Winged Magic (18 page)

Lying there in the darkness, tied hand and foot, far from home and desperately worried, Kelene felt very much the daughter in need of her mother’s reassurance. “Do you really think they would dare search for us here?”

In the darkness Gabria felt for her daughter’s bound hands and clasped them tightly in her own. “Athlone, Rafnir, or Sayyed will find a way. I know it.”

The certainty in those words was enough to satisfy Kelene and reinforce her own belief in her kin. Calmer now, she set her mind on her immediate problems of teaching sorcery to Zukhara and dealing with captivity.

Suddenly she gave a rueful laugh at herself. “Just before Gaalney came to Moy Tura,” she explained to her puzzled mother, “I was riding Demira above the city and feeling sorry for myself because things weren’t going my way.” She chuckled again and felt better for it. “Right now I would happily trade all of this to be back in that mere muddle. I promise, if we make it back to Moy Tura, I won’t feel sorry for myself again... for at least another three or four years.”

Gabria laughed softly with her, and their tension eased enough to let them rest. They slept fitfully through the night, until Zukhara returned at dawn. The Turic brought food to his prisoners, allowed them to
attend to their needs, and waited while they ate their morning meal. Gabria and Kelene watched him like a pair of hawks, but the man remained mute and did nothing to give the women any hope of escape. His movements were brusque yet meticulous, and his eyes burned unabated with their fierce zeal.

As soon as the captives finished eating, their hands were retied, and they were returned to the pallet. Instead of leaving right away, Zukhara stepped to the barrier and glanced over at the Hunnuli. Kelene craned her head around to see what he was doing, and her heart jumped in hope when Demira tossed her head. A hoof crashed against the wooden gate, but the two mares were so crowded, Kelene could not tell which one had kicked.

Zukhara did not flinch at the impact. He drew a glass flask from a pocket in his dark blue robe and uncorked it. A pungent, medicinal odour filled the interior of the wagon, alerting Kelene’s curiosity. She strained her neck to watch Zukhara pour some thick greenish liquid onto a cloth and rub it on Demira’s haunch. Nara was treated with the same liquid, and shortly after, the mares’ stall was silent again,

Kelene cursed under her breath. Whatever drug he was using to sedate the mares must be very potent to affect the big horses so quickly. The door slammed and locked behind the counsellor, leaving the clanswomen in darkness again. Shortly thereafter they heard whips crack, voices shout, and animals call. There was a great deal of noise and some jerky starts as the baggage train sorted itself out; then the wagon bounced forward, once more under way.

The weather that clay seemed sunnier, for the light shining through the chinks in the wagon’s walls was bright and full. Kelene watched one whip-thin beam move slowly across the wall and down to the floor in a course that indicated they were moving south, deeper into Turic territory.

In spite of their thirst and discomfort, evening came all too soon for Kelene and Gabria. The light dimmed and disappeared into twilight; the caravan reached its next stop along the Spice Road. Unbeknownst to them, Rafnir and Sayyed were eating their meal and talking to Turics not more than several hundred paces away.

No one came near the wagon for a long while, and the sounds of the camp dwindled to sleepy tranquillity. They heard several sets of footsteps pacing past their prison, but not one person stopped to look in their wagon or check on their condition.

Kelene squirmed against the Hunnuli-hair ropes that held her fast. Her hands were swollen, red, and painful; her body ached from lying on a jolting board all day. She dreaded seeing Zukhara again, yet she reviled him with every scrap of her fury for not coming and getting this ordeal over. Her tongue had dried to thick leather, and her throat burned with thirst. “Where is he?” she ground out between clenched teeth.

She felt her emotions kindle the power of the Trymian force in her bones and blood. It burned like a spark on touchwood, ready to ignite at her will.

Without any warning, the door swung open, and a tall figure loomed in the entrance. In that split second Kelene’s thoughts exploded with her pent-up fear and rage and, before she could control herself, a wild burst of the Trymian force flamed from her hands. Kelene gasped in horror.

