Dark Horse (14 page)

A faint sigh escaped Gabria's lips. She nodded quickly. "Thank you."

Piers leaned forward, his hands on the table edge. "But we still have to face the fact that Cor was struck by a magic power."

Gabria tensed. "I know!" she said. "I agree he was injured by something more than my bow. But you have no proof! did it! I do not know where the power came from and neither do you."

"I know, but---"

Gabria jumped up, knocking over the stool. Her fears and emotions crowded in on her until she wanted to scream. She had to get out of the tent, go somewhere and col ect her wits. She had to think.

"No. Enough. Whatever happened, it wil never happen again."

Piers came around the table and grasped her arm. "You don't know that," he exclaimed. "If you have this talent for sorcery, it will
not
go away. It will always be there, waiting for some spark to set it off again."

"If. You only say if," Gabria shouted. "You do not know for 'I certain. Even if I had this ability, what could I do about it?" She limped to the entrance, hoping to escape before the healer could say any more.

"Gabran," Piers said quietly.

Gabria cut him short. "Thank you for your help, Healer. I am grateful." Then she ducked out and fled.

The rain had stopped some time earlier, and the clouds were breaking into huge, fluffy islands. The sun poured through every rent and covered the hil s with moving patches of light I and shadow. A fresh breeze blew up to Gabria from the steppes beyond Khulinin Treld. She took a deep breath. The invigorating coolness relaxed her a little and helped her sort out her thoughts enough to know what she wanted to do that moment. She wanted to find Nara.

The girl pushed her shorn hair back and hobbled down the path between the big tents, toward the far pastures. Nara was probably out there, grazing, and Gabria wanted desperately to be near the comforting strength of the Hunnuli.

Most of the men were gone from the treld, hunting the lion, but many of the women were out of the tents, enjoying the bright sun. No one acknowledged Gabria as she passed, so she I hurried on, trying not to feel the loneliness and self-pity that reared up inside of her.

By the time she reached the picket lines at the edge of the treld, she was limping badly again. She stopped to rest. In the fields before her, several men were training young horses. Another group of warriors was practicing archery. Gabria balked at the thought of crossing to the pastures, because she would need agility and speed to pass through al of the activity without getting in the way. At the moment, she had neither.

She watched the archers for a moment as they sent their mounts in a full gallop across the grass. As one, they roared a ferocious cry, wheeled their horses, fired a barrage of arrows over their backs at a target, and retreated, whooping with glee, to the starting point. Gabria watched the strange maneuver in surprise. It was a difficult one, requiring skill with horse and bow, and timing. The warriors had performed it flawlessly, and the target was riddled, witnessing to their accuracy.

"They are getting good," someone said behind her.

Gabria turned her head and saw Jorlan, the night commander of the outriders, standing beside the farrier's tent a few paces away. He was holding the halter of a snappish filly. The farrier, a burley man with huge hands, had the filly’s foreleg clamped between his thighs and was trimming a hoof.

"Where did they learn to do that?" she asked.

"It is part of some new tactics Athlone is teaching. He learned it from the Turic raiders, who are masters of the hit and run," Jorlan replied.

Gabria glanced back at the archers who were lining up for another run. "Why should a clan this size have to worry about raiding tactics?"

Jorlan pursed his lips and patted the filly’s neck. "Lord Medb is growing very powerful. He is pulling other clans to him or dealing with them as he did the Corin. We are not invincible. Before summer is out, I believe there will be war."

The farrier snorted, a sound not unlike his horses'. "Lord Medb is a fool. He cannot hope to control the entire grasslands or the clans. He will burn out soon."

"Maybe," Jorlan said thoughtful y. "As long as he does not scorch us in his passing."

The farrier laughed, startling the filly. "Stand still, you girl," he soothed. "You fret more than my wife."

"Have you seen the Hunnuli?" Gabria asked. She did not want to discuss Medb. The treld was closing in on her and she wanted to run.

Jorlan gestured to the river. "I think she is by the river. You did well last night. I am sorry about Cor," he added as an afterthought.

"So am I," Gabria shot back, irritated by the reminder of that incident. She did not want to think about last night until she was clear of the treld. She swung around, put her fingers to her lips, and gave a piercing whistle. She waited for a moment wondering if Nara had heard.

