"Lord, you do me great honor, but please choose another! I cannot go back on my vow."
Athlone studied the man before him and saw the adamant refusal in Bregan's eyes. Of Lord Savaric's five hearthguard warriors who had been with him the day of his murder, only two still survived.
Two of the warriors had chosen suicide instead of facing the shame and dishonor of their failure. One warrior had died of an illness on the way back to Khulinin Treld---some said he had lost the will to live.
The fourth withdrew from the werod and each day drank himself into a stupor.
Only Bregan remained a warrior. After Savaric's death, he voluntarily stripped himself of his status and the gifts he had won for distinguished service, then placed himself in the bottom rank with the young warriors in training. He would begin again, he had told Athlone, and work to regain his lost honor.
The chief shook his head. He could respect Bregan's choice, but it did not help him solve his dilemma. He had not yet chosen a wer-tain for the clan in the hope that Bregan would eventually accept. Now he had to decide on someone else quickly. He dropped his hands from Bregan's shoulders and resumed pacing.
"Do you have any suggestions?" he asked.
"Guthlac would serve you well."
"He's too young."
Bregan's mouth lifted in a slight smile. "He is several years older than you were when you became wer-tain."
Athlone stopped pacing, his face thoughtful. "I wil think about it."
"He is a good warrior, and the others approve of him. He has been an excellent mentor for the younger men."
"Isn't he also your cousin?" Athlone asked, his eyebrow arched. The older man smiled, then the chieftain found himself mirroring the expression. "I wil think about it,” he repeated.
Bregan stepped forward. "Lord, wil you consider something else?" Athlone turned slightly, surprised by the note of pleading in the warrior's voice.
"Allow me to come with you," Bregan said. "I failed your father, but I swear by my life I will not fail you. You wil need guards. Let me be one of them."
"This will not be an easy journey. Gabria goes to face a sorcerer."
"I know that. Lady Gabria will need protection, too."
"Pack your gear,” Athlone ordered.
"Thank you, Lord." Bregan saluted the chief and withdrew, leaving Athlone in the chaos of his own thoughts. The young lord paced for a few more minutes, then left the hal and walked up a path to the top of the hill overlooking the camp. A large, flat rock lay among some scrubby bushes at the edge of the slope. It was Athlone's favorite place, for it afforded a view of the entire valley.
He gathered his cloak close against the night wind, sat on the rock, and studied the glorious clouds and patterns of stars breaking the monotony of the black sky. In front of him, a ful moon sailed high above the plains. He looked down on the encampment. The black tents melted into the darkness, but here and there pools of firelight gave shape to the sleeping camp.
Usually this view of Khulinin Treld gave Athlone solace and strengthened his sense of purpose.
Tonight, it only made his confusion more acute. Duty to his clan had always been his sole obligation.
When his father had been alive and Athlone was only wer-tain, that duty was clear and simple: defend the chieftain and the clan with his strength of arms and his battle-wit. Now he was chieftain and his sense of duty was split. He stil had to care for and defend the Khulinin, but he also had to avenge his father's murder, sustain the honor of the clan, and struggle to maintain peace with the other clans on the plains. To make matters more complicated, he loved a heretical sorceress more than life itself and feared for her safety. He Was still ambivalent about sorcery, especially his own talent, yet his love for Gabria was undeniable.
Athlone looked up at the deep black firmament and prayed he had made the right decision to go to Pra Desh. He would choose Guthlac to serve as wer-tain while he was gone. Hopefully the clan gods would watch over the Khulinin until he could return.
The chieftain shook his head and stood up. The decision was made; nothing could be served by worrying the matter to death. There were problems to settle, plans to make, and a journey to begin. For good or ill, he was going to Pra Desh with Gabria.
Calmer now, he strode back down the hil and returned to his quarters in the hal . He thought about going to Piers's tent to see Gabria, but the night was late and she had suffered from the long journey. He decided to wait until morning, when she was rested. He knew he hadn't given her a very pleasant welcome that evening; in the morning he would - apologize and make up for his bad temper.
With a yawn, Athlone laid his sword by the bed and settled down on the wool-stuffed mattress. He was asleep in moments, dreaming of Gabria.
CHAPTER FOUR
Gabria was glad to be back in Piers's tent, lying on her own pallet and listening to the familiar sounds of the sleeping camp. Her body was tired, and her thoughts were weary of spinning over the same paths. She wanted to sleep, but she could not. A strange restlessness coursed through her mind and kept her tossing and turning. The girl could not identify the cause of her uneasiness. It did not seem to spring from her own worries. It was a vague anxiety that stirred the deepest levels of her consciousness and kept her on edge