Gabria reared up and tried to evaporate the blast, but it flew too fast and struck Zukhara full on the chest, where it exploded in a cloud of blue sparks. The counsellor staggered backward from the force of the blow. Only the ivory ward around his neck absorbed the searing power and saved his life.

Kelene’s eyes grew enormous, and her heart beat painfully as Zukhara climbed to his feet. The tall Turic stepped back into the wagon, placed the tray he took from a servant on the table, and deliberately closed and locked the door behind him. Swift as a striking cobra, his hand shot out and clamped around Gabria’s throat. His fingers found her jugular and her windpipe and began to crush her neck within his ferocious grip.

“No!” screamed Kelene. “It was me!” She tried to grab his wrists, to pull him away from her mother, but she might as well have tried to uproot a tree, Zukhara ignored her and sunk his thumbs deeper into Gabria’s throat. The clanswoman’s eyes bulged above her gasping mouth. She struggled and thrashed in vain to escape his iron hands.

“I warned you,” Zukhara hissed in sharp, fierce anger. “You did not heed me.”

“I didn’t mean to! I was angry and scared,” Kelene raged at him. “Get off her.” She abruptly pulled up her tied feet and kicked at him with all her might.

Her feet landed on his ribs and slammed him sideways against the wagon wall, jarring his hands loose from around Gabria’s throat. Kelene swiftly rolled over the older sorceress, knocking Zukhara’s hands off completely, and she managed to use her body to shove her mother off the pallet to the floor.

Gabria was too weak to stand. Sobbing, she lay supine on the dusty boards and tried to draw deep, rasping breaths through her bruised throat.

The counsellor angrily pushed himself upright until he was kneeling over Kelene. His long, lean shape loomed above her like a black, forbidding shadow.

“It was an accident!” Kelene insisted. “If you kill her, you lose your best lever against me, and I’ll see you in Gormoth before I teach you even one spell.”

Zukhara leaned so close his trim beard brushed her chin. His hands rose and fell over her neck but instead of choking her, his long fingers caressed her skin from her earlobes down the soft length of her throat. “Then I
guess we are at an impasse, my lady,” he said huskily in her ear. “If you do not obey, I will kill, and yet if I kill, you will not obey. A fine challenge.”

Kelene quivered at his touch. His warm breath by her ear made the hairs rise on the back of her neck, and his weight on her shoulder and chest frightened her. She lay rigid and cold, her heart beating rapidly, “Then it would be best if we struck a bargain,” she made herself say.

Zukhara settled more comfortably on top of her, his hands still resting on her bare neck, one thumb caressing the frantic pulse in the base of her throat.

“I will train you in sorcery — as much as you need to control your power — and when I am finished, you will let my mother, me, and our Hunnuli go home unharmed.”

The man chuckled, warm and throaty. “A bargain struck in haste is oft regretted. I will think about it. Perhaps in time we will devise a better arrangement.” He pushed away from her and untied her hands. “In the meantime, eat. Then show me what you have to offer.”

Kelene gritted her teeth. There was nothing else to do but agree — for now. She helped her mother to the bench by the table where Zukhara had placed their meal and a small lamp. Kelene drew on her skills as a healer and tenderly eased the pain in Gabria’s bruised throat. She wrapped a cool, damp cloth around her mother’s neck and helped her sip a cup of wine.

From his stool, Zukhara observed them impassively.

After a while, Kelene coaxed Gabria to eat some soup and was pleased to see a little colour return to the older woman’s waxen cheeks. With the flush came a reawakening of Gabria’s steel spirit. She covered her forehead with a limp hand, sagged back against the wooden wall, and surreptitiously winked at Kelene. The young woman smothered a smile and ate her own food gratefully.

The moment she was finished, Zukhara cleared off the table and, in a lightning-swift change of mood, flashed his friendly, disarming smile. He pulled a small book out of his robes and laid it in front of Kelene. “Now, my lady. Where do we begin?”

Gabria and Kelene bent forward to look at the little volume in the light of the oil lamp. Although books were not common among the seminomadic clans people, both women had learned to read the old Clannish script from books preserved in the Citadel of Krath by the Cult of the Lash and from a few precious manuscripts unearthed at Moy Tura. To their astonishment, this book, no bigger than a man’s hand, appeared to be a relic of clan history. It was made of white vellum, stretched and scraped to thin, supple sheets and bound between a heavier cover of leather that, once dyed a rich red, had since faded to the colour of old wine.

