Tassilio could hear Sayyed even before he reach the outskirts of the camp. He waved to the outpost guards and ran directly to the healer’s tent where the brothers stayed under the watchful eye of the Clan healer.
“Where is that boy?” Sayyed was yelling. “He has been gone since sunrise.”
Tassilio understood the sorcerer’s sharp, angry pitch the moment he sauntered into the tent. Sayyed was on his side, his back to the entrance, his fists clenched, while the healer tried to clean the infected pus and flesh from the hole in his ribs.
“You’re a good man,” the clansman said through clenched teeth. “But on the whole I’d rather have Kelene as a healer.”
Before he could stop himself, Tassilio blurted out, “I saw her! With Zukhara.”
His unexpected voice caused everyone in the tent to startle, including the healer who accidentally poked Sayyed a little too hard in the tender flesh.
The clansman uttered a vile curse even Hajira had never heard. Ignoring his aching leg, the guardsman neatly collared Tassilio and pulled him to a seat near Sayyed. “Do not ever sneak up on a sorcerer who is in pain,” Hajira warned. “He might turn you into a toad.”
Tassilio’s eyes widened. “Could you do that?” he asked Sayyed breathlessly.
Sayyed glared at him. “Don’t tempt me. Where in the name of Sargun have you been? And what do you mean you saw Kelene?”
Before Tassilio could answer, Hajira limped to the tent flap and called for Helmar. The lady chief came quickly, slapping dust from her pants and hands.
She cast a sympathetic glance at Sayyed and an irritated one at Tassilio. “Heir or not, young man, you do not leave this camp without telling one of us first,” she admonished. “We looked everywhere we could for you,
and I will not allow you to add further to our troubles by getting yourself lost or killed or captured. Do you understand?”
Momentarily chastened, Tassilio hung his head and kicked his bare feet at the ground. He knew he deserved the reprimand — he had snuck out without asking — but he felt his news was worth the risk. His irrepressible good spirits came bounding back. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, his face alight with his tale. “But I did see Kelene. And Father, too. He is still alive!”
Helmar knew a lost cause when she heard it. “Then you’d better tell us,” she said with a sigh and sat down by Hajira.
Tassilio told them in excited tones how he had entered the city that morning, learned of Zukhara’s proclamation, and mingled in with the crowds at the palace. He repeated Zukhara’s speech almost word for word and described exactly what his father looked like and what Kelene was wearing.
“She is so beautiful!” exclaimed the boy who was obviously verging on manhood. “And her chin goes up when she’s mad, and her eyes are thunderous!”
Sayyed, bandaged and sitting upright, chuckled at Tassilio’s description. “So she has not been drugged or broken yet. That is a good sign.”
“But four days!” Tassilio exclaimed. “Zukhara said he will perform the Ritual of Ascension then. We’ve got to do something to help Father!”
“What is this ritual?” Helmar asked.
Hajira grimaced at the memory of the texts he had read about the rites. “It is an ancient ceremony that is intended to purge the throne of one monarch to make way for another. Ritualistic murder. Zukhara intends to behead the Shar-Ja and burn his body. He then takes a wife that same day and begins his own line on the throne of Cangora.”
“Where does Gabria fit into all of this?”
“My guess is she is being used as a lever against Kelene,” Sayyed answered.
“I hope she is still alive,” Helmar said.
Sayyed sighed so softly only Helmar heard him. “So do I,” he said.
Something in his tone unaccountably pricked Helmar’s feelings. There was more than mere worry in his voice; there was what... yearning? She mentally kicked herself for thinking such a thing, let alone letting it bother her, but her self-inflicted reprimand did little good. Immediately an unbidden, jealous pang insinuated itself into her thoughts and reminded her that Sayyed himself had admitted to loving this woman once. How many men put themselves in such jeopardy for someone else’s wife without good reason? Helmar flung herself to her feet before her thoughts got any more ridiculous. She strode out of the tent without another word.
In surprise, the men watched her go. Only the healer, an old and trusted friend of the chief, thought he understood. “She has never been married,” he tried to explain. “She does not yet understand.”
“Understand what?” wondered Sayyed.
The healer shrugged his bony shoulders. “How she feels about you.”
