Lightnings Daughter, Mary Herbert [year 7 reading list .TXT] 📗

tent usual y stood. To the clansmen the meadows looked empty and strange without the big camps, the bustling market, the huge council tent, and the throngs of people, dogs, and horses that crowded the site every year. Except for the ripple and rush of the two rivers and the wind sweeping through the bare trees, the place was quiet and peaceful.

For the first time in several days the sky was cloudless and the sun set with the promise of another clear day. After the evening meal, the warriors settled down by the fire to clean their weapons and tack.

Piers examined his medical supplies to see if any had been spoiled by the intermittent rains of the past twelve days. Khan'di sat on his cushion and cleaned his nails.

For a short time, Gabria watched Nara and her baby as the colt frolicked in some shallow water.

Beyond the horses, the gold light of sunset il uminated the circle of standing stones on the holy island of the gods in the middle of the rivers. Gabria looked at the island and then beyond to the far banks.

Every year when the clans gathered, each one encamped on the same site. The Corins had always made their camp to the north of the island on a wide, grassy bend of the Isin.

With little thought, Gabria took off her boots and waded across the gentle rapids of the Isin to the opposite side. She climbed the low bank and meandered slowly toward the trees that identified her clan's ground. As in the treld far to the north, there was little here to mark the passing of the Corins: a few old fire pits, a refuse pile that would last only until the next flood, and some cut trees. Like the Corins' meadow, there was also a burial mound. It had been left by the Khulinin when they camped on the Corin ground the previous summer.

Gabria wandered to the mound and stood gazing at the one spear and helmet that stil adorned the single grave. The rustling of the grass alerted her to the presence of someone else in the campsite. She turned, smiling, thinking it was Athlone.

"Someone you know?" Sayyed asked.

The woman shook her head and pushed her disappointment aside. She had wanted Athlone, but Sayyed was good company, too. In the few days she had known him he had already become a close friend, someone with whom she felt comfortable and happy. She crossed her arms and said, "I didn't know him except by name. He was Pazric, second wer-tain of the Khulinin. He was the first to be deliberately murdered by sorcery in over two hundred years."

"Oh? I hadn't heard about him. Tel me."

"Lord Medb killed him during a council meeting of the chiefs last summer. It was the first time Medb displayed his powers."

Sayyed stared down at the mound. "That must have been terrible," he said with sincerity.

Gabria turned away. All at once she was overwhelmed by memories of that harrowing, event-filled day---the day Pazric had died; the day she had attended the council to accuse Medb; the day Savaric had forced Lord Medb to reveal his sorcery. Her throat tightened, and she blinked as the light of sunset blurred and shimmered through sudden tears.

Quickly Sayyed put his arm around her waist. He was rather short for a Turk and Gabria was tall for a clanswoman, so their heads were level as he pulled her close. She leaned against him and drew solace from the comfort of his strong arms and the warmth of his presence.

Her sadness slowly disappeared until her mouth curved up in a faint smile. "You remind me of my brother, Gabran."

Sayyed masked a grimace with a chuckle. "Why?" he asked, hiding his disappointment. "Was your brother handsome?"

She laughed. "Yes, and kind, as strong and cunning as a wolf. He could also make me laugh." She sighed softly. "I loved him very much."

He tightened his arm around her. They stood for a long while in the afterglow of twilight, silhouetted against the pale gold luminescence that hung in the western sky.

From his place by the fire, Athlone watched the two distant figures and felt his heart grow heavy.

The Turic was intruding deeper and deeper into Gabria's life. He had only been with the travelers for seven days and already she was fascinated by him, this energetic tribesman who plainly worshiped her.

A boil of jealousy empted in Athlone's mind, fed by his pride and uncertainty.

To the chieftain, the most frustrating thing was his own confusion. His relationship with Gabria was still new to him---they never seemed to get a chance to let their feelings develop without something getting in the way. Now this Turic was with them, and Athlone was no longer sure where he stood.

Worst of all, he didn't know what to do about it! Gabria was intelligent, self-reliant, and determined. She had proven her courage and worth ten times over. If she wished to give her love to Sayyed instead of him, then Athlone felt she had earned that right. Gabria had suffered enough heartache and pain without being forced into a relationship she no longer desired. Of course, that did not mean Athlone had to like being put aside.

He slammed the sword he was cleaning into its scabbard and strode out into the darkness. It was easy to tell himself that he could let her go if she chose to leave, but the thought of losing her was tearing him apart. Without thinking, he wandered to the smal field where the horses grazed. There he stood, staring into the night, searching for the familiar shape of his old friend, Boreas.

The search was futile, and Athlone knew it; Boreas had been slain in the final battle with Medb the previous summer. That didn't lessen the chieftain's need for his old steed, though. Just as Nara was Gabria’s friend and confidant, Boreas had been his companion and advisor.

Athlone frowned and