Winged Magic (3 page)

“Not enough,” Kelene replied honestly. “We built the guest hall for the people who visit but don’t want to stay. At the moment we have three historians from the Five Kingdoms, an architect from Pra Desh who is helping us learn to build, two bards, two healers, several exiles who are trying to earn their way back into the clans, and a priest from Clan Dangari. The rest of our residents, the permanent ones, equal all of eighteen.”

Gaalney grimaced at the cold numbers. Even he as a newcomer could see eighteen permanent residents — no matter how many guests they might have — were not nearly enough to make a viable colony. He spoke his thanks for her information and turned his stallion down the road to the guest hall.

Demira trotted across the square toward the Sorcerers’ Hall. Kelene did not need to tell her where to find Rafnir’s father. Sayyed had been going to the same area almost every free moment since he’d arrived nearly two years ago. The mare bypassed the old foundations, walked up the main road, and turned left into the ruinous streets west of the hall.

Before the Purge the area had been one of the finer residential neighbourhoods in the city. While a few of the houses had been destroyed in the fire that consumed the hall, many other homes had simply been plundered and left to rot.

One day, out of curiosity, Sayyed decided to see what he could find in the crumbled ruins. Beneath the decay and rubble, he was fascinated to discover a wealth of artefacts from the golden age of Moy Tura, and most important of all, a few precious relics and scrolls left by the magic-wielders themselves. He had been excavating ever since.

While some visitors thought Sayyed’s work was rather frivolous compared to the rebuilding and everyday chores, Rafnir and Kelene found his self-appointed task invaluable. Useful items were kept by the colony, the magic relics were sent to Gabria, and the jewellery and rare items unearthed in good condition were readily traded by numerous clanspeople interested in their past or sold to merchants from Pra Desh who detoured from the main caravan routes to pay a visit to the city that had once been forbidden. The coin Sayyed raised went in turn to buy livestock and needed supplies for the tiny colony.

Magic-wielders though some of them were, the inhabitants of Moy Tura could not use magic to provide everything they needed. Living creatures like wool-bearing sheep or work horses could not be created, and unfamiliar things, such as carpentry tools or masonry equipment, could not be duplicated until they had some in hand to study. They also knew they could not function effectively if they used magic all the time. The gift of the gods was infinite, but mortals’ ability to use it was not. Wielding magic was exhausting and sometimes dangerous, and the sorcerers had long ago learned that physical labour combined with a judicious use of magic was the safest and most effective way to get a job done.

That morning Sayyed was relying on simple muscle to accomplish his task. Kelene and Demira found him in the roofless room of a once-luxurious house. Sunlight poured into the ruin, washing the fallen rock and rotting floor timbers with a warm, golden light. The young woman slid off her horse and poked her head through a large gap in the wall. She saw Sayyed carefully lifting chunks of stone one by one from a pile by the far wall. Hot from his labour, Sayyed had removed his tunic and wore only his leggings and leather boots.

Kelene grinned at his bronzed back. Still slim, erect, and vigorous at forty-four, Sayyed was handsome enough to attract most women. Just below middle height, he had a short, neatly trimmed beard and sharp, piercing black eyes.

Once his face and eyes had been filled with gaiety and mischievous good humour, until the plague struck the clans and claimed his beloved wife, Tam. Unable to bear the memories and sadness of her passing, he had left the Khulinin to live with his son and Kelene in Moy Tura. He had brought only Tam’s animals, his Hunnuli, and a fierce desire to bury his grief in hard manual labour. He had found plenty to do in the ruins of the city.

Several dogs and one white cat lounged around Sayyed, patiently waiting for his attention. The dogs wagged their tails in greeting to Kelene; the white cat lifted her head with its jewel-green eyes and meowed softly.

The sorcerer turned his head to welcome Kelene. They had grown close since she saved his life three years before, but Kelene sensed a deep, aching loneliness in her father-in-law that nothing yet had filled.

“Kelene, you’re back!” he exclaimed in a voice rich with excitement. “Come see what I found.”

The woman held on to her message a moment more and hurried to see what he had discovered.

