Dark Horse (15 page)

Lord Branth of the Geldring waited only until the period of mourning for Lord Justar was over before he married the dead chief’s widow and swore allegiance to Lord Medb. Meanwhile, scores of exiles---banded together, wel armed, and mounted---began to ride the steppes like marauders. No violence occurred, but often livestock was found slain or horses were missing after the band swept through a clan's territory.

The clansmen were left furious and alarmed by the depredation, but the band was so large and moved so swiftly, there was little the individual clans could do against them. Only the council of lords who met at the clan gathering each summer would be able to instigate any united action against the exiles. Unfortunately, the council did not meet for another three months.

In his huge hal near the southern fringes of the steppes, Medb gathered the news from spies and messengers and watched with growing pleasure as the fruits of his plans began to fall into his lap. At night, he retired to a hidden chamber and pored over the fragile pages of an ancient tome he had bought from a beggar in Pra Desh. He was still shaken that the fabled
Book of Matrah
had fallen into his hands. Matrah, the greatest of the clan sorcerers, had died in the destruction of Moy Tura, but despite years of searching, no one had ever found his manuscript. His book held references to three hundred years of arcane study, and many men had coveted its priceless contents. Now, after al this time, the manuscript had been discovered by a ragged man poking through the ruins of the sorcerer's city, and delivered to Medb as if by divine providence. The book could have so easily been destroyed or given to another man. Instead, it had come to Medb. Now, he had the means to overcome his crippling injuries---

caused by an enraged Hunnuli---and the power to fulfill his dreams. No man or army could stand against him while the forces of magic lay within his grasp. An empire would be his.

To Medb's great amusement, the heavy rains were not of his making, but they fell like another link in the chain of events that was leading irrevocably to his victory. The destruction and ' unrest caused by the weather further undermined the confidence of the clans, and the constant storms kept them separated while Medb strengthened his hand. Before long, he would be ready to launch the next pan of his plan.

* * * * *

In late spring, the rains finally ended. The Khulinin gratefully set to work repairing the rotted tents, clearing the flood debris, gathering the first fresh food of the season, and caring for the livestock. Many of the shaggy, long-legged goats had sickened in the wet, and too many of the newborn kids died. Days passed before the last goat recovered and the losses were counted. The brood mares fared a little better and, as their val ey dried out, they were released to graze on the verdant grass that sprang from the mud like a carpet.

Cor recovered and returned to duty, although it was clear to everyone that Gabria's blow had destroyed more than his chances for fatherhood. He was surly and withdrawn and nursed a hatred that ate at his soul. When the hills finally dried enough to resume the hunt for the lion, he went out alone and after five days returned with the lion's body slung across his saddle. He ignored the cheers and congratulations and Savaric's gifts of thanks, and dumped the dead cat at Gabria's feet.

"Your servant,” he snarled at her and stalked away.

Gabria did not need to look in his eyes to know this was not the last word she would hear from him.

She was only relieved that Cor had moved his belongings out of the hall to his father's tent and, for the time, was leaving her alone.

Life slowly returned to normal. The goats were sheared and new felt mats were made for new tents. The women spun and wove. The men and horses returned to training. There was too much for every person to do to worry about phantoms. Medb dwindled to a distant irritation and the thought of war was pushed aside by the demands of life.

The only blight in the pleasure of spring was Pazric's disappearance. The second wer-tain had not returned from the desert, and Savaric worried about his absence. It was not like Pazric to not send a message or be gone so long. Still, the clan had other things to worry about. The Foaling time was coming and all had to be prepared. Excitement grew with the length of . the days. Many people silently prayed to the gods that the Corin's bad fortune would not affect the coming event.

Then, one night, Nara sensed the stirring among the mares. Gabria woke the clan, and by morning the first foal was born.

Wet and clumsy, he struggled to his feet while the Khulinin watched in silent awe and thanksgiving.

By all the signs, the Foaling would be good: the firstborn was a bay colt as strong as a lion. .

