“Perhaps we did. Do you think we are here to assassinate the Shar-Ja as well?” Rafnir put in. “As Zukhara said, only clan blood carries the talent to wield magic.”
Tassilio squirmed and looked as if he would say something, but this time he waited and deferred to the warrior sitting beside him.
It was Hajira who spoke first. He put more fuel on the fire, poured more
firza
, and thought carefully before he made his answer. “I didn’t know what to think when I heard a clan magic-wielder was in the caravan. The thought that this sorcerer was here to harm the Shar-Ja crossed my mind. But I know you. Twenty-six years would not be enough time to turn my brother into an assassin.”
Tassilio’s head shook vigorously. “Not the half-breed who turned sorcerer, fought gorthlings and plagues and stone lions, who tames the black Hunnuli and rides with the Lady of the Dead Clan,” he blurted out. “Do you really have a diamond splinter in your wrist?”
Sayyed’s lips twitched at the boy’s outburst. He was amazed that Tassilio knew so much about his past and viewed it with such enthusiasm. Sorcery was supposed to be outlawed, but obviously the stories of the clans had travelled over the borders. Obligingly he pulled back the long sleeve of his robes and revealed a tooled leather wristband on his right arm. As soon as he loosened the lacings, the band slid off, revealing the pale glow of the splinter just beneath his skin. About two inches long, the slender diamond gleamed dusky red
through the blood that flowed around it.
Tassilio’s eyes grew wide. “So you are not here to kill Father. Why are you here?” he asked directly.
“To find Bashan’s murderer?” Hajira suggested.
Sayyed pulled the armband back on. “If we can, and to find the Lady of the Dead Clan and the healer with the winged horse,” he told them in a terse voice.
Both guard and boy sat up with a jerk and shared a bewildered look. “Lady Gabria and—”
“Kelene,” Rafnir finished for them. “My wife. She and Lady Gabria disappeared the night your caravan left Council Rock. We are trying to find them.”
Hajira did not ask why they had come to search the caravan. The fact that they had risked doing so gave enough credence to their news. “I can promise you they are not with the Shar-Ja or any of his immediate servants. Tassilio or I would know if they were there. Where else have you looked?”
Sayyed told him everything they had seen and examined so far. “We were checking wagons in the baggage train when we were jumped.”
“Odd place for an ambush,” Hajira said, scratching his neck thoughtfully. “I wonder if someone has something to hide and has set guards. They obviously didn’t know you were sorcerers, or they would have killed you instantly.”
“There are several big covered vans that could carry two Hunnuli,” Tassilio pointed out. “We could check them tomorrow night.” His sadness put aside, he turned his youthful enthusiasm to the thrill of the mystery.
His dark-clad guard turned on him. “What is this
we
?
You
will stay in your tent where you belong.”
Tassilio drew a long, quivering sigh, but one eyelid drooped in a quick wink to Sayyed.
They doused the fire and thoroughly erased every sign of their presence in the hollow. With Tassilio and dog leading the way, the two brothers walked side by side back to the sprawling camp. Tibor carried Rafnir, who still suffered the ill-effects of the vicious blow to his head. Sick and weak, Rafnir decided to find his blankets and sleep in a sheltered nook where Tibor could watch over him. Sayyed helped him find a place and settled him comfortably.
Tassilio dubiously eyed the big black horse standing over Rafnir. “Is that your Hunnuli? Where is its lightning?”
Tibor obliged his curiosity by turning his right shoulder to Tassilio. The boy dug his fingers into the stallion’s hair and crowed with delight when he found white skin beneath the black dye. To the brothers’ amusement, Tassilio asked if he could join Rafnir, saying he’d rest better if a Hunnuli guarded his bed.
Hajira acquiesced, and Tibor gently sniffed the boy all over and nickered his acceptance. Tassilio quickly bedded down next to Rafnir, his dog cuddled beside him, before Hajira could change his mind.
