After his tale had wound to an end, Kelene stayed with him. She brought him food and tea and made sure he ate it. She gave him clean clothes. She tended Afer and Demira, who stayed close by, and she conferred with the Turic healer to find the best ointments and pain relievers for her patients.
Lord Athlone and Gabria had returned to the palace, where Gabria and the Shar-Ja were slowly recovering from the effects of the poison. Rafnir had gone down to help Athlone, but he came back in the evening full of news.
“The last of the Fel Azureth surrendered this afternoon,” he announced with deep satisfaction. “Mohadan’s men routed them out of an old storehouse. The Gryphon’s army in Cangora has been completely destroyed.”
Kelene looked involuntarily in the direction of the temple. “And what of Zukhara?”
“The Shar-Ja ordered his body brought down from the temple and hung on a gibbet at the front gate. He is spreading the word that the Gryphon died a traitor’s death.”
The sorceress thought of the golden gryphon and the faith and loyalty she symbolized to the Turics. “He did,” she replied shortly.
Rafnir glanced at his father. “Hajira has been restored to his command with full honours. He is reorganizing the survivors of the Shar-Ja’s guard. Tassilio told his father everything, and the old man is so grateful to have his son restored to him, he would give Hajira the world if he asked for it.”
Sayyed only nodded a reply.
A hush settled over the courtyard. The evening sounds became subdued and distant in the tranquil peace before sunset. The cloister basked in the last of the day’s glow.
Helmar’s gasp came as a surprise to all three of them. Her mouth opened and closed; then her eyes widened in surprise. She held up her bandaged arms and felt the stitches on her face. “Sayyed?” her voice croaked.
He took her hands in both of his and tenderly pressed them to her chest.
“Don’t try to talk,” Kelene advised. “Your face is still bruised and swollen, and there are stitches on your jaw and along your forehead. Just rest, and we’ll tell you everything later.” She fixed more restorative tea for Sayyed to give Helmar, this time laced with a dose of poppy juice to help her sleep.
When Helmar slept again, Sayyed looked more hopeful. “This is the first time she has tried to talk.”
“That’s a good sign,” Kelene told him in all sincerity. “She is strong and healthy. She knows you are here, too. That will help.”
Kelene was right. At sunrise the next morning she went out to the courtyard and found Marron lying on her belly, her legs tucked neatly under her, nibbling hay from a pile under her nose. Helmar lay awake, her eyes fastened on Sayyed’s sleeping face.
Her alert gaze followed Kelene around while she checked Marron’s stitches, changed her bandages, and fed her a small bucket of bran mash.
“Will she be all right?” Helmar whispered anxiously in a voice dry and raspy from disuse.
“As right as you,” Kelene replied softly. She examined Helmar’s wounds, too, and gave the chief a reassuring smile. “It was not your day to die. The Harbingers must have been too busy to catch you. Both of you were badly injured, and you will carry the scars. But your wounds are clean and healing well. I think you’ll be able to go home soon.”
“Home,” Helmar echoed. Her eyes followed Kelene back into the building before they returned to Sayyed’s face. “Home,” she repeated, but the happiness she should have felt at such a thought was missing. There was only uneasiness and the fear of impending loss.
Two days later the Clannad carried Helmar on a litter down the road to the palace. Accompanied by the clan magic-wielders, she was escorted to a chamber beside a quiet garden where Marron was settled comfortably on a soft green lawn of grass. It was then the chief heard of Rapinor’s death and learned the casualties of her troop. Fifteen riders had died in the battle at the gates; twenty more had been wounded. Helmar turned her face to the wall to hide her tears.
From that day on she had a constant stream of visitors, from the Shar-Ja and Tassilio to Lord Athlone and the clan chieftains who had come with him. From all her visitors she began to piece together the full tale of the past days.
“Now let me see if I have all of this,” she said to Sayyed one evening. “Lord Athlone captured a raiding party of the Fel Azureth and learned about the Gryphon and his plans.”
