Mary Herbert: Dark Horse

Gabria was stunned. Blood brother! She had not expected this. If Savaric believed her and the garbled news he had received about the massacre, he was bound by his oath of friendship to Dathlar to settle the debt owed to Dathlar’s family—what was left of it. Blood friendship was as binding as a blood relationship and carried the same responsibilities. The fact that Gabria was an exile was now irrelevant to Savaric. She had only to convince him that she was telling the truth and, most difficult of all, that she really did know who was responsible for the killing. Then he would do everything possible to help her.

“Lord Savaric,” she said. “By the Hunnuli that bears me and the gods that nourish us, I am the child of Dathlar and I know who had my clan murdered.” She spoke forcefully, her eyes matching Savaric’s black gaze.

Savaric sat down again, still holding the dagger, examining it as if it bore a vestige of the man who had once carried it. “If nothing else, the Hunnuli is the strongest plea in your favor. She alone vouches for your character.”

Athlone stepped to his father’s side. “Hunnuli or no, there was sorcery at Corin Treld. We cannot accept this boy’s word so easily.” He leaned over and grasped the cloak. “Anyone with a little ingenuity could obtain a scarlet cloak and an interesting tale.”

Gabria snatched the cloak out of his hands and held it tightly to her breast. Fury blazed in her eyes. “Yes, sorcery formed the fog at Corin Treld, sorcery spun by the hand of lord Medb. Not I!”

It was the first time Lord Medb had been mentioned, and the significance of his name was not lost on the watching warriors. They muttered uneasily among themselves and no one looked surprised at her accusation. Athlone was not surprised either, and he made no attempt to hide his suspicions of Lord Medb’s rumored heresies.

“Perhaps not. But you could be a servant sent by Medb to spy on us. Certainly you could not have survived the massacre or obtained a Hunnuli mare without help,” Athlone replied with deliberate derision.

“Certainly not,” Gabria retorted. “Since you are convinced it cannot be done.”

“I know it is not possible for a mere boy to earn a Hunnuli’s respect. I ride a Hunnuli stallion and taming him was no task for a child.”

“I can see why it was so difficult for you,” Gabria noted with heavy sarcasm. “The Hunnuli are good judges of character.”

Several of the guardsmen laughed. Savaric crossed his arms, watching the exchange with interest. The boy had pride and courage to stand up to a wer-tain. He certainly learned that from his father.

Athlone shrugged. “Then you accomplished it the simple way, with sorcery or coercion, knowing a Hunnuli could help you worm your way into our clan. How can we not think you are an impostor?”

“Why do you think that?” Savaric interrupted conversationally.

“Impostor!” Gabria nearly shrieked, cutting him off. She cringed at the high note her voice had hit and quickly lowered it again, hoping no one had noticed its feminine tone. She knew Athlone was deliberately baiting her, but she had had enough of him and his arrogant accusations. He did not realize how close he was to the truth. “You faceless, din-eating, dung shoveler. . .”

She continued on at length, richly describing Athlone’s habits and character with every appellation she had heard her brothers use, until the men around her began to choke with ill-concealed laughter. Even Savaric was taken aback. Athlone’s face began to turn red and his mouth hardened to a granite slash. Finally, before his son’s temper exploded, Savaric cut Gabria off with a curt word.

“Now,” he said to Athlone in the sudden silence. “I would like to know why you think this boy could be an impostor.”

Athlone stood by the dais, his body rigid. There was something wrong about this boy—he could sense it. But he could not recognize what it was. Incredible as the boy’s story sounded, it was plausible. Athlone knew full well that the Hunnuli could not be won by coercion or treachery. Yet a niggling little warning disturbed him. The boy was not telling the truth about something.

He stared hard at Gabria, at a loss to explain his suspicion.

“Medb would like to have an informer in our camp. Why not a boy with a story of kinship to Dathlar?” He curled his lip. “Or maybe he is just a miserable exile using a stolen cloak to gain acceptance.”

“I am an exile,” Gabria cried. “Medb made me one. Because of him my clan no longer exists.” A bitter sadness seeped into her heart, stifling her outrage. “I came to ask for a place in the Khulinin, to seek aid against Lord Medb, for he is too powerful for me alone. There was no magic in my coming to you, or treachery. Only blood ties. There was only pain and hard work in winning the Hunnuli.” She held out her hands, palms up, and the men saw the raw cuts for the first time.

The cold left Athlone’s eyes and his anger receded under the pain he saw in Gabria’s face. He glanced at his father and briefly nodded.

Savaric stood up and the hearthguard moved to his side. “I would gladly accept you into this clan and do everything I can to help you attain your rightful blood debt. To my eyes, you are Dathlar’s son, and to my heart, you are honest and very courageous. However, it is the clan that must sustain you. In this case, I will let them speak. Come.”

He walked to the entrance, followed by Athlone, Gabria, and the others. Nara, seeing the girl surrounded by the guardsmen, firmly pushed between them and Gabria until the men drew off to a respectful distance. Gabria reached up and twined her fingers into the horse’s glossy black mane.

You are well? Nara asked.

Gabria nodded, her face turned to the watching clansmen. The people were quiet as Savaric told them Gabria’s tale and her reasons for seeking the Khulinin. They listened intently. The men, in warm woolen jackets, baggy pants, and boots, stood to the front of the crowd. The women, dressed in long skirts and tunics of bright colors, stood as a brilliant backdrop behind their men. Many faces were expressionless, despite the fear that pervaded the encampment.

When Savaric was finished speaking, several men detached themselves from the crowd and conversed together for a few minutes. Gabria recognized them as the elders of the clan, Savaric’s advisors. One wore the emblem of the herd-master, the head stockman, and one was a priest of Valorian. No one else from the throng offered a word. The decision, it seemed, rested on the elders.

The herd-master finally approached Savaric and said reluctantly, “Lord, we do not want to endanger our clan with the evil and taint of sorcery this boy brings, but there are too many sides to this tale to refuse him outright. He does ride a Hunnuli, and to turn the mare away might bring the gods’ displeasure. If you agree, we feel it would be just to allow him a time of trial. If he serves you well and follows the laws of the clan, then let him be accepted. If he does not, then he is truly exiled.”

Savaric nodded in satisfaction. “Gabran, you may stay with the clan. You and the Hunnuli are welcome. . . for now.” He smiled at her as the clanspeople slowly dispersed. “Athlone will be your mentor,” he said, ignoring Gabria’s horrified look. “When you have washed and had some food, I would like to continue this conversation about Medb and how you won your Hunnuli.”

Gabria leaned against Nara and said weakly, “Yes, Lord.”

The dazed young girl was too drained to even react when Nara said in her mind , The first contest is yours.

“How can you be so certain it was Lord Medb who ordered the massacre,” Lord Savaric asked as he leaned back on his fur-draped seat. “You have not given us sufficient proof to believe your accusation.”