Authors: Mary H. Herbert
Dark Horse (23 page)
"How about the truth?" Savaric said mildly. "An irrefutable revelation of Medb’s sorcery? In front of all the chiefs."
Athlone stopped dead. He immediately understood what his father was suggesting. "No! You cannot do it."
“It is the only way the chiefs will recognize their danger." Savaric stopped, too.
"They wil recognize it wel enough! They'll see you goad Medb's power and die in a blast of arcane fire, then they will run screaming back to their holdings, where Medb will be able to take them at his leisure." Athlone started walking again, his hands working in agitation. "Father, be reasonable. If you try to force Medb to reveal his sorcery, he'll kill you. You are the only one who could possibly hold these clans together against him."
Savaric caught up with his son and took Athlone's arm. The chief’s eyes burned. "I have to try this.
You said 'nothing short of a cataclysm.'”
Athlone stared at the chieftain for a long moment. He knew the determination that showed on Savaric's face would not be shaken. They had no real proof that Medb was a sorcerer, nothing tangible to show the council. Now Savaric wanted to provide the council with proof at the risk of his own life.
Athlone doubted it would serve to unite the clans. They had been independent too long to see the sense of standing together, even in the face of the resurrection of sorcery. But maybe one or two would join the Khulinin to fight Medb.
"Wil you at least talk to the others first?" Athlone asked, although he knew that talking would probably be useless.
Savaric's eyes softened. "Of course. I do not relish incurring Medb's wrath."
"We'll do that anyway,” Athlone said, "when he finds out I have no intention of bringing the Khulinin to his heel."
Savaric suddenly laughed. "Then we have nothing to lose."
* * * * *
Rich carpets were spread over the ground, and a fire pit was unearthed. Sections of the wal were rolled up to allow the breeze off the rivers to cool the interior. Cushions and stools were brought for the men's comfort.
Early the next morning, the banners of the eleven clans were hung outside the council tent. Dark gold, blue, green, brown, gray, black, purple, yellow, orange, dark blue, and maroon---they unfurled in the wind like flames. Only the scarlet of Clan Corin was missing. Everyone tried to disregard the banners around the tent, but the scene was strange and foreboding council without the familiar splash of red.
Time and again, men caught their glance wandering to the poles of the huge tent.
At noon the horns were blown, calling the chieftains council. Forty-four men---eleven chieftains with their sons wer-tains, elders, and priests---gathered within the cool breezy tent. Women passed around flagons of wine and ale, and set bowls of fruit within reach, then they silently withdrew, for no woman was permitted to attend the council. Malech, chief of the Shadedron, cal ed the men to order and the high priest blessed the gathering. The council began.
The first day the men only discussed minor problems. Savaric asked for information about Pazric's disappearance but received no news. Lord Branth was welcomed into the council and the damage caused by the spring rains was discussed. Every man avoided looking at Medb, who sat ominously quiet with seven of his men. Few outside the Wylfling clan had known the extent of Medb's crippling injuries and no man dared comment. Crippled or no, it was obvious that Medb stil had control of his clan and his power.
Nor did anyone mention the issues that were uppermost on every man's mind: the Corin massacre, Medb's unlawful bribes to the chiefs, the banding of the exiles, and the rumors of Medb s heretical practice of sorcery. The men were not ready yet to broach those explosive subjects. Instead, they talked everyday events and watched each other, waiting for someone else to make the first move.
Medb said nothing. He sat on his litter within the half-circle of his most trusted guards and watched the chiefs with hooded eyes, like a lion eyeing his prey. They had nowhere else to go but down his path and they knew it. Let them leap and feint away. In the end they would come to him. Then his crippled legs would make no difference; when he unleashed the ful power of his magic, every man would fall to the earth and worship him. Or die.
When the council ended for the day, the men thankful y quit the tent to go to their own camps.
After a night of feasting and dancing, in which the Wylfling took no part, the Council reconvened the following morning.