As if to make up for the disastrous rains, the following days were gorgeously warm and dry. The brood mares responded eagerly and a night did not pass without the birth of a foal or two. In the burgeoning meadows, the babies capered by their dams' sides, little knowing they were the continuation of the clan's existence.

Gabria took little joy in the time of Foaling. Her heart was wrapped in her own thoughts and desires as she grappled with her changing belief in magic. The growth of the Khulinin herd meant little to her, except for the lessening animosity toward her. She was glad for Savaric's sake, because she had become fond of him, but the affairs of the clan seemed distant and unimportant to her at the time.

Athlone, stil suspicious of the Corin, sensed her detachment and kept a close watch on her. Their training times grew longer and more strenuous as Athlone sought to break her guard. Gabria disliked him intensely, and it frustrated her endlessly that she could do nothing to avoid him.

In spite of Athlone's temper, Gabria had to admit that he taught her wel . The wer-tain was quick to find fault, but he was highly skilled and fair in his judgment. The girl understood why he earned the unhesitating loyalty of the werod. Athlone was fiercely proud, courageous, and dedicated, and he received in ful measure what he gave.

By the time early summer came, Gabria felt a grudging respect for the wer-tain. Because of his meticulous training, her muscles were tough, her balance and coordination were improved, and she could wield her sword like an extension of her arm. He gave her no mercy---and she knew Medb would have none---nor friendship. Rarely, Athlone would give her brief encouragement, urging her on to greater efforts. Gabria knew that she would never have attained such proficiency as a warrior without his help. If only he would forget his suspicions.

Gabria had little time for relaxation during the Foaling and even less as the Birthright approached.

The Birthright was the celebration of thanks to the forces in the spiritual world that bestowed fertility on the clans and their herds. The-predominating spirit of life was Amara, the mother goddess. It was for her that the Birthright was celebrated. She was the giver of life, the power that preserved it, and the guardian of the clans' continuance.

However, Amara was only half of a greater whole. While Amara was the positive side of life, her sister, the goddess Krath, was the dark side. Krath was the ruler of unbridled passion and secrecy, violence and jealousy. She had the power to destroy, not as her brothers, the two gods of man who commanded the forces of war, but in subtle ways that were slow and unnoticeable. Together Krath and Amara formed a whole that was embodied by the clanswomen.

Paradoxically, women were considered physically inferior to men. But because women had the ability to sustain life, they were endowed with potentially more spiritual power. The clansmen believed that a woman's smaller, weaker form was a compensating balance for the inner strength the life force gave her. Therefore, it was only natural that the women, the true beneficiaries of Amara's grace, should perform the ritual of thanksgiving in the Birthright.

Before the massacre, Gabria had enjoyed the Birthright. The secret rites of the fertility ceremony and the prayers for the herds were the first words she had learned, and the joyous celebrations that lasted through the night were the happiest times of her year. But this year she dared not even hum the chants. When the last foal was born and the procession of red-robed women gathered by the hal , Gabria hid in Piers's tent. She could not risk the slightest slip of the tongue this night.

While the women walked silently to the clan burial mounds, far from the treld, to perform the rituals in the presence of their ancestors, the men remained behind, waiting for the full moon to reach its zenith and the rituals to end. They were apprehensive of the mysteries of the Birthright, but they enjoyed the wild abandon of the celebrations after the rites. As long as the goddess blessed the clan, the women could do as they pleased this one night.

It was a beautiful evening for the Birthright. The moon hung like a pearl on the breast of night. The music of drums and pipes grew louder as the breeze died, and the torches danced around the distant mounds. A silence intense with expectation held the encampment. Even the animals were quiet. The horses watched the flickering flames warily, and the dogs stayed close to their masters.

In Piers's tent, Gabria heard the music crest the silence of the camp like the wind over the earth. It tugged at her mind, urging her to move, to sing the familiar words. The drumbeat lured her memories back to Corin's field, where she had drunk the wine of fertility and danced to please the goddess. The girl clasped her arms around her knees as the chants sang in her mind. It took every cord of her willpower to hold her body still and to stay seated at the fire like a disinterested boy. Piers was gone, but he could return at any time, and she would not betray herself now.

