Mary Herbert - City of Sorcerers

“Lord Athlone, this is intolerable! We cannot have your wife kidnapping any child she sees fit to take!” Fiergan, chieftain of Clan Reidhar, slammed his palm on his knee and glared at the Khulinin from beneath his bristling eyebrows.

Sayyed could see Lord Athlone’s jaw tighten as he tried to control his anger. The son of old Lord Caucus, Fiergan had inherited his father’s ferocious temper, intolerance for things he did not understand, and ability to infuriate Athlone.

Lord Athlone was sitting on a cushion, idly twirling the contents of a horn cup in his hands. Sayyed as his hearthguard, Savaron, and the Khulinin Wer-tain Rejanir, were at his side. To anyone who was not familiar with the chief, Athlone appeared amazingly calm, but Sayyed knew his lord was seething by the deadly frost in his earth-brown eyes and the rock-hard lines of his jaw.

Lady Gabria often attended council meetings, but she had excused herself that day to introduce the Reidhar boy, Bennon, to some of the other children in her care. Lord Fiergan hated arguing with her, and Sayyed knew full well the Reidhar chief was taking advantage of Gabria’s absence to expound on his complaint of ‘kidnapping.’

It is a good thing, Sayyed thought to himself, that weapons are not allowed in the council tent during meetings. Half a day of arguing with Fiergan would drive any man to bloodlust.

“I will forgive you this time for accusing Lady Gabria of kidnapping,” Athlone said with deceptive mildness. “All the children she has found with the talent to wield magic have been given the choice to remain with their families or foster with us. All have come to our clan willingly to learn under Gabria’s tutelage with their parents’ permission.”

Lord Fiergan slapped his words aside with a jerk of his hand. “You cannot take a child—or any member of a clan—without the chieftain’s permission!” he said in a loud, distinctive voice that reached every ear in the tent.

“We have had the chieftain’s agreement in every case. . .but yours.”

“Yet you still took Bennon!” Fiergan thundered.

Athlone set down his cup, his eyes never leaving Fiergan’s face. The burly Reidhar chieftain was red-faced and sweating from the heat, yet he showed no sign of backing down.

Sayyed sighed. It was going to be a long, tense meeting if Lord Ryne didn’t exercise his authority as council leader and step in to end this. He had hoped this first day of council meetings would be calm and short. The fifty-three people—chieftains, sons, wer-tains, elders, priests, and priestesses—from every clan had met in the tent early in the day when the air was cool and the day fresh. They had dealt with a few minor problems at first, such as the theft of some of Clan Dangari’s valuable breeding stallions by a small band of Turic raiders, the settlement of a dispute over pasture rights between the Shadedron and Ferganan clans, and the final acceptance of the betrothal contract for young Lord Terod of the Amnok clan and the sister of Lord Hendric of Clan Geldring.

All had seemed well until Lord Fiergan brought up the subject of teaching young magic-wielders. It was afternoon by that time and even with the walls rolled up to allow a breeze, the big tent was uncomfortably hot and full of flies. The men were sweating and tempers were short.

“He is visiting us for only a few days to make up his mind,” Athlone was saying. “Of course, if you insist, he will be returned immediately.”

Fiergan glanced at the other men crowded around the tent. “I am only trying to protect my people. How can we be certain that the children you take away really are magic-wielders? We have only Lady Gabria’s word for it.”

“And the Hunnulis? Do you call them and my wife deceitful liars?” Athlone asked, his voice cold.

Fiergan’s red face paled slightly. An affirmative answer to a question like that could lead to a duel of honor, and Fiergan was not willing to face a warrior like Athlone over swords. “Perhaps not,” he said sharply. “Yet we—”

Before he could go on, Lord Koshyn put up a hand to interrupt him. “Lord Fiergan does bring up a good point,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “There have been several children who have shown no signs to us that they can wield magic, yet Lady Gabria says they have the power and that they must learn to control it. I suggest that we devise some sort of test or find a way to prove to everyone’s satisfaction that a certain individual can use magic.”

“And even if a person passes such a test, why is it necessary for that person to leave the clan and go to the Khulinin?” asked Lord Dormar of Clan Ferganan.

Athlone replied, “Eventually we hope it won’t be. But there are too few magic-wielders in the clans. Right now, Gabria, Sayyed, Tam, and I are the only ones with enough experience to teach. You must remember, the stay is only temporary. We are teaching these young magic-wielders how to use their talent to the best of their abilities with the hope that they will return to their clans to help others whenever they can.”

Lord Sha Tajan nodded. He was the youngest brother and heir of Athlone’s old friend, Sha Umar, and he was pleased to help the magic-wielders whenever he could. “Two of my people have come back to us, and I don’t know what we’d do without them.”

“But why teach them at all? What if they don’t want to leave their families or learn this sorcery?” Fiergan spat out the last word like a foul bit of gristle.

“If a person with the talent wants no part of it and fights any suggestion of learning how to use it, then of course we do not force them. But it is wiser and safer to train a magic-wielder to control his power. Magic can be inadvertently used at the wrong moment.” Athlone half-smiled, unconsciously rubbing the scar on his shoulder where Gabria had once nearly killed him with an inadvertent bolt of magic. “Once someone is sure of his ability, he can always choose not to use it.”

Fiergan snorted. “Sorcery is just like any other heresy against the gods. Once you’re a heretic, you’re always a heretic.”

“I believe the law calling sorcery a heresy was dropped twenty-three years ago,” Koshyn said sharply.

Fiergan subsided back into his seat, grumbling.

At that point, Lord Ryne of Clan Bahedin rose to his feet and said, “The afternoon grows too hot for sensible argument. Let us call a halt to this discussion until tomorrow when we can talk with cooler minds.”

“I agree,” Lord Koshyn put in, and he, too, stood. “But before we go, I want to let you know that several of us are riding up to the hills today to take a look at that mound in the canyon. If anyone wants to come, bring a shovel.”

The mood in the tent immediately lightened. The news of the mysterious mound had spread through the camps overnight, and everyone was curious about its contents and its odd location. As soon as Lord Ryne officially ended the meeting, the people interested in the expedition hurried away to their camps to get horses and tools.

While their fathers helped organize the large party of clansmen preparing to leave, Savaron and Rafnir called their Hunnuli and went to look for Kelene to see if she wanted to go, too. They found her standing thigh-deep in the cool, silty Isin River with her gelding Ishtak. The horse’s right front knee had swelled during the night, so she brought him to the river in the hope that the cool water would ease his injury.

The gelding was too tired and sore to be in his usual obnoxious mood, yet he still laid his ears back as the two men rode their Hunnuli into the water.

“We’re going to look at that mound of yours in the canyon. Would you like to come?” Savaron called to his sister.

Kelene didn’t answer immediately. She looked up at her big brother and his friend sitting so proudly on their powerful black horses, and she thought how handsome they both looked, so tall and strong and self-assured. She supposed she could excuse Rafnir for being so good-looking. The gods had given him the best of his parents’ qualities—his father’s slim, athletic build and his mother’s expressive eyes and inner strength—without the burden of sharing with brothers or sisters.