“Right. Zukhara had sent his fanatics to cause trouble on the border, hoping we would do just what we did — call for a council. We walked neatly into his trap, bringing Kelene and Gabria with us. Once Athlone learned what was going on, he convinced the other chiefs to support a move over the Altai to help the Shar-Ja. He had already gathered the werods of five clans before Rafnir found him. With those and the men from Council Rock, they rode here in less than four days.”
“Four days,” she breathed, awed by such a feat. “And is Mohadan doing well?”
“He is in his element.” Sayyed laughed. “The clan lords have been staying out of the way and leaving restoration of the government to Mohadan and the Shar-Ja. Mohadan is making himself indispensable. He’s already brought news that the extremists’ rebellion is failing. Without Zukhara there are no other leaders to take firm command, and word that the Shar-Ja is recovering and has announced a new heir has strengthened his position. There is still a deep loyalty and respect for the Shar-Ja.”
“Will he fully recover?” she asked.
“It looks as though he will. He and Gabria both grow stronger every day.”
Helmar leaned back against her pillows and sighed. Through the open doors of her room she could see Marron grazing, and she winced at the red lines that criss-crossed the mare’s white neck, chest, and shoulders. Helmar hadn’t seen a mirror lately, but she imagined she looked equally as rough. Her eyes turned back to Sayyed.
He had hardly left her side the past few days, except to clean off the grime of war and deal with his own needs. The rest of the time he had stayed with her, changing her bandages, feeding her broth and tea, telling her stories and news, or just keeping her company in the quiet hours when she rested.
Anyone else spending so much time with her, she probably would have thrown out, but Helmar found she craved Sayyed’s company. She missed him horribly when he left, and she cherished every moment he spent with her. Kelene had told her about Tam and Sayyed’s vigil at her dying, and Helmar realized he was terrified of losing her, too. The knowledge strengthened her will to recover and forged her feelings for him into an abiding passion.
As the days rolled into the hot Turic summer, Helmar rapidly improved under the care of Sayyed, Kelene, and the Turic healers. One morning she felt strong enough to walk around the garden with Marron. The walk was glorious, but it made her realize how weak she had become. She began to walk every day, exercise with her sword, and retrain her muscles to regain her former strength and agility. The day the stitches came out she celebrated by going for a ride. Afer offered to carry her, since Marron was not yet ready to carry a rider, and Helmar delightedly rode the big stallion around Cangora to see the sights.
Much of the damage caused by the fighting had been repaired by city builders and the Clannad riders whose magic helped speed things along. Rafnir helped, too, learning at the same time much about construction and architecture. He and the other sorcerers had rehung the copper gates and rebuilt the walls.
Zukhara’s body had been taken down by that time to be burned and his ashes thrown to the winds. A few of his officers languished in the dungeons awaiting trial.
A month passed in peace and growing optimism. At last the time arrived when Lord Bendinor and the other clan lords prepared to leave for the Ramtharin Plains and the summer gathering. Lord Athlone decided to postpone his return until Gabria and Helmar were strong enough to travel. Savaron, he knew, was quite capable of taking the Khulinin to the gathering.
Two days before the clansmen were due to leave, the Shar-Ja called for a council to be held in his audience chambers the next day. When H
elmar heard of it, she asked to speak to Lady Gabria alone. Gabria came, bringing Lady Jeneve’s book and the red cloak. They talked for several hours, and what they had to say to each other they kept to themselves. As soon as Gabria left, Helmar called her riders. She brought them all into her room and talked with them for several hours more. When they had said all there was to say, she bid them go to the Shar-Ja’s council.
The council began at midmorning in the large, airy chambers off the celestial throne room. It was quite crowded, for the Clannad riders, the clan chiefs, the Kirmaz-Ja, a unit of royal guards, the Shar-Ja’s newly appointed counsellors, and Kelene and Gabria were there.
The Shar-Ja entered with his son and sat on a chair at the head of the room. The antidote and days of activity and optimism had worked a miracle on the Turic overlord. His pride and vigour had returned, bringing health to his poison-wracked body and energy to his work. His skin had lost its pallor, and his eyes gleamed with intelligence and wit. Part of his healing had included finding his oldest son’s body and bringing it home to Cangora for a royal funeral. The grief for his dead son still lingered, but the pride he felt for his intrepid younger son went leagues to heal his aching heart.
