Lightnings Daughter (2 page)

"Khulinin, I realize that I am not a blood member of this or any other clan. I am a foreigner to your ways and laws. Yet in the eleven years that I have been with you, I have never seen you act with anything but honor, courage, and loyalty. This young woman who stands before you has those same qualities in full measure.

"When Medb's men massacred her clan, Gabria did not crawl away in fear to die. She took the only way open to her to seek justice for the murder of her people. When she learned she had the talent to wield magic, she did not hide her power, she used it to save all of us. Gabria's methods were wrong by the strictures of your law, but they were the only methods available to her and she acted on them with courage and honor. The council of chiefs has released her from death for her use of sorcery. Can we now turn our backs on their wisdom and justice and kill her for striking back against an enemy stronger than even the warriors of this clan? She does not deserve death for that, she deserves our respect." For a moment the healer looked at each member of the
tyne
as if to seal his words in their thoughts, then he smiled at Gabria and sat down.

The watching clanspeople shifted and murmured among themselves.

Lady Tungoli rose next and claimed the right to speak. As widow of Lord Savaric and the mother of Athlone, Tungoli held one of the highest positions of status and respect among the Khulinin women.

Everyone listened quietly as she nodded to the
tyne
and began to talk. "I would like to speak for myself and for several witnesses who are not in this hall today,” she said. She did not raise her voice, yet her firm words were heard clearly throughout the hall. "For myself, I will only note that I agree wholeheartedly with the beliefs of those I am here to represent.

"The first is Lord Savaric. I knew my husband wel enough to say with complete confidence that he would never have ordered Gabria's death under these circumstances. He respected her for her courage, her intelligence, and her determination. If he were here today, he would examine her deeds, her motives, and her strength of character, as well. He would want you to do likewise.

"The other witnesses I wish to include are the Corins. Gabria's clan did nothing to earn their fate.

They were pieces in Lord Medb's game, pieces he discarded when they would not turn against their fellows. Gabria did not accept that fate. She fought back to redeem her clan's memory and to win justice for the murder of her family. The Corins would not have expected anything less, and neither should we."

"Perhaps there is another witness we should take into account, “added a man from the crowd, the Khulinin herdmaster. He looked toward Lady Tungoli, who nodded and relinquished the right to speak. "I mean the Hunnuli mare, Nara. Clanspeople have always loved and revered the ancient Hunnuli breed.

We believe that Hunnuli cannot tolerate evil in any form. And yet, if that is true, why does Nara love Gabria and stay with this admitted sorceress? Does the horse know something we do not about the quality of magic? I think the mere fact that a Hunnuli horse trusts and obeys Gabria says more for her heart than any of the guesses we can make." The herd-master quickly sat down.

Finally the bard, Cantrell, stood and turned his sightless eyes toward Gabria. His rich bass voice rang through the hal , capturing everyone's attention. "The herd-master has brought up an interesting incongruity. For years we have been told in song, story, and decree that magic is heretical. We have believed in its ultimate evil and in the despair and grief sorcery can cause. In that we were right: Sorcery is evil." Many of the onlookers gasped and stared at the bard in shock. He smiled, and his fingers lightly touched the strings of the harp at his side. A soft melody lifted on the air and enticed the peoples'

imaginations.

"But what we forgot was that magic could also be as beautiful as a Hunnuli horse, as good as a healing stone, as intricate as an ancient riddle, and as strong as true love. Magic is only what people make of it. It has been a part of the plains since the birth of the world, and it was said, before the Destruction of the Sorcerers, that the ability to wield magic was a gift of the gods. It is time we accept our heritage once again. I ask you to accept Gabria. She has a great gift that should be protected, not destroyed." He turned toward the
tyne
and lifted his harp toward them. "Be fair in your decision, Khulinin. We may need Gabria again some day."

The clanspeople stared at the old bard as he sat down, and his words hung in their thoughts. When no one else moved to speak the members of the tyne huddled together and discussed their problem.

Gabria stood alone in the space before the chief's dais and waited. A heavy silence fell on the watching people.