Then came a thundering neigh in answer to her summons. The call reverberated through Khulinin Treld like the horns of a battle charge. Everyone in the treld paused in their tasks and listened again for the neigh of joy and pride. Movement ceased in the fields. Men and horses alike watched as Nara appeared on the crest of a distant hill. She neighed again, this time in greeting, and Gabria, feeling the mare's delight, laughed in pleasure.

The girl whistled once more. Nara leaped down the hill, her tail unfurled, and galloped toward the treld. Her mane whipped out like grass before a tornado; her hooves flashed as she flung her legs forward. Like a black cornet, she burst onto the crowded field and swept through the men and horses.

They parted before her power and grandeur. She thundered up the slope and skidded to a halt, inches away from Gabria. The mare snorted delicately.

Gabria laughed again, hearing the excited shouts of the men around her. She grabbed for the Hunnuli's mane and hauled herself up. "Go, please!" Nara spun around and ran to find the wind on the plains.

Jorlan watched them disappear and grinned. "I would give my best mares to do that."

The mare carried Gabria along the banks of the Goldrine River to the entrance of the valley, and swiftly passed between the two guardian peaks to the plains.

Beyond Marakor and its twin, the foothills fell away to the steppelands of Ramtharin. The semi-arid grasslands rolled out of the mountain's shadow and away into a dusky horizon. The plains were endless leagues of land that awed men by their sheer vastness and a subtle intensity, traits not found anywhere else in the land inhabited by the clans. The character of the high steppes was found in the ceaseless winds that shaped the rocks and bent the long grass, in the rough colors that blended in a myriad of shades, in the pungent aroma of the tough shrubs that grew in every gul y, and in the bitterness of a winter blizzard or the heat of a summer drought. The steppes were an empty land that did not invite easy acceptance, yet the land suited the clans and their restless herds, and was beloved by them.

Nara galloped east, following the Goldrine River. She sensed something was worrying Gabria, but she kept her thoughts to herself and waited for her rider to speak of it.

When Marakor dwindled behind them and Gabria could no longer feel the eyes of the Khulinin watching her, she relaxed and settled down on Nara's broad back. The Hunnuli slowed to a walk, and they wandered quietly along the shal ows of the broad river. The wind breezed by them, cool from the morning rain and heavy with the smell of wet land. Ducks paddled in the backwater and several antelope watched them curiously from a safe distance.

Gabria breathed a long sigh. "He accused me of sorcery, Nara,” she said at last.

Who?

"The healer. He thinks I used some form of power to strike down Cor in a fight last night. The worst of it is, I do not know if Piers is right."

Why did the healer think you had used magic?

Gabria shook her head despairingly. "Cor was injured by this power called the Trymian Force. Piers says I was the only one who could have struck the man. He feels I have an inherited ability to use magic .

. . but he has no proof." She was silent for a while, then added, "I did have a dream last night. It was horrible."

About sorcery?

"Yes. Oh, Nara, I have been told since I was born that magic was something foul and corrupting. But I am not like that. I can't be," Gabria flung her arms around the Hunnuli's neck and held on. The girl wanted to believe in herself, in the inherent good that was a part of her and her beloved family. If she did have a talent for sorcery, she hoped that her beliefs about magic were wrong, for she could never accept that she was evil.

Nara stopped. She swiveled her head so her lustrous black eyes were staring into Gabria's unhappy face.
How do you think the Hunnuli became as they are?

Gabria's throat tightened. "They were created by the gods. Amara shaped the first mare, and Surgart, in the shape of a Storm, bred her." She spoke hesitantly, as if uncertain.

That part is true, but our creation goes farther. In the dawn of the world, we and the Harachan
horses were as one.

Gabria took a deep breath. She felt as though she was standing on the edge of a crevasse. To her back lay her life, its basic beliefs and morals unchanged. Before her lay new concepts and strange truths, the strangest of which being the idea that magic was not an evil power. All she had to do was jump the crevasse and ask the Hunnuli the rest of the unspoken question. The girl already divined the gist of the answer, but the unknown realms that the knowledge might lead her to frightened her more than anything she had ever faced. It could mean a total disruption of her entire way of thinking and living. It could mean that, for two hundred years, the clans had believed in a lie.

