City of Sorcerers (6 page)

qualities---his father's slim, athletic build and his mother's expressive eyes and inner strength---without the burden of sharing with brothers or sisters.

But it wasn't fair that her brother had those brown eyes with the golden flecks that looked like amber in the sunlight while her eyes were so dark they were almost black, or that his hair was thick and curling, while hers was straight, coarse, and black. Their father had told her she looked like their grandfather, Savaric, but right then she wished she had more of her brother's looks. . . or anyone else's instead of this swarthy, skinny appearance she disdained.

In that instant she loved her brother and hated him. She wished he would go away and take his friend with him. "It's not my mound. Take Moreg. He's the one who fell over it."

Savaron shrugged off her snappish reply. He had gotten used to his sister's uneasy temperament even if he didn't understand it. "As you wish."

Rafnir winked at her roguishly and patted the place behind him on his Hunnuli's back. "Sure you won't change your mind? You can ride with me."

"Your Hunnuli has enough trouble already carrying you and your arrogance,"

Kelene retorted.

Rafnir laughed. With a grin and a wave, he and Savaron turned their horses away and rode back to join the party of men already on their way toward the eastern hills.

Kelene rather wistfully watched them go. It would have been interesting to ride out with the men to get a closer look at that strange mound. But while she would never admit it to Savaron or Rafnir, the fact was that she doubted she could make it as far as that canyon today. Never had she felt so sore and bone-tired as she did that afternoon. The race, the hard fall, and the bitter disappointment had taken more out of her than she had imagined. Her leg ached from toe to knee, her head throbbed, and her thigh muscles felt like jelly. Ishtak, with a swollen knee and aching muscles, was in no better shape.

She could have ridden a Hunnuli, of course. None had tried to befriend her over the years, perhaps knowing in their wise way that she would not welcome their advances, but not one would have refused her request. It was simply that she felt very uncomfortable around the big horses. They were bred to be the companions and mounts of magic-wielders, and Kelene believed if she rode one, it would be a tacit acceptance of her talent---an acceptance she refused to make.

Without warning, Ishtak jerked his head away from her and began to wade toward the shore. He had obviously had enough of the river and wanted some shade and grass. Kelene didn't argue. The cool water was making her leg ache all the more, and the thought of sitting down was beginning to appeal to her. She hung on to the gelding's lead rope and hobbled as best she could through the water.

The idea of sitting down suddenly reminded her that Gabria had asked her to help with the fosterlings this afternoon. Kelene, feeling a little guilty for forgetting her promise to help two days ago, had agreed. Of course, her mother didn't really need any help. There were seven children, no, eight with the Reidhar boy, from ages eight to fourteen. They were fairly well behaved, and all had chosen to come to Gabria to learn to use their talent, so they were no trouble. The only reason, Kelene decided, that Gabria wanted her there was the hope that her daughter would listen to her teaching and storytelling and perhaps absorb some of the children's enthusiasm.

Kelene knew that was a vain wish. Nevertheless, Gabria was going to tell the children the tale of Valorian, the clans' hero-warrior, and a chance to listen to that was worth the time spent with the group. Kelene never grew tired of hearing the story of the man who had brought his people to the Ramtharin Plains nearly five hundred years ago.

The girl and the horse reached the bank where the ground rose up several feet to a grassy edge, and Ishtak lunged forward to leap up the steep incline. For a person with two healthy legs, the climb up the bank was not difficult. For Kelene it was usually a challenge that she could manage. But as Ishtak lunged upward, he yanked the lead rope in her hand. The sudden wrench pulled her weight onto her weak ankle. Pain shot up her leg like a fiery bolt, and her foot and ankle, unable to bear her full weight, collapsed beneath her. With a cry, Kelene fell face first into the muddy bank. Ishtak, tail high and ears forward, trotted stiffly away, trailing his lead rope behind him.

"Sorh take that horse!" Kelene shouted furiously, wiping mud off her face. She struggled painfully to her feet in time to see her gray head out toward the pastures on the far side of the valley.

Well, there's no catching him now, she decided. He would just have to wear that halter and rope until someone could chase him down.

