Mary Herbert - City of Sorcerers

The five riders swiftly surrounded him. They cantered their steeds up into the sky, dragging the soul in their midst.

The clanspeople watched them go until the last flicker of light faded from sight and the Harbingers vanished into the curtain of mist that bordered the mortal realm and the realm of the dead. Only then did the clans know the ordeal was over.

Out of the group of magic-wielders Lord Athlone made his way across the shambles of the clearing to help Priest Ordan to his feet. “That was incredible,” Athlone said. “Did you know the Harbingers were coming?”

Ordan’s mouth jerked up in an odd smile. “I hoped they would, but I never expected to see them.” He was about to add more when Fiergan and Sha Tajan hurried over to meet them.

“What happened?” Sha Tajan cried. “I thought Bitorn was too strong to submit to the Harbingers.”

“He had no choice this time,” Ordan told him. “When the priests, the magic-wielders, and the clanspeople turned against him, he lost everything.”

Fiergan shook his head, his big, irascible face full of wonder. “Those Harbingers were magnificent! But why did we see them?”

“Did you hear what the one rider said?” Ordan said quietly. “The days of enmity are over.” He looked pointedly at the three chiefs. “The gods have spoken that all may hear.”

Lord Fiergan slowly turned. He looked at the dead bodies, the trampled and burning clan tents, and the bloody remains of Bitorn. He watched Kelene hug Sayyed and Savaron and return to Rafnir’s embrace; he saw Gabria and the surviving magic-wielders bending over the crushed bodies of the Hunnuli and his rider; and last of all he studied Lord Athlone from head to boot and everything in between that he had once loathed.

Deliberately the Reidhar chief stuck out his fist to Lord Athlone in the salute of one chieftain to another. “Looks like we have a lot of work to do,” he said to the sorcerer lord.

A cool, windy day in the ninth month of the clan calendar brought a party of riders to the ruins of Moy Tura. A gold banner flew at their head, signifying that the Khulinin lord was in their midst. Overhead soared a black Hunnuli on long, broad wings who glided ahead of the party and came down to land just outside the city’s southern gate.

The Korg walked out to greet her and to welcome her rider with a glad cry. They waited for the other riders, and in a few minutes Kelene was introducing her parents to the sorcerer who had once chased them from his domain.

Eyes twinkling, he bowed low to them. “It is an honor, Lord Athlone and Lady Gabria, to welcome you to Moy Tura.” He took his visitors on a tour of the ruins, including his house that he was rebuilding and the beautiful grave mound he had made for Niela and her Hunnuli. They talked for hours of magic and the city and life before the Purge.

When they were settled in his garden, sipping wine and relaxing in the late-day peace, the Korg smiled at Rafnir and Kelene. “I do not need to ask if you two have made your betrothal vows. It is written all over you.”

Kelene’s face warmed with pleasure. “We will be joined during the Birthright next spring.” She paused and put her hand in Rafnir’s. “If it is all right, we’d like to come back here for a while. I want to study the healers’ room and learn all I can.”

“Of course, you are welcome! Anyone is welcome.”

The young sorceress glanced at her betrothed, and he nodded. “Do you mean that?” she asked the Korg.

Gabria sensed something was coming up. “Why do you ask?”

“Mother,” Kelene said, both excited and a little wary. “What do you think about rebuilding the city?”

Gabria could only stare, and Athlone’s mouth went slack. “Rebuild Moy Tura? Why?” the chief demanded.

“I think we have learned enough from our mistakes to try it again. We could tear down the city walls, reconstruct the buildings, begin teaching magic-wielders here again. But this time we will make the city open and accessible to anyone.”

Lord Athlone shook his head at his daughter’s unexpected enthusiasm. “Rafnir, did you know about this?”

The young sorcerer nodded, grinning. “We’ve talked about this for days. I would like to give it a try.”

“You may be on your own here for a long time,” Gabria warned. “Sixteen magic-wielders hardly make a city, and those few we have left want to spend some time with their clans.”

Kelene’s and Rafnir’s eyes met. “We know,” she said. “It is only a beginning.”

By the gods, Gabria thought to herself, how true that was, and if Kelene wanted to take her place in that grand beginning, let no one stand in her way!

Gabria pulled her daughter to her feet and gently touched the splinter glowing under Kelene’s wrist. “By Amara and her gift to her chosen people, I give you my blessing, daughter. Live and prosper in this city and bring it to new life.” Then she rook Kelene into her arms and sealed her words with a proud embrace.

And so in the ancient city of Moy Tura, what was ended began again.