Lightnings Daughter by Mary Herbert (read me a book txt) 📕

across from Gabria. Just before he fell asleep, a grin lifted the corners of his mouth as he imagined what Athlone would think if he knew who was keeping Gabria company in the dark hours of the night. The Turic went to sleep with the grin still on his lips.

Sayyed had slept only a few hours when a strange sound brought him instantly awake. His hand went to his dagger as he leaped to a crouch and poised, waiting for a repetition of the noise. It came again, low and terrified, a moan of pain and sorrow.

"Gabria?" Sayyed cried. He sprang to her side and laid his hand on her cheek. Her skin was as cold as ice.

She moaned again, and the sound tore at his heart. He had never heard such despair. He shook her carefully to waken her, but she seemed to be trapped in the depths of a hideous dream. Her face was contorted by terror and her hands clenched around his arm with maniacal strength.

"No!" she shouted suddenly. "You can't! Don't do it." Her cry rose to blood-chilling screams that tore out of her throat in uncontrollable terror.

"Gabria!" Sayyed shouted frantically. He shook her hard, but she shrieked and struggled, still locked in the visions of her dream. Finally he slapped her. The stinging pain seemed to rouse her, so he slapped her again and again until at last her screams stopped and she fell sobbing into his arms.

Voices cal ed outside the tent, and people crowded into the entrance. Athlone was the first one in, his face ashen. He took one look at Gabria in Sayyed's arms, at the crumpled blankets and the empty wine cups, and his mind went numb. He wanted to step forward and comfort Gabria himself, but he could not force himself to move.

Just then Piers pushed his way in through the onlookers. He took a quick, speculative glance around before hurrying to Gabria. Her look frightened him. She was shaking violently, and her face was deathly white. She let go of Sayyed and clung to her old friend. Neither of them saw Athlone by the tent flap or the look of pained fury on his face.

Slowly Gabria calmed down enough to speak, and the haunted look faded from her eyes. "By the gods, Piers,” she gasped. Her voice was hoarse from screaming. "They're really trying to do it!"

"Who is?" he asked, confused. "Do what?"

She grabbed the front of his tunic. "Branth! That woman! I saw them. In some dark room Branth was forming a summoning spell around a golden cage. Something was there for just a moment. I saw it, Piers. It was hideous! I looked into its eyes!"

The onlookers gasped and edged away. Gabria scrambled to her feet, her face wild. "The King Stallion is right! Branth is trying to summon something horrible. We have to go now!"

Outside the tent the three Hunnuli neighed in response to Gabria's emotional summons.

The strident calls broke Athlone's numbness, and he strode forward, relieved to be able to do something. "It is almost dawn. Sayyed, tell the men to saddle their horses. Piers, stay with Gabria until we are ready to go. I will tell Sha Umar that we are leaving."

Gabria's fear galvanized them al and everyone leaped to obey Athlone's commands. In a matter of moments, the company gathered their gear, mounted, and bid farewel to the surprised Jehanan. In the darkness and pouring rain, they urged their horses after Nara as she cantered northwest once again to meet the caravan road.

CHAPTER SEVEN

In the darkness of the dank palace storeroom, Lord Branth sank down on a stool and tried to light the oil lamp on the table beside him. His hands were shaking so badly that it took several attempts before he could bring the fire to the wick. When the flame leaped up, he leaned forward and rested his head on his arm.

The tal , thin woman behind him crossed her arms and stared at him in disgust. "You fool,” she hissed.

The spell had failed. They had been so close this time. Branth had performed the opening ritual flawlessly, and they had even seen the creature begin to appear in the small, specially reinforced cage.

The summoning had been going wel until Branth had hesitated in the completion of the spell, and, in that vital moment, the creature had slipped away.

The Fon paced around the table in fury. Branth had practiced the spell dozens of times. He had all of the proper tools---the oil lamp, the golden cage, the collar of gold to put around the creature's neck---

yet he had still failed. The woman's deep-set eyes narrowed to slits, and she wondered if he had deliberately spoiled the incantation. She had noticed of late that his body was becoming resistant to her mind drug.

He tried to disobey her occasionally, and his eyes showed brief flashes of willfulness. She decided to increase the drug to ensure that Branth remained her slave.

Unfortunately the man was too exhausted to try the spell again tonight. It was infuriating to have to wait, but the Fon realized she should not force Branth to attempt the incantation a second time until he was fit and rested. He had to be at his utmost strength to control the being she sought.

The Fon calmed down as she thought about this creature.

Gorthlings, as some named them, were quite tiny in stature and rather mild in appearance.

Nevertheless, they embodied great evil, and, according to Matrah's book, their essence greatly enhanced the powers of a sorcerer strong enough to capture one and pul it from the realm of the dead to the world of mankind. More importantly, to the Fon's mind, gorthlings could impart the power to wield magic on a human who did not have the inborn talent. In his tome, Matrah had explained the dangers inherent in summoning a gorthling, but the Fon paid little attention to that. There