Dark Horse (18 page)

She stood in the middle of the pile and crossed her arms as if daring him to challenge her presence there. The felt tent was steeped with earthy smells of mint, hazel, and wild rose. Piles of freshly cut plants lay on the wooden table.

At the sound of the weapons and bundles hitting the carpeted floor, Piers glanced over his shoulder. "Good evening, Gabran. There is a pal et for you over there." He pointed to the sleeping area and turned back to his work.

Gabria saw another cream curtain already dividing the sleeping room in half and a wool-stuffed mat and several furs and blankets waiting for her. After the heated words of the afternoon, Gabria was not certain Piers would want her as a guest; but he had obviously already thought of it. Nevertheless, the girl did not want him to feel pressured into being a reluctant host. She wanted the arrangement to be acceptable to him as well.

"You were expecting me?" Gabria asked, surprised.

Piers hung another bundle of herbs on his drying rack. "It is safer for you to move out of the hal ; I am the older of two bad choices." Gabria still had not moved, and the healer smiled briefly when he turned and saw her standing in her heap of clothes and weapons. "You are most welcome to stay," he added gently. "I had a long talk with the wer-tain this afternoon. We thought you would choose my tent." He paused, then added, "In case you were wondering, Athlone does not remember much about the stabbing except that you did it."

Gabria was relieved to hear that news. She studied the healer for a moment and thought about their earlier argument on magic. She was relieved that she could move out of the hall, but living with Athlone was out of the question. Staying with the healer who cal ed her a sorceress was almost as objectionable. On the other hand, Piers had not betrayed her. Gabria's curiosity prompted her to give him a chance.

"How long have you known about my disguise?" she asked.

Piers chuckled and came over to help pick up her belongings. "From the day I bound your ankle."

"Then why didn't you tell Savaric?"

His brief humor faded and was replaced by an abiding sorrow. "I will just say you reminded me of someone."

"That is quite an excuse for risking your life for a stranger." Piers picked up the girl's blanket and cloak. "It was enough." He helped her pack her clothes in a small leather chest ornamented with brass.

She hung her weapons on the tent supports.

As they worked silently, Gabria wondered if this someone the healer mentioned was responsible for him leaving Pra Desh. A sadness was still in his face, and his mind seemed to be years away.

"Did this person resemble me or just pretend to be a boy?" Gabria asked the question lightly to draw him back to the present.

Piers did not answer at first. He stored his fresh herbs in a damp cloth, then poured a cup of wine and sat staring into its depths for a long while. Gabria had decided he was not going to answer when he said, "I drink too much of this. Before she died, I never touched wine."

"She?" Gabria prompted. There was a bitterness and grief in Piers that echoed her own. This shared pain, whatever had caused it, began to dispel her anger toward him.

He continued as if he had not heard her. "You resemble her in a vague way: fair hair, young. But you are stronger. She was pretty and delicate like silk. When she married the Fon's youngest son, I did nothing to stop her."

"Who was she? What happened to her?"

Piers stood up. His reverie was reaching into places he wanted to forget. "It doesn't matter now,"

he said curtly. "She is dead. But I want to keep you alive, so get some rest." He went to his own pal et and drew the curtain.

Gabria sighed and sat down. She had not meant to push him so hard. Whoever this girl was, she must have been very close to Piers to kindle such a response. The mysterious girl's influence was stil quite strong if she were the only reason for Piers not telling Savaric of Gabria's disguise. Maybe later the healer would reveal the rest of his tale. Until then, she would accept Piers's hospitality, whatever his motives were.

After a while, Gabria blew out the lamps and sat in the darkness of the tent, considering the day.

With the stroke of an il -aimed dagger she had found two al ies, three if she could add Boreas, and by her reckoning she was no longer an exile.

By clan law, an exile was a man or woman who committed a criminal offense or who, for some unusual reason, was totally separated from a clan. Until that person was accepted by another clan, he or she was considered an untouchable, an outcast. Gabria had been accepted temporarily by the Khulinin, but she knew that they had agreed only on the merit of her disguise and the Hunnuli. Therefore, in her own mind, she was still an exile.

