Dark Horse (17 page)

"What?" Gabria was stunned. "That is impossible."

Medb has powers now even he does not understand. But he is learning fast.

Gabria ground her heel into the dirt and said, "I am such a fool to think I can kill him."

Boreas flicked an ear at her.
Yet you do not give up.

"I cannot. By clan law, he owes me recompense." She looked at both horses. "I admit, though, I need help. Wil you and Boreas support my plea to Athlone?"

Nara answered,
Of course. But we do not think you wil need us.

The two Hunnuli trotted off to the pastures, and Gabria walked up the path toward the hall. The encampment was swarming with activity as the women began the monumental task of packing and the men made preparations for the summer trek. Al signs of the celebration were gone. The Birthright was over, gone with the rain and snow of the winter. Now the plains beckoned to the camp-weary clan and the sun burned hot on their backs. They would be leaving soon for the clan gathering at the Tir Samod, the meeting place of the Isin and the Goldrine rivers.

Lord Medb and the Wylfling clan would be there, as well as Lord Branth and his Geldring and the other clans who vacil ated under Medb's increasing influence. Gabria thought that Medb would probably make a move at the council, when the chiefs of the clans were al together. One decisive attack could do irreparable damage to clan unity and reinforce his bid for supreme rule. But Gabria hoped to ruin his plan, whatever it might be, by chal enging the chief to a duel. A duel to the death was her right under the rules of the weir-geld. Even if she could not kil Medb, maybe she could spoil his plots before he plunged the clans into war.

"Gabran!" Piers's voice stopped her cold. She saw him standing by his tent and her heart lurched.

His face was grim, his hand gripped the tent pole like a crutch, and his pale eyes spoke to her as clearly as his words.

Wordlessly, she fol owed him into the tent. Piers said quietly, "This is the second time." He moved aside and she saw Athlone lying unconscious on the pal et. His wound had not been tended yet, and the bloody bandages lay like dark stains on his skin. She started to say something when she noticed the healing stone resting on the wer-tain's forehead. A stray gleam of purple still flickered in the core.

"Oh, Piers," she breathed.

"Athlone has been struck with the Trymian Force," Piers said with controlled calm. "And this time you were the only one with him."

"You stil cannot prove that. How do you know I did not find him like this?" Gabria demanded. She was grasping at straws and they both knew it.

"You said you were with him."

"Not the entire time."

"You were not there?" Piers picked up the red stone from Athlone's forehead and put it back in its wrappings.

Gabria shifted nervously. "I brought him home."

The healer returned the stone to its tray and slammed the chest door shut, then turned back to Gabria. "Granted. But should I tel Savaric the injury in his son's shoulder is a knife wound?"

Gabria stared at the healer in alarm. She had forgotten that Piers would recognize the cause of the wer-tain's injury. If the healer told Savaric the truth, no one would believe it was only self-defense.

Savaric would kill her. Of course, if Athlone's rage recovered with him, her fate would be the same.

"Tell me the truth, Gabran," Piers prompted. "I think you did this, however unintentional y."

"It was a misunderstanding," she mumbled.

"And the Trymian Force?"

Suddenly, Athlone's last words began to pound in Gabria's head. "Sorceress, what have you done to me?"
He had felt it!
Somehow he had realized that she had struck him with something more than a dagger. Her fear and confusion closed in as the truth came crashing down around her.

"But I don't know how to cast a spel ," she cried.

"You have to face the truth, Gabran," Piers demanded. "You have the power and Athlone nearly died of it. The next time, you might kil someone."

"You are wrong. I am not a sorceress!" She flung the last word at him and fled from the tent. She ran furiously through the treld, dodging dogs and children, but the word fol owed her like a curse.

Sorceress. A creature despised. It could not be true. She had never felt this arcane power and, the gods knew, she did not want it. Piers has to be wrong, Gabria concluded desperately. He's only a foreigner and knows nothing about me.

Gabria nearly slammed into an old woman carrying an armload of newly dyed wool before she regained her composure. With a quick apology, she helped the woman with the heavy wool, then she walked tiredly to the hall. Sorceress or not, it would hardly matter if Piers or Athlone revealed the truth.

