Mary Herbert - City of Sorcerers

With a scream of fury, he whipped his head toward Rafnir in an attempt to attack the hated crop, jerking the reins from Kelene’s hands. In that horrible instant, the gelding lost his balance, pitched into Rafnir’s mount, and sent them both crashing to the ground in a pile of thrashing legs and bodies.

The two riders, thrown clear by the impetus of their speed, lay bruised and stunned in the dirt while the Bahedin jubilantly crossed the finish line. There was a shocked pause as the crowd stared in amazement, then the Bahedin wildly cheered their hero, and a few Khulinin ran forward to get the fallen horses and riders our of the way of the remaining racers.

Two men helped Ishtak and Kelene limp through the crowd to the shade of a tree. Two others brought Rafnir and his chestnut.

“Are you all right?” one man asked Kelene. At her nod the men left her alone to check on Rafnir’s injuries. Kelene sank slowly to the ground by her gelding’s front feet and stared in shocked disbelief at the dirt. She was filthy, disheveled, and she hurt in every bone in her body. But none of her aches and bruises could compare to the pain of defeat. For the second year in a row she had lost the Induran in an accident.

She looked up and saw Sayyed, Tam, and her parents hurrying toward her. Kelene pulled herself to her feet and faced her mother, but the ache in her heart proved too much for her self-control. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Gabria opened her arms, and Kelene did not turn away. She felt herself gathered into her mother’s embrace and held close while she cried out her pain and disappointment.

“Is he hurt, Mother?” Kelene murmured after a while. “He fell so hard.”

Gabria knew full well who Kelene meant. The girl wouldn’t care a fig for Rafnir’s well-being. She glanced inquiringly at Tam, who was talking in quiet tones to Ishtak.

Rafnir’s mother understood the question, too, and gently squeezed Kelene’s arm. “He is bruised and hurting and very, very tired. He is lucky nothing is broken,” she said with a soft smile. “Rub his legs with liniment and rest him. He will be bucking again in a few days.”

“Thank you,” Kelene said to both women. She stiffened to her full height, threw back her head, and stepped away from Gabria. The tears were gone now. She had no more time for sadness; Ishtak needed her help. She forced her feelings back under control, unaware that as she did so, her face assumed a blank, almost cold expression. She went back to her horse and gathered his reins.

Behind Kelene, Gabria sighed to herself and let her arms drop. She knew that expression of Kelene’s all too well. She had seen it more and more the past few years—a blank set of the face that was as frustrating and unyielding as a stone wall.

Kelene had withdrawn again to her own thoughts, shutting out the moment of closeness with her mother.

Gabria almost reached out to stop her daughter and draw her back, but she didn’t. She knew the gesture would not be appreciated and wondered sadly if it ever would. Once Kelene had been a loving, open, warm-hearted child who adored her parents and family. Now an eighteen-year-old, unmarried woman with a crippled foot, she was almost a stranger to them all.

Gabria bit her lip as she watched Kelene limp away, leading the gray gelding. She was not sure she could bear the thought of losing the Kelene she had known to this distant cool person. She wanted somehow to break through the blank mask and find the love and happiness that still remained inside. If only she knew how.

Later that evening when the cooking fires were burning in the Khulinin camp and the sun was sinking into an orange haze toward the horizon, Sayyed came to join Lord Athlone and his son Savaron under the awning of the chieftain’s big tent. They sat on low stools, enjoying the peace of dusk and talking comfortably as old friends. Goblets of cool wine sat on a tray by their feet. Athlone’s three dogs lay close by and chewed on the last scraps of the evening meal. The men could hear Gabria, Lymira, and Coren inside the tent laughing and talking as they got ready for the evening’s dancing and music competitions to be held in the council grove. Kelene was nowhere to be seen.

The three men were almost finished with their wine when someone hailed them from the nearby path.

“Lord Athlone, good evening! I was hoping to find you still here.” The speaker and a companion, both wearing light summer cloaks of indigo blue, came walking up the path to meet them. Two members of Athlone’s hearthguard snapped a salute from their posts by the chief’s tent.

Sayyed and Savaron rose peacefully to their feet. “Greetings, Lord Koshyn,” Sayyed said.

Koshyn of Clan Dangari returned the greeting. “I didn’t Want to interrupt your time at home,” he said to Athlone, “but I thought you ought to hear something interesting,”

Stools and more wine were brought out, and the five men sat down under the awning. Lord Koshyn grinned broadly at his old friend. Only a year younger than Athlone, he had been a chieftain for a longer time, though the years had not been as kind. His fair hair was gray and thinning, and the faded pattern of blue dots tattooed on his forehead was almost lost in the weathered brown of his skin. His once athletic body was stockier, slowed by aching joints. But his smile was as infectious as ever. Although not a magic-wielder himself, he was one of sorcery’s most influential supporters among the chiefs and one of Athlone’s closest friends.

He sat thankfully on his stool, stretching his legs out before him, while Savaron poured some rich honey wine in a flagon and passed it to him. Koshyn sipped his drink and thought, for the thousandth time, how closely Savaron resembled his father. They were so much alike, not only in their tall physical build, their brown hair, eyes, and mustaches, but in their characters as well. Savaron even had his father’s habit of cocking an eyebrow when he was questioning something. Like now.

Koshyn, noticing both men were looking at him the same way, couldn’t help chuckling. “I’m sorry,” he said between gusts of laughter. “Athlone, as a sire, you certainly have thrown true in your son. By Surgart’s sword, you couldn’t have done better.” He wiped his face with his sleeve and grinned again a bit wistfully, thinking of his own sons, dead before they reached manhood. Athlone, he decided, was a very lucky man.

Lord Koshyn settled back on his stool and said, “So, I didn’t come here to compare you two. I brought someone who has a tale to tell.” He turned to the other Dangari beside him. The young man, just out of boyhood, was staring at Lord Athlone with something close to awe. He had never met the sorcerer-chieftain face-to-face, but he had heard all the tales about his deeds. He bowed his head to the Khulinin lord and glanced at his own chief.

“Go on, lad,” Koshyn prompted.

The young man tugged at his dirty blue tunic. “I rode in the Induran today, Lord,” he said. “At least part of it. Unfortunately, I went with your daughter, Rafnir, and Moreg from Clan Wylfling down a box canyon.”

Athlone nodded. He had already heard about that wrong turn.

“Well, while we were trying to turn around in the canyon, Moreg rode his horse over a big mound. I was the only one who saw the horse fall, so I stopped to help him.” He leaned forward, his excitement overcoming his shyness. “Lord Athlone, I’ve never seen anything like it! His horse stepped through a crust of dirt onto what looks like a roof.”

“A roof?” Sayyed exclaimed.

The Dangari demonstrated by slightly steepling his hands. “A timbered roof like we use in burial chambers. I think we found an old burial mound.”

Athlone leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his interest piqued. “A burial mound? In a hidden box canyon? How curious!” He paused, mulling over this news. “You said Moreg fell. Is he hurt?”