“No. I am going to find Gabria.”
“Athlone, listen!”
The chieftain hesitated, his attention caught by the intensity of his friend’s voice.
Sayyed crossed his arms and said, “Gaalney had a point. You do not look like a Turic, nor act like a Turic, nor have any hope of ever speaking like a Turic. If you go over the river, you will be an invader, and no one will help you. Fiergan was right, too. We have no proof who took Gabria and Kelene. We need someone on this side of the border to eliminate other possibilities.”
Athlone was still, his face unreadable, his big body held with such tight control that the knuckles of his hands were white. Wendern stayed wisely silent, leaving the arguments to a stronger voice than his. The second Turic, too, was quiet and watchful.
“I propose you go with Wendern and cut off the escape of the raiders. There are not enough warriors close enough to help. The Ferganan have their own troubles; the Wylflings and the Khulinin are too far away. There are only the chiefs and their men. They need a sorcerer to help.”
“Gaalney and Morad can go,” Athlone said forcefully.
“Gaalney and Morad are not leaders! They are not even wer-tains. They’ve never fought in battle. They are not Lord Athlone! If Lord Athlone, the renowned sorcerer lord of the Clans of Valorian, moves against the invaders of the Ramtharin Plains it will send a message to others who consider our people too weak to fight.” He raised a finger and shook it at the chief. “And don’t forget the Shar-Yon. Other Turics may want revenge against us for killing Bashan. If you are here defending the borders, the Turics may think twice about attacking us in force.”
Athlone gainted. “You give me too much credit.”
“That’s dung and you know it. Wendern needs you.
Not Morad or Gaalney. Of course, if you capture those raiders, you might have a bargaining chip to ransom in exchange for Gabria and Kelene. Whoever took them took pains to remove even the Hunnuli. They wanted the women alive.”
Athlone’s expression lost a little of its ferociousness as Sayyed’s words sank in. His friend’s arguments made sense to Athlone’s mind; it was just his heart that had to be convinced. “And what are you going to do if I go haring off after brigands and thieves?”
Sayyed bowed slightly. “My companion and I intend to infiltrate the Shar-Ja’s caravan, learn of the women’s whereabouts, and free them at our earliest opportunity.”
“Your companion?” Athlone asked dryly.
The second Turic tugged his burnoose free and smiled wanly at his father-in-law. “Father thought it was time I learned more about the other side of the family,” replied Rafnir.
Athlone’s knees seemed to collapse, for he sat down abruptly on the cushions in the center of the tent. Gabria’s teapot and the two cups were still on the low table where she had left them, and the coals in the brazier were still warm. The chief’s gaze went from one man to another in a long, pondering stare, while his mind struggled to choose the best path.
“Eurus!” he suddenly bellowed. When the Hunnuli poked his head in the flap, Athlone jabbed a finger at Sayyed. “Did you hear what he said?”
The stallion’s head bobbed yes.
“We must also consider Nara and Demira, so I ask you, what do you suggest?”
Eurus, one of the oldest Hunnuli in the clans and one of the few horses to have run wild with the King Hunnuli, had grown wise during his years with humans. He replied simply, Sayyed has a better chance to find Gabria and Kelene. You would have a stronger band against the Turics if the raiders are stopped.
“And you’re willing to let Afer and Tibor go without you?”
I would hardly tell you to go somewhere if I were not willing to follow.
“But,” Wendern offered almost apologetically, “they can’t take the Hunnuli into the Turic realm. The horses would be recognized immediately.”
Rafnir gestured outside. “Come see. We’ve already taken care of it.”
The men trooped out into the night. The wind had slowed a little, and the snowfall was lighter. With the help of the gods. Athlone thought, the storm would blow over by the next day. He patted Eurus and glanced around, expecting to see Afer and Tibor. All he saw were two large horses bridled, saddled with deep-seated Turic saddles, and tethered to the tent peg.
The horses seemed to be black, although in the darkness it was hard to tell. One had a small star on his forehead, and the other had two white socks on his forelegs. There was no sign of the Hunnuli’s usual white lightning mark on their shoulders or any of the breed’s power and grace. The two stood, noses down against the wind, looking anything but regal.
“Nice animals,” Wendern commented. “Where did you find mounts so big?” Then to his amazement, one of the horses lifted its head and nickered at him. His jaw dropped.
“You can’t be serious,” Athlone chuckled. “How did you get Hunnuli to wear tack?”
It was Afer’s idea, Tibor complained, shaking the saddle on his back. Only for Gabria and Kelene would I do this.
Sayyed laughed. “They even suggested the dye to hide their shoulder marks and the white paint to decorate their coats. If no one looks too carefully, and they keep their wits, they’ll pass.”
Athlone decided he could hardly fight such a united front. He embraced his friend and his son-in-law in gratitude. “You have my permission to go,” he said, too overcome with sudden emotion to say all that he felt he should tell them. But he did add one more admonition. “If I don’t receive a message from you in the next fifteen days, I will gather the clans and march south after you!”
5
A pale glow softly tinted the eastern horizon by the time the clansmen discovered the Shar-Ja’s entourage had already left. A heavy guard still patrolled the southern bank, but only a small camp remained where the day before the entire meadow was filled with the rounded Turic tents. Most of the wagons were gone, too, including the Shar-Ja’s elaborate, covered vehicle.
Sayyed shrugged when he heard the news. “They can’t have gone far in this weather. We’ll find them.”
The clan camp quickly disappeared as well, the traveling tents and supplies loaded in wagons or on pack animals. The snow still fell in fitful showers through air damp and cold, but it was the last gasp of a storm already dying. That morning the sky looked dove gray instead of the steely blue of the day before, and the wind had left to blow its mischief elsewhere.
As soon as it was light enough to distinguish detail and color, Sayyed brought his prayer rug out of his pack and laid it carefully on the bare patch of ground left by Gabria’s tent. He knelt in the time-honored tradition of the Turic to pay homage to his god at sunrise. Twice a day he prayed, bowing to the south where his fathers believed the sacred city of Sargun Shahr was located. Although he had lived with the clans for twenty-six years and participated in some of their festivals, Sayyed still practiced the religious beliefs of the Turics and still carried the love of his god deep in his heart. He was grateful the clanspeople were not fanatical about their religion and had not tried to convert him. In respect to clan ways, he had allowed Rafnir to be raised in the traditions of Amara, Lord Sorh, Surgart, and Krath, telling his son only the meanings behind the different beliefs.
That morning, though, as he knelt in the cold light, he slanted a glance over his shoulder and saw Rafnir watching him. “Get a rug,” he ordered. “You don’t have to believe, but if you’re going to be a Turic for a while, you need to pretend.”
Rafnir gladly obliged. He spread out a horse blanket, knelt beside his father, and bowed his head. Wordless and attentive, he listened to the lines of his father’s prayers. The words were ones he had heard as far back as he could remember. They were songs really, songs of praise and gratitude and hope for a new day, and they rolled off Sayyed’s tongue with salutary humbleness and joy. There was comfort to be found in the phrases, and Rafnir found himself repeating them after his father. The deities addressed may have been different, but the heartfelt sentiments of each man’s prayers were the same.