Although his head pounded and his muscles felt sore and weak, Sayyed did not want to sleep yet. Under Afer’s close watch, he and Hajira walked around the outer perimeter of the camp, talking for hours about everything that came to mind. Their companionship pleased Sayyed, for the years seemed to fall away, and he and his brother moved back into the easy, confident relationship they had enjoyed before their father tore them apart and sent Sayyed into exile.
For the first time since the plague, Sayyed found himself talking at length about Tam. While Hajira strode silently at his side, he told him of their life together, how Tam saved his life while still a girl, how he waited five years for her to reach maturity, of her love for her animals, her courage and strength, and at last, in a voice that still trembled after three years, he told his brother of her death in the plague tent and of the fatal grief of her Hunnuli.
When he was through, he drew a long breath and slowly exhaled, feeling better somehow for opening his thoughts to Hajira. He had kept his memories of Tam buried deep in his mind, out of sight where they would not hurt so badly, but now that he had brought them out fresh and shining for his brother, he realized he had been missing an important part of his healing. He needed to talk about Tam, to remember their love and joy together. To fail to do so diminished the life she had left behind.
When Sayyed’s words trailed away and he lapsed into his own thoughts, Hajira laughed softly, his black, brilliant eyes filled a new measure of respect. “For years I have hated Father for sending you away. Now I see that, knowing or unknowing, he did you the greatest of favours.”
They walked on peacefully for a while until they passed the cluster of luxurious tents set aside for the counsellors and the tribal leaders who attended the Shar-Ja. As they approached the Shar-Ja’s huge tent, several loyal guards on duty snapped to attention and saluted. The warrior did not return the salutes but nodded at the men’s mark of respect.
The sorcerer noted the strange exchange and said, “You were more than a guardsman, weren’t you?”
Hajira hesitated an instant, then drew himself up with warrior’s pride. “I was Commander of the Tenth Horse, the oldest and most honoured cavalry unit in the Shar-Ja’s guard. We were called the Panthers for our silence, our cunning, and our speed in the attack. Now I am a foot soldier in the lowliest ranks, whose only duty is obligatory guard on a simpleton of a sandrat.” Bitterness shook the timbre of his deep voice, and his hands curled as if gripping an invisible weapon.
“But that’s some sandrat,” Sayyed remarked, hoping ease Hajira’s tension.
His words helped a little, for the warrior’s hands relaxed, and he laughed ruefully. “That boy was a real surprise.”
“What happened?” Sayyed asked. They had passed the Shar-Ja’s tent and were walking by a large area of tents and crude shelters. The escorts from all fifteen tribes camped together, drinking, gaming, talking, and bickering half the night. Girls from the oasis settlement came to entertain them for coins, and enterprising tradesmen brought trays of food and kegs of drink to sell. Even at that late hour, a few fires still burned, and occasional laughter and song could be heard mixed with the mournful howls of wild dogs sniffing for food about the edges of the great camp.
Sayyed remembered the six dead assassins and wished the dogs a good meal. He glanced at his brother. There was just enough distant firelight for him to recognize the stony set of Hajira’s broad face, and he wondered if the warrior was going to ignore his question.
But Hajira had brought his anger under control and fully regained his trust in the younger brother he had once thought dead. “You know the Shar-Ja has been ill almost a year,” he began. “It was about that time that the Gryphon and his extremists captured the holy shrine of the Prophet Sargun and declared their intention to destroy the Shar-Ja’s corrupt court and return the leadership of the tribes to a high priest. No one paid much attention to them at first because the priests and the tribal councils were too busy dealing with the effects of the drought and the Shar-Ja’s declining health. No one was able to find the cause of his malady or a cure, so he turned over many of his responsibilities to his son.
“For a while, Bashan did a good job. But then things started to go wrong. Grain shipments to the cities disappeared; the tribal chiefs grew resentful; counsellors were murdered; violence on the roads increased dramatically. Then news came that the Fel Azureth was spreading across the realm and causing problems over the Altai. The remaining counsellors lost confidence in the Shar-Ja and his son. Finally someone suggested Counsellor Zukhara replace the Shar-Yon and take control of the royal council until the Shar-Ja returned to health.”
