Kelene gaped, aghast at his monstrous arrogance. He had no comprehension of his own weaknesses and therefore dismissed any possibility of them in impervious blindness. Perhaps she and Gabria wouldn’t have to escape; perhaps all they had to do was wait for Zukhara to destroy himself in his own overwhelming self-confidence.
She hoped he would hurry and do so soon. She didn’t want to have to tell him there were no more diamond splinters. Gabria had used the last one only a year ago and had not yet found a new source for the special, power-enhancing gems.
Kelene yanked her wrist out of his grasp and said firmly, “Fine. Then we will begin with control.” She held out her fingers and demonstrated commands for Zukhara’s first spell.
The Turic watched avidly, then followed her instructions until he had formed a perfect greenish-white sphere of light. Late into the night the sorceress and her pupil practiced and discussed, manipulated magic and worked on simple skills, until Kelene was exhausted and Gabria drooped beside her.
Indefatigable, Zukhara ordered them to lie down, retied their hands, and departed, his back still straight, his step as forceful as always.
“Oh, Mother,” Kelene sighed when he was gone. “What are we going to do? He’s at least as strong as Sayyed, and he’s learning fast.”
“I was afraid of that when I saw him work. He burns with ambition. But what is he planning? Why is he so determined to have a splinter within ten days?”
Kelene sighed and closed her eyes. She was so tired, and there was nothing left she could say.
Gabria’s questions passed into silence unanswered.
Zukhara slammed his hand on the rough table. “What tripe are you showing me? Why will it not work?” he demanded. Stewing in frustration, he tried again to form a simple transformation spell to change a cluster of grapes into a handful of plums. He focused on the grapes and spoke the words of the spell for the third time.
On the bunk behind him, Gabria wordlessly moved her fingers and used her own will to throw his magic astray. The grapes on the table wavered a few times, then burst under the pressure of the vying sorcery.
The Turic spat a curse.
“Be patient,” Kelene told him coolly. “Concentrate on what you want. You have to know exactly what you intend to create or the spell will go awry.”
“I know what I want,” he ground out.
“Then perhaps you are not trying hard enough to control the magic. If you cannot master these simple spells, you will never he able to control the more complex sorcery.”
They eyed each other across the table, Kelene stiff and her head thrown back; Zukhara tense and angry, the lines pulled tight around his mouth and across his brow. In the flickering lamplight, he reminded Kelene of a black—and-gold adder, its large, dark eyes glittering, its lean head poised to strike.
“All right, try something a little simpler.” she suggested, pushing the dripping grapes aside and picking up a flask of water. She poured a small amount of water into a dish and placed it before the Turic. “With a minor spell you can turn this water to ice,” she said and showed him how to do it.
Zukhara tried the spell and managed to create a film of ice on the water before the pottery dish shattered and spilled water across the table. Kelene watched him impassively, like a teacher helping a pupil who cannot quite grasp an easy concept. He tried spell after spell, and no matter how hard he tried, everything went wrong.
An hour later he was struggling to create a flame on a candle when Kelene suddenly lifted her head. From somewhere nearby came the sounds of boots scuffling on the ground, several soft thuds, and the mutter of muted voices. Gabria didn’t have to break the spell that time, for the disruption caused Zukhara to jerk his hand, and the candle sagged into a pool of melted wax. Muttering under his breath, Zukhara strode to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out.
Kelene followed him with her eyes and saw a dark-clothed man meet him just outside the door. “Counselor, we have found two more pilferers in the wagons,” she heard the man say.
Zukhara looked at something out of Kelene’s sight.
“Get rid of them,” he ordered. “But not here. More deaths will draw attention. Take them out past the oasis.”
The callousness in his voice chilled Kelene with a hollow foreboding. It could so easily be herself or Gabria he so casually disposed of. The counselor climbed back into the wagon, dusting his hands as if ridding his palms of some dirty annoyance. He settled on his stool across from Kelene and almost negligently flicked his hand and set the wick of the melted candle burning. He stared at the tiny flame for a long time, his volatile expression lost in thought. The silence built around him, thick as walls.
In one sudden movement and without warning, he sprang from his seat and delivered a stunning blow to Gabria’s jaw. The fury of the assault snapped back her head, with an audible crack, against the wooden wall.
“Get back!” he roared at Kelene when she jumped to help her mother. With fierce deftness, he retied Gabria’s hands and stuffed the gag back in her mouth. Mute with suspicion, he sat down and repeated the transformation spell Kelene had tried to teach him. The cluster of split grapes turned into a heap of delicate purple plums. He tried every spell they had practiced that had gone wrong, and each one worked perfectly. Kelene watched him, too terrified for Gabria to intervene.
“So,” he hissed. “You thought to dissuade me from my goal by ruining my magic.” He turned his baleful glare on Gabria. She lay half-stunned, her face white and her body limp. Blood ran down her chin from a cut on her mouth. She attempted to focus on him, her frustration and anger almost as potent as his. “You cannot stop me. Understand, fools, magic is part of my destiny. It is one of the weapons foretold in the prophecy.”
There was that allusion to a prophecy again, Kelene realized. “What are you talking about? How can a clan power be any part of a Turic prophecy?” she snapped, her tone made sharp by her nervousness.
Zukhara seemed to swell before her eyes. Tall as he was, he straightened his spine, threw back his long shoulders, and jutted his chin forward arrogantly. “Five hundred years ago when your paltry horse clans were still settling the plains, the Prophet Sargun wrote The Truth of Nine from his prison in the dungeons of Sarcithia, while it was still part of the Tarnish Empire. When he escaped and returned over the mountains to his homeland, he founded the city of Sargun Shahr and gave his book to his younger brother. The city has since vanished. We still seek it today, but The Truth of Nine is in Cangora in the keeping of the Holy Order in the great temple of Sargun.”
Kelene felt her mouth drop open, not at the lecture, for most clanspeople knew the generalities of Turic his-tory, but at the conclusion she drew from his rhetoric. “Are you saying there is a prophecy about you in that book?”
He leaned forward, his hands on the table, and his daunting figure cast shadows over her still form. “The sixth,” he said as cold as winter. “ ‘And the Gryphon shall rise to lay flame to the desert and feed on the blood of the unbelievers. Tyrants shall bow before him and nations shall fall at his feet.’” Zukhara’s voice dropped to a low intonation, reciting the words of the prophecy as if breathing a prayer. “By these signs will you know him. In his hand shall be the lightning of the north, and the wind of the Living God shall uphold him. Drought, pestilence, and famine will open his way, and the copper gate will fall before his mighty strength. Before the eye of his chosen handmaiden, he will stand in the light of the golden sun, and a bastard will sit on the throne of Shahr.’” His words dropped away, and he stood poised, his thoughts running ahead to the future and the fulfillment of his dreams.