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.
CHAPTER THREE
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
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.
CHAPTER THREE
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
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