“Our sources?” Kelene chuckled. “Sounds so mysterious.”
Gabria’s fair face lit with a gleam of humour. “It’s amazing what you can learn from caravan drovers, travelling bards, merchants, and traders. They love to talk when you bring them in off the cold plains and give them a hot meal and a dry bed. We learned much this winter about the Fel Azureth and the tribes’ troubles.” She shook her head, and the humour faded from her green eyes. “They haven’t had good rain in two years. The land is dry, and the rivers are low. The Shar-Ja has done little to help. The tribes grow so desperate, even this extremist group looks promising to some.”
“And you and Father think this Fel Azureth may have something to do with the attacks on our people?” Kelene suggested shrewdly.
Gabria nodded. “That was one reason why he asked for this council, to spur the Shar-Ja into some sort of action against these fanatics before their raids lead us into war.”
“Then perhaps we’ll see some reaction today at council,” Kelene said. “Peoren is going to have his say about the attack on his clan. He has been very patient so far, but I think he’s about to explode.”
“Just be careful of Zukhara,” said Gabria with motherly fervour.
Kelene’s eyes narrowed as a new thought occurred to her. “Do you think he has some connection with the Fel Azureth?”
“No one knows. But as Demira pointed out, there is a taint about him.”
Across the river a horn blew a sonorous note to call the clans and the tribes to council. Another meeting was about to begin. Demira’s ears swept forward as Eurus, Tibor, and Afer cantered by to meet Lord Athlone, Rafnir, and Sayyed. The little Hunnuli nickered impatiently while Kelene gathered her combs and brushes, restored them to the carry bag, and handed them to Gabria.
Kelene took leave of her mother and trotted Demira down to the river to join the clan chiefs. This time she paid close attention to Counsellor Zukhara when he arrived with the Turic delegation. Just as Demira described, while other Turics admired the magnificent Hunnuli, Zukhara held well back, keeping the Shar-Ja and Bashan between himself and the black horses.
Interesting, thought Kelene. Was he afraid of them? Or was he just not interested? Did he know of the Hunnuli’s intuitive ability to read human character?
Keenly aware of Zukhara, Kelene followed the men into the council tent. She noted that he seemed to avoid the Shar-Ja and his son, as if he did not want to associate with them. He refused to sit but stood aloof, his hands clasped behind his back, his long legs apart and braced for a lengthy wait. The other tribal leaders were deferential to him, yet Kelene saw many of them eye him with subtle wariness or shift their gaze away from him completely.
The sorceress pursed her lips in thought while she poured and served refreshments as usual. The wine was good this time, a light crisp fermentation from the Khulinin’s own reserves, and the Turics appreciated it.
Only Zukhara turned it down. When she came to him, he grasped her tray in both hands, forcing her to stop in front of him. He was so tall she had to lift her eyes to see his face, and when she did so, with a bold, angry glare, he curled his lips in that condescending smile that so rankled her, “What, no mead today, my lady?” he said softly. “Not even for me?” His long fingers suddenly grasped her right wrist and twisted it upward to expose the diamond splinter that lay beneath the skin of her forearm. He studied it, tracing his finger along its glowing length.
The splinter was a slender sliver of diamond, embedded in the wrist of a magic-wielder when he or she completed training. It was a powerful emblem, and to Kelene, a personal one that should not be revealed and examined without her consent. Her face flamed red at the man’s audacity, but she controlled her famous temper for the sanctity of the council and deftly twisted her arm out of his grasp. “Not today, Counsellor Zukhara,” she replied with frosty calm and turned away before her father or her husband came forward to protest the man’s rudeness. It wasn’t until she finished serving the refreshments and sat down that she realized Zukhara had spoken to her in perfect Clannish.
She was still inwardly seething when Peoren took the stand before the council to describe the surprise attack on his treld. Eight days of rest, Kelene’s gentle ministrations, and his own youthful energy had worked wonders on the boy’s battered countenance and his sense of maturity. Although only sixteen, he had left his boyhood behind on the bloodied fields of Ferganan Treld, and he stood before the gathered chiefs and tribesmen with the determination and authority of an adult. Knowing he had the support of the ten chieftains, he launched into a passionate and detailed description of the tragedy. Sayyed translated for him and did not change or leave out a single word.
