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command was unabated, and his eyes still studied the world like those of a vigilant hawk. He spotted Kelene and her companions, and his anger receded before his pleasure when he came to greet them.
    Sayyed dismounted and, as senior clansman, saluted the chieftain. “Hail, Lord Athlone, we of Moy Tura answer your summons.”
    A smile broke over Athlone’s face, warming his eyes from stone to brown earth. He returned the salutation and embraced his friend, his son-in-law, and last of all his only surviving daughter. Kelene returned his hug fiercely and let it linger for a moment longer before she let him go.
    Like most magic-wielders, Kelene had certain abilities that were more developed than others. Her talent for healing came not only from a natural desire to ease pain, but also from a unique ability to sense other people’s feelings. While she could not understand their thoughts, she could feel their emotions through the touch of her skin on theirs. During the past few years she had learned to control this gift until she could use it at will.
    In the grip of her father’s embrace, she opened her mind to his emotions for just one beat of her heart and felt his fury and sense of injustice. To her silent relief, there was no personal grief or the stunned shock of loss. “What happened. Father?” she asked worriedly.
    Athlone stepped back, his hands clenched around the objects he carried. He lifted the scrap of fabric in one fist. In the firelight, they could all see the cloth was a piece of a light blue cloak splattered with darker smears and spots.
    “This was brought to me just before you arrived,” he said, darkly smouldering. “A large force of Turics attacked Ferganan Treld five days ago. Lord Tirek was killed, along with twenty-eight of his hearthguard and warriors, when he tried to protect the fleeing women and children. The raiders devastated the treld.”
    Kelene, Rafnir, Sayyed, and Gaalney stood shocked by the ghastly news. The Hunnuli gathered around them, still and silent. Ferganan Treld, the winter camp of Clan Ferganan, sat in the fertile valley of the Altai River just north of the Turic realm. Of all the eleven clans, the Ferganan had the most amiable relationship with their Turic neighbours—in part because the Raid tribe that lived in the vicinity was ruled by Sayyed’s father, the man who had married a Ferganan woman. That the raiders had turned so viciously on Lord Tirek’s people was a betrayal of the worst sort to the generous, proud clanspeople. The rage on Lord Athlone’s face was mirrored in the expressions of every chieftain in the clans when they heard the news.
    At that moment Gabria and Savaron hurried through the fevered activity to the small group by the fire. The sorceress’s face was troubled, yet she welcomed he friends with genuine delight and gathered her daughter close.
    Kelene smiled, silently pleased to see how little mother had changed the past few years. Gabria was still lithe and straight-backed, with clear green eyes and the hands of a young woman. True, the lines were etched deeper on her forehead and around her mouth, and the braided hair was more grey than gold, but what did the matter when the spirit was still resilient and the head still sang with gratitude to Amara, the mother of all and the source of all bounty?
    “What about me?” chided Kelene’s brother.
    Savaron, wearing the gold belt of a wer-tain, hugged her too. Tall, muscular, dark-haired and, to Kelene’s eyes, handsome, her older brother had been leader of the clan warriors, the werod, since the plague when Wer-tain Rajanir had died. Savaron was married now, with two little boys and a wife he adored. Kelene marvelled how much he had come to resemble their father as the years passed.
    He held her out at arm’s length. “Mother told me you had healed your ankle, but she failed to mention how beautiful you’ve become.” He let her go and playfully punched his friend, Rafnir, on the arm. “You two had