“There’s an old chest under this pile,” Sayyed explained. “A good one from what I can see. It’s still intact.” He smiled, a flash of white beneath the dust and the black beard. The value of the objects did not interest him. He enjoyed uncovering the mysteries, learning the secrets of the past, discovering new items that might be useful. He had no idea what was in the chest he’d found, and he could not wait to find out.

Kelene hated to disappoint him, but the exhaustion and urgency in Gaalney’s demeanour forced her to say, “I’m sorry, but Gaalney is here with a message from Father to you and Rafnir.”

Sayyed slowly straightened, the anticipation fading from his face. Without further question, he reached for his tunic. The dogs jumped to their feet. He scooped up the cat, then quickly followed Kelene and Demira back to the square, the dogs close at his heels.

When they reached the house, they found Gaalney, looking somewhat cleaner, and Rafnir standing in the garden behind the house. Nothing was blooming in the garden this early in the season, but on this warm, windy day, it was a pleasant place to sit, eat, and talk.

Rafnir, Kelene was pleased to see, had already provided bread, cheese, a bowl of fruit, and a pitcher of ale. Gaalney helped himself with a gusto.

Abruptly the young man broke off his meal and stared in astonishment at Kelene. “You’re not limping!” he sputtered through a mouthful of bread.

“Of course, I’m not—” Kelene broke off and beamed. She hadn’t seen Gaalney in three years. How could he have known what she had done to her crippled foot? “I used a spell similar to the one Lord Medb used and straightened the bones in my ankle and foot. It’s not perfect, but I can walk now without pain.”

Gaalney’s surprise turned to delight, and he made her walk back and forth so he could admire her graceful stride. “Why didn’t someone try that spell sooner?” he asked.

“No one had the skill to work on such complex bones until we found the healers’ records here in the city, and Mother didn’t want to risk experimenting on her own daughter.” She stopped by Rafnir’s side to give him a quick hug. His arm went around her waist and stayed there, strong and comforting against her back. “Rafnir gave me the strength to try,” she went on, and her tone turned teasing. “He needed someone whole to climb those high towers since he’s afraid of heights.”

Rafnir chuckled and handed Kelene a mug of ale. The four made themselves comfortable on low seats, and while the others ate their meal, Gaalney gave them his message.

“How much news from the south have you heard up here?” he asked first.

“Little enough,” Rafnir replied. “Most of our visitors have either been here for a while or are from northern clans.”

“Then you haven’t heard the rumours of war with the Turics.”

Sayyed straightened in his seat, his dark eyes sharp as dagger points. He was a half-breed, raised by his Turic father until the father rejected him because of his inborn talent to wield magic. Although he had lived with his mother’s clans for over twenty-five years, he was still Turic in the far corners of his heart.

“The trouble started along the border last autumn,” Gaalney went on. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and all humour fled his face. “It was mild at first — a few horses stolen, travellers robbed — nothing out of the ordinary and no one was hurt. “We thought it was just a few brigands, but the raids did not stop in the winter as they usually do. They got worse and more deadly. Wylfling Treld, Ferganan Treld, and Shadedron Treld have all suffered serious depredations from a large and well-organized band. Just last month a caravan returning north over the Altai River was ambushed. Everyone in the party was killed. The raiders have even reached as far north as the Khulinin grazing lands.”

Kelene stirred. “Is that how you were wounded?”

Gaalney automatically touched the new scar on his neck. “I was in a group of outriders taking a yearling herd to the Blue Mountain meadows when we were attacked. An arrow pierced my neck. Veneg saved me, but we could not save the other men or the horses.” His eyes burned darkly as he said, “Lord Athlone is furious. He has called for an emergency gathering of the council and has petitioned the Shar-Ja to meet with the clan leaders at Council Rock to settle these border clashes before emotions get out of control.”

“Have the other chiefs been called?” Rafnir asked.

“I have already been to the Bahedin, Amnok, and Geldring. They are coming. You are my last stop.”
 

Rafnir and Sayyed exchanged glances. The Shar-Ja was the ruling head of the Turic tribes. If Athlone felt it necessary to meet with him, the situation in the south was grim.

“Has the Shar-Ja agreed?” Sayyed inquired. The present Shar-Ja had held the throne of the Turics for nineteen years, and in all that time there had never been any serious trouble between tribe and clan. Sayyed found it rather odd that trouble was brewing now.