At first there was little reaction from the Shar-Ja or his nobles — which little surprised the clansmen. The Turics had shown almost no emotions to any of the previous complaints. But as Peoren continued with the account of his father’s last stand and the bravery and sacrifice of his hearthguard, the Turics began to grow restive and visibly upset. Their impassive faces darkened in anger; their heads turned toward one another to exchange agitated whispers.
Kelene, her attention still centred on the tall counsellor, noticed Zukhara was the only one who remained unmoved. In fact, his expression had the look of a man who had heard the tale before and lost all interest.
“Your Highness,” Peoren was saying to the Shar-Ja, “to my knowledge, our two peoples have not declared war upon one another, nor has there been a state of animosity between us. My father died not understanding why his neighbours and those he called friends were killing his people.” The young man took a step forward and held out the bloodied scrap of blue cloak sent to Lord Athlone. His pale grey eyes flashed like steel. “There was no reason for your people to attack mine. Highness. Therefore I demand weir-geld, blood money to be paid for the deaths in our clan. Thirty-six people were dead when I left and several more were badly wounded. If we are not recompensed as stated by our clan laws, we the Ferganan will wage a blood feud until every Turic in that raiding party is dead.”
The Turics were silent now, their faces grim and intent. They knew Peoren was deadly serious. Blood feuds were sacred to clan society; revenge was a survivor’s right and honour.
Kelene held her breath while she waited for the Turics’ response. How they dealt with Peoren’s demands would tell a great deal about who was truly responsible for the raids across the border. If the tribal leaders were softening the clans for war, they would brush over the Ferganan’s claims as unimportant. But if Lady Gabria was right and the rebel extremists were attacking the southern clans, then the Turics would respond with honour and, Kelene hoped, with action.
The Shar-Yon started to stand, but his father gestured to him to remain seated. Slowly the Turic overlord pushed himself to his feet and drew up to his full height. Some measure of his old vigour and spirit still remained in his beleaguered body, and he drew on that now to address Peoren and the clan chiefs.
“Young man, it is my deepest grief that this tragedy has come to pass,” the Shar-Ja spoke. Although his hands trembled with the effort of standing upright, his glance was clear and his voice was still steady and powerful.
While Sayyed translated, the clansmen and Kelene gave the overlord their full attention, for this was the first time the Shar-Ja had spoken at the council.
“I did not know of the disaster,” said the Shar-Ja, “and judging from the expressions of my advisors, I believe it is the first time many of them have heard of it, too. We knew a band of malcontents and rebels was marauding along the border, and men were sent to end these raids. But, to my disgrace, I did not follow through to be certain the raiders had been stopped. Obviously, my troops failed me.” He paused there and cast a cold look of disapproval at Counsellor Zukhara before turning back to the chiefs. “You must understand, difficulties have arisen from the two-year drought that has stricken our realm. My people grow desperate as we face another year of crop failure and dry wells. But it was never my intention that our problems would spill over onto you. My lord chieftains, I shall pay your weir-geld out of my own coffers, and any damages resulting from earlier raids will be paid by the marauders themselves or by the northern tribes who have harboured these thieves.”
Several Turic nobles looked shocked, but the others inclined their heads in agreement. Whatever had held them back before had apparently been put aside for the moment, because most seemed to agree that a settlement was necessary.
As Sayyed finished translating the Shar-Ja’s speech, a murmur of approval ran through the ranks of clansmen, and a feeling of relief, too. Now they finally knew they were dealing with outlaws, not the entire Turic nation. Perhaps the Turic tribesmen, in spite of their overwhelming numbers, knew they had enough problems in their own land without incurring the wrath of the Dark Horse Clans and their magic-wielding sorcerers.
Peoren threw the scrap of cloak into the fire and bowed slightly to the Turic in acceptance. Lord Athlone and Lord Fiergan, the fiery, red-haired chief of Clan Reidhar, joined the youth. Sayyed accompanied them, as well, and as Lord Athlone made his reply, he translated the fluid, rolling tongue of the clans into the more abrupt and literal speech of the Turics.
