Dark Horse (8 page)

But Gabria found that her peace had fled her. She could not relax or let her mind wander while the Hunnuli stal ion guarded her every move. She was not accustomed to such distrust or being treated with dislike. In all of her seventeen years, she had never felt so alone; for Gabran, her family, and her clan had always been with her. Nothing had prepared her for the endless confusion and emptiness that had dogged her steps since the day of the massacre. She was not a Khulinin and she never would be, but she wished someone would accept her with open arms. She wanted to be warm and comfortable and welcome, not pushed out in the shadows like a thieving beggar.

The evening was growing cold when Gabria and the mare returned to the treld. Nara led the way to the healer's tent. Piers was gone when Gabria entered, yet she found another bowl of soup warming by the fire and her pack lying on the sleeping pallet. Everything in the bag had been cleaned and mended, and a new tunic of soft linen had been added. Sleepy again, Gabria finished the soup, curled up in her cloak, and sank into another motionless sleep.

* * * * *

Athlone came for Gabria at dawn, when the echoes of the morning horn were fading. Astride his towering stallion, he shouted at her to come, for her apprenticeship was about to begin. She barely had time to grab a warm bun from Piers's table, pin on her cloak, and dash out of the tent before the wer-tain was cantering off toward the meadows. Groggily, she clambered onto Nara's back and followed, her irritation wide awake.

"Come on, boy, your duties start at sunrise," Athlone said when Gabria had finally caught up with him. "And don't let me catch you shirking."

He led her to a practice field where several targets and makeshift figures were set up. "Before I can begin your training," he stated, sliding off his horse, "I need to know what you can do." His tone implied that he did not expect much. Then, his eyes hardened to stone. "Where are your sword and bow?"

Gabria felt her stomach fall to her knees. The day had barely begun and already she had made a careless error. No warrior left his tent without his weapons; she had not even brought her dagger. "Wer-tain, I'm sorry," she gasped. "I do not have a bow and I . . . left my sword. . . in the tent."

Athlone walked deliberately around the horses until he stood by Gabria's foot. The silence crackled.

"You what?" he snarled with withering scorn. "If such carelessness is characteristic of your clan, it is little wonder they were wiped out."

Gabria stiffened as if he had struck her. Her face went livid and her hand flew to her empty belt.

Careful,
Nara warned, sidling away.
Keep still.

"Return with your sword," Athlone ordered. "If you know what one looks like."

Before Gabria could reply, Nara wheeled and cantered back to the treld. Once they were out of earshot, Gabria clenched her hands in the Hunnuli's black mane. "That dog!" she screamed.

"Insufferable pig! He just insulted an entire clan and I can do nothing."

They came to Piers's tent. Gabria stormed in and retrieved her short sword, the one she had taken from Gabran's hand.

"Trust him, you said!" she raged as she flung herself back on the mare. "I'd sooner trust a viper."

Nara deigned to ignore her. She carried the fuming girl back to the field where Athlone waited impatiently. Gabria spent the next few hours keeping her misery and anger tightly leashed. Athlone worked her at swordplay and hand-to-hand fighting. They began on horseback, where Athlone's stal ion, Boreas, could help Nara with complicated maneuvers. Then they moved to the ground. Athlone pressed Gabria to the limit of her strength and skill.

A thousand times Gabria blessed her brothers for teaching her the rudiments of their weapons. She was no match for the wer-tain, but she could keep her borrowed identity from suspicion as she fought Athlone through each of his testing exercises. No woman should have known the fighting skil s Gabria used.

Athlone worked her hard, both mental y and physical y, and he watched Gabria's every move, waiting for her to slip from anger or carelessness. He deliberately taunted her, shot orders at her, and gave her no rest. When he finally stopped, late in the morning, she fel to her knees, panting and drenched with sweat. He stood back and studied her. The nagging little warning in his head was ringing madly, yet he stil could not put a reason to his suspicions. The boy could hold a sword and he knew most of , the basic moves, but there were some important details he did not know about swordplay that he should have. There was also a hesitancy in his attacks that belied a normal boy's experience with weapons.

