Dark Horse (28 page)

Gabria tossed her head up, her pain forgotten in a surge of rage and disgust at the madman who had beaten, ridiculed, insulted, and threatened her once too often. Her green eyes ignited and her hand curled over the dagger's hilt. "Go crawl in a hole, eunuch."

Cor snarled. His dark shape swayed, then savagely he grabbed Gabria's throat with both hands, his dagger forgotten in the urge to kill the Corin with his bare hands. His fingers dug into her windpipe and his nails tore her skin. Gabria felt her breath burning in her lungs as she tried to wriggle her dagger out from under their thrashing bodies.

Moaning incoherently, Cor squeezed harder and grinned maliciously. Gabria tore at his iron grip with one hand. But Cor didn't see her other hand. With desperation and fury, she lifted the blade and rammed it into his stomach. This time, there was no doubt of the presence or the origin of the blue flare.

In the darkness, Gabria saw the aura build in her arm and flow up the dagger into Cor's body. He jerked violently and clutched at the knife, his face a mask of hate and disbelief. His eyes rolled and he sagged on top of her. Gabria gasped and fainted.

* * * * *

The first thing Gabria became aware of was light. A small globe of yellow light intruded through her partly open lids into her darkness and drew her from unconsciousness. The second thing she noticed was pain. Then the pain rushed into her head and down her neck and side, until every bruised muscle and laceration throbbed madly. The heaviness she remembered across her chest was gone, and she heard someone moving around her. Gabria tensed, thinking it was Cor, but someone gently raised her head and a cup was pressed to her lips. She smel ed the sweetness of Piers's own wine and relaxed. The wine warmed her bruised throat and settled gently in her stomach, where it spread with a healing heat through her body.

Gabria slowly opened her eyes---or eye since one was so swollen she could barely crack the lid. The orb of light wavered for a moment and settled into focus, revealing a small lamp hanging on its pole. She squinted at the light and looked higher into Piers's face. The healer appeared strangely upset, and Gabria smiled weakly at him. Outside, the wind had died and the rain was falling in a steady drizzle.

Piers let the girl finish her wine and then helped her lie down on the pal et before he spoke. "The evil fortune that fell to your clan does not seem to include you."

"Where is Cor?" she mumbled.

Piers glanced behind him. "He's dead." There was no condemnation in his voice, only sadness and regret that she had been forced to act.

The light and the effort of keeping her eye open was too much for Gabria, and her lids settled shut.

She sighed deeply, wondering what Piers was thinking. After sharing his tent for so long, Gabria had come to like the healer and she hoped that the affection was mutual. Her hand groped for his. "I saw it, Piers. This time I saw it. As blue as Medb's bolt that killed Pazric."

Piers's hand caught hers and gripped it tightly. He looked down at the girl's battered face unhappily. She looked so young, too young to bear such burdens. The healer stood up and fetched his supplies from the wooden chest, poured more wine, and carried the things back to Gabria's pallet. Piers carefully moved her tunic and examined the long, ragged tear down her side.

Gabria held the wine cup and listened as he worked. She was puzzled that he said nothing. Maybe this time his disapproval outweighed his acceptance of her, and he had decided not to risk his life to protect her. Gabria would not blame Piers if he exposed her: sorcery was a serious crime to conceal.

Strangely, however, Gabria did not feel horrified any more by the reality of her ability. Now that it was confirmed by her own eyes, she faced it like some incurable disease that had to be accepted if her sanity were to be preserved. A small part of her quaked in terror at the truth of being a sorceress, but she imprisoned that part behind a wall of desire for self-preservation. Gabria found it difficult to believe that she could be so callous about such a heretical ability, but perhaps the months of secret fear and debate had strengthened her for the final acceptance.

"You're not saying much," Gabria finally said to Piers.

He was cleaning her wound and trying to work gently. "It is one thing to suspect sorcery; it is another for you to face it."

She sighed again and said, "I am not certain I want to. I seem to be like Medb. Does this mean I'll be twisted by the powers of magic into something cruel and depraved? Am I going to become an evil queen at Medb's side?"

"Magic is not an evil unto itself. It is only as good or as wicked as its wielder," Piers -replied softly.