Her punishment for anyone of her crimes would be irrevocable.

The cool gloom of the hall was comforting, and, luckily, the long room was empty. Gabria poured a cup of wine and sat in a corner by the main door to wait. There was nowhere else to go.

The wind died down at twilight, and the dust settled in the fields. One after another the cooking fires were lit, and the weary women prepared the evening meal. The men gratefully set aside their work and came home, until all but the outriders were comfortably settled by their hearths. In the hall, Lady Tungoli and her women lit the lamps and torches, then served the bachelors from a pot of simmering stew.

Through the noise and activity of hungry, raucous men, Gabria sat in" her corner in stony silence.

She ignored their questions and offers of food, and stared at the entrance, waiting for one man to walk through and accuse her. But Savaric never came. His place at the table remained empty. After a while, the others forgot her and she was left alone in her self-imposed solitude. The fire was allowed to burn low in the central hearth since the weather was warm. Most of the warriors wandered outside to take advantage of the pleasant evening. Gabria still sat in tense expectation, wondering how Savaric would feel to learn the truth about Dathlar's "son."

Moonlight was flooding through the open doors when a young warrior slipped into the hal . Many of the men had returned for the night, and he squinted at the sleeping forms as if looking for someone.

Finally he moved next to Gabria.

"Gabran,” he whispered loudly.

Gabria stood up stiffly. So, Savaric had sent a messenger. The girl was surprised he had not come himself or sent the hearthguard, but perhaps he felt she did not deserve the honor.

The warrior waved her over. "Come on, hurry up. The wer-tain wants to see you."

She paused in surprise. Athlone. Not Savaric? "The wer-tain?" she repeated.

"Yes, now. He woke up a while ago and moved back to his own tent," the warrior said impatiently.

He led Gabria down the paths to Athlone's tent and left her' by the entrance. Her knees felt weak and, for a moment, she had to stop. The night air was cool and refreshing, and the sounds of the camp were pleasantly familiar. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the similarity to Corin Treld, even to the smell of wood smoke and the barking of a dog. The thought gave her comfort, just as the memories of her clan gave her strength. Gabria leaned on that strength now as she pushed the tent flat aside. She wondered why Athlone had requested her presence, but she realized that he probably just wanted her there when he revealed her lies to his father.

Resolutely, she stepped inside. The only light in the large tent was from a lamp burning on the center tent pole. On the edge of its glow, she could see Athlone lying on a low bed. The sleeping curtain was pulled back and he was watching her in the flickering shadows. To her astonishment, they were alone and his sword was propped against a chest, too far away to be easily reached. She stayed by the tent flap, keeping the light between them, and stared at him through the flame. They stayed silent and eyed each other like two wolves on a narrow path.

Athlone gingerly sat up. He waved to a stool, then poured two cups of wine. "Sit down,” he ordered. He tasted his wine and set the other cup on the floor for her.

Her heart in her throat, Gabria obeyed. She took a quick swallow of wine to ease the dryness in her mouth and let the liquid warm her stomach before she spoke. "You have not told Savaric."

He grunted. He was still very weak and any movement was an effort. "Not yet. I have some questions I want answered."

"Why haven't you?"

With an ironic grimace, he pointed to the cut on his throat. "First you tried to kil me, then you changed your mind and brought me back. Why?"

"Nara said I should trust you," Gabria replied.

"She puts much faith in me."

"Too much."

Athlone cocked an eyebrow much like his father. "Yet you did not kil me, even though I could sentence you to death."

Gabria looked away and her fingers tightened around the cup. "It was a chance I had to take. I need your help."

"Blunt. After nearly killing me, you ask for my aid." He took a drink and considered her. "Remove your hat."

Surprised, Gabria pulled off the leather hat and shook her head. Her hair had grown out a little since she cut it at Corin Treld, and it curled in uneven waves around her neck.

"Who are you?" Athlone muttered as if debating the answer himself. His eyes were no longer suspicious, only puzzled, and he leaned toward her, ignoring the pain in his wounded shoulder.

"Gabran's twin sister," she said, her voice hesitant. "I am Gabria."

