Kelene recognized immediately the emissary who had spoken four days before. He stood a head over the tallest Turic in the tent, and his hooded eyes watched everything with a cold, avid gaze. He made no move to help the Shar-Ja but waited with ill-concealed impatience behind the others while the young man settled the Shar-Ja in a heavy wooden chair provided for that purpose and propped him comfortably with rugs and pillows.
Kelene craned around Lord Wendern’s big head to see the Shar-Ja. She frowned when she finally got a close look at the man. Rumours of his ill-health were obviously true.
The Shar-Ja was barely fifty, yet he looked as old as seventy. A grey pallor clung to his face, and his skin hung loose over his shrunken frame. His hands shook as he pulled off his burnoose and revealed a ring of greyish hair that clung to the back of his balding head. Until recently he had been a powerful man, strong, athletic, and known for his just and firm government. In a society ruled by a strict code of conduct, the Shar-Ja was known as an honourable man.
So what, wondered Kelene, had brought on this rapid decline? She glanced at Sayyed, who stood beside her father, and saw that he, too, was frowning. He did not like the appearance of the Shar-Ja either. It seemed odd to Kelene that she had not been invited to attend to the monarch. She had understood that the Turic messenger had specifically asked for her to come to the council, yet sick as the Shar-Ja appeared to be, no one had bothered to request her assistance.
Kelene suddenly realized the tent was very quiet. Every man had taken his seat and was waiting for someone else to make the next move. Her father glanced at her and nodded once. Clan hospitality dictated that guests were sacrosanct and that any gathering, small or large, was always made more pleasant with food and drink. Because the clans had initiated the council, they considered the Turics their guests, even on an island that was essentially a no-man’s-land. A fire had been laid in a central hearth to chase away the morning chill; rugs, stools, and pillows were provided for comfort; and trays of food, pottery cups, and wineskins had been left in the tent for refreshment.
Kelene stepped into the watchful silence and bowed politely to the Shar-Ja. She held herself tall and proud as she walked to the cache of food and wine. She had braided her long black hair in a matron’s braid that hung to her waist and danced with its ties of jaunty green ribbons. Keeping her hands steady, she knelt, laid out the cups and trays, and poured a single measure of the heavy red wine. She paused only when a strong, sour smell reached her nose.
Her eyes narrowed as she tasted the wine and calmly swallowed it. Fools, she thought fiercely to herself. Someone had brought wine without bothering to check if it had spoiled on the journey.
Smoothly she took the cup to Lord Athlone to confirm her findings. His expression did not change at the bitter taste. He only glanced at his daughter and inclined his head as he handed the cup back to her. He had confidence that she would rectify the problem.
Kelene knew every eye was on her by that time. Clansmen and Turic alike were awaiting refreshments. There was really only one thing she could do. Serving the spoiled wine would insult the Turics and cast dishonour on the chiefs. Running back to the camp for more wine would take too long and could irritate the Shar-Ja and his counsellors. She would have to use magic.
She knew the Turics did not approve of sorcery. They did not despise it with the fervent zeal of past generations of clanspeople, but like anything not understood, sorcery was condemned in Turic society. In order not to infuriate the already defensive tribesmen, she would have to work surreptitiously and pray no one noticed her spell.
She smoothed all expression off her face and looked about for a useful vessel. Fortunately someone had left a large pitcher with the wineskins, and Kelene carefully filled it to the brim with soured wine. With her hand over the pitcher’s mouth, she thought of the finest beverage she could remember: a mead, a cool, light honey wine, delicately sweet as spring flowers, as golden as morning light, fermented from honey harvested from a bee colony she and Demira had found in the southern cliff face on Moy Tura’s plateau. No one outside of Moy Tura had tasted that wine yet, but if she could duplicate it with magic, she was sure her father would approve.
Kelene concentrated on what she wanted. She felt the magic around her in the earth, the grass, the stone of Council Rock, and with her mind she pulled the magic into her will, shaped it to her design, and silently whispered her spell to clarify exactly what she wanted. When she pulled her hand away, the red wine was gone, replaced by a crystal yellow liquid that smelled of honey and spices.
