“Then save your words and tell them once before us all.” She gestured north toward the city. “Come. There is food and drink in Moy Tura and a proper welcome.”
Side by side the two Hunnuli cantered slowly along the old road to the city. The pace gave Kelene a little time to study the man beside her. Gaalney was a distant cousin to her father. He was a young man, rash at times, but with a dauntless courage that helped him excel in his studies of magic. He had stiff yellow hair cut much shorter than she remembered, full green eyes, and a thin mouth that always seemed to lift in a quirk of a smile. She also noticed he had a newly healed wound on his neck just below his ear.
They rode in silence until they reached the tumbled walls of the once-great city of the sorcerers. As they approached, Kelene glanced at Gaalney to see what his reaction would be. She was used to the massive entrance by now, but newcomers were always impressed. Gaalney was no exception.
The horses slowed to a walk, and Gaalney ran his eyes over the repaired stonework, whistling in appreciation. Kelene smiled. She, Rafnir, and the Korg had worked very hard to restore the old gateway. Although it was one of four entrances into Moy Tura, it was the only one they had repaired so far. Most visitors came on the southern road to this gate, and Rafnir wanted to give them a good first impression. The gate was a huge, arched opening between two powerful towers. Both towers had been rebuilt down to the decorative stonework around the defensive crenellations. The road was repaired and repaved with new stone slabs, the archway was cleaned of several hundred years’ worth of grime and old debris, and a golden banner hung above the arch.
The best touch of all, to Kelene’s mind, was the restoration of the two stone lions that had once guarded the gateway. Crouched in perpetual attention, the beasts stood to either side of the road and fixed their red-jewelled eyes on travellers who approached the city.
Gaalney looked at both lions and shook his head. “They’re magnificent.” The horses walked together through the gateway, and the young man waved a hand at the stone arch. “Is this any indication of your progress in the city?”
Kelene reached out to run her fingers along the cold, smooth stone. The old wards in the gates were still intact — they had saved her life once — and she felt their ancient potency tingle on the tips of her fingers. She drew strength from their presence, a power that had endured for generations, and she drove her own frustrations and worries back into the dark recesses of her mind from where the wind had shaken them loose. Smiling now, she rode Demira out from the shadow of the stone into the sunlight and pointed to the city walls that still lay in tumbled ruins.
“Well, no,” she acknowledged. “That is more like the rest of the city. We’ve had some problems the past few years. Clanspeople have lost the art of working stone.”
She did not elaborate further, allowing Gaalney to see for himself. The outlying areas of the city along the walls were as yet untouched. The buildings lay in crumbled heaps where the attackers and the elements had left them. In this part of Moy Tura only the main road was cleared and repaired. The rest of the wind-haunted ruins remained as they had since the Purge.
Gaalney was quiet as they rode. His eyes tracked back and forth over the devastation and slowly filled with wonder. “How can you live here?” he questioned. “All this would depress me too much.”
His choice of words startled Kelene, and she freely admitted, “It depresses me, too, sometimes.”
“Then why do you stay here? Why don’t you come home?” Gaalney asked, voicing a question Kelene was certain a number of people had wondered.
Before she would form a sensible reply — if there was one — Gaalney’s face transformed into a picture of delight. They had been riding along one of the major roads that led to the inner heart of the city where the primary public buildings had once stood. One such edifice sat to the left of the road in grand, shining eminence among the destroyed bones of its neighbours.
It was a temple, built three hundred years before to the glory of the holy quartet of gods worshiped by the clans. The Korg, before he died, had restored the temple as his gift to Kelene and Rafnir. With the last of his strength, before his worn and aged body had faded, he used his knowledge and magic to return the large temple to its previous magnificence. Now, shining in the sun, the white marble building sat as a fitting monument to the Korg and his wish to protect and restore his city. When he died, Kelene and Rafnir buried him at the foot of the large altar that graced the central sanctuary.
“And I thought all you had fixed was the gate,” Gaalney laughed, obviously impressed.
Kelene, observing her cousin’s delight, looked at the temple anew for the first time in a long while. She had been so used to working on other ruined buildings, she had momentarily forgotten how lovely this one was. She nodded and thought of her friend, the Korg. Two years after his death she still missed him deeply. “That is the Temple of the Gods,” she explained. “The Korg hoped they would bless our efforts here in the city if we restored their sacred temple.”
“And have they?”
“More or less,” Kelene replied dryly. “Come on, Rafnir should be back at our house by now.”
Gaalney made no reply but followed Kelene and Demira along the road, past a stone wall and several piles of rubble, to the wide central square of the city. The huge open space in the very heart of Moy Tura had once been a market and gathering place for the entire community. Its broad expanse was paved with slabs of granite, and at its centre, where the four main roads of the city converged, a tall, black obelisk towered nearly twenty feet into the air. Atop the obelisk hung a golden rayed sun, the emblem of the goddess Amara.
Kelene watched the Khulinin sorcerer gaze around at the city of his ancestors, and she saw the subtle shift of expression on his face, from awe to anger. It was a change she had witnessed on many magic-wielders’ faces. It would have been very difficult not to feel anything. The rage that had massacred an entire population still lay mutely evident in the shattered wreckage of the old square, where skeletons of walls and hollow foundations lined the open space.
The grand Sorcerers’ Hall showed the worst of the attackers’ fury, for its desecrated remains still had unmistakable signs of heat fractures and scorch marks from a large fire. It was known from the Korg’s tale that the attackers had thrown hundreds of bodies into the burning Sorcerers’ Hall — and Kelene believed it. Two hundred years had not been enough time in this semi-arid land to totally erase the bits of ash, remnants of bone, and the black stains of soot that still lay in the cracks and crevices of the mined stones of the hall. She and Rafnir had made no attempt to restore any part of the old foundation.
But if the square had been the scene of tragedy, it was also the centre of returning life — little to be sure, but life nonetheless. Turning away from the dead hall, Kelene pointed Gaalney toward a side street where he could see several restored buildings just off the square. At the corner of the street and facing the square was a house of some dignity, completely rebuilt, and gleaming in the sun like a pearl among dross. It was the house Kelene and Rafnir had chosen when they moved to Moy Tura. Broad, open, and airy, it was a comfortable abode for people used to living in cramped, movable tents. It had taken Kelene some time to adjust to the differences in housekeeping, but now she loved the house and called it home.
Gaalney’s tired face lightened when he saw it.
“There is a guest hall down that street,” Kelene told him. “You may leave your things there and clean up if you wish while I find Sayyed. Rafnir should be at our house for his midday meal. Join us there. If Veneg would like to rest, there is a stable by the guest hall or he can join the other horses out in the fields.”
Gaalney’s mouth lifted in his quirky smile. “Guest hall, huh? How many people do you have here?”
“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 f
rom 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?
Winged Magic Page 2
