Mary Herbert: Dark Horse

“What debt?” Gabria mumbled. She tried to rise, but the crone pushed her down.

“Thanks to me, you have destroyed a powerful and dangerous sorcerer. But now there is no life left for you. You do not sacrifice anything by relinquishing your youth to me. It is a fair deal for us both.” The sorceress held up a small, lighted oil lamp.

Gabria glanced at the lamp, wondering what the old hag was talking about. Before she realized what was happening, her gaze was captured by the light of the flame and the sorceress mesmerized her into a mild stupor.

The old woman sat beside Gabria on the mat. She set the oil lamp between them, took the girl’s hand, and started the spell. The magic began to build around Gabria. and the Woman of the Marsh grew absorbed in her task.

Suddenly, without warning, a commotion on the edge of the little island disturbed the woman’s chant. She looked up worriedly just as a large and angry warrior burst into the shelter. He was flushed with fever and his body trembled with rage.

The woman screeched, “Stay away! Your magic can’t hurt me!” and jumped to her feet. She pulled Gabria’s stone ward out of her pocket and thrust it in the man’s face.

Athlone knocked the ward out of her hands. He took one look at Gabria and pounced on the sorceress. “What have you done?” he bellowed, shaking her like a rag.

“She must pay,” the old woman screamed. She clawed at his fists, but it was like scratching steel.

Athlone dropped the old woman and leaned over her. “Pay what?”

The woman hesitated, reaching into her sleeve.

“Pay what!” he demanded again.

She snatched a slim dagger. “The price for my help,” she cried. “Her youth is mine now!” She stabbed upward toward Athlone’s stomach, a faint blue aura cloaking the blade.

The wer-tain saw the knife coming too late and tried to twist away. The knife struck his belt, slithered sideways, and sliced into his left ribs. The crone’s feeble Trymian Force was doused. Athlone roared in pained fury, and the woman screeched in real terror. She tried another stab, but Athlone hit her with his fist and knocked her to the ground. He heard a sickening crunch as the woman’s head struck a large rock. She jerked once and lay still.

Athlone stood for several breaths, staring at the hag’s body on the ground as if he could not believe she were dead. Then he wiped the sweat off his forehead, and a grim smile spread over his face.

Gabria cried out. Athlone whirled around and stared at the girl in horror. The marsh woman’s half-finished spell had ruptured and the forces of magic she had gathered and not used abruptly coalesced into livid red clouds that swirled around Gabria in a gathering tornado. The oil lamp spilled and flames spread around the Corin, setting her cloak on fire. Gabria screamed again over the rising shriek of the unspent power.

Athlone was filled with terror at losing her. Without thinking, he leaped at Gabria through the wild forces and ripped her cloak off. The magical aura engulfed him.

Even as the uncontrollable power raged around him, the wer-tain was stunned by the natural, familiar feel of the magic.

In a brilliant flash, he realized that magic and sorcery were not a perversion or an evil threat, simply a natural power inherent in his world—a power that could be tapped only by those born with a talent. At that moment, he knew without a doubt that he, too, had that talent.

The revelation shook him to the core. He understood a part of what Gabria must have felt when she had learned of her power. It was a bitter lesson to realize he had been wrong about something so vital.

As quickly as his acceptance took shape, Athlone noticed Gabria was doing nothing to escape the maelstrom. His skin was tingling and his ears ached in the rising shriek of energy amplified to an explosive crescendo.

“Gabria!” he yelled, pulling her close to him.

The girl hung against the warrior. Her eyes were closed and her body was limp.

Athlone held her tighter. Oh, gods, he wondered, has she given up? “What do you truly want?” he shouted at her.

Gabria was still for so long that Athlone thought he had lost her, then she stirred. Her answer was nearly lost in the roar of the whirlwind, but he heard it.

“I want to be myself.”

She wrapped her arms around Athlone and forced her will into the center of the whirling magical vortex. Then, to her everlasting joy, she felt Athlone’s mind tentatively reach out to her and offer his strength. Together, they slowed the wild whirl of broken sorcery and spread the destructive force apart until it dissipated into a mist on the morning breeze. The angry red light faded and the fire died down.

Gabria gritted her teeth against a wrenching nausea as the remnants of the spell vanished and the day snapped back to familiarity. It was over. Then she saw the burning remains of her scarlet cloak and the pent-up tears of five months flooded her eyes. She leaned against Athlone and sobbed.

For five days, Gabria and Athlone camped in a hollow by the river, spending their days along the banks and their nights in the warmth of each other’s arms. It was a time of healing for them both and, under Nara’s watchful eye, they slept a great deal and talked very little. Neither of them wanted to broach the subject of sorcery or the future until the time was right. For now they were content to be together for as long as they were allowed.

On the afternoon of the sixth day, Nara neighed a greeting to a horseman who appeared on a far hill. Athlone and Gabria exchanged lingering looks and reluctantly walked to their camp to wait for the intruder.

The young clansman, wearing a Khulinin cloak, reined his sweating horse to a halt and slid to the ground. His gaze slid past Gabria, but he saluted Athlone in undisguised relief and pleasure. “My lord, we have been looking for you for days.”

Athlone turned cold at the title. His nostrils flared and he took a step forward. “Why do you call me that, Rethe,” he demanded.

Rethe bowed his head. “That’s why we had to find you. Lord Savaric is dead.”

“How?” Athlone demanded.

“He was stabbed from behind . . . just after the fight for the camp. We think Lord Branth is responsible.”

“Where is Branth now?”

The warrior looked up unhappily. “We don’t know. The book of that accursed sorcerer is missing, too. Lord Koshyn and the Geldring’s wer-tain believe Branth took it after he murdered Lord Savaric.”

Athlone felt his grief well up. “Thank you for the message. Please leave us.”

Rethe nodded but he did not move. “My lord, Lord Koshyn has called for an immediate reconvening of the council. He asks that you bring Gabria to the council.”

“Why?” Gabria asked.

The messenger glanced past her nervously.

“Answer her,” Athlone said sharply.

Startled by Athlone’s tone, Rethe involuntarily looked at her. Gabria smiled briefly, and he relaxed a little. He and the other Khulinin could not fathom the realities of Gabria’s true sex or her ability as a sorceress. She had spent five months in close companionship with them and no one even suspected.

The clan owed its life to her and everyone knew it. Unfortunately, the debt would not erase her crimes. Rethe had no idea how the clans would react if Gabria returned with Athlone, but he doubted few people would be pleased.

“I don’t know,” Rethe answered. “I was only told to pass on the message.”

Athlone and Gabria looked at one another for a long time, their eyes locked in understanding. Finally, Gabria nodded.

“We will come,” Athlone said.

Rethe accepted the dismissal, saluted, and rode away. Athlone watched him go as Gabria slowly began to obliterate their camp and gather their meager belongings.