Nara remained still, her gaze compassionate, while she waited for Gabria to speak. Gabria slowly traced her finger along the white lightning mark on Nara's shoulder and tried to find the courage to even form the words of the question in her mind.

The jagged streak, she thought, was the mark of the gods on an animal they, too, loved. The Harachan did not have the lightning mark, yet Nara said they and the Hunnuli were born from the same source. So why did the Hunnuli have the mark of favor and the Harachan did not?

"What happened?" she whispered so softly even Nara barely heard it.

But the Hunnuli understood the depth of the question.
In your legends, you have a tale of Valorian
in which he rescues the crown of Amara from the demons of Sorh. In his escape he was helped by a black
stallion. The horse was badly wounded by a bolt of fire, and, after Valorian returned the crown to the
goddess, he nursed the horse back to health. In gratitude for his help, the goddess decreed the stallion
would forever be Valorian's mount and that his offspring would always bear the white scar to honor him.

After that, Valorian taught the horse to communicate and to protect him. He made the stallion
invulnerable to magic and to evil. With his sorcery. the hero gave the Hunnuli a new existence.

The chasm had been leaped. Gabria felt her body grow hot and her hands began to shake. "Valorian was a sorcerer?"

There are many things your priests neglect to tel .

"Nara, I think I want to go back to the treld."

The Hunnuli nickered softly and complied. She trotted easily back to the encampment to give Gabria time to consider the information that was now shaking her belief. It would take days before the girl could fully accept the magic that was a part of her---Nara had known the truth from the first day she had seen Gabria---and many more days before she would understand the reality of her power. But it would happen. Gabria would have to break her bonds of prejudice and accept her talent to wield magic if she hoped to fight Lord Medb and survive.

On the edge of the treld, Gabria slid off and stood for a moment, fighting back the tears that balanced on her lids. She rubbed her fingers over the ebony hair on Nara's withers. "I have despised sorcery all my life." She paused and swallowed hard. "You tell me you are a creature of magic, but I can't hate you. You are my friend." Gabria clenched her jaw and marched up the hill to the hall. Nara watched her for a moment, then she neighed and returned to the quiet pastures on the outskirts of Khulinin Treld.

The rains of early spring fell heavy that year. The water filled the streams and rivers, and drowned the low valleys. The rain fell for days in a fitful downpour, until the tents began to rot and the animals sickened and tempers frayed. The Goldrine washed over its banks and threatened the brood mare herd in the val ey, so the horses had to be moved to shelters within the encampment. The work fields became a quagmire, and the paths through the treld turned to treacherous gumbo.

Before long, the hall was the only dry place in Khulinin Treld and the floor was crowded with people seeking relief. Around the fires at night, the clansmen drained the last of the wine and whispered of Medb's heretical practice of sorcery. Could it be, they wondered, that Medb had grown so powerful he could control the weather? Did he hope to demoralize the clans by endangering their herds, ruining their tents, and spoiling their food? Was he trying to prove the strength of his power?

The whispers spread as far as the distant clans, whose chieftains were little concerned with Medb's plans for dominance. Medb's name was in every mind, and the influence of his deeds, real or rumored, spread like a thickening mist. The tale of the massacre at Corin Treld was passed from clan to clan.

The first horror and outrage sparked by the news was eventual y dampened with excuses. People listened, but no one wanted to accept the fact that the Corin had been slaughtered. Clan fighting was a normal pastime for entertainment, revenge, or profit. But for a clansman to deliberately annihilate an entire clan was inconceivable.

Yet the massacre was a reality, and the chieftains knew in their hearts that something like it could happen again. Unfortunately, no one was certain why the Corin had been murdered in the first place. It was common knowledge that Dathlar loathed Medb. Perhaps the Corin chieftain had angered the Wylfling lord once too often and had received the full force of Medb's wrath. Several chiefs thought that, if this were true, it would be wise to avoid Medb's displeasure. Secretly, they began to accept the Wylfling emissaries and to listen to the promises of wealth and power that could be theirs in exchange for alliance.