He snorted. "Gabria? Doesn't your name mean buttercup? What an ill-matched name for a lioness.

At least you are a child of Dathlar, that is obvious. You have his stubbornness." He paused. "How did you escape?"

Gabria bit her lip. It still shamed her to remember that disgraceful argument with her father, but she was not going to lie about it now. "I had a disagreement with Father and I ran away to be alone."

Athlone refilled his cup. "What about?"

"Marriage," she said angrily. She took another gulp of wine to hide the flush that burned on her cheek.

The wer-tain laughed outright and nearly spilled his wine. It was the first time Gabria had seen Athlone laugh, and she was amazed by the pleasant change. The hard lines of his face relaxed and his eyes warmed to a rich, dark amber.

"I am sorry," Athlone finally apologized. "I just cannot imagine any man taming you. You are much like your Hunnuli.'"

Gabria was relieved by his compliment, however undeserved, and her hope grew. Perhaps Athlone would keep her secret. His rage from their earlier confrontation seemed to be cooled, and, if he could laugh at her and apologize, he was not planning to have her head removed immediately.

"Why did you come to us?" the wer-tain asked, returning to seriousness.

"For the reasons I told your father," Gabria answered.

"To claim weir-geld against Lord Medb?" He shook his head. "You don't have a chance. The man is a chieftain and a reputed sorcerer." Suddenly Athlone stumbled over his words and stared at Gabria as if something had jogged his memory.

The girl slammed her cup down and said too quickly, "Yes, I want weir-geld. I am the only Corin left to claim it, and man or woman, I am entitled to revenge. That chieftain,” she spat the word contemptuously, "is responsible for the murder of an entire clan!"

"And for your revenge, you want Medb's death?" Athlone asked slowly. He was taken aback by this girl's vehemence and was uncertain how to deal with her incredible behavior. And yet, she fascinated him like nothing he had ever known.

"Of course."

"Even if you break clan law to obtain your revenge."

Gabria's face hardened. "I wil do what I must to see Lord Medb dead."

"He will destroy you."

She nodded. "Maybe. But I have to try. And, Wer-tain, I will use any means or any person to attain my vengeance. Even you."

For a long moment Athlone was silent, and, as he stared into the flame of the lamp, his eyes seemed to soften and his body sagged back on the pallet. The last of his indignation and hesitation vanished. "Warning accepted," he said at last. "Despite my earlier temper, I have not told Savaric yet that a woman is a warrior in his werod. You intrigue me. Your will and persistence go a long way to balancing your deceits."

"Will you tell him?" Gabria asked.

"You didn't leave me in the mountains to die. I owe you that at least. I won't tell him, but know also I will do nothing to save you if he discovers your secret from someone else."

Gabria nodded. That was fair. She was beginning to understand why Nara and Boreas trusted Athlone. He was a man of honor and, as long as one stayed within his boundaries, he would do everything to keep his word. She only hoped he had forgotten any suspicions of sorcery he might have.

Gabria had seen the glint of speculation in his eyes when he mentioned sorcerers. The gods only knew what fantastic ideas he might have about her connection with it.

"If I'm not to be executed," she said, "what now?"

"You are still in training. If you insist on fighting Medb, you'll have to know more than the simple tactics of the practice field. Your dagger attack was atrocious."

Gabria nodded and replaced her hat. She stood up and saluted him with boundless relief. "Thank you, Wer-tain," she said gratefully.

He smiled wearily. "I hate Medb almost as much as you do. Perhaps between the two of us we can at least discomfort him." Gabria had turned to go when he added, “You have been courting disaster sleeping in the hall. Move to either my tent or Piers's."

Gabria was jolted by the mention of the healer. "Piers. He knows I stabbed you."

Athlone lay back and laughed softly. "He knows more than that. He has kept your secret for some time."

"What?" she gasped. "How could he have known?"

"A healer learns many things. You should ask him why he did not expose you."

She walked dazedly to the tent door. "Good night, Wer-tain. Nara was right."

As the flap closed behind her, Athlone sighed and murmured, "So was Boreas."

* * * * *

Piers was drying herbs when Gabria stalked into his tent and dropped her belongings on the floor.