Winged Magic Page 4

  Kelene, who had been studying Peoren’s bandaged arm, asked worriedly, “Where is your healer? He should have seen to your arm before you left camp.”

  The young man winced. “He was killed in the first surprise attack. We’ve been doing what we can.”

  “Are you certain you want to do this?” asked Athlone.

  Lord Wendern, his long features masked with concern, stood beside Peoren. “I saw what was left of the treld. Peoren has done a man’s job of organizing the clan and caring for his people. I feel he’s earned the right to stand in his father’s stead.”

  The sorcerer lord accepted his word, and the other chiefs made no further comment. Nor did the remaining chiefs when they joined the council. They came by twos and threes, traveling together with their mounted guards for convenience and safety. Another sorcerer, Kelene and Rafnir’s friend Morad, came riding in with Lord Hendric of Clan Geldring.

  Last to arrive were clans Amnok and Murjik, the two northernmost clans. The chiefs and their men came late in the night, weary from days of relentless travel to reach the council before the appointed day. They had only one day left before the Shar-Ja was due to arrive, and there was still much to do to prepare to meet the Turics.

  The tribesmen, however, followed their own schedule. The following morning, only a few hours after the clan horns had blown to welcome Amara’s sun, the horns blew again in warning. As the horn blasts died away, they were echoed by a blast of deeper horns that sounded from somewhere across the river beyond a long, low ridge.

  The clansmen paused at their tasks for a brief moment, and in that space of silence they heard a distant murmur of sound; the dull thunder of hooves, the rumble of wagons, and the din of many voices. Over the gently rising hills they saw a wavering cloud of dust that rolled closer, spreading wider as it approached. The murmur of sound grew to a constant clamour.

  “To your horses!” bellowed Lord Athlone in a voice that cracked like thunder.

  Every man grabbed his weapons and ran to mount his horse. The standard bearers brought the chieftains’ banners and took their places by the lords in a line along the northern riverbank. By the time the Turic vanguard rode into sight, the clans were ready, sitting in rank after rank behind their chiefs. The bright colours of their cloaks glowed in the morning light; their mail and weapons glinted like scattered pieces of silver. As the Turics came into view, the clansmen raised a forest of spears above their heads in salute.

  At the forefront of the clan contingent sat Lord Athlone on his towering Hunnuli, Eurus. Beside him rode Gabria, Sayyed, Gaalney, Rafnir and Morad, representing the clan magic-wielders. Their black Hunnuli stood as an impregnable bulwark across the path to the river’s ford.

  From where he sat on Afer, Sayyed felt his heart twist at the sight of his father’s people. He should have worn away the Turic in his mind by this time, but the blood of his fathers still clamoured for recognition. The sight of the tribesmen, dressed in traditional burnooses and long, flowing robes and pants, and riding their sleek desert horses was enough to jolt more memories than he had believed still remained.

  Although he deplored the viciousness of the attack that destroyed his mother’s people at Ferganan Treld, he couldn’t help but be pleased as the standards of the fifteen tribes came over the crest of the hill and lined up on the banks opposite the clans. There among the coloured banners he saw the lion rampant on red, the emblem of the tribe of Raid. In twenty-six years of contentment and happiness among the clans, Sayyed had learned to forgive his father, the Raid-Ja, for rejecting him so many years ago, and he wondered now if any of his family still lived.

  “By Amara’s crown,” he heard someone breathe in awe. “How many are there?”

  Sayyed glanced at his son and saw interest and amazement play across his face. Although Rafnir could speak fluent Turic and understood Sayyed’s devotion to the Turic god of ages, he was clan from boot to plaited hair. He did not really understand the strict and honour-bound codes of the Turic.

  “The Turic believe it is necessary to show an opponent their power and strength before negotiations of any peace treaty,” Sayyed explained. “Because the Shar-Ja is with them, they have probably brought his entire retinue to prove to infidel clansmen that the Turic hold the upper hand.”

  Rafnir jerked his head around at the word “infidel,” but the quick retort died on his lips when Sayyed winked at him. They both turned back to watch the vast procession. Even after his talk of retinues and shows of strength, Sayyed had to admit his words paled in comparison to the overwhelming numbers of horsemen, wagons, and chariots that gathered across the river.