Sweat dripped in beads down Gabria's forehead as she remained still, her head up and her face calm. How would they decide? she wondered. All she really wanted was peace, rest, and time to build a normal life again. This past year she had suffered more than most people would in a lifetime. Gabria wanted fervently to get through this trial so she could put the memories behind her. She glanced down at the splinter of the Fallen Star gleaming under the skin of her wrist. It was too bad she could not put away her sorcery as easily as her memories. The talent to wield magic was an integral part of her, as natural as breathing. It was not a power she had wanted, but she had learned to use her talent to survive. She knew now she would never be able to ignore or forget the magic. Neither would anyone else in the clans.

At last Gabria heard Athlone stand. The edge of his sword clanged against his stone seat, and the sound rang through the quiet hal . The members of the
tyne
left their benches and stood.

Athlone, his feet planted on the stone dais and his arms crossed, searched the faces of his people. A golden torque of rank glittered on the chest of his leather shirt, and gold bands encircled both of his arms. He had recently cut his hair, and Gabria thought the shorter, dark brown locks and thick mustache enhanced the clean lines of his features. "What is your decision?" the chief asked without preamble.

The elder, a gaunt, silver-haired man, spoke. "We have heard the accusations against Gabria. We all know the truth of her deeds and her courage. Because she has given us our lives and our freedom to be Khulinin instead of Medb's slaves, it is our decision that she be freed from the penalty of death and exile. She has earned a place among the Khulinin."

Thalar sprang to his feet, his face dark with anger. "Never!" he shouted.

Athlone raised his hand to still the priest's outraged interruption. "Continue."

"However," the man went on. "We feel the laws of the clans cannot be put aside even for this.

Therefore, we order that Gabria be pronounced dead for a period of days equaling the time she spent in her disguise---a passage of six months, by our reckoning. During banishment, no person may speak to her or acknowledge her in any way, and Gabria must retire to the temple of Amara beyond the treld.

There she wil serve the goddess in penance. At the end of six months, Gabria may return to the clan and be accepted as a permanent member." Surprised, Gabria gripped her hands together to still their trembling. The sentence was harsh, for she would be alone and unaided through the winter. Most women would die under such difficult straits. On the other hand, Gabria knew---as Athlone must---that she stood a good chance of surviving the ordeal. Unlike other clan women, she could handle a bow and a sword. She might go hungry now and then, but she would not starve.

Thalar stepped forward, his expression wild, his eyes burning into Gabria with all the hatred of a priest for a heretic. "This is outrageous! That woman is profane! A creature of evil. If she is allowed to enter the holy temple of the Mother Goddess, our whole clan wil be cursed!"

At that Piers jumped up to protest. The healer, the herdmaster, and several others crowded around Thalar and began to argue. Others joined in until the entire hall was filled with shouting voices. The noise crashed around Gabria like an avalanche. She gritted her teeth and silently watched the uproar.

"Silence!" Athlone bel owed. "Enough!" He crossed his arms as the shouting ceased, and every face turned toward him. "Priest Thalar has a valid argument. Perhaps the members of the
tyne
could explain their decision and put the clan's mind at rest."

This time the priestess of Amara stepped out of the group. Her long green robes were a bright contrast to the more somber colors of the men. She was an older woman, past forty-five summers, and equal to Lady Tungoli in the honor and respect of her clan. Her gray hair was swept back in a long braid, and her startling green eyes seemed to pierce through Thalar. "It was I who made the suggestion to the
tyne
to send the sorceress to Amara's temple."

"You!" Thalar exclaimed in surprise.

Gabria, too, was startled and watched the woman as she paced forward in the light of the lamps and torches to face the priest.

"I believe I know more of the goddess's ways than you do, Thalar. A man who fol ows the god of battle and death cannot begin to comprehend the power of life and birth. It is my belief that Gabria has the favor of Amara. Her survival and her success against overwhelming odds are indications to me that the goddess is watching over her daughter. If this is the case, then Cantrel 's arguments for magic are more than the artful words of a skilled bard." She paused as Cantrell chuckled.

"I suggested sending Gabria to the temple, “she continued, "to learn the truth of the goddess's wil .