The meeting was the same as the day before. Yearly business to was transacted, a few major punishments were meted out, and several grievances were smoothed over. Again Medb sat in his place and said little. The tensions mounted like a tightly lidded pot set too near the fire.
Savaric wore his star brooch to the council on both days, although he said nothing to Medb about an al iance, and he covertly watched the responses of his companions. The stone drew many looks and comments, some envious, some admiring, but it was obvious where the stone had originated and many men wondered what Savaric had done to earn it.
Yet the Khulinin chief said little to anyone at the council. He watched and waited with the rest of the chiefs. Savaric was biding his time. He was waiting for the right moment, when the tensions were at their highest, before he made his move.
When the second day's council was over, Savaric nodded to ful Athlone. "Tomorrow,” the chief said. "Tell the boy."
“What boy?" Lord Koshyn asked as he stepped up beside on the Khulinin. He grinned at Savaric and Athlone. "Is your mystery man finally going to make an appearance?”
Savaric picked up his cloak from the cushion he had been sitting on. "The Hunnuli's rider has recovered from his illness," he replied.
Just then, Lord Sha Umar, chief of Clan Jehanan, strode over to join the three men. The frustration was plain on his handsome face. "Savaric,” he said with annoyance, "the council cannot go on avoiding Medb's criminal behavior. Someone has to prod these chiefs into action."
Koshyn nodded. "We were just discussing that. I believe the Khulinin have a plan under their cloaks."
Sha Umar looked relieved. "I don't mind telling you, Savaric, Medb scares me. He is a menace to us all."
The Khulinin chief looked at the Jehanan thoughtful y. "Are you thinking of allying with him?"
Sha Umar snorted. "I am frightened, but I'm not stupid. I would rather have my clan die as the Corin did than live under his rule." He glanced at the entrance where Medb's men were carrying the chief's litter out of the tent. The three other men fol owed his gaze.
"We have to deal with him,” Savaric said quietly. "Before he grows too strong."
"I'm glad to hear you say that. You can count on me to help." Sha Umar nodded to the men and left with his warriors.
"Do you want to change your wager?" Savaric asked Koshyn.
The younger man shook his head. "It would be worth seven mares just to be wrong. I wil be looking forward to tomorrow." He, too, left the tent.
Savaric and Athlone, and their accompanying guards, walked back to the Khulinin camp. Neither man had much to say, for their thoughts were on the coming morning. When they reached the camp, Savaric retired to his tent and Athlone went to talk to Gabria.
During the two days of council meetings, Gabria had been fretting in Piers's tent. The waiting was interminable. Savaric had ordered the girl to remain out of sight, and Gabria knew that his plans would be destroyed if she were recognized prematurely. But this did little to alleviate her frustration. That hard-won, longed for moment, when she could confront Medb and fling his crimes in his face, was so close. Soon, she would see him broken and bleeding, dying in pain---as her family had at the treld.
Gabria savored the image. Oh, she might die in the attempt, but now death had no fear for her. She would be victorious and her clan would live forever in the glorious tales that would be told about her.
Nothing would stop her. Gabria might wait now and cooperate with the chief's plan, but when the time carne, she would fight Medb with every weapon she had. Not even the council would be able to stop her. The weir-geld
would
be paid.
Gabria's moods shifted restlessly from boundless rage to nervousness to irritation and impatience.
She could not stand stil . Her hands fretted at everything, and her body flinched at sudden noises. To make matters worse, Cor had taken to lounging outside the tent. When he was not working or eating, he was lolling in the shade of a tree near the healer's tent, making crude comments about Gabria to anyone who would listen, or taunting her through the felt walls. Gabria didn't know what Cor would do if she stormed out and confronted him, but both of them knew Savaric had forbidden her to leave the tent.
Cor was making the most of it.
Piers tried time and again to force him to leave, but Cor kept returning to sit under the tree and taunt the Corin. Gabria tried to ignore Cor, for his disembodied voice sounded eerie in the dim interior and his insults only added to her agitation. In the brief silences when he was gone, she tried to calm her taut nerves. But very little helped. Cor's voice would soon abruptly Cut through the quiet of the tent and send her clawing at the walls.