  The Turic had always outnumbered the people of Valorian, but Sayyed had not realized until now just how wide the discrepancy had become since the plague killed over three thousand clanspeople a few years before. This was not going to make negotiating a settlement for damages and peace any easier.

  At that moment a ringing fanfare of trumpeters announced the arrival of the Shar-Ja. An enormous wooden wagon ambled over the hill, drawn by a team of eight matched yellow horses, the sun-gold mounts of the desert monarch. A peaked roof covered the top, and the windows at the sides were hung with silk hangings of silver and blue. Elaborate carvings decorated the wagon from wheel to roof.

  If the Shar-Ja rode inside the wagon, Sayyed couldn’t tell, for the ruler did not reveal his presence. But flanking the vehicle rode the heavily armed troops of his royal guard, followed by a group of nobles and attendants.

  The wagon creaked down the easy slope to the rows of Turic warriors and stopped nearly opposite Lord Athlone. A strange, wary silence fell over the valley as the two forces stared at each other across the water.

  A clan horn suddenly sounded, pure and sweet, and Sayyed nudged Afer forward into the rushing water. The big Hunnuli splashed as far as the edge of the island, where he stopped and neighed a ringing welcome. Sayyed raised his hand palm outward in a gesture of peace. He felt a twinge of humour at his position. He had left his usual burnoose and tulwar in his tent and wore instead the clan cloak, tunic, leather-and-mail shirt, and the short sword favoured by the clans. The Turics would take him for nothing more than a bilingual clan sorcerer.

  “Hail, Rassidar al Festith, Shar-Ja of the Fifteen Tribes, Ruler of the Two Rivers, Overlord of the Kumkara Desert, and High Priest of the Sacred Rule,” Sayyed bellowed in perfect Turic. Then he proceeded in impeccable tribal decorum to greet the representatives of the fifteen tribes. “The Eleven Clans of Valorian, Masters of the Ramtharin Plains, welcome you to Council Rock. May wisdom walk among our people and peace shine upon us,” he concluded.

  The words had no sooner left his lips than a winged shadow flitted over the gathered clansmen. A babble of excitement rose from the watching Turics when Demira, Kelene on her back, soared effortlessly overhead on a fresh spring breeze. Full of grace and beauty, she circled over the Turic ranks, then made a gentle landing on the island, beside Afer.

  Sayyed grinned at them both. Kelene loved to make an entrance, and while the Turics had certainly heard of the winged Hunnuli, few had seen her until now. Her altered appearance was a peaceful reminder of the power of the clan magic-wielders.

  The crowd near the Shar-Ja’s wagon parted for a solitary rider who cantered his horse to the river’s edge. Obviously a tall man, he sat his mount with practiced ease and total command. When he swept aside his burnoose he showed a face of middle years, swarthy, grim, and forged with resolution. His hair was knotted behind his head in the manner of the Turic people, and a trim beard etched his jaw with black. His deep-set eyes seemed sunk in shadow, and there was little sign of humour in his graven features.

  “I am Zukhara, Emissary of the Shar-Ja and First High Counsellor to the Throne of Shar. I bring greetings from His Highness.” The man spoke, in polished Turic, from the far bank. It seemed he would not deign to yell, yet he made no effort to cross his half of the river to meet Sayyed and Kelene. The two of them could make out his words, but the clan chiefs
could not hear him at all: over the splashing flow of the river.

  “Sadly, our monarch is weary from his hard journey. We ask to postpone any meeting until midday tomorrow. Then we will meet on the Council Rock.”

  “We?” Sayyed murmured. “Who is this man?”

  The Shar-Ja’s son? Afer suggested.

  “No. The Shar-Yon is younger. And more personable, they say. This is a new counsellor. I wonder where he came from?” Sayyed had tried to keep informed of Turic news and politics, until Tam died and he moved north to Moy Tura where he had lost interest in the world of his father. Now he regretted his ignorance. He bowed over Afer’s neck to the Turic and replied, “We are willing to wait. Until tomorrow. May the Shar-Ja find rest and comfort.” As soon as they received a reply, Sayyed and Kelene trotted their Hunnuli back to the clan lines.