Kelene tasted a little from her father’s cup. The resulting mead was not as full-bodied and rich as the original, but it was delicious enough to be served to the clan chiefs and the Turic nobles.
She served her father first, to reassure the Turics that the wine and the food were not poisoned; then she swiftly and efficiently served the Shar-Ja, his men, the chieftains, and the clan warriors. That her mead was appreciated quickly became apparent by the low hum of conversation, the occasional quiet laughter, and a more relaxed atmosphere.
Besides Sayyed and Rafnir, a few clansmen from Clan Shadedron and Clan Wylfling could also speak Turic, and several Turics could converse in Clannish. Before long the two groups were passing plates of dried fruit and sweet cakes and exchanging wary compliments.
Kelene looked on with satisfaction. She quickly converted all the spoiled wine to mead, placed filled pitchers within reach of the men, and wordlessly sat beside Rafnir. Her husband took her hand and gave her a wink.
Finally the Shar-Ja raised his hand for quiet, and one by one the men fell silent. The clanspeople leaned forward, waiting for the Shar-Ja to speak and open the negotiations.
Instead he inclined his head to the young man beside him, relinquishing his authority. The man approached the stand, a square of space between the two groups where a person had the right to speak. In his midtwenties, he was a good-looking man with strong cheekbones and a thick cap of black hair tied in a single plait. He bowed to the clan chiefs. “I am Bashan al Rassidar, the Shar-Yon, eldest son of my father. In the name of Shar-Ja Rassidar, I welcome the Lords of the Eleven Clans,” he began. His voice, firm and assured, spoke in credible Clannish and went on to greet each chief and apologize for the delay.
While she listened, Kelene stared intently at the Shar-Ja, who was watching his son with obvious pride — the father grooming his heir to assume the throne. Sooner than later, Kelene judged. There was too much grey shadow in the old man’s face, too much lassitude in his body. If only she knew what was wrong.
A quiver of awareness ran up her backbone, a cold, trickling feeling that lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. She tensed, her eyes wide and her nostrils flared, her senses as alert as a wary deer’s. She felt something odd, a surge of intensity in the air around her. Normally she could sense emotions only if she was in physical contact with a person, but she had honed her empathic talent until once in a while she could sense strong feelings from someone close by.
She concentrated all her ability on the strange tingling, and like a form taking shape in the mist, the emotions clarified in her mind: greed that shook her with its need and hatred as cold and implacable as a glacier. The focus of those feelings was not clear, only their intensity. Heat and ice raged unseen in a man’s heart, and no one but she was the wiser.
Slowly she lifted her eyes and found herself drawn into the bitter, dark gaze of the man named Zukhara. He stared full into her face, devouring every detail of her features. Then he deliberately lifted his cup to salute her, and his thin mouth lifted in a smile that pulled his lips back from yellowish teeth, like the snarl of a waiting wolf.
Kelene’s eyes flashed a bright and .steely challenge.
Still smiling, Zukhara turned his gaze away from her, dismissing her as obviously as a master sends away a slave. Almost immediately the powerful sense of emotions faded from Kelene’s mind.
She sat, feeling cold and oddly disturbed. The strength of the counsellor’s mind, the intensity of his emotions, and the unshakable presence of his arrogance were all enough to cast a gloomy shadow over her thoughts. None of the clansmen seemed to know who Zukhara was or where he came from, and Kelene began to seriously wonder why he had come to the council. Whom did he hate with such intensity?
She slowly sipped her drink and decided to forget her worries for now. She determined to keep an eye on Zukhara in the future, but at that moment the Shar-Yon was talking favourably of peace and the council was off to an auspicious beginning. Better to help the peacemakers build their bridges than fret over one individual.
There is a storm coming.
“What?” Kelene muttered from somewhere under Demira’s belly. She gave the mare’s front leg one last swipe with the brush and moved to the hind leg where reddish mud had caked into the ebony hair.