Tonight, though, Piers and Athlone had acknowledged her for herself and, by their acceptance, erased the stigma of rejection in her mind. Piers, by his own admission, had become her protector, and Athlone was her mentor. With the help of these two men, Gabria knew she would survive, at least until the clan gathering.

Only Piers's accusation of sorcery bothered her. Gabria still could not completely accept the idea that she had an inherent talent for sorcery. Cor's injury and the dream, Nara's revelations and now Athlone's collapse were not enough to overcome all of Gabria's prejudices. A part of her still hoped the growing evidence was nothing more than strange coincidence. So far, she only had a single dream and Piers's word for proof that she was the source of the magic involved. It was possible the dream was only a part of her imagination and Piers was wrong. Gabria hoped that nothing else would occur and she could put the whole ugly problem aside like a bad dream.

Gabria yawned and realized the night was getting late. She had been chasing her thoughts around for too long. The girl made her way to her sleeping area, removed her pants and boots, and sat down on the comfortable pallet. After living with the constant noise in the hall at night, Gabria was relieved to hear only Piers's soft snoring. Before long she was lulled to sleep.

But like any ugly problems, the question of sorcery refused to be ignored. Deep in the night, when Gabria was asleep, she dreamed of a blue fire that rose from her being and grew in strength like a storm. It fed on her emotions, drawing its power from her until it burned in every vein. Then the fire flared in her hands and exploded outward as a bolt of lightning. Again it struck and burned a half-seen figure of a man, only this time the man wore a golden belt.

Gabria jolted awake and lay shivering in the darkness. It was another coincidence, she told herself.

It had to be. She dreamed of the blue force because she had argued with Piers about it that day. That was the only reason. For the rest of the night Gabria tried to convince herself that the dream was not important and she needed sleep, but when the horn sounded at dawn, she was stil wide awake.

* * * * *

To Savaric's amazement, he learned the next morning that Gabran had moved out of the hall and into Piers's tent. The healer had been alone for so long that the chieftain found it difficult to believe the man had asked the boy to share his tent. On the other hand, they shared a bond of two uprooted people, and perhaps they were drawn together by similar needs. If I that was the case, Savaric was pleased. He was fond of them both and felt they deserved friendship.

Savaric received another surprise after the morning meal, when he rode past the practice fields and found his son teaching Gabran dueling exercises with the short sword. Dueling was a frequently practiced method of ending blood feuds, settling arguments, or claiming weir-geld. The rules were strict and rigidly adhered to, and, because it was fought solely with swords, dueling was restricted to skilled, initiated warriors of a werod. With no mail or shield for protection, a man needed every advantage to survive. Boys Gabran's age could not hope to best an older warrior in personal combat, so Savaric saw no reason for Athlone's training.

But when he questioned the wer-tain, Athlone merely shrugged and replied that the boy was determined to chal enge Medb and there was no harm in humoring him. Savaric eyed them both doubtful y, but he trusted his son, so the chief only shook his head and cantered off with his men to hunt.

Meanwhile, Athlone turned back to Gabria. His arm was in a sling and his face was strained from weakness, but he held his sword as if it were a feather and watched Gabria's efforts with a sharp eye.

"One thing puzzles me," he said during a rest. "Where did you learn to use a sword?"

Gabria smiled. Since Athlone's acceptance of her true sex, she felt like a wasting illness had suddenly vanished from her mind. He stil distrusted her, and Gabria noted that the vestiges of his anger and resentment would probably never disappear---at least as long as she wore pants and carried a sword---but his suspicions were gone. She found it easier to assume her role as a boy and to keep her mind concentrated on the details of survival.

"My brothers liked to pretend I was a boy," she answered with some humor.

Athlone examined her critical y from head to toe. "If you looked then as you do now, your brothers did not have to pretend very hard."

Unconsciously, her hand crept to her short hair beneath the ever-present leather hat. "If I had been pretty, I would be lying in a cold grave now instead of keeping warm with light work," she said mildly.

