“Perhaps there is another witness we should take into account, “added a man from the crowd, the Khulinin herdmaster. He looked toward Lady Tungoli, who nodded and relinquished the right to speak. “I mean the Hunnuli mare, Nara. Clanspeople have always loved and revered the ancient Hunnuli breed. We believe that Hunnuli cannot tolerate evil in any form. And yet, if that is true, why does Nara love Gabria and stay with this admitted sorceress? Does the horse know something we do not about the quality of magic? I think the mere fact that a Hunnuli horse trusts and obeys Gabria says more for her heart than any of the guesses we can make.” The herd-master quickly sat down.
Finally the bard, Cantrell, stood and turned his sightless eyes toward Gabria. His rich bass voice rang through the hall, capturing everyone’s attention. “The herd-master has brought up an interesting incongruity. For years we have been told in song, story, and decree that magic is heretical. We have believed in its ultimate evil and in the despair and grief sorcery can cause. In that we were right: Sorcery is evil.” Many of the onlookers gasped and stared at the bard in shock. He smiled, and his fingers lightly touched the strings of the harp at his side. A soft melody lifted on the air and enticed the peoples’ imaginations.
“But what we forgot was that magic could also be as beautiful as a Hunnuli horse, as good as a healing stone, as intricate as an ancient riddle, and as strong as true love. Magic is only what people make of it. It has been a part of the plains since the birth of the world, and it was said, before the Destruction of the Sorcerers, that the ability to wield magic was a gift of the gods. It is time we accept our heritage once again. I ask you to accept Gabria. She has a great gift that should be protected, not destroyed.” He turned toward the tyne and lifted his harp toward them. “Be fair in your decision, Khulinin. We may need Gabria again some day.”
The clanspeople stared at the old bard as he sat down, and his words hung in their thoughts. When no one else moved to speak the members of the tyne huddled together and discussed their problem. Gabria stood alone in the space before the chief’s dais and waited. A heavy silence fell on the watching people.
Sweat dripped in beads down Gabria’s forehead as she remained still, her head up and her face calm. How would they decide? she wondered. All she really wanted was peace, rest, and time to build a normal life again. This past year she had suffered more than most people would in a lifetime. Gabria wanted fervently to get through this trial so she could put the memories behind her. She glanced down at the splinter of the Fallen Star gleaming under the skin of her wrist. It was too bad she could not put away her sorcery as easily as her memories. The talent to wield magic was an integral part of her, as natural as breathing. It was not a power she had wanted, but she had learned to use her talent to survive. She knew now she would never be able to ignore or forget the magic. Neither would anyone else in the clans.
At last Gabria heard Athlone stand. The edge of his sword clanged against his stone seat, and the sound rang through the quiet hall. The members of the tyne left their benches and stood.
Athlone, his feet planted on the stone dais and his arms crossed, searched the faces of his people. A golden torque of rank glittered on the chest of his leather shirt, and gold bands encircled both of his arms. He had recently cut his hair, and Gabria thought the shorter, dark brown locks and thick mustache enhanced the clean lines of his features. “What is your decision?” the chief asked without preamble.
The elder, a gaunt, silver-haired man, spoke. “We have heard the accusations against Gabria. We all know the truth of her deeds and her courage. Because she has given us our lives and our freedom to be Khulinin instead of Medb’s slaves, it is our decision that she be freed from the penalty of death and exile. She has earned a place among the Khulinin.”
Thalar sprang to his feet, his face dark with anger. “Never!” he shouted.
Athlone raised his hand to still the priest’s outraged interruption. “Continue.”
“However,” the man went on. “We feel the laws of the clans cannot be put aside even for this. Therefore, we order that Gabria be pronounced dead for a period of days equaling the time she spent in her disguise—a passage of six months, by our reckoning. During banishment, no person may speak to her or acknowledge her in any way, and Gabria must retire to the temple of Amara beyond the treld. There she will serve the goddess in penance. At the end of six months, Gabria may return to the clan and be accepted as a permanent member.” Surprised, Gabria gripped her hands together to still their trembling. The sentence was harsh, for she would be alone and unaided through the winter. Most women would die under such difficult straits. On the other hand, Gabria knew—as Athlone must—that she stood a good chance of surviving the ordeal. Unlike other clan women, she could handle a bow and a sword. She might go hungry now and then, but she would not starve.
Thalar stepped forward, his expression wild, his eyes burning into Gabria with all the hatred of a priest for a heretic. “This is outrageous! That woman is profane! A creature of evil. If she is allowed to enter the holy temple of the Mother Goddess, our whole clan will be cursed!”
At that Piers jumped up to protest. The healer, the herdmaster, and several others crowded around Thalar and began to argue. Others joined in until the entire hall was filled with shouting voices. The noise crashed around Gabria like an avalanche. She gritted her teeth and silently watched the uproar.
“Silence!” Athlone bellowed. “Enough!” He crossed his arms as the shouting ceased, and every face turned toward him. “Priest Thalar has a valid argument. Perhaps the members of the tyne could explain their decision and put the clan’s mind at rest.”
This time the priestess of Amara stepped out of the group. Her long green robes were a bright contrast to the more somber colors of the men. She was an older woman, past forty-five summers, and equal to Lady Tungoli in the honor and respect of her clan. Her gray hair was swept back in a long braid, and her startling green eyes seemed to pierce through Thalar. “It was I who made the suggestion to the tyne to send the sorceress to Amara’s temple.”
“You!” Thalar exclaimed in surprise.
Gabria, too, was startled and watched the woman as she paced forward in the light of the lamps and torches to face the priest.
“I believe I know more of the goddess’s ways than you do, Thalar. A man who follows the god of battle and death cannot begin to comprehend the power of life and birth. It is my belief that Gabria has the favor of Amara. Her survival and her success against overwhelming odds are indications to me that the goddess is watching over her daughter. If this is the case, then Cantrell’s arguments for magic are more than the artful words of a skilled bard.” She paused as Cantrell chuckled.
“I suggested sending Gabria to the temple, “she continued, “to learn the truth of the goddess’s will. If the sorceress is blessed with Amara’s grace, then she will live and thrive to return to us. If she is not, the mother goddess will punish her as no mortal can imagine.” For a long moment the Khulinin stared at Gabria. No one moved or said a word. At last, Lord Athlone raised his hand.
“So be it. Lady Gabria’s sentence begins at moonrise tonight.
She may return to the clan in six months, marked by the rise of the full moon.” He turned on his heel and strode to the chieftain’s quarters in the back of the hall. The tapestry fell closed behind him, signaling the end of the getyne.
Thalar snorted in disgust and stamped to the entrance. As the guards pulled the doors open for him a cold gust of wind swirled into the hall. The chilly air seemed to rouse the crowd from their astonishment. In ones and twos they averted their eyes from Gabria and left the hall until only the sorceress and Cantrell remained.