Without any warning, the door swung open, and a tall figure loomed in the entrance. In that split second Kelene’s thoughts exploded with her pent-up fear and rage and, before she could control herself, a wild burst of the Trymmian force flamed from her hands. Kelene gasped in horror.
Gabria reared up and tried to evaporate the blast, but it flew too fast and struck Zukhara full on the chest, where it exploded in a cloud of blue sparks. The counselor staggered backward from the force of the blow. Only the ivory ward around his neck absorbed the searing power and saved his life.
Kelene’s eyes grew enormous, and her heart beat painfully as Zukhara climbed to his feet. The tall Turic stepped back into the wagon, placed the tray he took from a servant on the table, and deliberately closed and locked the door behind him. Swift as a striking cobra, his hand shot out and clamped around Gabria’s throat. His fingers found her jugular and her windpipe and began to crush her neck within his ferocious grip.
“No!” screamed Kelene. “It was me!” She tried to grab his wrists, to pull him away from her mother, but she might as well have tried to uproot a tree. Zukhara ignored her and sunk his thumbs deeper into Gabria’s throat. The clanswoman’s eyes bulged above her gasping mouth. She struggled and thrashed in vain to escape his iron hands.
“I warned you,” Zukhara hissed in sharp, fierce anger. “You did not heed me.”
“I didn’t mean to! I was angry and scared,” Kelene raged at him. “Get off her.” She abruptly pulled up her tied feet and kicked at him with all her might.
Her feet landed on his ribs and slammed him sideways against the wagon wall, jarring his hands loose from around Gabria’s throat. Kelene swiftly rolled over the older sorceress, knocking Zukhara’s hands off completely, and she managed to use her body to shove her mother off the pallet to the floor.
Gabria was too weak to stand. Sobbing, she lay supine on the dusty boards and tried to draw deep, rasping breaths through her bruised throat.
The counselor angrily pushed himself upright until he was kneeling over Kelene. His long, lean shape loomed above her like a black, forbidding shadow.
“It was an accident!” Kelene insisted. “If you kill her, you lose your best lever against me, and I’ll see you in Gormoth before I teach you even one spell.”
Zukhara leaned so close his trim beard brushed her chin. His hands rose and fell over her neck but instead of choking her, his long fingers caressed her skin from her earlobes down the soft length of her throat. “Then I guess we are at an impasse, my lady,” he said huskily in her ear. “If you do not obey, I will kill, and yet if I kill, you will not obey. A fine challenge.”
Kelene quivered at his touch. His warm breath by her ear made the hairs rise on the back of her neck, and his weight on her shoulder and chest frightened her. She lay rigid and cold, her heart beating rapidly. “Then it would be best if we struck a bargain,” she made herself say.
Zukhara settled more comfortably on top of her, his hands still resting on her bare neck, one thumb caressing the frantic pulse in the base of her throat.
“I will train you in sorcery—as much as you need to control your power—and when I am finished, you will let my mother, me, and our Hunnuli go home unharmed.”
The man chuckled, warm and throaty. “A bargain struck in haste is oft regretted. I will think about it. Perhaps in time we will devise a better arrangement.” He pushed away from her and untied her hands. “In the meantime, eat. Then show me what you have to offer.”
Kelene gritted her teeth. There was nothing else to do but agree—for now. She helped her mother to the bench by the table where Zukhara had placed their meal and a small lamp. Kelene drew on her skills as a healer and tenderly eased the pain in Gabria’s bruised throat. She wrapped a cool, damp cloth around her mother’s neck and helped her sip a cup of wine.
From his stool, Zukhara observed them impassively.
After a while, Kelene coaxed Gabria to eat some soup and was pleased to see a little color return to the older woman’s waxen cheeks. With the flush came a reawakening of Gabria’s steel spirit. She covered her forehead with a limp hand, sagged back against the wooden wall, and surreptitiously winked at Kelene. The young woman smothered a smile and ate her own food gratefully.
The moment she was finished, Zukhara cleared off the table and, in a lightning-swift change of mood, flashed his friendly, disarming smile. He pulled a small book out of his robes and laid it in front of Kelene. “Now, my lady. Where do we begin?”
Gabria and Kelene bent forward to look at the little volume in the light of the oil lamp. Although books were not common among the seminomadic clanspeople, both women had learned to read the old Clannish script from books preserved in the Citadel of Krath by the Cult of the Lash and from a few precious manuscripts unearthed at Moy Tura. To their astonishment, this book, no bigger than a man’s hand, appeared to be a relic of clan history. It was made of white vellum stretched and scraped to thin, supple sheets and bound between a heavier cover of leather that, once dyed a rich red, had since faded to the color of old wine.
Kelene gingerly turned the front cover to the first page and heard her mother gasp. In a spidery, delicate script was written: Jeneve, Daughter of Lord Magar of Clan Corin.
Gabria’s hands flew to the book, and she drew it closer to pore over the writing and illustrations on the following pages. “This is a spellbook,” she breathed in surprise. “A personal collection compiled by Lady Jeneve! How did you get your hands on it?” she snapped at Zukhara.
He smiled again, a long, self-satisfied sneer. “The God of All delivered it to my hands to help fulfill the prophecy.”
“What prophecy?” Kelene demanded.
Zukhara disregarded the question and tapped the book with his forefinger. “I can read this, so do not try to trick me. I simply want to know how to use the magic to control these spells.”
Glancing over her mother’s arm, Kelene read the names of some of the spells in the handbook. Most were simple day-to-day twists of sorcery that took only basic skills and caused little harm, such as firestarters, spheres of light, easy transformations, household aids, and simple medications. But there were others that a man like Zukhara could twist to his own purposes: a spell to paralyze an animal or human, spells of destructive power, a spell to summon wind from a gathering storm, and others she would be loath to show him.
Control first, she thought to herself. She had never taught anyone magic; that had always been Gabria’s duty. But it seemed reasonable to start at the beginning where every magic-wielder had to start and take it as slowly as she dared. Perhaps, given the help of the gods, she and Gabria could find a way to escape before Zukhara pushed his training too far.
She traded looks with Gabria, then closed the book and pushed it aside. “We will start here.” she said, tapping her own forehead, and she launched into her first lesson. “Will is at the center of sorcery. With every spell you create you are attempting to impose your will on the substance of our world. Magic is a natural force that is in every creature, stone, or plant. When you alter that force, even with the smallest spell, you must be strong enough to control the effect and consequences. The forces of magic can destroy you if you cannot control them.”
She paused and stared at Zukhara’s dark visage. Unconsciously she had been repeating Gabria’s old lesson that she had listened to for years before the words took on real meaning. “The strength of will is the most important trait of a magic-wielder. Therefore you must know yourself, every measure and degree of your own being, so you can recognize your own limitations and know when sorcery has begun to bleed substance from your life-force.”
Zukhara’s hand suddenly grabbed Kelene’s right arm and pulled her wrist out straight toward him. He touched her embedded splinter so hard she flinched in pain. “Enough of your childish lectures. I have the will of the Living God; there are no limitations other than my own lack of knowledge. I will have a splinter in my wrist in ten days’ time or I will remove your arm at the elbow. Are we clear?”