Athlone sheathed his sword and whistled to Boreas. Whatever the boy's secret was, it was obvious from the past few hours that he had a great deal of determination. That was something in his favor.

"Keep practicing the last three parries I showed you," the wer-tain ordered. "Remember to keep your weight balanced or you will find yourself in the dust. I will take you to the saddler later." He vaulted onto the stal ion's back.

Gabria glared at him, too tired to move. Without thinking, she said, "What for? I do not need a saddle."

"No," Athlone replied sarcastically. "Nara wil keep you mounted. But you wil need the other trappings befitting a warrior."

Gabria bit her lip as the stallion cantered away. She had done it again. She had walked into that blunder like a child. This acting was much more difficult than she had anticipated. When she had thought of this scheme, Gabria had imagined herself drifting easily into the fringe of Savaric's clan and playing the part of a boy with little concentration and great ease until she found the right time to chal enge Lord Medb. If she could handle a bow and a sword, she could pretend to be a boy for as long as necessary.

But Gabria had never fully appreciated the countless differences between a male and a female, not only physically and mentally, but socially as well. A boy would never have questioned the wer-tain about the saddler, for a boy would have already learned what was intended. A woman, on the other hand, made her own leather goods. She had no need to visit the saddler, who was the warriors' craftsman for saddles, harnesses, and leather accoutrements---things a woman had little use for.

In the clans, a woman was expected to keep her place in the tent. She was protected by the men in her family or her husband's family, and in return, the men demanded obedience. Despite their restrictive lives, the clanswomen were intelligent, efficient, and often fierce, but they understood and believed in the social mores of the clans and fol owed them by habit. No woman was al owed into the werod, the council, or any of the important ranks of the clan. Only the priestess of Amara and the wife and daughters of the chief had any status and esteem.

As the daughter of Dathlar, Gabria had had status in her clan, and as the only girl in a family of five men, she had been raised with love, respect, and a measure of equality. Her family had given her more freedom and responsibility than many clanswomen had, and she had been happy and content. Before the massacre, Gabria would never have dreamed of pretending to be a boy, or joining a werod, or challenging a chieftain for weir-geld.

However, her life was drastically different now, and she was forced to make some radical decisions.

Gabria had chosen this plan of deception because she thought she had enough self-confidence and a great enough understanding of males to pull it off. Now, she was not so sure. There were too many details to constantly remember and so many ramifications she had no experience with. It was so confusing!

Gabria was still deep in her musings when Nara came to her side and brushed the girl's cheek with a velvety nose.
Are you going to sit in the dirt all day?

Gabria shook her head, smiled, and stood up, her sword hanging limply in her hand. The girl knew it was too late to alter her course now. She could imagine some impending difficulties with her disguise, and there would be other problems she could not expect, but she would just have to handle the pitfal s as they came and hope for a great deal of good fortune. Gabria rubbed Nara's neck affectionately, and together they went in search of a midday meal.

Later that afternoon, Athlone took Gabria to the saddler. The girl had to be completely outfitted with a shield, belt, 'boots, leather jerkin, helmet, and a quiver for arrows. The old craftsman promised to have the items finished within a few days and he gave Gabria a used, restrung bow he had no use for.

Gabria also found an old, wide-brimmed hat in a pile of scraps the saddler had planned to throwaway. The old man laughingly gave it to her and threw in a leather thong to tie the hat down on her head. The girl pulled the brim down low over her eyes and tried to look casual as she leaned against a post and waited for Athlone.

Athlone was still speaking to the saddler when a boy arrived and gave him a message from Savaric.

The wer-tain quickly ended the conversation and, without a word to Gabria, hurried her to the clan hall.

Savaric was waiting for them in the main room of the hall. He stood beside a tal perch, feeding tidbits to his falcon and talking to two of his warriors. The two men saluted as Athlone and Gabria approached, then the men quickly left the hal .

"I'm glad you could come now," the chieftain told Gabria and Athlone as he moved to the dais. "I have just received word that a messenger has arrived. I would like you both to stay and listen."