Kelene gingerly turned the front cover to the first page and heard her mother gasp. In a spidery, delicate script was written: Jeneve, Daughter of Lord Magar of Clan Corin.

Gabria’s hands flew to the book, and she drew it closer to pore over the writing and illustrations on the following pages. “This is a spellbook,” she breathed in surprise. “A personal collection compiled by Lady Jeneve! How did you get your hands on it?” she snapped at Zukhara.

He smiled again, a long, self-satisfied sneer. “The God of All delivered it to my hands to help fulfil the prophecy.”

“What prophecy?” Kelene demanded.

Zukhara disregarded the question and tapped the book with his forefinger. “I can read this, so do not try to trick me. I simply want to know how to use the magic to control these spells.”

Glancing over her mother’s arm, Kelene read the names of some of the spells in the handbook. Most were simple day-to-day twists of sorcery that took only
basic skills and caused little harm, such as firestarters, spheres of light, easy transformations, household aids, and simple medications. But there were others that a man like Zukhara could twist to his own purposes: a spell to paralyze an animal or human, spells of destructive power, a spell to summon wind from a gathering storm, and others she would be loath to show him.

Control first, she thought to herself. She had never taught anyone magic; that had always been Gabria’s duty. But it seemed reasonable to start at the beginning where every magic-wielder had to start and take it as slowly as she dared. Perhaps, given the help of the gods, she and Gabria could find a way to escape before Zukhara pushed his training too far.

She traded looks with Gabria, then closed the book and pushed it aside. “We will start here,” she said, tapping her own forehead, and she launched into her first lesson. “Will is at the centre of sorcery. With every spell you create you are attempting to impose your will on the substance of our world. Magic is a natural force that is in every creature, stone, or plant. When you alter that force, even with the smallest spell, you must be strong enough to control the effect and consequences. The forces of magic can destroy you if you cannot control them.”

She paused and stared at Zukhara’s dark visage. Unconsciously she had been repeating Gabria’s old lesson that she had listened to for years before the words took on real meaning. “The strength of will is the most important trait of a magic-wielder. Therefore you must know yourself, every measure and degree of your own being, so you can recognize your own limitations and know when sorcery has begun to bleed substance from your life-force.”

Zukhara’s hand suddenly grabbed Kelene’s right arm and pulled her wrist out straight toward him. He touched her embedded splinter so hard she flinched in pain. “Enough of your childish lectures. I have the will
of the Living God; there are no limitations other than my own lack of knowledge. I will have a splinter in my wrist in ten days’ time or I will remove your arm at the elbow. Are we clear?”

Kelene gaped, aghast at his monstrous arrogance. He had no comprehension of his own weaknesses and therefore dismissed any possibility of them in impervious blindness. Perhaps she and Gabria wouldn’t have to escape; perhaps all they had to do was wait for Zukhara to destroy himself in his own overwhelming self-confidence.

She hoped he would hurry and do so soon. She didn’t want to have to tell him there were no more diamond splinters. Gabria had used the last one only a year ago and had not yet found a new source for the special, power-enhancing gems.

Kelene yanked her wrist out of his grasp and said firmly, “Fine. Then we will begin with control.” She held out her fingers and demonstrated commands for Zukhara’s first spell.

The Turic watched avidly, then followed her instructions until he had formed a perfect greenish-white sphere of light. Late into the night the sorceress and her pupil practiced and discussed, manipulated magic and worked on simple skills, until Kelene was exhausted and Gabria drooped beside her.

Indefatigable, Zukhara ordered them to lie down, retied their hands, and departed, his back still straight, his step as forceful as always.

“Oh, Mother,” Kelene sighed when he was gone. “What are we going to do? He’s at least as strong as Sayyed, and he’s learning fast.”

“I was afraid of that when I saw him work. He burns with ambition. But what is he planning? Why is he so determined to have a splinter within ten days?”