Mary Herbert - Lightning's Daughter

“So do I. We do not need another war,” The priestess stopped as something else occurred to her. “There was another piece of news I heard. It’s only a rumor, but Branth may be in Pra Desh.”

“Branth!” Gabria spat the name. “That murderer. I had hoped he was dead.”

“Apparently not.”

“Has Athlone said anything about Branth’s whereabouts?”

The priestess replied, “Not that I know of. He might be waiting for more reliable information.”

Gabria shook her head absently and stared at the floor while she pondered the priestess’s news.

After a moment, the priestess went to the altar and studied the gifts lying to the side. A knowing smile touched her mouth. She picked up the little black horse. “Yours?”

Gabria looked up. “Nara is pregnant.”

“Indeed. Then I shall take this and add the mare to my prayers.”

The sorceress walked over to the altar. “Aren’t you going to take the other gifts?”

“Those, young woman, are for you.”

“Me!” Gabria gasped.

“There is a small but growing belief among the women that you are the blessed of Amara. There have been five births this season and all have been successful. Some women attribute that to your continued presence in the temple. They have brought these gifts to you.”

Gabria was amazed. “But you are Amara’s priestess. These gifts should be for you.”

The woman’s smile widened, and she shook her head. “I do not need them.” She paused, her eyes boring into Gabria’s. “But the clan needs you whether it knows it or not. Stay in the light of Amara’s grace, and you will weather all the hatred and suspicion the unbelievers throw at you.” She came to stand in front of Gabria. The girl tensed, waiting for the rest of the warning.

“Step out of the light,” the priestess continued, her voice low and adamant, “And I promise you, the goddess will destroy you.”

Gabria nodded once in understanding. The priestess examined her face for a long moment before she stood back, satisfied with what she saw.

“You will be home in three months, in time for the celebration of the Birthright. I will look forward to your return.”

The Birthright was the ceremony of thanksgiving to the goddess Amara, for a fruitful birthing season. It was a vital part of the clan’s duty to the Mother of All. Gabria could not help but wonder if the rest of the Khulinin would look forward to her return at that time.

The priestess strode to the entrance. “If the Hunnuli needs help at the time of her birthing, call for me.”

“Thank you, Priestess,” Gabria said with gratitude. She went to the door and watched the three women walk down the path until they disappeared among the trees.

For many days after the priestess’s visit, Gabria mulled over her words. After so many months of rejection and suspicion, she found comfort in the knowledge that a few clanswomen were beginning to accept her basic goodness and her loyalty to the gods. Sorcery was believed to be a heretical evil and a perversion of the gods’ powers. Gabria had believed that herself until she came to understand her powers. Perhaps now the clanspeople were beginning to question their old beliefs, too.

That was an encouraging thought.

The only part of the priestess’s news that worried Gabria was the rumor about Branth. She wondered if he really was in Pra Desh and if he had the Book of Matrah . She turned cold at that possibility. Everyone believed the Geldring chieftain had stolen the book of spells, so it was very possible that he could be trying to use the knowledge captured within its ancient covers. Gabria hoped with all her heart that he was not, because Branth was as cruel and ambitious as Lord Medb. The gods only knew what kind of trouble the Geldring could devise with his power.

Gabria wondered, too, what Athlone might do when he learned where Branth was hiding. Clan law granted Athlone every right to seek Branth and exact justice for the murder of his father. But Athlone had responsibilities to the clan to think of. Besides, if Branth had become a practicing sorcerer, Athlone would not have a chance against him.

Gabria finally shook herself and set aside her disturbing thoughts. She still had several months left of her banishment, and it seemed senseless to waste her time worrying about a rumor she could not confirm. She brought out her pinecones and returned to her practice of sorcery.

As the winter days passed, Gabria grew more adept at her spells. Her first attempts to turn the pinecone into a sweetplum were dismal failures. Her plums were either too hard, too sour, or too strange to eat. Finally, one evening, she envisioned exactly what she wanted, spoke the words of her spell, and changed the prickly brown pinecone into a perfect sweetplum. She laughed with delight when she took a bite and the delicious juice ran down her chin.

The sorceress practiced a few more times until she had a bowl of different kinds of fruit, then she went on to the next step: changing an organic substance into something inorganic. By this time her senses were more attuned to the process of bending magic to her will. In only a few days she was able to transform the pinecone into stone or any object she desired.

Gabria was so busy hunting for food and practicing her magic, she did not notice immediately that winter was giving way to spring. The weather had remained dry and mild so the changes came gently to the land. The fifth full moon of her exile had come and gone before she realized that the air was not as chilly and the days were growing longer. She had less than one month left before she could return to Khulinin Held.

To her surprise, Gabria had to admit that she was not completely happy about going back. She had grown to like the freedom to use her magic. It would be difficult to give that up-even with the possibility that the council of chiefs would change the laws forbidding sorcery when the various clans gathered later that summer at the Tir Samod.

But that was not the only reason she was reluctant. As much as Gabria liked Khulinin Held, she did not feel at home there.

The only home she knew in her heart was a broad meadow far to the north, where the Corins had once made their winter camp. She had not been back since that day of the massacre, almost a year ago.

One night, when the half-moon rose above the plains, Gabria lay on her pallet in the dark, cramped temple and thought about her family long into the night. After a while she dozed, drifting in and out of sleep. Her dreams crowded in and jostled with her memories of her father and brothers. She tossed and turned as the dreams grew more vivid, and the phantoms of her old terrors gathered like shadows in her mind.

In the blink of an eye, her thoughts cleared. A vision came to her then, as real as the first time she had experienced it. It was the same vision she had dreamed that previous summer, just before her first meeting with Lord Medb.

Gabria saw herself standing on a hill, looking down at the ruins of a once-busy camp. The sun was high and warm, and grass grew thick in the empty pastures. Weeds sprawled over the moldering ashes and covered the wreckage with a green coverlet. A large mound encircled with spears lay to one side, its new dirt just now sprouting grass.

Gabria jolted awake. The vision faded, but the image of the burial mound remained clear in her thoughts. She had no idea if the mound was real. When she found Corin Held after the massacre, she had been alone and unable to do anything but leave her people where they had fallen. It was ill she could do to save herself.

Gabria mulled over the vision for several days, and in that time her desire to see her home again became a powerful yearning. The more she thought about it, the more important it became for her to see for herself if her clan had really been buried. There had been no chance to say good-bye to her father and brothers on that horrible day. Perhaps now, while she still had about eight days of exile remaining, was a good time to go. On Nara she could cover the distance to the treld in three or four days and be back before anyone missed her. No one would have to know she had left the temple.