By sunset of the second day, Gabria was nearly out of her Wits with tension and frustration. When Athlone strode in to talk to her, he startled her. She grabbed a knife and nearly stabbed him before she recognized him in the half-light of evening.
"I'm sorry," she said shakily. "I thought you were Cor."
Athlone took the knife out of her hands and set it on Piers's medicine chest. "He is elsewhere. I apologize to you. I should have dealt with Cor sooner." He watched as she paced back and forth on the rugs. "Father plans to take you to the council tomorrow,” he said at last. "
Gabria glanced up and her lips curled in a feral smile. "I will be ready."
"Gabria, don't get your hopes up,” Athlone tried to explain. "There are too many things you do not know about."
The girl shook her head. "Do not worry about me, Wer-tain. I am fine."
Athlone watched her and knew she was not, but there was nothing more he could do then. No one had had the heart, or the courage, to tell Gabria that Medb was too crippled to fight a personal duel. No one knew how she would react or if she would even accept the truth. Athlone started to tell her, then he decided not to. In her frame of mind, she would never believe him.
The warrior bid her good-night and went outside. Piers met him near the tent. The healer was carrying a full wine skin and a blanket.
Piers held up the skin and shook the contents. "Would you believe it's water?" he asked. "I don't think I will sleep well tonight. Would you care to join me?"
Athlone agreed and the two men made themselves comfortable under the nearby tree. Together, they sat guard on the tent and its seething occupant through the night. Cor stayed wel away.
Gabria slept badly that night. The shadows that haunted her after the massacre returned in strength and hovered around her as she drifted in and out of sleep. Her frustration from the two days of waiting boiled in her stomach, and her throat was tight with unshed tears. Tomorrow it will be over, she kept reminding herself. In the morning, she was going to the council with Savaric and, by sunset, the ordeal would be ended. As if to mock her ignorance, her dreams crowded in and the circling phantoms laughed at her with the voices of her brothers. Soundlessly, she cried out to them.
Then, from the void of ghosts and memories, came a dream as clear as the vision she had seen in the fire that night in the Khulinin hall. Corin Treld. Gabria saw herself standing on a hill, looking down at the remains of the once busy camp. The sun was high and warm, and grass grew thick in the empty pastures. Weeds sprawled over the moldering ashes and covered the wreckage with a green coverlet. A large mound encircled with spears lay to one side, its new dirt just now sprouting grass. The darkness of her grief receded a little when she saw the burial mound. Someone had cared and had shown their respect by burying the clan with honor. It was an act she had been unable to do, and she gave her thanks to whomever had buried the Corin.
All at once the dream vanished and Gabria came awake. She lay on her pallet, staring at the darkness and wondering if the dream had been a true vision or merely her own wishful imagination.
Then again, the source of the dream did not really matter. The image of the burial mound gave her peace and remained with her through the darkest hours of the night, helping to ease her terrible tension.
By the time the light of dawn leaked through the tent, Gabria was composed. The shadowy phantoms were gone; her nervousness had passed. The tension had drained from her mind and body.
There was nothing left but a single, clear flame of resolution. Only the memory of the burial mound remained to remind her of her duty.
Gabria straightened her clothes and drew on her boots. Her weapons, now a part of her, were gently laid aside for the time they would be needed. The sword was already honed to a killing edge and her father's dagger glistened from constant rubbing. She folded her gold cloak and surprised herself by running a regretful finger over the light linen. She had grown comfortable with the Khulinin. It would be hard if, for some reason, she had to leave them, too.
Turning her back on the gold cloak, Gabria drew her scarlet cloak out of a leather chest and shook out the folds. The red wool cascaded to the ground. Such a true color, she mused, clear and pure like a gemstone; not muddied like blood. She swung the cloak over her shoulders and pinned it in place with the brooch her mother had given her. She smiled to herself. Medb was in for a surprise.