Kelene sank down on the edge of the drop-off and rubbed her throbbing ankle.

She could hardly bear to look at it any more. The thickened joint, the shorter shin, and the twisted, disfigured foot all sickened her. It was so unfair. Why did that accident happen to her? She was only trying to help her father. And why of all times did it happen right after her friend, the clan healer Piers Arganosta had died in his sleep? In a twist of bad fortune, Piers's apprentice had been away, and there had been no healer to help set her bones.

Her parents and the horse healer had done their best, but the weight of the stallion falling on her ankle had crushed it beyond their simple skills to straighten. She was lucky, they told her time and again, that she could walk at all. Perhaps that was so, but she couldn't help feeling the resentment that rose like nausea every time she looked at her foot, tried to walk normally, or had to face the pitying looks of other clanswomen.

A noise behind her pulled her from her reverie, and she turned to see an eagle in a dead tree nearby. The bird gave a piercing cry and launched itself into the air. Its white and brown wings outstretched, it soared out over the meadows to catch the rising afternoon drafts.

Kelene threw her head back and wishfully watched it go. To be so free, she thought, to be swift and light and graceful as an eagle. It must be joyous to ride the sweeping wind currents wherever you want to go and feel the heat of the sun on your outstretched feathers. She wondered what the plains would look like from high above.

What would it be like to leave the earth behind and soar among the clouds?

She smiled at her own fantasies. If the gods ever took it into their immortal minds to grant her a wish, she would be delighted if they would let her fly. She had always dreamed of sailing on the wind as fast as she could go or soaring out over the tall prairie grass like a falcon on the hunt. Just once, that's all she wanted, just one moment to feel as free and light as a bird.

For just the tick of her heart, she thought of her talent.

Could magic help her achieve her dream? And just as quickly she rejected the idea. She laughed, a half-mocking, half-amused sound. Of course not. Magic was too dangerous, too uncontrollable, too unknown.

Long ago in the golden age of sorcery, it had been different. The clan magic-wielders gathered in Moy Tura, the city of the sorcerers, to study and learn. They had known how to use magic to the fullest human potential. Some of the more powerful sorcerers had learned how to alter their forms, heal the sick, or summon the gorthlings from the realm of the dead to do their bidding. Now, though, most of the ancient spells were lost or forgotten, and the few magic-wielders in the clans were trying to learn magic from one old book of spells and a lot of crude trial and error. No, magic could certainly not help her accomplish anything now. It was too unmanageable.

Painfully she climbed to her feet and hobbled back to the Khulinin camp. She saw her mother and Tam and the fosterlings already gathered under a tree, but she didn't join them until she had changed her muddy clothes and cleaned her hair and face. Then, with a cup of cooled goat's milk in hand, she went to join the group.

Her mother was sitting on a leather stool with her beloved Hunnuli mare, Nara, and Nara's filly, Demira, standing just behind her. The children, sitting in a semicircle around her, watched with rapt attention while the sorceress wove the tale of Valorian with magic, words, and images. She used dust from the ground and smoke from a cooking fire to form small pictures in the air before her of Valorian and his black horse, Hunnul. Just beneath the skin of her right wrist, a diamond splinter, the symbol of a full magic-wielder, glowed red with power and emotion.

"Valorian took Hunnul's soft muzzle in his hands and closed his eyes to begin the spell," Gabria was saying. She moved her images to replicate the words.

Kelene was pleased. She had come in time for her favorite part, where Valorian teaches his stallion to communicate. Gabria glanced up and smiled at her as she joined the group; Kelene smiled tentatively back. She sat down beside Tam and reached out to scratch the white cat loafing on Tam's lap.

Kelene soon became so engrossed in the story she did not notice Nara's filly, Demira, sidle up behind her. While the girl listened in wonder, Demira lowered her nose to a handspan away from Kelene's back, sighed contentedly, and went to sleep.