  “I’m not surprised,” Lord Athlone responded when they told him the emissary’s words. “In fact, I will be surprised if the Turics do not keep us kicking our heels for several more days.”

  “But we will wait,” Peoren ground out. “I will wait for as long as it takes.”

  To everyone’s annoyance. Lord Athlone’s words proved correct. The Turics set up their camp in a wide meadow across the river and forced the clan chiefs to wait for four days before announcing the Shar-Ja was ready to hear their grievances. By that time even Lord Terod, the most complacent and timorous of the eleven chiefs, was swearing under his breath at the delay.

  The time, though, gave the lords an opportunity to hear the full accounts of the raids on the southern clans, to plan their strategy, and to agree on their objectives. They kept a careful eye on the big camp across the river and made certain their own defences were fully prepared.

  Kelene, to her amusement, had discovered she and Gabria were the only two women in the entire camp of nearly two hundred men. The absence of other women was not a deliberate exclusion, for by rights established by Gabria many years before, the priestesses of Amara and the wives of clan chieftains were permitted to attend important clan meetings. But the ancient ritual of the Birthright, the women’s festival of fertility and thanksgiving was about to be celebrated by every clan, and the other women had chosen to remain at the trelds for the very important sacred ceremony.

  Kelene and Gabria, therefore, assumed the role of hostesses for the whole camp. They treated minor injuries, supervised the cooking, took water and ale to those too busy to stop their work, and settled a number of brief disputes among the proud and free-tongued clansmen. Kelene was so busy she had no time to talk privately with her mother. She contented herself with staying close to Gabria and sharing the older sorceress’s companionship.

  The day of the council came cool and windy with a cloudy sky and veiled sun. Soon after the morning meal, horns blew on both sides of the river, calling the start of the meeting.

  The island was too small for every man to attend the Council, so the ten chiefs and Peoren, with one guard apiece, represented the clans. Rafnir asked if he could represent Moy Tura at the council, and the chiefs, anxious to have as many sorcerers as possible with them, agreed. Kelene quickly offered to serve as wine bearer, for work at negotiating was always thirsty business. She stated boldly that she had been asked to come because of the Shar-Ja’s poor health, and she wished to see for herself how the man fared. Lord Athlone had no objections, and Rafnir, who knew his wife well, merely shrugged his shoulders. Gabria stayed behind with Gaalney and Morad to keep watch from the river’s bank.

  In the Turic camp, a similar number of men — priests, counsellors, and several tribal leaders — accompanied the Shar-Ja down to the river. The monarch rode in a little chair slung between two horses. He made no move and gave no smile as the entire group rode across their half of the ford.

  The two forces met and dismounted on the island without exchanging a word. The clansmen watched as the Shar-Ja was helped from his litter by a solicitous young man and escorted into the big clan tent. Everyone else quickly followed, leaving their weapons at the entrance.

  Although the Turics did not generally permit their women to attend councils, no one objected to Kelene’s presence. They knew who she was, the healer, the sorceress, the rider of the winged mare, and Kelene realized their silence was a mark of their respect.

  She stood mute beside Rafnir and curiously watched the Turics stride into the tent, their faces dark and taciturn. Everyone wore long robes in subdued colours and burnooses so white they seemed to gleam against the duller blues, browns, and greys of the robes. Only the Shar-Ja wore the pelt of a desert lion over his shoulder as a symbol of his authority, but many of the others wore silver-linked belts, brooches of gold, armbands, and chains of gold or silver. They were handsome men overall, dark-eyed, golden-skinned, with full, even features. They often wore their black hair in intricate knots and plaited their long beards.

  Kelene recognized immediately the emissary who had spoken four days before. He stood a head over the tallest Turic in the tent, and his hooded eyes watched everything with a cold, avid gaze. He made no move to help the Shar-Ja but waited with ill-concealed impatience behind the others while the young man settled the Shar-Ja in a heavy wooden chair provided for that purpose and propped him comfortably with rugs and pillows.

  Kelene craned around Lord Wendern’s big head to see the Shar-Ja. She frowned when she finally got a close look at the man. Rumours of his ill-health were obviously true.