Here Hajira paused, and a wry smile crossed his lips. “Royal guards, even Panthers, are not permitted to draw weapons in the council chambers, but when that weasel-eyed, honey-tongued Zukhara agreed and ordered the Shar-Yon to leave the council, I objected.” He drew his long, curved tulwar and held it out at arm’s length. “With this. If Bashan had not ordered me to stand down, I probably would have killed the counsellor and paid for it with dishonour and disembowelling. Zukhara has hated me ever since.” His arm fell, and the gleaming blade whispered back into its sheath. “Bashan saved my life that day, but I was not there to save his. For the honour I owe his father, I will protect his brother and I
will
find Bashan’s killer.”
Sayyed stopped. “Then we hunt the same trail, for the Turics will not give the clans peace until the Shar-Yon is avenged.” He raised his right hand, palm upward, and extended it toward his brother.
Hajira’s hand met his, clasped it tightly, and lifted both into a joined fist that wordlessly sealed their vow of mutual trust and commitment.
Together they turned and began to walk back toward the place where they had left Rafnir and Tassilio. Afer dutifully followed, looking for all the world like a simple horse on a lead line. Only Sayyed and Hajira, who had seen both the killing fury and the loving devotion in the glittering dark eyes, knew the stallion for what he was.
The two men found the younger ones wrapped in their blankets, contentedly asleep under the attentive watch of the Hunnuli and the dog. Exhausted at last, Sayyed threw himself down by his son and fell into a rightfully earned sleep. Hajira prowled around the perimeter of their sleeping area for several more minutes, the ingrained caution of years urging him to check the dark shadows one last time before he slept. At last, cocking an eye at the two black stallions, he stretched out near Tassilio and allowed himself to rest.
Just before sunrise and the morning horns, Hajira woke Sayyed. Without speaking, they left the Hunnuli and the other sleepers and strode purposefully in the direction of the baggage wagons. They climbed a short rise where they could see the wagons and vans parked row by row in the early light. Talking and gesturing to hide their true intent, they took turns studying the wheeled vehicles.
After several minutes of this, Hajira’s expression turned thoughtful, and he said in a low tone, “Take a look at the large, covered van. Last row, near the end. There are several men lounging nearby.”
Sayyed made a casual turn as if he wanted to look at something on the paling horizon. “I haven’t noticed that one before. The brown one, wood roof, and some sort of red emblem on the side?” He felt a surge of hope. The van looked big enough to hold both the mares and the women.
“That’s the one. It looks worn. It’s probably a merchant wagon that was rented or borrowed. But those men down there do not look much like drivers.”
“Hmm, no. They are dressed like the men who attacked us. More guards perhaps?” Sayyed suddenly stiffened, and he had to force himself to look naturally away from the men below. “I know one of those men. The lean one. He has grey in his hair and a mole on his cheek. I saw him slip into the caravan two days ago.”
Hajira’s face lost its friendliness, and his eyes turned hot and frustrated. “Have you seen others coming into the caravan?”
“Several groups,” the sorcerer confirmed. “They were heavily armed and arrived at dusk.”
The warrior frowned. “I was right!” he said fiercely. “Someone is fattening the tribal levies with mercenaries and fanatics. I have tried to warn the counsellors, but no
one will listen to me. I am dishonoured!” he spat. “And other men are too afraid to talk. The Gryphon has sworn to call a holy war, and no one wants to get in his way.”
Sayyed sucked in his breath. A holy war was a call to battle in the name of the Living God, a call that few Turics would ignore. Usually the holy war was used in times of invasion or war with other nations. Never had a holy war been called to incite rebellion within the Turic nation itself. “The God forbid,” he murmured.
“Indeed. The Gryphon may be planning a coup before we reach Cangora in nine days.” He turned on his heel and strode down the rise away from the wagons. Sayyed followed. “We’d better find your women and get them out. We certainly do not need two magic-wielders caught in the middle of a civil war.”
Sayyed couldn’t agree more.
They split up after that, Hajira taking his charge to the front of the caravan near the funeral wagon and Sayyed and Rafnir riding in the midst of the tribal escorts. For fear of attracting attention, they all kept their distance from the wagon train that brought up the rear.