As the transfer of energy came to completion, Aurian felt Schiannath’s trembling cease. His head came up alertly from beneath her outstretched hand. Though it still remained for her to heal him, his ears were pricked and his eyes were bright as he looked around the encircling Xandim and snorted sharply.
“All right,” Aurian told him softly. “Now you have the energy, you can transform yourself. Go to it, Herdlord—we’re all so very proud of you.”
Aurian stepped back a little, to give him room to change. The great gray stallion set himself, his dark eyes clouded with concentration—then his outline seemed to waver and shrink upon itself, until in its place stood Schiannath the warrior. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side. He was white-faced, bruised and battered, with his clothing ripped to shreds and bloody wounds all over his body—yet there was a regal dignity and power in his bearing that marked him indisputably as Herdlord. Aurian waited, watching, and wondering what he was going to say. Everything depended upon the next few moments, and the impression that Schiannath was about to make on his people. She prayed with all her heart that the young Xandim warrior would find the right words.
Lifting his head with weary pride, Schiannath looked around at the assembled ranks of Xandim. Suddenly he was the focus of hundreds of eyes, and he could feel their hostility and suspicion striking against him in a palpable wave. What have I done? he thought wildly. They don’t want me! Only the presence of Iscalda, Chiamh, and his Outland companions gave him the courage to stand steadfast. He took a deep breath to address his people, wondering, for a panic-stricken instant, what he was going to say to win them over. Then, as he looked again at the Windeye, who had once been as much of an outcast as himself, the answer came to him. Taking a deep breath, he began:
“Last year, a very wild, rebellious, and foolish young man lost a Challenge on this plateau, and was banished into the mountains as an outlaw. You all knew that wretch—you all, alas, can remember his errors and his escapades.” He grimaced wryly, and a tentative chuckle trickled through the ranks of watching Xandim.
Schiannath caught Iscalda’s eye. “That man is dead.” At his words, the laughter ceased abruptly. Suddenly, everyone was listening as Schiannath went on, more quietly but still clearly: “The Schiannath that you knew died in those mountains, as surely as if he had stepped over a precipice, or fallen prey to the Black Ghosts.” He bowed apologetically to Shia, who was rumbling fiercely, and heard a gasp of amazement from the crowd as the snarling instantly ceased.
Schiannath made the most of their awe. “It was I who bested Phalihas today, and I am not that misguided, feckless youth who was exiled from his tribe. Your new Herdlord has learned the hard lessons of patience and courage; honor, love, and responsibility for others. I ask only the chance to prove myself, as the Xandim must prove themselves in these difficult, perilous times. Under my rule, we need no longer fear our neighbors: the Black Ghosts and the Skyfolk. There will be peace between us, so that our peoples may flourish and support one another against evil—for evil is coming. For too long we have kept ourselves from the world, guarding our secret—but now the world is reaching out to us, and unless we fight, it will overwhelm us. In the north, a great storm is rising—a dire malevolence from which my Outland companions once fled. Even now it approaches, and were it not for the warnings of our brave and faithful Windeye, we would be caught unprepared. But for our own sakes, we must prepare. There must be no strife among ourselves now. Even as the new age dawns, you have been given a new Herdlord—a man whose nature has been forged anew in the fires of pain and adversity. Once I knew nothing but to take from my tribe. Now I want nothing but to give of myself and serve my people. O Xandim—will you accept me?”
There was an instant of breathless silence—and then Schiannath was overwhelmed by the cheers. Stamping their feet and rattling their swords upon their shields, they cried his name again and again as they flocked around him. Iscalda ran to her brother, her face shining like the sun with relief and pride.
Aurian had no idea that she had been holding her breath until she felt it all go out of her in a huge sigh of relief. She turned to Anvar with sparkling eyes, wanting to share the delight of the moment—and instead found Parric, who had approached, unnoticed, while Schiannath had been speaking.
“Well I’m buggered,” the cavalrymaster muttered. “I wish I had made a speech like that!”
“You would have—if they’d given you enough mead first,” she chuckled. Sobering, she turned to Anvar. “Wasn’t that amazing? I’m so proud of Schiannath that I could burst!”
Her soulmate nodded. “He’s quite a man—and it’s been quite a day! It certainly looks as though there’ll be no obstacle to our plans now.”
“You’re right…” Even as she said it, Aurian suddenly felt a premonitory prickle of unease. Looking around, she realized that someone was missing from the throng of celebrating companions. Chiamh stood apart, watching the Xandim honor their new Herdlord, his face gray and twisted with a look of utter despair. At the sight of him, Aurian shuddered. “At least I hope not,” she added, so quietly that no one heard her.
19
The Infiltrator
Hebba turned pale and let out a little shriek. “Gods save us—it’s the master!” She sank down weakly in the chair beside the fire, fanning herself with her apron. Zanna, recognizing an attack of Hebba’s vapors, ran to comfort her old friend the cook. It was almost like being back home.
From somewhere, Vannor found the strength to chuckle. “It’s all right, Hebba—I’m not a ghost.”
“No—but with all respect, you look like one, sir.” With his arm under Vannor’s shoulder, Tarnal guided him across to the other soft chair, supporting the merchant as he had supported him all the long, weary and nerve-wracking way up through the city.
“Pull yourself together, Hebba,” the young Nightrunner said sharply, as Vannor sank down with a sigh of relief and closed his eyes. “Stop flapping and give that chair to poor Zanna—she needs it more than you. We need hot water—and have you got some taillin? We’ve got to sober up that idiot Benziorn as quick as we can. Vannor’s hurt.”
“Hurt? The master? And half-starved too, by the look of it—him and the poor little lass.” The mere thought was enough to restore the old cook’s wits. Vacating her chair as though it had suddenly turned red-hot, she helped Zanna into it, settling her with a rug across her knees and then finding another for Vannor. She began to bustle about the kitchen in a businesslike manner, setting water to boil and rummaging in cupboards for food and utensils and linen for bandages, clucking like an old hen all the while to conceal her distress. “That Benziorn! The good-for-nothing! Why I even give him houseroom, I don’t know. Why, the wretch is no more use than a hat in a hurricane!”
She turned to glower at the physician, who was still hovering sheepishly in the doorway, unsure of his welcome—as well he might be. “Get in, if you’re coming,” she snapped at him, banging a pot down onto the table to punctuate her words. “And shut that door—the master’s in a draft. Call yourself a physician? You should know better…”
Vannor relaxed and let her nattering flow over him, concentrating on the delicious warmth of the fire that was seeping into his chilled bones. Though he was filthy and aching, thirsty, starving and exhausted; though his injured hand was throbbing unbearably as the feeling flooded back into his limbs, he was overcome with an incredible sense of euphoria, and a gratitude for his deliverance so intense that it brought tears to his eyes. What unutterable and unhoped-for luxury, to find himself and Zanna safe, and alive, and back among friends again!