Stunned, Sayyed looked at his brother, then at the healer, and he felt his face grow hot. Despite having deeply loved two women and having been married to one for eighteen years, he had not understood either. He liked Helmar and respected her more than he thought possible, but he had never imagined she would feel the same for him. After Tam’s death he firmly believed there would be no other love for him. Now he examined his feelings and, for the first time, he realized his desire for love had not died but merely slept within his heart. Could Helmar be the one to revive it? He suddenly smiled. It was like discovering a beautiful box intact in the ruins and not knowing what he would find inside.
Intent on his own musings, he pulled on his loose tunic over his bandaged ribs and walked out of the tent in a direction opposite to the one Helmar had taken.
Tassilio grinned at Hajira and winked at Sayyed’s departing back.
The sun shone hot when a lone horseman approached the Clannad camp later that day. At the first low-pitched warning signal, the riders grabbed their weapons and formed a line of defence at the perimeter of the camp.
The rider, a Turic on a chestnut horse, reined his mount to a halt and studied the warriors with approval. He held up his hand in peace. “I am Mohadan, the Kirmaz-Ja. I see by your dress and white horses you are the troop I seek,” he said in Turic.
Hajira stepped out of the line of warriors and addressed tribal leader as an equal. “I am Hajira al Raid-Ja, Commander of the Tenth. Why do you seek us?”
The stranger lifted an arched eyebrow and leaned his arm on the saddle horn. “These are hardly Turic soldiers, Commander, and as I heard it, most of the Tenth was slaughtered.”
“Not all of us, Kirmaz-Ja. So we make do with what we have.”
“And what are you planning to do?”
Hajira, who knew the tribal leader to be a man of honour, gave a short bow. “Perhaps you would like to join us. We could discuss possibilities.”
The stranger dismounted and led his horse to the camp to meet with Hajira, Sayyed, Helmar, and Rapinor. The Clannad warriors stayed in position, relaxed yet alert while their chief led the Turic to the shade of several tall cedars. Cool wine and plates of cheese and dates were brought and served by Tassilio. The Kirmaz-
Ja sat wordlessly, watching the preparations with a fascinated eye. He seemed particularly intrigued with Helmar and her obvious authority.
“I do not know of you, Lady,” he said in rough but credible Clannish, “or your people. You are like clan and yet not clan. And how is it that a woman leads a troop of warriors? Some of whom,” he suddenly noticed, “are also women.”
“Swords and bows are not our first weapons,” Helmar replied. “Strength of arms is not as important as talent to us.”
The Turic narrowed his eyes. He had smallish eyes deep set behind a thin nose, but they were not piggish eyes, for his face was too hard and narrow, and his gaze glittered with intelligence and wit. He had a grizzled beard trimmed close to his jaws, and his knotted hair was iron grey. He shifted his eagle’s glance from Helmar to Sayyed. “And you, you are Turic no longer. I would guess you are the half-breed who turned to sorcery.”
Sayyed merely lifted his cup in reply, impressed by the man’s knowledge and intuition.
“Are you here because of the women Zukhara holds?” Mohadan wanted to know.
Briefly Sayyed and Hajira told the Kirmaz-Ja the events beginning at Council Rock and leading up to their arrival at the outskirts of Cangora. Sayyed only touched on his time in Sanctuary and the Clannad’s offer to ride with him, but Mohadan’s sharp attention missed nothing, and he studied the warriors around him with keen interest.
When the narrative was through, however, Mohadan drove straight to the point that had brought him to see them. “I was told yesterday what your men did for the dead at the Saran Oasis. The families were grateful that you defied the Gryphon’s edict to let the men hang until they rotted. So tell me now, will you join your forces to mine and help me bring down the Gryphon?”
Hajira shared a glance with Helmar and Sayyed before he turned to Tassilio sitting close beside him. “Is it your will, Shar-Yon, that we unite with this man and the enemies of the Gryphon?”
For the first time, Mohadan’s expression registered real surprise. He had paid little attention to the boy who had served the wine, and now he focused all his fierce regard on the son of the Shar-Ja. “You are the sandrat? Rumour said you were dead.”