  The Shar-Ja was barely fifty, yet he looked as old as seventy. A grey pallor clung to his face, and his skin hung loose over his shrunken frame. His hands shook as he pulled off his burnoose and revealed a ring of greyish hair that clung to the back of his balding head. Until recently he had been a powerful man, strong, athletic, and known for his just and firm government. In a society ruled by a strict code of conduct, the Shar-Ja was known as an honourable man.

  So what, wondered Kelene, had brought on this rapid decline? She glanced at Sayyed, who stood beside her father, and saw that he, too, was frowning. He did not like the appearance of the Shar-Ja either. It seemed odd to Kelene that she had not been invited to attend to the monarch. She had understood that the Turic messenger had specifically asked for her to come to the council, yet sick as the Shar-Ja appeared to be, no one had bothered to request her assistance.

  Kelene suddenly realized the tent was very quiet. Every man had taken his seat and was waiting for someone else to make the next move. Her father glanced at her and nodded once. Clan hospitality dictated that guests were sacrosanct and that any gathering, small or large, was always made more pleasant with food and drink. Because the clans had initiated the council, they considered the Turics their guests, even on an island that was essentially a no-man’s-land. A fire had been laid in a central hearth to chase away the morning chill; rugs, stools, and pillows were provided for comfort; and trays of food, pottery cups, and wineskins had been left in the tent for refreshment.

  Kelene stepped into the watchful silence and bowed politely to the Shar-Ja. She held herself tall and proud as she walked to the cache of food and wine. She had braided her long black hair in a matron’s braid that hung to her waist and danced with its ties of jaunty green ribbons. Keeping her hands steady, she knelt, laid out the cups and trays, and poured a single measure of the heavy red wine. She paused only when a strong, sour smell reached her nose.

  Her eyes narrowed as she tasted the wine and calmly swallowed it. Fools, she thought fiercely to herself. Someone had brought wine without bothering to check if it had spoiled on the journey.

  Smoothly she took the cup to Lord Athlone to confirm her findings. His expression did not change at the bitter taste. He only glanced at his daughter and inclined his head as he handed the cup back to her. He had confidence that she would rectify the problem.

  Kelene knew every eye was on her by that time. Clansmen and Turic alike were awaiting refreshments. There was really only one thing she could do. Serving the spoiled wine would insult the Turics and cast dishonour on the chiefs. Run
ning back to the camp for more wine would take too long and could irritate the Shar-Ja and his counsellors. She would have to use magic.

  She knew the Turics did not approve of sorcery. They did not despise it with the fervent zeal of past generations of clanspeople, but like anything not understood, sorcery was condemned in Turic society. In order not to infuriate the already defensive tribesmen, she would have to work surreptitiously and pray no one noticed her spell.

  She smoothed all expression off her face and looked about for a useful vessel. Fortunately someone had left a large pitcher with the wineskins, and Kelene carefully filled it to the brim with soured wine. With her hand over the pitcher’s mouth, she thought of the finest beverage she could remember: a mead, a cool, light honey wine, delicately sweet as spring flowers, as golden as morning light, fermented from honey harvested from a bee colony she and Demira had found in the southern cliff face on Moy Tura’s plateau. No one outside of Moy Tura had tasted that wine yet, but if she could duplicate it with magic, she was sure her father would approve.

  Kelene concentrated on what she wanted. She felt the magic around her in the earth, the grass, the stone of Council Rock, and with her mind she pulled the magic into her will, shaped it to her design, and silently whispered her spell to clarify exactly what she wanted. When she pulled her hand away, the red wine was gone, replaced by a crystal yellow liquid that smelled of honey and spices.

  Kelene tasted a little from her father’s cup. The resulting mead was not as full-bodied and rich as the original, but it was delicious enough to be served to the clan chiefs and the Turic nobles.

  She served her father first, to reassure the Turics that the wine and the food were not poisoned; then she swiftly and efficiently served the Shar-Ja, his men, the chieftains, and the clan warriors. That her mead was appreciated quickly became apparent by the low hum of conversation, the occasional quiet laughter, and a more relaxed atmosphere.