The lord of the Khulinin formally thanked the Shar-Ja for his generosity and presented the Turic scribe with a complete list of damages, stolen property, and lives lost among the four clans hit by the rebel marauders.
“Shar-Ja,” Athlone continued civilly, “we did not come to this council just to make demands. We offer a renewal of peace, a treaty of cooperation between our peoples. Let us offer vows of alliance, if not friendship, to you and your nation. We are not rich in goods or many in numbers, but what we have we share with our neighbours.”
Kelene lifted her chin, her senses suddenly attuned to those around her. She felt that strange tingling in her spine again, the furious hot and cold emotions of a man with a powerful mind. Immediately her eyes sought Zukhara, and although he had not moved or changed expression, she knew the rage came from him as surely as heat emanated from a fire.
“What in Sorb’s name is he so angry about?” she murmured to herself.
Whatever infuriated the tall man, he did not make any indication or show any obvious sign of his fury to the rest of the council. Like a statue he stood aside from the proceedings and merely watched. Only Kelene had an inkling of the volcano behind his deep-set eyes.
Kelene studied him worriedly and wondered if she should warn Rafnir or her father. But what could she tell them? That the counsellor was rude to her and angry about something? That was less than useful. Not every Turic was as diplomatic as the Shar-Ja or likely to be happy about a peace treaty. A few of the tribal leaders were sure to be disgruntled about the Shar-Ja’s decision to make the northern tribes responsible for the damages to the clans. Perhaps Zukhara was one of those. Whatever his problem, he did not seem inclined to make trouble at this meeting, and because of that, Kelene decided to keep her peace — at least until she had a clearer cause to speak up. The Shar-Ja was speaking to her father again, so Kelene set her unproductive thoughts aside and turned her attention back to him.
“The present Treaty of Council Rock is thirty years old. It was signed, in fact, by your father, Lord Savaric, and by the lord of the dead Corin clan, Lord Dathlar.” A ghost of a smile flitted over the old man’s face. “Much has changed in thirty years, Lord Athlone. Your powers have become accepted above the Altai River and your magic-wielders work wonders. Perhaps it is time we craft a new treaty of peace. Magic such as yours would be a better ally than enemy.”
The tremor in the Shar-Ja’s hands became more pronounced, and his face faded to a bloodless pallor. He sank back into his chair, his strength gone.
Kelene jumped to her feet, deeply concerned by his appearance, but before she could get close to the Shar-Ja, Counsellor Zukhara moved to block her path to the chair. He paid no attention to her, only gestured to the litter-bearers, who came instantly to the monarch’s side.
“Forgive me if I do not stay to finish this,” the Shar-Ja managed to say. “My son will speak for me, and you may write the treaty with him.”
The chiefs bowed as the Shar-Ja was carried from the tent. Kelene did not know whether to feel annoyed that Zukhara went with him, preventing her from slipping out and trying to visit the overlord alone, or relieved that the counsellor had gone. Without his imposing, negative presence, the whole tent seemed lighter, as if a dark cloud had moved from the face of the sun.
Maybe the other delegates felt it too, or maybe they were simply anxious to end the council. Whatever the reason, the afternoon flowed productively until dusk, when the clan chiefs and the Turic tribesmen called a halt to the meeting. Both sides had a copy of the rough draft of their treaty, hastily written by scribes and witnessed by all there. A final draft was to be completed and signed the next day.
As the chiefs left the tent. Lord Fiergan slapped Peoren on the back. “Good job, boy,” he said gruffly. “Your father will rest at ease.”
“Do you really think the Shar-Ja will pay?” Peoren asked anxiously, retrieving his short sword from the weapon rack by the front entrance.
“The overlord is a man of his word,” Lord Athlone assured him.
“If he’s allowed to keep his word,” Kelene interjected.
The Amnok, Lord Terod, hoisted his eyebrows toward his thinning hair. “What do you mean by that? Who would prevent the Shar-Ja from fulfilling his promise?” he asked sharply.