Winged Magic Read Free

announced.
    Kelene’s spirits rose a little. It was always pleasant to see someone new. “Who?” she asked.
    In reply the mare veered away from the ruins and followed the pale track of the old southern road where it cut across the top of the plateau. At the edge of the highland the trail dropped over to wend its way down to the lower grasslands. He is there, on the lower trail. Coming fast.
    Kelene saw him then, a rider on a black horse cantering up to the foot of the plateau. Her heart caught a beat when she recognized the colour of his clan cloak. Every clan had its own individual colour to identify its members, a colour that was always dyed into the comfortable, versatile cloaks the people wore. This rider, who was obviously heading for Moy Tura, wore the golden yellow of the Khulinin.
    At Kelene’s request, Demira landed at the top of the trail and waited for the rider to climb the plateau. Kelene tried not to fidget, yet she couldn’t help straining to look over the edge. Her parents did not send messengers often, only when the news was important. She mused, too, over the coincidence of her wish to visit her parents and the arrival of their messenger on the same morning.
    The rider came at last, his Hunnuli winded and sweating. He raised his head at Kelene’s greeting and grinned a very tired and dusty reply. The stallion climbed the last few feet of the incline, topped the trail, and came to a grateful halt beside Demira.
    “Kelene! I thought I saw a big black vulture hovering over that dead ruin.” The rider’s weathered face crinkled around his green eyes.
    Demira snorted indignantly.
    “Veneg,” Kelene addressed the Hunnuli stallion. “How do you put up with him?”
    He is rude only to people he likes. Everyone else he ignores, Veneg replied with tired good nature.
    The young woman laughed. “Gaalney, he knows you too well.” She paused, taking in for the first time the man’s exhausted pallor, his dirty clothes, and the nearly empty travel packs on the Hunnuli’s back. These two had travelled long and hard. “Are my—” she began to say.
    Gaalney rushed to assure her. “Lord Athlone and Lady Gabria are fine and send their greetings. My message is ill news, but it is for Sayyed and Rafnir, as well as for you.”
    “Then save your words and tell them once before us all.” She gestured north toward the city. “Come. There is food and drink in Moy Tura and a proper welcome.”
    Side by side the two Hunnuli cantered slowly along the old road to the city. The pace gave Kelene a little time to study the man beside her. Gaalney was a distant cousin to her father. He was a young man, rash at times, but with a dauntless courage that helped him excel in his studies of magic. He had stiff yellow hair cut much shorter than she remembered, full green eyes, and a thin mouth that always seemed to lift in a quirk of a smile. She also noticed he had a newly healed wound on his neck just below his ear. 
    They rode in silence until they reached the tumbled walls of the once-great city of the sorcerers. As they approached, Kelene glanced at Gaalney to see what his reaction would be. She was used to the massive entrance by now, but newcomers were always impressed. Gaalney was no exception.
    The horses slowed to a walk, and Gaalney ran his eyes over the repaired stonework, whistling in appreciation. Kelene smiled. She, Rafnir, and the Korg had worked very hard to restore the old gateway. Although it was one of four entrances into Moy Tura, it was the only one they had repaired so far. Most visitors came on the southern road to this gate, and Rafnir wanted to give them a good first impression. The gate was a huge, arched opening between two powerful towers. Both towers had been rebuilt down to the decorative stonework around the defensive crenellations. The road was repaired and repaved with new stone slabs, the archway was cleaned of several hundred years’ worth of grime and old debris, and a golden banner hung