Mary Herbert - Winged Magic

“I am Zukhara, Emissary of the Shar-Ja and First High Counselor to the Throne of Shar. I bring greetings from His Highness.” The man spoke, in polished Turic, from the far bank. It seemed he would not deign to yell, yet he made no effort to cross his half of the river to meet Sayyed and Kelene. The two of them could make out his words, but the clan chiefs could not hear him at all over the splashing flow of the river.

“Sadly, our monarch is weary from his hard journey. We ask to postpone any meeting until midday tomorrow. Then we will meet on the Council Rock.”

“We?” Sayyed murmured. “Who is this man?”

The Shar-Ja’s son? Afer suggested.

“No. The Shar-Yon is younger. And more personable, they say. This is a new counselor. I wonder where he came from?” Sayyed had tried to keep informed of Turic news and politics, until Tam died and he moved north to Moy Tura where he had lost interest in the world of his father. Now he regretted his ignorance. He bowed over Afer’s neck to the Turic and replied, “We are willing to wait. Until tomorrow. May the Shar-Ja find rest and comfort.” As soon as they received a reply, Sayyed and Kelene trotted their Hunnuli back to the clan lines.

“I’m not surprised,” Lord Athlone responded when they told him the emissary’s words. “In fact, I will be surprised if the Turics do not keep us kicking our heels for several more days.”

“But we will wait,” Peoren ground out. “I will wait for as long as it takes.”

To everyone’s annoyance, Lord Athlone’s words proved correct. The Turics set up their camp in a wide meadow across the river and forced the clan chiefs to wait for four days before announcing the Shar-Ja was ready to hear their grievances. By that time even Lord Terod, the most complacent and timorous of the eleven chiefs, was swearing under his breath at the delay.

The time, though, gave the lords an opportunity to hear the full accounts of the raids on the southern clans, to plan their strategy, and to agree on their objectives. They kept a careful eye on the big camp across the river and made certain their own defenses were fully prepared.

Kelene, to her amusement, had discovered she and Gabria were the only two women in the entire camp of nearly two hundred men. The absence of other women was not a deliberate exclusion, for by rights established by Gabria many years before, the priestesses of Amara and the wives of clan chieftains were permitted to attend important clan meetings. But the ancient ritual of the Birthright, the women’s festival of fertility and thanksgiving was about to be celebrated by every clan, and the other women had chosen to remain at the trelds for the very important sacred ceremony.

Kelene and Gabria, therefore, assumed the role of hostesses for the whole camp. They treated minor injuries, supervised the cooking, took water and ale to those too busy to stop their work, and settled a number of brief disputes among the proud and free-tongued clansmen. Kelene was so busy she had no time to talk privately with her mother. She contented herself with staying close to Gabria and sharing the older sorceress’s companionship.

The day of the council came cool and windy with a cloudy sky and veiled sun. Soon after the morning meal, horns blew on both sides of the river, calling the start of the meeting.

The island was too small for every man to attend the council, so the ten chiefs and Peoren, with one guard apiece, represented the clans. Rafnir asked if he could represent Moy Tura at the council, and the chiefs, anxious to have as many sorcerers as possible with them, agreed. Kelene quickly offered to serve as wine bearer, for work at negotiating was always thirsty business. She stated boldly that she had been asked to come because of the Shar-Ja’s poor health, and she wished to see for herself how the man fared. Lord Athlone had no objections, and Rafnir, who knew his wife well, merely shrugged his shoulders. Gabria stayed behind with Gaalney and Morad to keep watch from the river’s bank.

In the Turic camp, a similar number of men—priests, counselors, and several tribal leaders—accompanied the Shar-Ja down to the river. The monarch rode in a little chair slung between two horses. He made no move and gave no smile as the entire group rode across their half of the ford.

The two forces met and dismounted on the island without exchanging a word. The clansmen watched as the Shar-Ja was helped from his litter by a solicitous young man and escorted into the big clan tent. Everyone else quickly followed, leaving their weapons at the entrance.

Although the Turics did not generally permit their women to attend councils, no one objected to Kelene’s presence. They knew who she was, the healer, the sorceress, the rider of the winged mare, and Kelene realized their silence was a mark of their respect.

She stood mute beside Rafnir and curiously watched the Turics stride into the tent, their faces dark and taciturn. Everyone wore long robes in subdued colors and burnooses so white they seemed to gleam against the duller blues, browns, and grays of the robes. Only the Shar-Ja wore the pelt of a desert lion over his shoulder as a symbol of his authority, but many of the others wore silver-linked belts, brooches of gold, armbands, and chains of gold or silver. They were handsome men overall, dark-eyed, golden-skinned, with full, even features. They often wore their black hair in intricate knots and plaited their long beards.

Kelene recognized immediately the emissary who had spoken four days before. He stood a head over the tallest Turic in the tent, and his hooded eyes watched everything with a cold, avid gaze. He made no move to help the Shar-Ja but waited with ill-concealed impatience behind the others while the young man settled the Shar-Ja in a heavy wooden chair provided for that purpose and propped him comfortably with rugs and pillows.

Kelene craned around Lord Wendern’s big head to see the Shar-Ja. She frowned when she finally got a close look at the man. Rumors of his ill-health were obviously true.

The Shar-Ja was barely fifty, yet he looked as old as seventy. A gray pallor clung to his face, and his skin hung loose over his shrunken frame. His hands shook as he pulled off his burnoose and revealed a ring of grayish hair that clung to the back of his balding head. Until recently he had been a powerful man, strong, athletic, and known for his just and firm government. In a society ruled by a strict code of conduct, the Shar-Ja was known as an honorable man.

So what, wondered Kelene, had brought on this rapid decline? She glanced at Sayyed, who stood beside her father, and saw that he, too, was frowning. He did not like the appearance of the Shar-Ja either. It seemed odd to Kelene that she had not been invited to attend to the monarch. She had understood that the Turic messenger had specifically asked for her to come to the council, yet sick as the Shar-Ja appeared to be, no one had bothered to request her assistance.

Kelene suddenly realized the tent was very quiet. Every man had taken his seat and was waiting for someone else to make the next move. Her father glanced at her and nodded once. Clan hospitality dictated that guests were sacrosanct and that any gathering, small or large, was always made more pleasant with food and drink. Because the clans had initiated the council, they considered the Turics their guests, even on an island that was essentially a no-man’s-land. A fire had been laid in a central hearth to chase away the morning chill; rugs, stools, and pillows were provided for comfort; and trays of food, pottery cups, and wineskins had been left in the tent for refreshment.

Kelene stepped into the watchful silence and bowed politely to the Shar-Ja. She held herself tall and proud as she walked to the cache of food and wine. She had braided her long black hair in a matron’s braid that hung to her waist and danced with its ties of jaunty green ribbons. Keeping her hands steady, she knelt, laid out the cups and trays, and poured a single measure of the heavy red wine. She paused only when a strong, sour smell reached her nose.