* * * * *

The sound of hooves ringing on stone echoed around the' long line of clansmen as they rode in single file down the narrow defile. The sun had dropped low enough to leave the canyon in cool shade, which was a welcome relief after the heat of the valley, but no one seemed inclined to remark on it or on the beauty of the variegated colors of red and brown in the smooth stone around them. They were too busy looking ahead or nervously eyeing the high, enclosing walls over their heads.

Before long, the Dangari rider led them out into the wider end of the canyon where the sun slanted down on the eastern wall and a light breeze riffled the patches of weeds and grass. The mound sat in lonely solitude, its crown trampled and flattened from the accident the day before. Off to the right side, vultures were flocking over the carcass of the horse, and a small pack of wild dogs left their meal to dash off into the rocks. The smell of corruption filled the air.

The clansmen filed in and reined to a halt in a circle around the mound. Silently they studied it: the oblong shape, the weed-grown slopes, the summit that rose over their heads.

"Well?" lord Athlone said to a priest in red robes. "What do you think of it?"

The man, a white-haired, fierce-eyed old whiplash of a Jehanan, dismounted without answering and stalked up to the top of the mound. He walked the length of the top from east to west, poked and prodded around the hole made by Moreg's horse, and pulled up some more clumps of grass to study what lay beneath. At last he straightened.

"It is a burial mound," he pronounced, and a babble of excited, wondering voices burst from the watching crowd.

"Whose is it?" several asked loudly.

"Why is it out here in this forsaken place?" another man shouted.

"May we open it?" others demanded.

Ordan, the priest, held up his hand to quiet them. He was the oldest man in the clans and well-respected for his wisdom and service to Sorh, god of the dead. The men quieted immediately. "I cannot answer all those questions at once," he snapped.

"This mound appears to be very old. That's all I can tell you without further study."

"Will lord Sorh be angry if we open it?" Koshyn asked.

"The god of the dead will not be angered if the proper prayers are said and the contents are not disturbed," Ordan informed them.

"It shall be done!" said Lord Athlone. And with that everyone dismounted and set to work. The horses were led away and picketed at the far end of the box canyon. The men who had brought spades set to work digging at both ends of the mound. Other men cleared away the weeds and grass on the slopes and on the top, looking for any thing-a marker, a sign, a plaque---that would tell them who was buried in this grave.

By clan tradition that dated back hundreds of years, burial mounds of this size were usually built only for special purposes. Sometimes, as in the case of the massacred Corin clan, a mound would be built to bury a large number of people, or for a highly respected priest. Usually, though, the big mounds housed a dead chieftain and all the possessions he would need to maintain his honor and dignity in the realm of the dead. Clan lords had been known to be buried with their horses, dogs, weapons, clothes, household goods, gold, and other personal belongings. If there was a chief within this lone mound, there could be many things in the inner chamber and maybe an invaluable chance to learn more about the clans' past.

With a strength fueled by excitement and curiosity, the clansmen worked feverishly to clear the mound. Rafnir, still sore from his fall in the race, helped pull weeds and clumps of grass. He grinned at his father when Sayyed paused from shoveling to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

"We could have done this much faster with magic," Rafnir suggested.

Sayyed leaned on his shovel and said, "Yes, but we don't really know what's under there. We could damage it with a misplaced spell."

"And I suppose," Rafnir added, still grinning, "the others would resent being left out of the fun of all this hard work."

"You're learning," Sayyed said and went back to digging.

It wasn't long before the slopes were stripped to the dirt and the roof of the burial chamber was exposed.

"Look at this," Ordan said to Lord Athlone. He pointed to the wooden beams that still lay partially covered with dirt. "This is older than I thought. Maybe two hundred years. Whoever built this didn't cap the inner chamber with stone as we do now. This is only a timber-framed roof. It's a wonder that horse didn't crash all the way through."

The Khulinin chief squatted down to take a closer look. He saw immediately what Ordan meant. The thick, square beams had once supported a slightly angled roof of wooden planks, bur time and the damp earth had rotted away the planks and the covering cap of soil had settled down on the supporting beams. The beams themselves were soft and crumbling. The packed earth around them seemed to be the only thing holding the timbers together. "Maybe we should move most of the men off the top,"