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

Gabria's heart pounded. She could hardly believe the beautiful, magical object was real until she could see it again in the light of day. She lifted the last linen fold aside to reveal the golden mask.

Drawing a deep breath, she held the mask up to the sun. It sparkled and shone as bril iantly as it had on the day it was made.

"What is it?" Athlone asked in a hushed voice.

"It looks like a death mask,” Piers said.

The sorceress ran her finger over the mask's cheek. Piers was right, it did look like a death mask. If that was the truth, then this man had been very important. The clanspeople only made death masks of those they deeply revered.

It was a handsome face, Gabria thought. Even in the rigid lines of the metal she could see the character of his features.

There was strength in the planes of his jaw and forehead, stubbornness in his long nose, and humor in the lines around his mouth. When she looked closer, she could see the cleft of his chin, the trace of a scar on his forehead, and the arched lines of his eyebrows. The eyes were closed, but Gabria fancied the irises would be brilliant blue if they were open.

“It's magnificent,” Piers said.

"What are you going to do with it?" Sayyed inquired.

Gabria shrugged and turned the mask over in her hands. "I don't know. It holds some kind of arcane power, but I can't tel what the spel is supposed to do."

The Turic rose to his feet and flashed his grin. "Too bad it can't talk."

The young woman nodded absently. She studied the gold mask while the others ate their meal and watered the horses, yet she discovered nothing that was useful. There were no inscriptions, etched designs, or markings of any kind on the metal. It was simply a man's face with an enigmatic expression.

Final y she wrapped the mask back in its cloth and packed it with her belongings. For the rest of the day she mul ed over the puzzle of the mask and stil could find no answer.

*****

The party trailed Branth for seven days after leaving Moy Tura and drew no closer to the elusive exile. He was moving faster now that he knew someone was following him, and the travelers were hard pressed to keep pace with him. To their dismay, he seemed to be pul ing ahead of them as he trekked south across the plains. Al of them wondered where he was going and what he would do next. On the eighth day they found part of their answer.

That morning dawned clear and warm, hinting of the hot afternoon to come. A light breeze blew about the hills, and meadowlarks dipped and fluttered after grasshoppers. The party was riding south, following Branth's trail along the flank of a long, low ridge, when the Hunnuli abruptly stopped and neighed an alarm.

Gabria, death birds! Nara warned her rider.

The sorceress saw the birds then---a large flock of black vultures circling low over a place beyond the hil s ahead. "Look," she cried, pointing them out to everyone.

They gal oped urgently toward the place, rode to the top of a high hil , and looked down upon a small valley lined with trees. The birds were swinging over a clear space not far from a meandering creek.

"Oh, gods,” Athlone breathed.

Gabria bit her lip to stifle the sick feeling that rose in her stomach. The scene in the clearing below looked hideously familiar to her.

"Keth, stay here with Tam and the horses,” Athlone ordered. The warrior was glad to comply.

The rest dismounted and walked down the long slope to the clearing by the creek. Several vultures squawked and flapped into the trees.

Twelve people lay scattered in huddled, lifeless heaps-five men, four women, and three children wearing the orange clan cloaks of the Bahedin. Their carts and belongings were torn apart and thrown carelessly among the bodies. The horses and other animals were gone.

Piers hurried to examine them, but as he turned the mangled bodies over and checked their pal id faces, it became very clear they were al dead.

While the healer was occupied with the corpses, Athlone and the others looked for signs of Branth.

They had little doubt that he was responsible for the massacre.

"They were traveling with ful carts and their tents. They must have been latecomers trying to catch up with their clan on the way to the Tir Samod,” Athlone said bitterly as he examined the wreckage of a cart. This slaughter sickened him.

The Bahedin had long been al ies of the Khulinin, and they had stood with Athlone's father against Lord Medb at Ab-Chakan.

Gabria's face was pale under her tan. "On their way to the gathering." She turned away from the body of a young woman and swallowed hard. Flies were swarming around the dead girl’s face, and vultures had been pecking at her eyes.

Secen joined Athlone and said, "Lord, I can only find sign of one man other than the Bahedin. It is as we suspected.”

The chief cursed. "Branth."

"The hoof prints are from the same horse we have been fol owing, and the boot prints seem to match the ones we saw in Moy Tura."

Piers hurried over, his face strained and white.

"They're all dead,” Athlone stated rather than asked.

The healer nodded. "Yesterday. They were tortured."

Secen looked sick. Athlone raised his fist and brought it down on the side of the cart. "Why! Why is he doing this?" he shouted.

Treader began to bark furiously. Come! I am at the creek! his barks told the magic-wielders.

At the same moment, Sayyed yelled, "Gabria, Lord Athlone, over here. Quick'" Something in his voice spurred Gabria and the men into an instant response. They ran toward the sound of the Turic's shouts and Treader's excited barking. As they passed beyond a copse of trees sheltering the riverbank, they