and grasped the center tent pole for support. "I received nothing from Lord Medb but death, and that is al he will receive from me,” Gabria gasped, shaking with anger.

Piers eyed her dubiously, his arms crossed. He wanted to believe the boy was not an agent of Medb, yet the Wylfling lord was the only one rumored to be delving into sorcery and Gabran was the only one Piers knew of who had struck Cor in the past day. "Then how is it that Cor suffers from the Trymian Force?"

"I don't know! I don't even know what you are talking about." She leaned into the pole, her eyes beseeching him. "I didn't want to hurt him. I just wanted him to leave me alone."

Piers watched her expressions and was satisfied. The boy was telling the truth about this at least.

After years at the court in Pra Desh, he had learned to recognize truth and deceit hidden in people's faces. The green eyes that met his were free of guile. Piers saw only bewilderment and a desperate plea to be believed.

The healer sighed as he stared into those eyes. Before, Piers could not have said what color they were; now he knew they were as green as the sea with the same subtle lights and the same feeling of power. He shook his head, surprised by the depth of Gabria's gaze. It seemed to the healer that even if the boy did not have a talent for magic, he certainly had the inner strength to wield it.

"Al right, sit down," he ordered. He poured a cup of warm wine into which he added a smal dose of poppy extract. "Here, drink this."

Gabria glared at him and did not move. "What is it, a truth drug? "

"No, boy. Now sit down. It will dull the pain so I can examine your ankle."

Gabria hesitantly accepted the cup and returned to the stool. Piers's attitude had changed. The suspicion was gone from his voice and had been replaced by a tone of resignation. She wondered what conclusion he had reached. It was difficult to read this city-bred man, for he kept himself behind an unbreakable façade---motionless features, still eyes, and a modest manner. He had none of the unrestrained character of the steppe clans. The endless, wild, easily given emotions of the clanspeople were alien to Piers's way of life. Nevertheless, the healer had abandoned his lifestyle and sought a new life on the plains. Whether he did this to forget his past or to find a new existence, Gabria did not know, but she wished she knew what had made him leave Pra Desh. The answer might explain much.

Gabria left her drink on the table for the moment and watched as Piers continued grinding the powder. Neither spoke. The healer seemed content to let the problem settle for a while and rationality return before taking the next leap. Gabria was relieved by his silence. The acknowledgment of the possibility of sorcery was made. But now that it was said, she was not sure she wanted to know if she was the source of that magic. It was enough to have to bear the weight of her grief and the need for revenge, without the fearsome burden of a heretical power she did not even want. No, she implored silently, gripping her hands. It had to be impossible. Sorcery was learned, not an inherent talent.

Piers laid aside the bowl and opened his medicine chest again. The large wooden chest, the only thing he had brought from Pra Desh, was filled with a myriad of drawers and trays. Gabria noticed each one was crammed with packets, bags, vials, bottles, boxes, wrapped bundles and scraps of paper, all clearly labeled. The healer poked through several drawers, then, from one of the smaller trays, he drew out a smooth red stone the size of an eagle's egg. He juggled it several times before he spoke.

"Forty years ago, when I was an apprentice to the senior physician of the Fon of Pra Desh, I met an old man in the market square. He claimed he was the son of a clansman and had been exiled because he accidental y murdered a cousin with sorcery. He had escaped death only by fleeing before anyone caught him."

Gabria stared at the stone in the healer's hand. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because the man was a Corin."

She came alert. "You lie,” the girl snapped, though she said it with more hope than conviction.

Piers shook his head. "My master was a fancier of magic and studied the history of its use. He thoroughly examined this man and confirmed the truth. The Corin, who had no training and had never witnessed a performance of sorcery, had been born with a talent to call the powers to his bidding."

Gabria felt numb. Whether she wanted it or not, the truth was coming out. Somewhere she would have to find the strength to face the awful possibility that she could be a sorceress. "What is the Trymian Force?" she asked. The fear in her voice threatened to spill into tears.