When the music reached its climax and the women shouted in triumph, Gabria sighed deeply. The final words of the ritual's benediction ran through her mind. It was over. Now the women would return to bless the herds and the firstborn colt would be sent to Amara with gratitude. Soon the clan would celebrate.

Gabria could already hear the musicians warming their instruments and the excited talk of the waiting men. For a while she considered joining them, but now she was as tired as if she had just completed the ritual herself. She did not want to face the boisterous gaiety. Instead, she curled up in a blanket and stared at the flames of the dying fire in Piers's hearth. The girl sensed rather than heard his coming. She was instantly alert.

"You are welcome to join us," Athlone said softly from the entrance.

Gabria looked at his shadowy form standing on the edge of the firelight. Like Nara, she thought with surprise, that night in the gully. Even his eyes gleamed in the flickering light as he watched her, wary but not threatening.

"I cannot," she said, hoping he would understand and leave.

The wer-tain was quiet for a breath, then he said, "You have served my father well these past days.

Continue to do so." The tent flap settled back and he was gone.

Gabria stared at the black wall long after he left.

* * * * *

By dawn the clan was asleep, tired and content with the Birthright. Gabria woke early and slipped out of Piers's tent.

The healer had come in very late, reeking of wine, and had col apsed on his bed. She doubted he had seen her. The encampment was quiet for this hour of the morning, and Gabria was relieved to see no sign of Athlone. The sun was barely above the horizon, but already the heat was building and the flies were starting to stir.

She decided to snatch the opportunity and spend some time alone. Solitude was a rare gift in a large treld, and Gabria did not want to lose this chance. She found Nara and they slipped out of camp and cantered into the mountains. Only Nara was aware that they were being followed.

High above Khulinin Treld, Nara found a stream that fell rumbling at her feet into the gorge and the Goldrine River. She starred upstream. The mare forced her way through the heavy underbrush, following trails only she could see, past tiny marshes and through thickets of brambles and deer brush.

Gradually, the low growth gave way to scattered trees and copses, and the water's voice was stronger as it fell over its rocky path. Nara climbed higher and deeper into the mountains as the sun warmed Gabria's back.

Finally, the mare was stopped by a steep rock wall over which the stream spilled in a cascading spray. Jutting rocks, cushioned with dark green moss, separated the fal ing water into thin streams veiled in mist and bejeweled by beams of sunlight. The water was col ected in a deep, foaming pool before it continued down to meet the river. Moist gray-green lichen draped the pine and juniper that grew nearby. A thin undergrowth of grass, herbs, and wildflowers carpeted the sun dappled ground. A squirrel chattered above them, and a dragonfly skimmed the water.

Gabria slid off the mare and dabbled her fingers in the cool water. "I am going for a swim," she said, looking at the pool happily.

Nara glanced back the way they had come. Her nostrils flickered in a gentle whicker.
Be careful. I
wil be back soon.

Gabria started. "Wait. Where are . . ." But Nara was already gone. The girl was rather surprised by the Hunnuli's quick departure, but maybe the mare wanted to graze in a nearby meadow. Gabria shrugged. All that mattered now was the cold, glassy water that waited for her beneath the sparkling mist.

She tore off her clothes---the boy's pants, tunic, and the leather hat she had come to loathe---and dove naked into the pool. It was delicious. She swirled through the water like an otter. The bubbles tickled her skin, and the water flowed over her body like a sensuous massage, washing away tension and weariness. Gabria scrubbed off the dust and sweat, and combed her fingers through her hair, then she relaxed and basked in the mottled sunlight.

It was so good to forget about everything, to be herself without the guilt or the duplicity to encumber her. There were no eyes constantly watching her, no evil, no pretending, no remembering.

She was a woman again. Gabria giggled as a water weed brushed her thigh, then she stretched luxuriously and swam to the waterfall.