Dark Horse (20 page)

Gabria rode guard duty that night and, after she had bid good-night to Nara, trudged to Piers's tent for some welcome sleep. Savaric visited them briefly and told her that the "argument" had gone as planned, with Athlone playing the impatient, disgruntled heir. The next morning passed uneventful y while the clan continued to pack for their summer trek. Savaric acted the congenial host to Medb's emissary, and Gabria stayed out of sight in Piers's tent.

The chieftain made no mention of the mock disagreement with his son to anyone to be sure that Medb could have only learned of it through the stone---providing Gabria was right about the spell.

At nightfall, Gabria left for her duties. When she returned, Piers told her that Athlone had requested her for another game in his tent. She went with a curious foreboding in her heart and a chill in her fingers. She found Athlone and Savaric both waiting for her. From the quiet triumph on their faces, she knew she had been right.

"Come in, boy," Savaric said. "You have not only proved to me that Medb is resurrecting sorcery, but your quick wits have saved us much grief."

Gabria sat down heavily on a stool and hugged her knees. She was horribly afraid her wits had nothing to do with it.

Athlone removed the sling from his arm and paced back and forth across the deep carpets. He grinned. "Medb heard our fight, every last word of it, and he went for it like a weasel after a mouse."

"Good," Gabria said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "Is he trying to unseat you?"

Her question was to Savaric, and he answered with a dry laugh. "He offered the world to Athlone in return for my death and the loyalty of the second most powerful clan." He lapsed into silence and stared at the floor.

Gabria realized that Savaric had moved into a deeper concentration. He was absorbed in his thoughts and his muscles wasted no effort in pacing or excess motion. Only a pan of his mind was answering her, while the greater part wrestled with the problems posed by Medb.

"The world is a large order, even for Medb. Will Athlone be able to control that much holding?"

Gabria asked with mild sarcasm.

"Medb plans not, I am sure," Athlone replied. "We are too close to Wylfling Treld for Medb's comfort. He wil probably try to dispatch both Father and me. Then, with Pazric missing, Medb could put a man of his own over the Khulinin. Only then wil his back be safe."

The three of them fell silent, busy with their own thoughts. Savaric sat on his stool like a priest in contemplation, while Athlone paced noiselessly and Gabria twisted the light fabric of her pants between her fingers and imagined Medb in his tent, congratulating himself for putting a wedge into the all-powerful Khulinin.

Gabria shook her head. This feigned division of father and son was the only leverage they had at the moment, and it was a poor one, for it would only last until Medb put pressure on the Khulinin to accept his rule or he discovered Savaric's deception. Gabria had found the secret of the jewel, and the gem might help them mislead Medb for a while to gain time, but it would not tell Savaric and Athlone how the other clans received Medb's ploys or how strong the Wylfling werod was-or how powerful Medb's arcane skil s had grown. The stone would not help Savaric many days hence when the Khulinin were given their ultimatum and had their backs to a cliff.

Gabria knew, as surely as Savaric must, that the clans were being swept into war. Like a game master, Medb had leashed each clan and was drawing them into a confrontation that would tear them apart. If Medb forged his empire, the clans as they had endured for centuries would cease to exist.

Instead of autonomous entities of a similar tradition and ancestry, they would become scattered pieces of a monarchy, ruled by one man and bound by one man's desires.

Yet, even if the clans defeated Medb, Gabria realized that the clanspeople would still lose a great deal. In a war between' brothers, complacency dies fast, fury burns hot and the flames take longer to cool. The girl couldn't imagine how the clans would survive the conflagration of this war or what their lives would be like when peace fell on the steppes. She sighed softly, regretting the changes that were coming.

Savaric heard Gabria's almost soundless breath and raised his gaze to her face. Their eyes met and locked in understanding. Like Piers before him, Savaric recognized the strength behind Gabria's look.

