“The emissary Zukhara?” Gabria guessed.
“You know of him?”
“Sayyed and Rafnir told me about him,” Gabria hesitated, then added, “Sayyed said this man stares at you during the meetings.”
To that Kelene shrugged. She hadn’t realized anyone else had noticed. “He stares, but he says nothing. Perhaps he is only curious—and ill mannered.”
He is not just curious, Demira put in. There is a taint about him I do not like. He will not come near the Hunnuli when we wait on the island for the council to end. The other Turics have spoken to us; the Shar-Ja has patted my neck. But this Zukhara stays away from us.
Kelene’s brows lowered. “I didn’t notice that. I wonder why?”
Gabria leaned against Demira’s warm wing and turned a concerned eye on her daughter. “Have you heard the Tunes speak of the Fel Azureth?”
It seemed a simple question, but Kelene caught a distinct note of worry in her mother’s voice. She shook her head, the horse brush forgotten in her hands.
“The Azureth have surfaced only recently. It is a fanatical religious group sworn to the overthrow of the Shar-Ja’s throne and a return to the ancient practices of the Prophet Sargun.”
“Why hasn’t the Shar-Ja done anything about them?”
“I don’t think he can,” Gabria said sadly. “He’s too sick. His son has been handling many of his responsibilities, but he is too inexperienced to deal with such organized fanatics. The Azureth are very secretive. Even their leader, whom they call Fel Karak, is unknown to all but a few of the most trusted members. They are well organized, well supplied, heavily armed, and very dangerous.”
Kelene was both fascinated and alarmed. “But I thought the Shar-Ja was respected by his people. Have the tribes done anything to stop these rebels?”
“Our sources tell us the tribes are too busy trying to survive themselves.”
“Our sources?” Kelene chuckled. “Sounds so mysterious.”
Gabria’s fair face lit with a gleam of humor. “It’s amazing what you can learn from caravan drovers, traveling bards, merchants, and traders. They love to talk when you bring them in off the cold plains and give them a hot meal and a dry bed. We learned much this winter about the Fel Azureth and the tribes’ troubles.” She shook her head, and the humor faded from her green eyes. “They haven’t had good rain in two years. The land is dry, and the rivers are low. The Shar-Ja has clone little to help. The tribes grow so desperate, even this extremist group looks promising to some.”
“And you and Father think this Fel Azureth may have something to do with the attacks on our people?” Kelene suggested shrewdly.
Gabria nodded. “That was one reason why he asked for this council, to spur the Shar-Ja into some sort of action against these fanatics before their raids lead us into war.”
“Then perhaps we’ll see some reaction today at council,” Kelene said. “Peoren is going to have his say about the attack on his clan. He has been very patient so far, but I think he’s about to explode.”
“Just be careful of Zukhara,” said Gabria with motherly fervor.
Kelene’s eyes narrowed as a new thought occurred to her. “Do you think he has some connection with the Fel Azureth?”
“No one knows. But as Demira pointed out, there is a taint about him.”
Across the river a horn blew a sonorous note to call the clans and the tribes to council. Another meeting was about to begin. Demira’s ears swept forward as Eurus, Tibor, and Afer cantered by to meet Lord Athlone, Rafnir, and Sayyed. The little Hunnuli nickered impatiently while Kelene gathered her combs and brushes, restored them to the carry bag, and handed them to Gabria.
Kelene took leave of her mother and trotted Demira down to the river to join the clan chiefs. This time she paid close attention to Counselor Zukhara when he arrived with the Turic delegation. Just as Demira described, while other Turics admired the magnificent Hunnuli, Zukhara held well back, keeping the Shar-Ja and Bashan between himself and the black horses.
Interesting, thought Kelene. Was he afraid of them? Or was he just not interested? Did he know of the Hunnuli’s intuitive ability to read human character?
Keenly aware of Zukhara, Kelene followed the men into the council tent. She noted that he seemed to avoid the Shar-Ja and his son, as if he did not want to associate with them. He refused to sit but stood aloof, his hands clasped behind his back, his long legs apart and braced for a lengthy wait. The other tribal leaders were deferential to him, yet Kelene saw many of them eye him with subtle wariness or shift their gaze away from him completely.
The sorceress pursed her lips in thought while she poured and served refreshments as usual. The wine was good this time, a light crisp fermentation from the Khulinin’s own reserves, and the Turics appreciated it.
Only Zukhara turned it down. When she came to him, he grasped her tray in both hands, forcing her to stop in front of him. He was so tall she had to lift her eyes to see his face, and when she did so, with a bold, angry glare, he curled his lips in that condescending smile that so rankled her.
“What, no mead today, my lady?” he said softly. “Not even for me?” His long fingers suddenly grasped her right wrist and twisted it upward to expose the diamond splinter that lay beneath the skin of her forearm. He studied it, tracing his finger along its glowing length.
The splinter was a slender sliver of diamond, embedded in the wrist of a magic-wielder when he or she completed training. It was a powerful emblem, and to Kelene, a personal one that should not be revealed and examined without her consent. Her face flamed red at the man’s audacity, but she controlled her famous temper for the sanctity of the council and deftly twisted her arm out of his grasp. “Not today, Counselor Zukhara,” she replied with frosty calm and turned away before her father or her husband came forward to protest the man’s rudeness. It wasn’t until she finished serving the refreshments and sat down that she realized Zukhara had spoken to her in perfect Clannish.
She was still inwardly seething when Peoren took the stand before the council to describe the surprise attack on his treld. Eight days of rest, Kelene’s gentle ministrations, and his own youthful energy had worked wonders on the boy’s battered countenance and his sense of maturity. Although only sixteen, he had left his boyhood behind on the bloodied fields of Ferganan Treld, and he stood before the gathered chiefs and tribesmen with the determination and authority of an adult. Knowing he had the support of the ten chieftains, he launched into a passionate and detailed description of the tragedy. Sayyed translated for him and did not change or leave out a single word.
At first there was little reaction from the Shar-Ja or his nobles—which little surprised the clansmen. The Turics had shown almost no emotions to any of the previous complaints. But as Peoren continued with the account of his father’s last stand and the bravery and sacrifice of his hearthguard, the Turics began to grow restive and visibly upset. Their impassive faces darkened in anger; their heads turned toward one another to exchange agitated whispers.
Kelene, her attention still centered on the tall counselor, noticed Zukhara was the only one who remained unmoved. In fact, his expression had the look of a man who had heard the tale before and lost all interest.
“Your Highness,” Peoren was saying to the Shar-Ja, “to my knowledge, our two peoples have not declared war upon one another, nor has there been a state of animosity between us. My father died not understanding why his neighbors and those he called friends were killing his people.” The young man took a step forward and held out the bloodied scrap of blue cloak sent to Lord Athlone. His pale gray eyes flashed like steel. “There was no reason for your people to attack mine, Highness. Therefore I demand weir-geld, blood money to be paid for the deaths in our clan. Thirty-six people were dead when I left and several more were badly wounded. If we are not recompensed as stated by our clan laws, we the Ferganan will wage a blood feud until every Turic in that raiding party is dead.”