If the sorceress is blessed with Amara's grace, then she will live and thrive to return to us. If she is not, the mother goddess wil punish her as no mortal can imagine." For a long moment the Khulinin stared at Gabria. No one moved or said a word. At last, Lord Athlone raised his hand.

"So be it. Lady Gabria's sentence begins at moonrise tonight.

She may return to the clan in six months, marked by the rise of the ful moon." He turned on his heel and strode to the chieftain's quarters in the back of the hal . The tapestry fel closed behind him, signaling the end of the
getyne
.

Thalar snorted in disgust and stamped to the entrance. As the guards pul ed the doors open for him a cold gust of wind swirled into the hall. The chilly air seemed to rouse the crowd from their astonishment. In ones and twos they averted their eyes from Gabria and left the hall until only the sorceress and Cantrell remained.

The young woman took a deep breath and stepped away from the fire. She sank down on the dais steps. "We have been back in the treld but ten days and already they are getting rid of me,” she said with bitter sadness.

The old bard did not answer her immediately. Instead he gently strummed the strings of his harp.

Cantrel had lost his sight the previous summer, when Lord Medb had slashed his face in a fit of rage during an ill-fated clan gathering. The bard had fled the sorcerer's camp and found sanctuary with the Khulinin. Since then, Cantrel 's ancient harp had rarely left his hands. His eyes were gone, but the music of his harp and his songs had kept his life full.

He played his instrument now, letting the notes flow into the new ballad he was creating about Gabria. The clans loved heroic tales, and it would not hurt to remind them of the courage in Gabria's deeds. For a while he simply played to her, knowing the music would say more than his voice. He brought the tune to an end with a strong flourish and listened as the notes passed into silence.

Cantrell stood and laid his harp carefully by his stool. "I am pleased you will not be far away. We will be waiting for you to come home."

"Home,” Gabria repeated sadly. "I am a sorceress. The only home I had is now a ruin. I doubt I'll ever be al owed to find another." She climbed to her feet and looked miserably at the door through which Athlone had disappeared. She hadn't even been given a chance to say good-bye to him.

Cantrell felt for her arm. He pulled her close and held her tight. "You will survive this, child. And more to come. Be ready."

Gabria smiled into his blind face. "Is this one of your prophecies, Bard?"

"No. It is something I feel---like the coming of night. It will be moonrise soon. You had better go."

Gabria picked up her golden clan cloak from the steps, threw it around her shoulders, and walked toward the big double doors. Behind her, the bard resumed his seat and ran his fingers along his harp.

The soft music followed her toward the doors. Just as she was about to leave, a familiar voice called to her. Gabria turned and saw Athlone hurrying to her with a bundle in his hands. The emotions of the past few hours swelled within her, and she ran to meet him before the fears and angers could tear apart her flimsy control. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck.

The chieftain hugged her fiercely. "I could not let you go without a word."

As he held her is his arms, she looked up and said forlornly, "Six months is a long time to be away."

She dropped her eyes again. "I have never been alone for so long."

"I don't like it either,” Athlone replied, "but the law must be upheld or we wil never have peace."

He looked down into her deep green eyes. "Besides, you wil not be total y alone. Nara will be with you, and while I cannot visit, I'll watch and guard you as much as I can."

His face suddenly lit with laughter and he added, "The goddess must look after you, too. I have already paid the bride price. Will you marry me when you come back?"

She looked away. "You may change your mind in six months."

Athlone cupped her chin in his hand and gently turned her head to look at him. "I'd sooner change my clan. I will be waiting for you. In the meantime, take this,” He thrust a bundle in her hands, then kissed her deeply. "And take my love." A final hug and he was gone, striding back to his quarters.

The sorceress watched him go, her heart heavy. Final y she stepped past the entrance and looked down through the deepening twilight at the wintering camp of the Khulinin. The chieftain's hal was built into the side of a large, treeless hill overlooking a broad valley in the foothills of the Darkhorn Mountains. To the north, the Goldrine River tumbled out of a deep canyon and spread out to water the fertile valley. Here, in this natural shelter, the Khulinin spent every winter, caring for their herds and gradually losing their nomadic habits.