Gaalney answered, “We had not yet received a message when I left, but the Shar-Ja has always been steadfast in his friendship to the clans. The chiefs think he will come. That is why Lord Athlone requests that you three join him for the council. He wants your expertise and, as he said, ‘the presence of three more powerful magic-wielders won’t hurt.’”

Kelene remained silent and pondered the emotions that flew through her mind on the wind of Gaalney’s news. Most of all she felt outrage at the Turics’ greed and audacity. Peace with the Turics had always been tricky, but it was generations old and to risk it for the sake of livestock and plunder was folly. What was the point? The Turics were a numerous and thriving people. Their realm stretched for hundreds of leagues, from the Absarotan Mountains across the flat Ruad el Brashir grasslands to the Sea of Tannis, from the Altai River to the Kumkara Desert far, far to the south. The clans had very little the Turics did not have. So why would the tribesmen want to antagonize their neighbours? Were the raiders from a few disgruntled tribes along the border, or was the entire Turic nation preparing to sweep over the Ramtharin Plains?

Kelene’s eyes turned to Rafnir. Even with a husband who was part Turic and a father-in-law who was half Turic, she knew very little about the southern tribes. The emotions on Rafnir’s open face were clear enough though. There was still too much to do here: the cisterns had to be found, the few broodmares they had would foal soon, the herb and vegetable gardens Kelene had planned needed to be tilled and planted, and the new forge was about to be put into operation. How could all this be left for a journey that would take at least several months?

Kelene felt his frustration, too, but deep within her heart, in a small space reserved for herself, she found a pleased relief that she might be able to see Lady Gabria after all. Then her thoughts paused, and she asked Gaalney, “Why does Father want me to come? I do not speak Turic as Rafnir or Sayyed do, nor am I really needed at a council.”

“Your reputation as a sorceress healer has spread beyond our borders,” Gaalney replied. “It is rumoured the Shar-Ja is ill from an unknown malady. His ambassador, who received our message, hinted the Shar-Ja might come to a meeting if you are there to examine him.”

Kelene’s dark eyes widened. “The tribes do not have skilled healers of their own?”

“Dozens of them,” Sayyed said, suddenly rising to his feet. “But none like you.” He offered his hand to her. “Will you come with me? You and Rafnir? Come see my father’s people.”

She gazed up at him and recognized a flicker of bright interest in his face that she had not seen in years. Rafnir must have noticed it too, for he stood and clasped his father’s arm.

Kelene had no premonition of the coming events, no vision of disaster or pricking of the thumbs to warn her. She felt only the need to serve and the anticipation of a journey to the Khulinin. She took Sayyed’s proffered hand and said to Gaalney, “We will come.”

It took two days for Kelene, Rafnir and Sayyed to pack and settle their immediate duties in Moy Tura. The residents and some of the guests were dismayed by their departure and the reasons for it, but the three vowed to return as soon as possible and left leadership of the tiny community in the capable hands of Bann, a middle-aged widower, sorcerer, and the builder of the new forge. Sayyed also very reluctantly left his dogs and Tam’s cat in the care of Bann’s delighted son.

With Gaalney accompanying them, the three magic-wielders mounted their Hunnuli in the dim light of a chilly dawn and left Moy Tura for the journey to the Goldrine River, where they would meet Lord Athlone and the Khulinin delegation.

The warm, tumbling wind from the south had ended the day before, leaving the way open for a change of weather. The air had turned damp and cool; the great arch of open sky became a leaden ceiling of low-hanging clouds. There was no rain yet, but the horses smelled it, heavy and close in the morning air.

The riders pulled their golden cloaks close as the Hunnuli cantered across the plateau toward the road that led down to the plains. At the edge of the tableland, the other three horses slowed for the descent on the steep trail, while Demira sped forward alone. Like a huge black eagle, she launched herself over the sharp edge and soared into the air. She could not canter hour after hour with the endless ease of the other Hunnuli, for her lighter legs and body and her large wings made long runs too difficult. Yet, borne on the air’s invisible hand, she sped far swifter than any land creature over the rolling plains.