Kelene would have given almost anything to fly the gryphon away — almost anything but Gabria’s and Nara’s lives. The gryphon, too, would have to pay a price too high, for Zukhara had fashioned a collar spelled to release a killing bolt if she flew beyond two leagues of his position. Kelene did not know how the collar worked, but she was not going to find out by testing it. There had to be some other way she could take her mother, Nara, and the gryphon and escape from Zukhara. She just had to be patient and keep looking.
Kelene glanced down toward the ground. Already Zukhara’s army had stopped and made camp along the Spice Road. She sighed again and fought down the despair that seemed to hover over her with increasing potency.
When she first heard Zukhara’s plans, a part of her mind had dismissed them as the ravings of a deluded man, but in the past four days, everything had happened as he had said it would. The moment he stood before his followers at Impala Springs and proclaimed himself the new, true leader of the Turic tribes, men had flocked to his call. Kelene had no notion how he spread the word so fast — unless he had preplanned it — but true to his word, on the tenth day after he threatened Kelene, he called his holy war, and men from all over the realm arrived to answer his summons.
Thank the gods, Kelene thought, he had not fulfilled his threat to remove her arm for the diamond splinter. After Gabria had explained that there were no more splinters, and he had satisfied himself that the women’s could not be surgically removed, he dropped the issue for the time being and contented himself by awing his followers with demonstrations of his power, until everyone knew Zukhara did indeed carry the Lightning of the North in his hands.
In the meanwhile, Zukhara commanded Kelene to fly the gryphon at the head of his ever-growing army as it marched south toward Cangora. Even from the air the sorceress had seen the awe and the fear the gryphon’s presence wrought. Some people bowed low to the golden creature, others stared in stunned surprise, and still others fled at her approach. No one tried to withstand Zukhara’s army. The force of fanatics, rebels, and supporters marched unopposed along the caravan road. There seemed to be no one willing to make a stand for the Shar-Ja. Would it be the same in his own city?
The gryphon swept low over the parched grass. She was stiff and unwilling to land yet, so Kelene let her fly a few more minutes along the road. They had flown south only a short distance from the army when the gryphon’s ears perked forward and her nostrils twitched at the warm breeze.
Suddenly a light gust swept by, and Kelene smelled it too, the heavy stench of rotting bodies. She almost reeled in her place. A sharp, piercing picture burst from her memory, an image of her return to the clan gathering during the worst of the plague. Her stomach lurched, and Kelene forced her memories back before they overwhelmed her self-control.
Ahead through the twilight, she saw several shadowy things on the verge of the road. She peered harder, and s the gryphon flew closer, the entire disaster became clear. Burned and broken wagons, vans, and chariots lay on both sides of the path for as far as Kelene could see in the dimming light. Their contents were scattered everywhere, already picked over by looters. Dead horses bloated among the wreckage, and wherever Kelene looked, in the trampled grass, by the wagons, in small or large heaps, lay the bodies of dead men.
Kelene quickly turned the gryphon away and, ignoring her annoyed hiss, told her to return to the camp. They came to land in a clear space near Zukhara’s tent. Her hands shaking, Kelene fastened the gryphon’s chains as Zukhara had instructed, gave her a heaping meal of goat meat, and strode into Zukhara’s tent. Whatever she had intended to say was immediately squelched by Zukhara’s sharp gesture.
“Sit!” he ordered and pointed to a smaller chair near his. The man was seated in a large, ornate, high-backed chair near the centre of his spacious tent. Bright lamps lit the interior, and beautiful woven rugs covered the floor. Zukhara had dressed in black pants and a black robe embroidered with a golden gryphon standing rampant. The clothes were simple yet rich and on his tall, limber frame, very elegant. He sat composed, waiting expectantly with his officers on either side.
Kelene reluctantly perched on the chair he indicated. By Amara, if she had to swallow any more resentment, Kelene swore she would burst. She hated being put on display like this! Being the Gryphon’s “Chosen” had a few privileges, but they were all heavily outweighed by the disadvantages. She could only be thankful that he had been too busy to force his attentions on her again.