Gabria sat down on the stone rim of the fire pit and tried to be inconspicuous. She wondered if the news the messenger brought concerned her in some way. She had made no effort to hide her trail at Corin Treld, and it was possible that someone had realized there could have been a survivor and spread the word. Enough time had passed for the news to reach the farthest clans.

"Gabran," Savaric said, jolting her out of her thoughts. "Remove your cloak and keep it out of sight."

"Yes, Lord." She unpinned the red cloak, folded it into a cushion, and sat on it. She should have remembered it herself. Her anonymity would be lost if another clan learned of her presence with the Khulinin, and, without some cover to protect her until she was ready to challenge Medb, her life would not be worth a slave's wage.

While she waited, the girl watched the chieftain and the wer-tain as they talked quietly. She marveled at the rapport that existed between the two men. Both men were strong individuals with very different personalities and yet their respect and love for each other was unmistakable. Many chieftains would have feared an intel igent, strong-wil ed son like Athlone when the question of clan control came into contention, but as far as Gabria knew, that question had never been raised between these two men. They worked together to rule the large and powerful Khulinin.

In other circumstances, Gabria might have grown to like Athlone, as much as she liked the chief.

Nara was right: the wer-tain would make a potent ally, but Gabria and the wer-tain clashed from the beginning and their relationship was slipping from bad to worse. He grated on her already battered confidence. His arrogance, his caustic contempt, and his probing suspicions made it impossible for her to accept him as only a man. He hung over her consciousness like a great storm cloud, blinding her to other dangers and overwhelming her with his potentially deadly vigilance. Around Athlone, Gabria was constantly on guard and afraid. It was little wonder she acted like a bungling fool whenever he was with her.

She was stil staring at the two men when the messenger, wearing the green cloak of the Geldring clan, was escorted into Savaric's hall. Gabria, seeing the messenger's cloak, edged farther into the shadows of a pil ar and hoped he would ignore her. The Corin argued frequently with the Geldring and there had been much interaction between the two clans. It was possible the man would recognize her if he had seen her or Gabran in the past.

But the messenger only gave her a cursory glance as he passed, for his mind was on the news he brought. He bowed before Savaric and offered his chieftain's greetings. "Lord Branth bids me tell you—

"Savaric straightened in amazement. "Branth! When did he become chieftain?"

"Just before the massacre at Corin Treld. Lord Justar died quite suddenly of a heart ailment", the messenger said.

"Did a dagger cause his heart ailment'?" Savaric asked dryly.

The messenger looked uncomfortable, as if that thought had occurred to him before. "I do not know, Lord Savaric. Only his wife and Branth were with him when he died and his body was prepared for the pyre by his wife's hands."

Athlone and Savaric exchanged glances of silent speculation. Gabria was relieved she had not tried to seek refuge with the Geldring. Lord Justar had respected her father, but Branth hated the Corin with a passion. If she had gone to him, he would have turned her over to Medb. It was well known he supported the Wylfling chief.

Savaric shrugged slightly. "All right. Continue."

"We found Corin Treld two days after the kil ing, and we spent some time reading the signs of the battle. We discovered there may be a survivor, but we do not know who or what that person was or where he went."

"How do you know this?" Athlone asked.

"There was a makeshift funeral pyre near the ruins and five bodies had been burned. One, by the shield and helmet, was Dathlar. No enemy who slaughtered the clan like that would have afforded the chief such honor. We also found foot tracks leading out of the treld. They went south, then we lost them in a storm. Lord Branth feels we should search the foothills and send word to every clan to seek this survivor."

"Absolutely," Savaric agreed with the right amount of enthusiasm. "This survivor could be the last Corin."

Athlone shot a quick look at Gabria, who was sitting motionless, as if carved from stone.

"The rest of the information was not clear either." The messenger hesitated as if unsure how to continue. "But it appears that a large band of exiles attacked the treld."

The reaction the Geldring was expecting did not come. Savaric merely raised an eyebrow and said,