"That's not what my father's priest delighted in telling us. He used to recite countless incidents of the corruption of magic."

"Magic can be corrupting. It is a tempting power," Piers said, trying to be casual. "My daughter was tortured and killed for allegedly killing the Fon of Pra Desh with sorcery."

Gabria gasped, "Why?"

Piers looked away into the distance. "My daughter married the Fon's youngest son, against my wishes. The Fon was the ruler of Pra Desh, but his family was a vicious, backstabbing pack of thieves.

About a year after the marriage, the Fon's wife poisoned him and needed a scapegoat when he died.

Her. youngest daughter-in-law was available, so the wife fabricated some evidence and accused my daughter of killing the Fon with sorcery."

Piers explained his daughter's fate quietly, but Gabria could hear the undying rage still in his heart.

"You said I reminded you of her. Was she a sorceress?"

"No." He spat the denial vehemently.

"But I am."

"So it would seem." Piers said nothing more and finished bandaging her side. She watched him worriedly.

Just then, Athlone burst into the tent, shaking off rain and splattering mud from his caked boots.

"What's the problem, Piers?" he asked. He unwrapped his soaked cloak and did not seem to notice Cor's body lying to one side of the tent. Then he looked up. "Oh, gods. What happened now?"

Piers tossed a curved dagger to him. He caught it and turned' it over in his hands. A wolfs head was carved on the butt of the handle.

"Cor was trying for a little revenge of his own," the healer said.

"Neat. Kill the last Corin and blame it on the Wylfling. Is she hurt?"

"Not seriously."

Gabria smiled painfully at the wer-tain. "They can't get rid of me that easily."

"What about Cor?" Athlone asked.

Piers nodded to the body on the floor and Athlone moved to examine it. He checked the wound, then rocked back on his heels and stared thoughtful y at the dead man. "Your dagger must carry quite a punch," he remarked.

Gabria tensed. She wondered if Athlone suspected anything. He could accept her wielding a sword and wearing a boy's disguise, but she knew he would never condone sorcery.

"I'm sure it did. So would yours if you were being strangled," Piers said.

"If I were being strangled," Athlone returned, "I would make damn sure of a killing stroke. This underhanded pin-prick wouldn't have killed a goat."

Piers looked irritated. "It punctured his stomach, Wer-tain. It is a slower way to kill, but it's just as effective as a slit throat."

Athlone met the healer's gaze skeptical y and was about to reply when he saw Gabria wince and noticed for the first time the extent of her injuries. He changed his mind and nodded before standing up.

It had not occurred to the wer-tain until that moment just how close Gabria had come to death. The realization shook him more than he believed possible. Athlone looked away. "I will tell Father what happened," he muttered and hurried out of the tent.

Piers began to wrap hot cloths soaked in salt water around Gabria's neck.

"My dagger did not pierce his stomach," Gabria whispered.

"Athlone would not be pleased to hear the truth."

"Neither would Savaric."

"Then we won't bother them with the truth." Piers tilted his head back and took a deep breath.

"Sorcery is a thing little understood in this age, and, despite the clans' efforts to forget it, it wil keep cropping up at the most inopportune times to wreak havoc. I believe the time has come to change that."

Gabria's green eyes opened wide. "Are you appointing me?"

"I am merely giving you a chance to do as you see fit." For the first time, Piers relaxed and looked at Gabria fondly. "I don't think you have the makings of an evil queen."

"Thank you," she said, grateful as much for his compliment as his protection.

"Thank my daughter. In a roundabout way, you are my revenge on the stupidity of her judges."

A short time later, Athlone returned with Savaric from the Dangari camp, where the chieftain had been arguing fruitlessly with Koshyn. Savaric's look was grim and his eyes, burning like dark coals, seemed to gaze elsewhere as his mind roved many paths. He glanced at Cor's body and Gabria's injuries and shook his head regretful y, his thoughts obviously already passing on to something else. He gestured to his son and left.

Athlone paused by the entrance and, for a moment, his eyes met Gabria's. To his relief, her gaze was as clear as spring water; the awful bril iance he had seen in them the morning of the council was gone. But her face looked so sad. There was something in the unspoken pain in her eyes that pierced the wer-tain to the heart. Unhappily, he said good-night and closed the tent flap behind him.

