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community in the capable hands of Bann, a middle-aged widower, sorcerer, and the builder of the new forge. Sayyed also very reluctantly left his dogs and Tam’s cat in the care of Bann’s delighted son.
    With Gaalney accompanying them, the three magic-wielders mounted their Hunnuli in the dim light of a chilly dawn and left Moy Tura for the journey to the Goldrine River, where they would meet Lord Athlone and the Khulinin delegation.
    The warm, tumbling wind from the south had ended the day before, leaving the way open for a change of weather. The air had turned damp and cool; the great arch of open sky became a leaden ceiling of low-hanging clouds. There was no rain yet, but the horses smelled it, heavy and close in the morning air.
    The riders pulled their golden cloaks close as the Hunnuli cantered across the plateau toward the road that led down to the plains. At the edge of the tableland, the other three horses slowed for the descent on the steep trail, while Demira sped forward alone. Like a huge black eagle, she launched herself over the sharp edge and soared into the air. She could not canter hour after hour with the endless ease of the other Hunnuli, for her lighter legs and body and her large wings made long runs too difficult. Yet, borne on the air’s invisible hand, she sped far swifter than any land creature over the rolling plains.
    Casually she wheeled overhead, waiting for the others to reach the lower trail. When the three stallions broke into a gallop on level ground, the winged mare turned south and led the way with the north wind at her tail.
     
    They reached the Goldrine River three days later, after an uneventful though wet journey. Under a clearing sky, twilight deepened into night and a full moon sailed into the east.
    Although the moon was full, Demira did not like to fly at night, so as soon as she spotted the fires of the Khulinin camp on the southern bank of the river and located a passable ford nearby, she joined the others on the ground.
    Warm weather had begun melting snows in the Darkhorn Mountains, but the high waters and the swelling rains of late spring had not yet affected the Goldrine. Its waters ran shallow in the ford, making it easy for the four Hunnuli to cross. They trotted up the southern bank, swung left, and broke into a trot along the grassy, rolling valley toward the horseshoe-shaped bend in the river where the Khulinin camped.
    They had not gone far when all four Hunnuli perked their ears forward. Soon, everyone could see the glow of the cooking fires and the solid shapes of the clan’s small traveling tents.
    Kelene tensed and leaned forward. Even from this distance out in the night, she could see the camp was an uproar. Men ran back and forth, dark shapes darting through the dancing firelight. Horses neighed, and the harsh sound of raised voices mingled with the quieter noises of the river and the night insects.
    Kelene heard a pounding of heavy hooves, and two more Hunnuli galloped out of the darkness to meet them. Nara, Gabria’s beloved mare, and Eurus, Lord Athlone’s proud stallion, neighed a strident call of both welcome and urgency then turned on their heels and escorted the newcomers rapidly into camp. Activity, light, and noise surrounded them as they rode in among the tents.
    Kelene noticed the unexpected haste was not confused chaos, but alarmed organization as people moved rapidly to tear down the camp. Tents collapsed around her, packhorses were loaded, and supplies were repacked as quickly as possible.
    In the midst of the frantic labour stood Lord Athlone, rigid with fury, a rolled scroll in one hand, a tattered scrap of fabric in the other. His dark hair was grizzled now, and deep lines etched his weathered face. Tall, strong of body and mind, he wore the authority of a clan chieftain with ease and passionate ability. Although forty-nine years of life and a close brush with the plague had slowed his endurance and stiffened his joints, his strength of