She heard the tread of boots outside, and eight men crowded into the tent. All but one saluted and bowed low before Zukhara. Kelene gasped. The one man who did not, or could not, bow was the Shar-Ja. If he had looked old and sick at Council Rock, he looked near death now. His once strong face sagged with loose folds of greyish skin. His red-rimmed eyes were nearly lost in the sunken shadows of his haggard face. He barely had the strength to stay upright, yet he fought off any hand that touched him and through some force of supreme will managed to stand unaided before Zukhara.
“Good,” the Gryphon said, a short, sharp bark of approval. “You caught him alive. And the boy?”
One officer stepped forward. “Your Highness, we have not yet found his body, nor the guard who was with him.”
A flicker of anger passed over Zukhara’s features, but he merely commanded, “Keep looking. I want no loose ends.”
“And what of me?” the Shar-Ja said scornfully. His voice had a surprising timbre to it that demanded Zukhara’s attention. “Am I a loose end, too?”
The lamplight fell in the Gryphon’s eyes and turned to black fire in a face as still and cold as ice. “No, Shar-Ja Rassidar. You are a very important part of my plans. Do you know the Ritual of Ascension?”
The old man gave a fierce bark of laughter and somehow stood straighter until he towered over the men around him. Kelene had not realized until then just how tall he really was, or how proud. “I am aware of the ritual. It was abolished several centuries ago.”
Zukhara’s smile came, quick and feral. “Yes, and in the name of Twice Blessed Sargun and to the glory of the Living God, I intend to resurrect the old ways, beginning with the Ritual.” He gestured to his men. “Take him to his wagon and keep him there. No one is to see him or go near him.” The men swiftly obeyed.
When they were gone, Zukhara turned his burning glance to Kelene. “You have done well, my lady. You and the gryphon have flown as successfully as I had hoped. I have a gift for you.”
Kelene flung herself to her feet. “Mother has but one day left! The only gift I need is her antidote.” He stood and walked to his table where a small tray of multicolored glass bottles stood shining in the light. He picked up a small vial sealed with wax. “As you have undoubtedly noticed,” he said, coming closer to her, “I am very knowledgeable in the arts of medicines and poisons.” He pulled the sorceress close and pressed her against his chest with one arm. With the other he held the vial up to a lamp. “Not only can I design a poison to suit my purposes, I also create antidotes and partial antidotes that delay the effects of the poison.”
Kelene’s jaw tightened. “Do you fulfil your promises?” she said between gritted teeth.
“Partially, my lady.” He chuckled and kissed her fully on the lips before he handed her the vial. “This will keep the poison in check for another ten days or so. Continue your exemplary behaviour, and I will give her more.”
“What about the antidote?” Kelene exploded. Would he keep this game going indefinitely?
“I hold it close,” he replied, and he pulled out the chain that held his ivory ward. There, hanging beside the ball, was a small, thin silver tube. “When I feel you have earned it, the reward shall be yours.”
Kelene clamped her mouth closed and averted her face. At least, she thought, he had not noticed the crack in the ivory ward.
He kissed her again, long and languorously deep, until Kelene thought she would gag; then with a sneer he pushed her toward the entrance. “Not tonight, my lady. Though the thought is sweet. I have too many things to attend to. Sleep well.”
Kelene did not bother to answer. She gripped the precious vial, whirled, and fled.
The Gryphon’s army rose at dawn to another clear sky and hot sun. They knelt in the dust for their morning worship and bowed low to Zukhara, the figurehead of their reverent zeal. Their fervour ran high that morning as they broke camp and prepared to march, for by evening they would reach the outskirts of Cangora and perhaps meet their first resistance from forces still loyal to the Shar-Ja. At least they hoped so. Their blood burned for battle and the opportunity to give their lives in service to the Living God and his servant, Zukhara. After all, Zukhara, the Mouth of Shahr, had told them all that such a death guaranteed their entrance to paradise.