He rose and bowed to the assemblage. Standing tall, his white hair uncovered and his head unbowed, he expressed his gratitude to all who had helped preserve his throne. “Especially I owe my deepest gratitude to the people of the Dark Horse Clans and the Clannad, who rode to help a neighbour when no obligation was owed and no oath of fealty had been given. To you, the lords of the clans. I offer you this — better late than never at all.”
A scribe stepped forward with four rolled scrolls and handed them to Lord Athlone. He passed the extras to Lord Jamas. Lord Wendern, and Peoren, then opened one and read it aloud to those around him. Written in both Clannish and Turic, the scrolls bore word for word the treaty they had completed at Council Rock. At the bottom of each scroll was the official seal and signature of the Shar-Ja. Quills were passed around and each chief signed his name to the scrolls. Lord Athlone returned two copies to the scribe. He bowed low to the Turic overlord.
“You rode a long way to get those.” Rassidar said with a touch of humour. “I did not want you to go empty-handed. And you, Peoren,” he said to the young Ferganan. “I was not so befuddled by Zukhara’s poisons that I forgot my promise to you. I will pay your compensation in horses, stock animals, cotton, and spices to be delivered at a date of your choosing. Will that be sufficient?”
Peoren bowed to the Shar-Ja, his face red with pleasure. “That will do well indeed, your majesty, and I will call off the blood feud. May this be the end of any hostility between clan and tribe.”
Lord Athlone said, “Shar-Ja, our offer still stands to help if we can during this drought.”
“Unless you know a spell to bring rain, you have done more than I could ever have asked for. But we’re not in the dire straits Zukhara led us all to believe. He and the Fel Azureth had been stealing and hoarding grain for the past two years. We have found enough to keep the people fed for a little while longer than we’d hoped. Perhaps you could ask your gods to send us some rain.” He turned to regard the crowded room and saw the Clannad standing in a quiet group near the back of the chamber.
“Lady Helmar,” he called and waited until she came forward. “You came out of our mountains like a legend. No one has ever reported your colony or any people like you in our midst. I hope you will not disappear again into the misty peaks. I have heard a great deal about you these past days from those who have gotten to know you, and because of what I have heard and what you have done for us, I would like to grant the Clannad perpetual ownership of the valley you call Sanctuary, to keep and hold as you see fit with no obligation or debt owed to the throne of the Shar-Ja.”
The Clannad riders stayed strangely silent behind their chief, creating a quiet unified support for Helmar as she turned at an angle to look at both the Shar-Ja and the clan lords. Her voice rang out through the chambers so every person could hear. “Some of you have probably guessed how the Clannad came to be in the Turic mountains, but for those of you who do not know us well, I will tell you. Generations ago, during a summer clan gathering, my ancestress Lady Jeneve received a secret message that the magic-wielders had been slaughtered at Moy Tura.” She paused when a gasp of surprise and understanding spread from the crowd around her. Only Lady Gabria watched her quietly and bent her lips in a knowing half-smile.
Helmar continued, “Lady Jeneve guessed what would happen if the murderers reached the gathering, so she took her family, her pet cats, a few friends, and their Hunnuli and fled south into the Turic mountains. They found Sanctuary by the grace of the gods, and for two hundred years we have slowly multiplied and lived in terror that someone would find us and give away our settlement to the clans. We did not know until Sayyed and Rafnir stumbled into our back door that sorcery had been resurrected by Lady Gabria. Shar-Ja, if we may wait to accept your generous gift, I would like to talk to my people and to the chiefs about returning the Clannad to the Ramtharin Plains. My lords,” she said directly to the clansmen, “we would like to go home.”
The clan chieftains stared at her. Some looked shocked; some appeared pleased. “But where will you go?” Lord Fiergan asked sharply. “Do you wish to join a clan or start a treld of your own?”
“Well, we can talk about that later I suppose—” Helmar started to say.
Sayyed began to grin as the possibilities lit a fire in his mind. “My lords,” he said, cutting into Helmar’s reply. “The Clannad could come to Moy Tura. They are used to living in buildings, and we are in desperate need of help.” He winked at Helmar, and she beamed back. She had hoped he would make such an offer.
