"The Trymian Force," Gabria said softly.
"The what?"
"It's a force drawn from the magic-wielder's own energy." She grimaced. "It can be very deadly."
Khan'di nodded. "It certainly was. Branth wiped out an entire company of heavily armed men with it."
"How did the Fon finally capture him?"
"The way she takes anything---through guile. She played on Branth's vanities and lured him to the palace with the promise of an alliance." The man broke off and surprised Gabria by glancing over his shoulder at Piers riding behind him. She thought for just a moment there was a flicker of regret in his dark eyes.
"I suppose the healer told you," Khan'di continued, "that the Fon is an expert at poison?"
"He mentioned it," she replied carefully.
"Well, she used a special poison of her own concoction to gain control of Branth's mind and render him helpless. He still has his talent, but she has the book and controls his actions."
Gabria looked pale. She despised Branth, but it was hard to imagine the powerful, ambitious chieftain trapped in the grip of an insidious poison. It gave her the shivers. "Can she make him do anything?"
"The man is a total prisoner."
"What will happen to him if we take him away from the Fon and her poisons? Will he regain his will?"
"I don't know or care. Just remove him or kill him." Khan’di twisted his mustache, a habit that showed when he was agitated. "We must get him away from the Fon before she invades Portane. If she attempts that, the entire Alardarian Alliance will shatter. Pra Desh will be ruined! I---"
Nara suddenly tossed her head, interrupting him. Gabria, someone comes. The mare whirled and faced a hill they had just passed. Eurus neighed a warning to the men, and the party drew in close to Nara and came to a halt.
At that moment, a lone horseman appeared on the crest of the hil and waved to them in apparent excitement. He was too far away to recognize, yet they all saw he was not a clansman. He was a Turic tribesman from the southern desert. Gabria glanced worriedly at Athlone, and the hearthguard gathered around their lord, their hands resting on their swords.
The horse came toward them at a full gallop, his ears pinned back and his tail flying. The man leaned back in his stirrups and greeted the party with a wild, high-pitched ululation. The afternoon sun glittered on the great curved sword by his side, and the burnoose he wore flew out behind him like a flag.
He reined his horse to a snorting, prancing stop directly in front of Nara and Gabria and swept off his hood. "Sorceress!" he cried. "I have been looking everywhere for you!"
Gabria was so surprised she could only stare down at the man. He was young and lean, with the dark skin and brown eyes common to Turic tribesman. His black hair was worn in an intricate knot behind his head. His face was clean-shaven, revealing the strong, narrow lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Gabria thought he was compel ingly handsome, and he met her confused stare with a bold, masculine look of pleasure.
He ignored the other men, who were watching him with varying degrees of curiosity and wariness, and dismounted from his horse. He came to stand by Gabria's foot. "You are Gabria of Clan Corin,” he stated, looking into her face. "I know it. I am Sayyed Raid-Ja, seventh son of Dultar of Sharja. I, too, am a magic-wielder. I would like to travel with you and learn your sorcery."
Gabria felt her jaw drop.
"Absolutely not!" Athlone thundered.
"Why not?" Sayyed asked reasonably, turning to the chief for the first time. "Lord Athlone, forgive me. I was so pleased to find the sorceress that I forgot my duty to you. Greetings!"
Athlone nodded curtly. He had taken an instant dislike to this man, and he did not appreciate the way the Turic was looking at Gabria. "Good day to you, son of Dultar. Please stand aside. We must be on our way."
"That's impossible," Gabria mumbled.
"What?" Sayyed and Athlone said at once.
The woman quickly gathered her wits and turned to the tribesman. "How can you be a magic-wielder? Only clan blood carries that talent."
Sayyed flashed a grin at her. "My mother was of Clan Ferganan. She was captured one day near a waterhole by my father. He sought a slave to sell in the market that day, but it was he who became a slave to a wife and twelve children."
"You are half-clan?" Piers exclaimed.
Khan'di shrugged. "It is enough."
"How do you know you are a magic-wielder?" Athlone demanded.
A mischievous twinkle danced in Sayyed's glance. He stooped down, picked up a handful of dirt, and tossed it into the air. The earth and stones flew high, then exploded into a cloud of shimmering blue butterflies.
The unexpected fluttering startled Khan'di's gelding. It snorted in fear, spun around, and slammed into Athlone's stal ion. The Harachan horses picked up the gelding's panic and leaped into a frenzied attempt to escape.
"Of all the stupid things to do,” Athlone yelled from the back of his bucking stallion. "Get rid of those things!"
Sayyed spoke a command and the butterflies vanished. He tried to look contrite as the riders calmed their mounts.
He is a magic-wielder, Nara told Gabria, though how much use butterflies wil be against Branth I cannot say.
"All right,” Gabria said, trying not to laugh. "You are who you say you are. Why do you want to come with me?"
Sayyed threw his arms wide in excitement. "To learn! My father has enough sons to bother with, so I can do what