"Light work! Impudent wench, I'll show you work." Athlone lifted his sword, and their blades clashed. He fought her hard, showing her tricks with the flick of the wrist or the turn of the blade. The short sword, general y used in melees on horseback, had a flat, broad blade that was better suited to slashing and hacking. Gabria had difficulty adjusting to the more polished form of swordplay used in dueling. But Athlone was a master swordsman and, by the end of the morning, Gabria was beginning to understand this new method of fighting.

"Remember," Athlone told her, "in dueling, the sword is the only protection you have. It must be your shield as well as your weapon."

He would have continued the training, but by noon the strenuous work had caught up with him.

Athlone was exhausted. His skin was gray and blood stained the bandage on his shoulder. He returned to his tent for the rest of the day, promising to continue Gabria's lessons the next morning.

Gabria was left to her own devices. She went in search of Lady Tungoli. She found the chieftain's wife in one of the hall's storerooms, supervising the distribution of the remaining foodstuffs for the trek to the clan gathering.

Stacks of cheeses and cloth bags of dried fruit lay in heaps around Tungoli's feet, and huge earthen jars of grain were being emptied by other women into sacks for easier transportation. The Khulinin produced most of their own food through their herds, hunting, and some gardening. Many things, however, were traded for at the gathering with other clans and merchants from the south and east.

Delicacies such as figs, fruit, honey, or dried fish, as well as necessities such as salt and grain, were taken in exchange for furs, goats, woven rugs, cloth, felt, saddles, and occasionally horses. To the competitive clansmen, the bartering was half the fun.

When Gabria walked into the storeroom, Tungoli gave her a smile and gestured to the piles of food.

"If you would like to help, you are just in time."

Gabria was quickly put to work lifting the filled grain sacks into a pile by the main entrance, where several strong boys carried them to various families. After months of Athlone's training, Gabria was pleased to find the sacks easy to move. The last time she had done a task like this her brothers had had to help.

People bustled in and out of the storeroom, shouting, talking, and cal ing questions, while the stores slowly disappeared. Tungoli stood in the middle of the chaos and hummed softly as she sorted the bags and bundles. The women worked for several hours in companionable chatter until the room was nearly empty. Gabria was happy to work quietly, listening to the voices and relishing in the company.

At last only Tungoli remained, along with the final stores.

The busy crowd had moved on to other jobs, leaving Gabria and Tungoli in the storeroom in a backwash of peace. There was still one jar left to empty when Tungoli was called to another task; she left Gabria to finish the last bags. By that time, the girl was pleased to be alone in the cool, quiet storeroom. The tapestry over the doorway was pulled back to admit the afternoon light, and she could hear other people passing back and forth in the main hall. Gabria worked unhurriedly and became lost in her own thoughts. She didn't notice when everyone left the hal and two men entered. .

Gabria was scooping the last grains into the leather bag when she heard a horribly familiar voice.

Her body froze. The jar, balanced on her hip, slipped from her fingers and dropped to the floor. Its fall was muffled by the flied bag and Gabria managed to grab the jar's edge before it struck the ground. She shakily sat the jar upright and leaned against the wall, trying to regain her breath. Like her heart, her lungs seemed to have stopped at the sound of that voice: the voice with the slight lisp that came from the throat of Medb's most trusted emissary.

The last time she had heard that hateful voice had been in her father's tent when the Wylfling delivered Medb's ultimatum. Now he was here, soliciting Lord Savaric's aid. She realized that the chieftain and the envoy did not know she was in the storeroom. Gabria thanked al the gods that she had been out of sight when the Wylfling arrived, for he had seen her several times at Corin Treld and could have recognized her.

Gabria slipped quietly to the door and flattened against the wall in the shadows, where she could see the two men. Savaric was seated on his chair, watching the short, brown-cloaked man who was standing before him. The Wylfling had his back to Gabria, but she knew the figure immediately, and in her mind she saw his face. The emissary's face was not easy to forget: it was hollow like a wind-eroded rock, and its clean-shaven skin was as immobile and as pallid as limestone. The envoy reminded her of a statue.