Mary Herbert: Dark Horse

For a heartbeat, Savaric wavered. He would give anything to save his son from death. He would gladly surrender himself to Medb if he thought that Athlone would live. Unfortunately, he was certain of only one thing: Lord Medb could not be trusted to keep his word. His treachery was as plain as his heresy. Without a twitch of remorse, the sorcerer would slay his hostages, massacre the clans, and destroy Athlone anyway. In a voice that belied the tearing grief in his heart, Savaric shouted, “Your terms are intolerable. We cannot accept them.”

Lord Medb threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t jump into your fate so fast, Savaric. Give yourself time to think. You have one hour. At the end of that time, you will surrender the fortress or die.”

Without warning, Medb raised his hand and pointed to the great bronze gates of the fortress. A blue fire sprang from his fingers. It struck the gates in a brilliant flash, searing along the edges of the bronze doors and scorching the stone arches. The ancient arcane wards in the entrance held for a few moments, then they cracked under the tremendous power and the gates crashed to the ground.

The clansmen stared down in horror as the dust slowly settled around the broken gate.

“One hour,” Medb called. “Then Athlone dies.” He stopped the flames around the wer-tain and waited as the Wylfling planted a post and hung Athlone up by his wrists. Then Medb reined his horse around and rode back to his army.

Gabria watched Athlone. From where she was standing on the parapet, she could not see his face, only his body hanging limp on the pole. She felt someone move beside her and turned to see Savaric staring down at his son. The chief’s hands clenched the edge of the stone wall as if he wanted to tear down the parapet.

“Are you going to do anything to save him?” Gabria asked, although she knew what his answer had to be.

The chieftain shook his head, not even looking at her. “There is nothing we can do. Medb will not free him and I will not sacrifice the clans.”

The girl nodded in understanding. Silently, she left the parapet and walked up the road toward the palace. Nara was waiting for Gabria in the big courtyard and came to join the Corin as she sat on the rim of the fountain.

For a long time, Gabria ignored the people passing by and stared at the mare waiting patiently by her side. The glorious Hunnuli, Gabria thought, they are as intelligent as humans, telepathic, impervious to sorcery, stronger and swifter than any other creature, and totally devoted to those few humans lucky enough to befriend them. They were creations of magic.

Everything Gabria had learned in her life had taught her to reject magic in any form, yet the clans did not reject the Hunnuli. In fact, Gabria began to realize how much magic was still a part of clan life. The magic was hidden behind different names, but the power was everywhere. It seeped in the rituals and traditions of the priests and priestesses; it was guarded by the Oathbreakers; it was sung of by the bards; it was embodied by the Hunnuli; and the talent to wield magic was still passed on from generation to generation.

Yet the clans, in their fear and ignorance, turned a blind eye to the power in their midst. Even after two hundred years, their prejudices had not allowed them to see the truth. Magic was not an evil, corrupting power. It simply was a force that existed, a force that could be formed into something as lovely or as hideous as its wielder desired. For the first time in her life, Gabria recognized how foolish her people had been to ignore magic.

Just then, Nara turned her head and her ears pricked forward. Gabria followed the mare’s gaze and saw Cantrell walk carefully down the steps of the palace. He had a bundle under his arm.

Nara neighed and the bard called, “Gabran, are you there?” Gabria walked over to him and took his arm.

“Come,” he said. “Walk with me a moment.” They walked slowly around the courtyard, out of earshot of any casual listeners. The Hunnuli stayed close behind.

Gabria finally spoke. “Will the clans never learn to accept magic for what it is?”

“Not as long as Medb lives,” Cantrell replied.

She sighed. “Then perhaps they need to see magic as something positive as well.”

The bard gripped Gabria’s arm tightly. “I heard Medb’s ultimatum. There is not much time left.”

They came to the front of the palace again and Gabria stopped walking. She knew what she had to do to free Athlone and save the clans—the conflict had stood at the end of her path since the day she left Corin Treld. But the very idea terrified her. She was no match for Lord Medb and she knew the consequences of her failure. Unfortunately, there were no more alternatives.

Cantrell held out the bundle he had been carrying. “I thought you might need this.”

She opened it and found her scarlet cloak with the buttercup brooch, and a long, pale green tunic.

“The tunic was the closest I could find to white,” the bard joked with a faint smile. He embraced her quickly. “The gods go with you, Gabria.” He turned and left her.

Gabria wound her fingers in Nara’s mane, and they went back down the road toward the main gate. Behind a ruined wall, Gabria stripped off her clothes. The rags that bound her breasts, the filthy tunic, and the Khulinin cloak were tossed aside, though she hesitated taking the gold cloak off. The Corin kept only her leather hat, her boots, and her pants. She tucked her father’s dagger into her boot, then pulled the green tunic over her head and belted it with her sash. She thought about using her power to change the tunic’s color to white, but she changed her mind. It was time magic-wielders had a new color. Gabria laid her red cloak over her shoulder and sighed with relief. Never again would she have to play the boy. Soon the clans would know her for exactly what she was.

Gabria took a slow breath and opened the sorceress’s bag. A long, needle-thin diamond splinter fell glittering into her hand. Gabria stared at it, puzzled. The sorceress had told her this thing was the sign of a true magic-wielder, but she had not said what Gabria was supposed to do with it.

“You will need an assistant to help you complete the rite,” someone said behind her.

Gabria nearly jumped out of her skin. Nara snorted, but it sounded more like an agreement than a warning.

Seth walked around the wall and joined her. “It is too difficult to insert the splinter alone.”

“How do you know?” she gasped.

“The men of my cult have guarded the knowledge of the magic-wielders for years in hopes someone would need it.”

“But how did you find me?”

His eyebrows arched. “I followed you.”

Gabria studied him for a long time before she gave him the diamond. Seth took her arms and extended them, palms up.

His weathered face was impassive. He spoke the words of the ancient rite as if he had spoken them every day of his life, without hesitation or distaste. The words were still hanging in the air when he raised the diamond splinter to the sun to capture the heat and light. The sliver glittered in his hand. Then, with a skill as deft as a healer, he pierced Gabria’s wrist and slid the splinter under her skin.

The pain lanced through Gabria’s arm, and she could feel the heat of the diamond burning under her skin. Immediately the splinter began to pulse with the pounding of her heart. A tingling spread through her hand and up into every part of her body. The sensation was warm and invigorating. Gabria looked into Nara’s wise eyes and smiled.

Seth turned her wrist to look at the splinter pulsing under her skin. “Use this wisely, Corin. You are the last and the first, and it would be best if you survived.”

“Thank you, Seth.”