* * * * *

After the storm, the morning came on fresh winds from the north. The sky was cloudless and clean, and the rivers flowed high between their banks. The ground was muddy after the rain. Before long, the hot sun dried the foliage and the tents, and the reddish soil returned to dust. The clanspeople recovered their herds from the shelter of the hills and set about repairing the damage caused by the storm.

Savaric made no attempt to return to the other camps. Instead, he stayed in the background and unobtrusively watched the happenings across the river. He judged the wind and eyed the far skyline and kept his own counsel. Cor was quickly buried beneath a cairn of rocks with none of the honor or grief that accompanied Pazric to his grave.

Savaric passed a quiet order that the Khulinin should pack to move under the guise of mending and cleaning. They did so, hiding most of their gear in the covered carts and keeping the pack animals close at hand. They would be ready to leave at a moment s notice.

Across the river, Sha Umar and the Bahedin's new chief, Lord Ryne, quietly prepared their clans to move. Koshyn still kept his clan isolated, while Branth readied his werod for war and Ferron quailed at the terms of his "alliance" with Medb.

Lord Medb, meanwhile, awaited his approaching reinforcements, kept track of the fleeing clans, and counted the days until Savaric's mangled corpse would lie at his feet. He learned of Cor's death from a spy in the Khulinin camp. No one seemed to know how the man died, but it was wel known he had intended to kill the Corin. Medb considered this information carefully and filed it away. The boy was becoming more fascinating every day. Maybe he would wait a while before killing the brat. It might prove more interesting to study him.

Overal , Medb thought that events were proceeding well. The only ugly incident that marred his pleasure was the betrayal of the bard, Cantrell. The old singer had lived with the Wylfling for a year and brought status and honor to the clan with his skills. Many chiefs had tried to lure Cantrell away, but he seemed content to remain with the Wylfling.

Medb knew of Cantrell's ability to read men's fortunes; it was a talent the bard little enjoyed and tried to avoid. But after Lord Ferron had come to capitulate, Medb had felt invincible. The night of the storm, he had called for Cantrell to foretell his doom. The bard had reluctantly agreed, and for his pains had been properly punished and cast out. It was regrettable, but no man could threaten Medb with impunity. Not even a master bard.

Later that day, just after noon, the Khulinin were still packing and cleaning their camp. Gabria had slept most of the morning and, after a light meal, she went outside for a breath of fresh air. Her side hurt abominably, despite Piers's medicines, and her throat and head felt worse. To avoid attention, she wore her hat pul ed low over her eyes and stayed in the shadows of Piers's tent. She could see Nara standing in Isin's rapids, pawing playfully at the water. Boreas stood nearby, watching her. For a moment, Gabria thought of cal ing Nara, then changed her mind. The Hunnuli were enjoying each other too much for Gabria to consider interrupting them.

Besides, Gabria didn't really want company. All morning she had mulled over the tragedy of the night before. She could hardly believe that she had killed a man with an arcane power that she knew nothing about. It was a terrifying truth to face. She could deal with her family's murders, her exile, and her unlawful acceptance into Savaric's werod, because those things were external. Sorcery was far different. It affected her being and nothing short of death would ever change her or take away this heretical talent. Dispiritedly, she pulled her hat lower over her face and wondered what she should do.

Medb was so far beyond her reach.

Something caught Gabria's attention just as Nara neighed. She looked toward the other camps and saw an old man working his way hesitantly through the ford in the river toward the Khulinin camp. He almost fel in the water. She walked curiously toward the river bank, thinking the man might be drunk.

His head was down, almost as if he were having trouble seeing where he was going, and he leaned heavily on a staff.

Gabria stopped a few paces from the water and called, "Do you need help?"

Startled, the old man raised his head, and Gabria gasped in dismay. A bloody bandage was wrapped around the man's face, covering his eyes, and on either side of his nose, dried blood was caked in patches and matted in his beard. Horrified, Gabria clambered down the bank into the water and caught the old man's arm. He gratefully leaned on her and followed her guidance toward the tents. Several guards came running to help. They led the wounded man into Piers's tent, where he sank thankful y onto a stool.