Until that moment, he had only considered his friend's child to be a stubborn boy, who, like any young, hot-tempered adolescent, demanded to fight for his clan's revenge because of an overdeveloped sense of outrage. But as he looked into those green eyes, Savaric suddenly understood that Gabria's determination went far beyond adolescent eagerness, to a calculated, control ed obsession. He knew without a doubt that "Gabran" would do anything to bring down Lord Medb. Inexplicably, the thought frightened him. He was not certain what a boy could do against a chieftain and a professed sorcerer, yet it occurred to him with a great deal of surprise that "Gabran" might succeed. Savaric remembered Piers's words the night the boy rode into camp and set the clan back on its ear. The healer said that the boy might be the key to unlocking Medb's doom. Maybe he was right.

"Well, Father," Athlone said, startling both the girl and the chieftain. "Now, at least, we know the rumors of Medb's heresies are true." He glanced oddly at Gabria, but continued. "What do we do now that we have him on the wrong trail?"

Savaric broke off his stare and looked at his son. "Keep him there for as long as we can. It will not hurt us to let him think the Khulinin will fall into his grasp."

"What did he offer you, Wer-tain?" Gabria asked. She was feeling very tired and wanted to return to Piers's tent, but she wondered what the Khulinin were worth to Medb.

"That crow of an agent came to see me this evening." Athlone paused and looked thoughtful. "I would like to know how Medb contacted him so fast. Maybe he has a seeing stone, too. He offered me, in Medb's name, men, gold, land, and the chieftainship in return for obedience and my father's head."

Savaric chuckled. "I hope you will not be too free with either.”

"Nothing is worth that price."

Gabria listened to the brief exchange with a little envy. Despite their differences, the two men were devoted as a father and son and even closer as friends. Only her brother, Gabran, had been that close to Gabria, and his death left a void that would never be filled. Nara helped heal some of the wounds in her soul, but there were a few hol ows no one would ever find, hollows still filled with unshed tears. Gabria closed her eyes and turned away. It was still too soon to cry.

Savaric noticed her movement and said, "Daylight will be here soon and we have much to do."

They said good-night, and the chieftain walked with Gabria as far as Piers's tent. He hesitated as if he were going to speak, then he changed his mind, nodded, and left. Gabria watched Savaric until he disappeared between the tents. She felt closer to him that night than ever before, and she had the impression something had altered his thoughts about her. The way he looked at her in Athlone's tent-it was as if he had stripped away everything but her basic strengths and weaknesses and had accepted what he found. She was pleased by his understanding and relieved, too. She had no living family left, and she was beginning to appreciate how much Savaric and his family meant to her. Gabria closed the tent flap behind her.

With a prayer to Amara, she fell asleep.

* * * * *

Like huge butterflies, the black tents of the treld began to fold their wings and disappear. Wrapped around their poles and ropes, the tents were bundled onto large, brightly painted wagons pul ed by oxen or horses. Each family's possessions were packed beneath the tents and protected by carpets.

After generations of practice, a clan could often dismantle their treld in a few days and their trail camp in a few hours. Packing the encampment was a fine art, and the women prided themselves on their expertise and speed.

The morning the Khulinin left their treld, the day dawned cloudless and hot. The faint dew quickly dried in the breeze and dust billowed everywhere. The first breaking of camp always took longer than usual, so the clan rose before sunrise to bring down the remaining tents, close the hall, saddle the horses, and bid farewel to those few who elected to remain behind. When the horn sounded at dawn, the caravan was already forming in the work field as each family took its position.

The old people, the sick, and those who remained to care for the empty treld watched sadly and helped as best they could to send the clan on its way. The bachelors of the werod gathered the livestock. The three Harachan herds were mingled into one since mating would begin soon, and those horses that were not being ridden or worked were moved to the entrance of the val ey. The mares, foals, and yearlings trotted about excitedly, but the stallion, Vayer, stood at the foot of Marakor and sniffed the wind that blew from the steppes and listened quietly for the signal of the horns.

Savaric himself closed the great doors of his hal and took down the golden banner. He passed it on to Athlone, who held it high and gal oped Boreas down the path to the fields where the caravan waited.