The boy looked startled at the name by which Hajira had called him, but he collected himself quickly. “No, Kirmaz-Ja,” Tassilio replied with every ounce of his father’s dignity. “I am the Shar-Yon, and I am very much alive.”
Mohadan, the traditionalist, the man sworn to honour the throne of the Shar-Ja, had never once considered
the possibility of winning the throne for himself. He greeted the unexpected appearance of an heir with sincerity and relief and bowed low before the boy. His gesture sealed Hajira’s decision.
At a nod from Tassilio, Hajira drew a dagger from a sheath at his waist and jabbed it into the ground in front of Mohadan. By doing so, he followed an old Turic custom of offering his services to another tribal leader. If Mohadan pulled the dagger free and returned it, he would accept Hajira’s services in an agreement as binding as a blood vow.
The Kirmaz-Ja looked at the blade quivering in the dry grass. “I welcome your assistance. Commander, but I must ask, does this also include the sorcerer and the lady and her warriors? I have a feeling that without them, we will stand little chance against Zukhara’s power.”
Sayyed answered first. “I have already sworn to my own lord that I will do everything I can to return the sorceresses to the clans. To that end, I will help you for as long as the women are held captive.”
“Fair enough, Clansman.” He turned to Helmar who was sitting beside her guard, “And you, Lady?”
Sayyed was taken aback by the bold look of interest in the man’s eyes when he looked at the chief, but Helmar seemed to pay no heed. Unaffected, she tilted her chin and replied coolly, “I made my promise to Sayyed to help free Lady Gabria and Kelene. We will do what needs to be done.”
The man’s jaw tightened, and his eyes hardened under a thoughtful frown, as if he had just made an unwelcome observation. He glanced at Sayyed then nodded to himself in decision. Without further hesitation, he yanked the blade free and passed it hilt-first to the royal guard. Hajira accepted it back with a thin smile.
“Now,” said Mohadan, jumping to his feet, “if you will break camp and come with me, I have something I show you.”
They followed his suggestion, swiftly and efficiently, and in less than an hour were riding in a column along caravan road toward Cangora. They bypassed the city by a wide loop and trotted into the hills on the southern end of the broad valley. Mohadan led them into the first deep dale they reached and pointed them toward a long meadow where a large, bustling camp sat along the banks of a dry streambed. The yellow banner of the Kirmaz floated above one of the tents.
“Most of those men are my own,” said the Kirmaz-Ja, indicating the camp with a wave of his hand. “Some are survivors from the caravan. Others have been coming as word spreads. Not all goes Zukhara’s way. There is fighting along the coast and in the cities of Hazereth and Shamani where the Fel Azureth have met resistance from several tribes — including the Raid. Perhaps two hundred men have gathered at my summons. More will come.” He indicated a place in the meadow where they could erect their camp near his.
“If all goes as planned,” Sayyed told him as they all dismounted, “there will be more men soon. My son is bringing Lord Athlone and the werods to aid the Shar-Ja as promised in their treaty.”
A second look of surprise spread over Mohadan’s face. Surprise, Sayyed thought, was not a common emotion to the hard-bitten leader, and today they had managed to shake him twice.
“They are coming to help?” Mohadan almost shouted. “We thought they had crossed the Altai to take revenge for the capture of the women and the raids on their trelds by the Fel Azureth.”
“I sent for them six days ago.”
Mohadan gave a great, gusty snort. “They crossed the Altai yesterday. A messenger bird brought the news from a cousin of mine this morning.”
“Yesterday.” Sayyed looked thoughtful. “Then they are four or five days away — if they ride like the wind and no one stands in their way.”
“I will see that no one does! I will send an escort and a safe-pass for the men of the clans.”
“Kirmaz-Ja, that is an excellent idea, but may I suggest we send the safe-pass and an urgent message with the winged mare? Only she is swift enough to reach them quickly.”
I heard that and the answer is no!
Demira bugled before anyone else could respond. The mare pranced to Sayyed, her big eyes alight with anger.
I am not going away from Kelene again!
Mohadan could not “hear” what she sent telepathically, but he understood what she meant well enough from her stiff-legged stance and her flattened ears. He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Perhaps it would be better—”