At the sound of the horns, the men took their positions. The Fel Azureth, the fist of Zukhara, took the honoured place in the vanguard, their highly trained units riding like members of the Shar-Ja’s own cavalry on fleet horses. Behind them rolled the Shar-Ja’s wagon with its prisoner under tight guard. Then came the other combatants, some in orderly ranks on foot, some in mounted troops, still others — mostly rabble and hangers-on who had come for the loot, the thrill or motives of their own — marched in crowds at the rear. Behind them were the supply wagons, camp followers, and a unit of the Fel Azureth who kept vicious order on the trailing mobs.
The army set out under Zukhara’s watchful scrutiny and soon reached the wreck of the Shar-Ja’s grand caravan. Several days in the late spring sun had wrought havoc on bodies already torn by weapons and the teeth of scavengers. The stench along that stretch of road was thick and cloying and as heavy as the clouds of flies that swarmed through the ruins. The men wrapped the ends of their burnooses over their mouths and noses and pushed on, paying little heed to the dead.
Overhead, on the wings of the gryphon, Kelene tried not to look at the carnage below. She felt bad enough having to forward Zukhara’s cause with her presence, without witnessing the bloody results of his ambition. She prayed fervently he would not order her to use her magic against the Turics. So far, his own power had been enough to awe and terrify his people, and she hoped that his pride would prevent him from seeking overt aid from a woman. But who was to say? If the city of Cangora bolted its gates against him and his army had to lay siege to it, he might be angry enough to force her hand. His arcane prowess was growing by the day, but the power of a fully trained sorceress could open an unwarded city in short order.
Kelene patted the gryphon’s neck. Rafnir, she silently cried, I need you. Where are you?
She had no way of knowing that on that day Rafnir was far to the north, across the Altai with her father and the clan chiefs, preparing the werods for war.
That same morning, leagues behind Zukhara’s army, the riders of the Clannad crested a high ridge and looked down on the dusty, beaten path of the Spice Road on the flatlands below.
“This is as far as I can lead you. Lady,” the guide said gruffly. “I have never travelled beyond these hills.”
Helmar studied the road from one horizon to the as far as she could see. At that moment it was empty. “You have done well, thank you. The trail is clear now for all to see.”
Rapinor looked sceptical. “You want us to go down there?” All the warriors stared at the open road as if it was a poisonous snake.
“Too long a solitude makes a heart of fear,” Helmar responded, and she urged her mare into a trot down the hillside. The warriors did not hesitate further but followed after her straight, unyielding back.
They have been hiding for so long, it has become habit,
Afer commented.
“And how do you know that?” Sayyed inquired, still watching Helmar ride down the slope.
Helmar told me. I like her. Most of the Clannad are magic-wielders, you know. But she became chief because she proved herself to be the most talented.
“No,” Sayyed said, almost to himself. “I didn’t know. And did she also tell you how they came to be hidden away in the Turic mountains?”
Not yet,
the stallion nickered.
But I could make a few guesses.
“So could I,” Sayyed replied thoughtfully. “So could I.” He folded his golden cloak into a tight roll, tied it behind his saddle, and wrapped his burnoose around his head. If need be, he could pretend to be a Turic escorting new troops to Zukhara’s war. He didn’t know what they would find on the road ahead, and he did
not want to give Zukhara any warning that more sorcerers were coming after him.
He glanced critically at Demira shifting impatiently by his side, and he realized there was no possibility of disguising her long wings. There was only one thing he could think of that might explain her presence.
A halter!
she neighed.
That is humiliating!
No more than this saddle! If I can wear tack, so can you. For Kelene!
Afer told her severely.
So they left the mountains, a Turic on a big black horse, leading a winged Hunnuli mare. If anyone asked, Sayyed would tell them he had captured the mare and was taking her to the Gryphon.
Strangely enough, no one did ask that day, for though the road soon became busy, no one dared stop the strange troop of hard-eyed warriors jogging purposefully along the side of the road. Other groups of mounted or marching men travelled south toward Cangora, and a few refugees fled north. But not one person tried to join the troop or talk to any of its riders. They only stared as the white horses trotted by.