A shout of joy rose from every throat and echoed through the val ey. Horses neighed in reply; the dogs barked frantically in excitement. The chaos of people and animals slowly shifted into a vague pattern of order. Forgotten items were retrieved, last minute good-byes were said, wandering children were found, and the ropes on the carts and pack animals were checked and rechecked.

Finally, when all was ready, two outriders carrying horns rode to the mouth of the valley. A silence of anticipation fell over the caravan. Then, in unison, each horn bearer lifted his horn to his lips and blew a great note of music that soared out over the empty plains like a cry of triumph and welcome. The clanspeople roared their approval. Savaric, riding beneath the huge golden banner, lifted his sword to the sky as Vayer neighed.

Like a giant snake, the caravan crawled forward. Gabria sat on Nara's back and watched with awe-tinged respect as the Khulinin moved out of their valley. It was a sight she would always remember.

From the moment Valorian taught the first clansman the joy of mounting a horse, the clans had been nomads with the wind of the steppes in their faces and the dust of the trail on their clothes.

Although the clans had slowed down over many generations and were unknowingly growing roots in the places they had chosen for winter camps, they were still nomads at heart. Wintering was fine for the cold months when the blizzards froze the land, but when the freshness of spring gave way to summer, the clans returned to the old ways and left the trelds behind.

For Gabria and her clan, the packing and preparations for the trek had always been simple. With only twenty-five families, the Corin had been able to move often and with little fuss. They had been more nomadic than the Khulinin and sometimes never bothered to winter in their treld. But this trek fascinated Gabria. The Khulinin, with their numerous families, huge herds, and powerful werod, moved ponderously out of the treld in a wondrously noisy cavalcade.

At the head of the caravan rode the hearthguard and the chieftain. Behind them was the main body of the clan in a procession of wagons, carts, pack animals, people on horseback or on foot, and a vociferous crowd of excited dogs and children. The livestock came next, and in the rear was another troop of warriors. The werod was spread out along the flanks of the caravan, and five outriders kept the horse herd off to the side to prevent mishaps. Gabria marveled at the organization that kept each man in his place and prevented tempers from exploding, but she could not help but wonder how the tremendous caravan traveled very far in a day. At the rate they were moving now, the gathering would be long over before the Khulinin arrived.

To her surprise, the caravan slowly increased its momentum until it was moving at a fair pace along the banks of the river.

Before long, the rich green foliage of the foothills' brush and trees was left behind. Instead, deep-rooted herbs and grasses, already maturing to a golden green, stretched to the horizon. Old, thickly matted growth cushioned the travelers' steps as the caravan wove across the grasslands. Beside them, the Goldrine River grew from a foaming, bouncing headstream to a staid, contemplative river that meandered through gravel bars and basked silently in the sun. Ahead of the clan, several outriders rode the point to keep watch for marauders or game. Raiders rarely bothered a clan the size of the Khulinin, but this year Savaric took no chances.

Medb's emissary rode with them, having blandly explained that the Wylfling were already on their way to the gathering; he would meet them just as fast as if he traveled with Savaric's clan. Both Athlone and Savaric knew the real reason the agent stayed, and they made a point of waging frequent arguments while Savaric wore the star brooch. Because of the man's presence, Gabria was forced to ride with the outriders in the caravan's rearguard.

The days passed quickly under the open skies as the clan traveled east to the gathering at the Tir Samod, the holy meeting of the Goldrine and the Isin rivers. Breaking camp became a habit again and muscles adapted to walking and riding. The heavy winter cloaks were exchanged for lighter, linen cloaks with long hoods that were worn as the occasion demanded: either draped around the head for protection against the sun and wind, or drawn across the face for battle. Clouds rarely marred the boundless expanse of the sky, except for an occasional afternoon thunderstorm.

The summer heat increased and with it, as the time to the gathering shortened, the tensions in the clan grew heavier. Savaric's eyes constantly roved the horizon as if he were expecting a yelling horde to sweep over his caravan. Arguments flared among the warriors, and even Medb's emissary lost his aplomb at times and was snappish to the men he was supposed to charm. Messengers, who were usual y numerous as the clans grew closer together, were strangely absent this year. No word came from anyone.