“I must talk to the rest of my people,” she said firmly, “but I think that is a suitable solution.”
“Then I will accept your answer whenever you decide,” the Shar-Ja told her. “And I will count you as a friend wherever you go.”
Kelene whooped with delight.
The clan chiefs left the next day with the Shar-Ja’s treaty and Helmar’s petition to rejoin the clans. They promised to take the news to the gathering and encourage the clanspeople to accept. Sayyed went with them.
Although he wanted to stay with Helmar, he felt he would be a good advocate for the Clannad at the gathering, and Lord Athlone agreed.
Before he left, though, he presented Helmar with a betrothal gift of a bracelet woven from hairs taken from Afer’s and Marron’s tails. “It is just a simple thing,” he explained, “to remind you of me until you say yes.”
She kissed him, grateful that he did not demand an answer yet. How could she decide until she knew where her people would go? She watched him ride away over the foothills back to the plains of the clans, and her heart ached to go with him. Oh, Amara, she wondered, what will I do if the Clannad says no?
Ten days later Lord Athlone, his men, Lady Gabria, Kelene, Rafnir, Helmar, and the Clannad riders bid farewell to the Shar-Ja and Tassilio and Hajira. Their farewells were long and pleasantly sad and full of promises to visit. They trotted out of the city, onto the Spice Road, and turned north toward the mountains and the valley of Sanctuary.
Kelene turned back just once to look beyond the pinnacle and its green and red temple to the peaks beyond, hoping, foolishly she knew, for one last glimpse of the gryphon. Then she sighed and cast a sidelong glance at her husband.
“Do you know how many people are in the Clannad?” she asked, her tone deliberately innocent.
“Yes, about three hundred and eighty-two. Or so Helmar said,” Rafnir answered.
“Good, then if they come, we will have three hundred and eighty-three new inhabitants in Moy Tura.”
He was slow to catch on. “Three hundred and—” His voice caught, and he stared at her. The delight blossomed on his face. “Are you sure?”
She grinned then, shining like a star. “Yes! Zukhara’s midwives’ remedy actually worked! And that,” she said, her spi
rit exalting, “is my best revenge!”
EPILOGUE
The following year proved another turning point in the history of the Dark Horse Clans. Bards marked its events in the Tale of Years; clanspeople talked about it for seasons afterward. It became known as the time of the Return of the Dead Clan.
That summer, a season marked by plentiful rains both north and south of the Altai, Sayyed and Rafnir decided to go to the clan gathering and take their people with them. They were one of the last groups to arrive, but they had planned that deliberately to honour their chieftain, Lady Helmar, and the three hundred and eighty-two members of the Clannad that would attend a clan gathering for the first time in over two hundred years.
The other clans crowded along the rivers and on the hillsides to watch them come. The Khulinin waited near the big council tent. Lady Gabria sat on Nara and felt the tears stream down her face, but she didn’t bother to wipe them off. She thought of her father and her brothers and the other Corins who had died twenty-eight years ago. She wished fervently they could have been there to watch the return of the Clannad.
The first riders came over the distant hill from the north, and Gabria recognized Kelene, who rode with her baby daughter bundled in a carrier on her chest, and Rafnir. Behind them rode Sayyed close beside his wife, Helmar, on her star-white mare. Just to their right, bouncing along like a puppy on stilts, was Marron’s month-old colt, a handsome baby Hunnuli with a black coat, the white lightning mark and, like an omen from the gods, a white mane and tail.
Then came the others, in a trailing column of carts, horses, and excited people — each and every one of them wearing the red cloak of Clan Corin.
The main body of the clan rode to the old Corin campsite along the Isin River, but Helmar, Sayyed, Rafnir, and Kelene trotted their Hunnuli to the council grove and greeted the other eleven clan chiefs.
Lord Bendinor stepped forward and spoke so all could hear. “Do you, Lady Gabria, as last surviving heir to Lord Dathlar and the line of Corin, acknowledge these people to be descendants of Lady Jeneve, daughter of Lord Magar of Clan Corin?”
Winged Magic Page 29