There is a storm coming,
Demira repeated patiently.
From the north.
Kelene did not doubt her. The Hunnuli’s weather sense was as infallible as their ability to judge human character. The sorceress continued brushing and asked, “Can you tell what it is?” A thunderstorm would be a pleasant change. The turbulent lightning storms provided a phenomenon for magic-wielders by enhancing the magic already present in the natural world. The increased power energized the magic-wielders by strengthening their spells and increasing their endurance to wield magic. She was disappointed, though, and a little alarmed when Demira answered.
Snow. It is already snowing beyond the Goldrine River. It will be here in a day or two.
Kelene straightened and stared up at the huge arch of the sky. A solid, featureless sheet of cloud moved overhead, pushed by a steady wind from the north. The afternoon air was still mild, almost balmy, but Kelene knew that could change very quickly. This time of year, when winter and spring vied for rule of the plains, storms could be tricky and often treacherous.
“That’s just what we need,” she said irritably, stretching back under the mare to reach her inner hind leg.
“What’s what we need?” asked a different voice.
Kelene glanced around Demira’s leg and saw a familiar pair of boots and a red split-skirt, a red the same scarlet as that of the long-dead Corin clan. “A storm,” she called out to Gabria, then popped up and flashed a grimace at her mother over the mare’s folded wings. “Demira tells me a storm is moving this way.”
Picking up another horse brush, Gabria began to polish Demira’s other side. “Nara said the same thing. It will probably turn to sleet or freezing rain by the time it reaches us... which will make things only slightly more chilly and uncomfortable around here than it already is.”
Kelene grunted in agreement. “I don’t understand what’s the matter with the Turics. There’s a strong undercurrent of tension in their midst that has nothing to do with us. We’ve had two days of meetings and have accomplished nothing. It’s almost as if the Turics are afraid of saying much for fear of spooking someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” Kelene replied. “It isn’t the Shar-Ja. He almost never reacts. He sits in his chair and dozes half the time. Bashan, the Shar-Yon, is doing his best to push a settlement through, but the others keep blocking him with petty gripes and details.” She paused. She had not mentioned her misgivings about Zukhara to anyone, but perhaps her mother could give her a different perspective on the counsellor. “There is one man... even the Shar-Yon treads carefully around him.”
“The emissary Zukhara?” Gabria guessed.
“You know of him?”
“Sayyed and Rafnir told me about him,” Gabria hesitated, then added, “Sayyed said this man stares at you during the meetings.”
To that Kelene shrugged. She hadn’t realized anyone else had noticed. “He stares, but he says nothing. Perhaps he is only curious — and ill-mannered.”
He is not just curious,
Demira put in.
There is a taint about him I do not like. He will not come near the Hunnuli when we wait on the island for the council to end. The other Turics have spoken to us; the Shar-Ja has patted my neck. But this Zukhara stays away from us.
Kelene’s brows lowered. “I didn’t notice that. I wonder why?”
Gabria leaned against Demira’s warm wing and turned a concerned eye on her daughter. “Have you heard the Turics speak of the Fel Azureth?”
It seemed a simple question, but Kelene caught a distinct note of worry in her mother’s voice. She shook her head, the horse brush forgotten in her hands.
“The Azureth have surfaced only recently. It is a fanatical religious group sworn to the overthrow of the Shar-Ja’s throne and a return to the ancient practices of the Prophet Sargun.”
“Why hasn’t the Shar-Ja done anything about them?”
“I don’t think he can,” Gabria said sadly. “He’s too sick. His son has been handling many of his responsibilities, but he is too inexperienced to deal with such organized fanatics. The Azureth are very secretive. Even their leader, whom they call Fel Karak, is unknown to all but a few of the most trusted members. They are well organized, well supplied, heavily armed, and very dangerous.”
Kelene was both fascinated and alarmed. “But I thought the Shar-Ja was respected by his people. Have the tribes done anything to stop these rebels?”
“Our sources tell us the tribes are too busy trying to survive themselves.”