by Grace Draven
The elder stared wordlessly at the rovings before flicking a quick glance to Gilene and then to Saruke. “She can dye the wool,” she said and walked away.
After that, the task was hers, and she watched from her place at the kettles while the other women designed and felted the rugs for the new couple. A few of the younger ones approached her, and in trader’s tongue asked her if she’d teach them some of her techniques.
“It’s mostly practice,” she said. “But I’ll teach you what I’ve learned.” She was trapped on the Stara Dragana for at least another month, if not more. Sharing a skill with her reluctant hosts might make things a little easier for her. She wasn’t looking for acceptance, but tolerance was just as valuable and as useful.
This morning she sank a bundle of rovings into a kettle of bright yellow dye and stirred it with her rake. The felters spun and laid out yarn while arguing incessantly with each other, no doubt over how the design should be laid down. Loud whistles and a series of shouts from one side of the camp interrupted their squabbling.
Gilene didn’t dare leave the kettles unattended, but craned her neck to see what had given cause for such commotion. Soon, a line of wagons, like the ones parked throughout the Kestrel camp, rolled toward them, accompanied by an escort of mounted riders.
As one, the felters paused, then hurriedly stood, wiping wet hands on their aprons. They spoke in animated whispers, several glancing at Gilene. Because she didn’t speak Savat, their excitement over these visitors puzzled her. Their focus on her made her uneasy.
Saruke came to her aid as she watched the wagons approach. “News travels fast,” she said in trader’s tongue.
Gilene spared her a quick glance. “What do you mean?”
“That is the Fire Council. They’ve heard the Kestrel clan has an agacin. They’ll want to speak to you. Leave the kettles and go back to the qara to change. I’ll follow in a moment.”
Gilene’s stomach dropped at the news. She did as Saruke instructed and hurried to the qara. Azarion met her en route, leading one of the horses he’d taken from the Nunari he’d killed. He was dressed in the garb of the Savatar, with bits of his hair braided at the temples, and wore a felt hat to keep the rest tamed. A bow rested across his back, along with a quiver of arrows at his waist. Except for his clean-shaven features, which were already shadowed with a beard, any hint of Kraelian about him was gone.
He carried a brace of marmot in one hand and fell into quick step beside her. “You saw the Fire Council arrive?”
She nodded. “Your mother sent me back to change, though I don’t know what else I’m to wear.” Her wardrobe was limited to her Kraelian clothes, which were no more than rags at this point, and the tunic and trousers borrowed from Tamura. Those she now wore, and despite the apron, they were splotched and stained.
“She or someone will bring you something to wear.” Azarion left his horse outside the qara and followed Gilene inside.
The interior’s warmth eased the stiffness in her cold fingers but didn’t stop the chattering of her teeth. She was nervous as well as cold. She strode to her sleeping pallet and sat down to remove her shoes and trousers. The tunic’s length hid most of her body except her calves, and while Azarion had once seen her fully naked, she wasn’t inclined to strip in front of him a second time.
He was busy with his own disrobing until he was down to a loincloth that left very little to the imagination. Gilene knew what he looked like dressed only in skin and bloody welts. She’d seen the whip marks and slashing scars that decorated his back, shoulders, and sides. His chest and abdomen bore more of the same—souvenirs of his time as a Pit gladiator. He wore them with neither pride nor shame, just as she wore hers.
Years training as a gladiator had made their mark in more than just scars. Azarion was tall, but so were many of his clansmen. Lean and toughened by life on the steppes—much of it spent on horseback—they lacked Azarion’s muscular bulk.
His broad shoulders flexed as he reached for a tunic, muscles rippling on either side of the deep indentation that highlighted the length of his spine and the narrowness of his waist. The men he had fought with and against in the Pit had all been shaped and honed to survive it, to please the crowd, to fight with sword and shield for long periods without tiring or slowing. Azarion had risen to the elevated rank of Gladius Prime not only by clever strategy but by brute strength, and it showed in every line of his body.
As much as she hated to admit it, he was breathtaking to behold, clothed or not. And she wasn’t the only one to think so. More than a few Savatar women viewed him favorably, and Gilene assumed some of their unfriendliness toward her stemmed from a touch of jealousy at the idea that she, and not one of them, was his concubine. If they knew the truth, she had no doubt he’d be mobbed at Saruke’s qara door by a crowd of enthusiastic, unwed maidens.
Unaware or uncaring of her silent scrutiny, he stepped into trousers and was donning a tunic when Saruke strode in, arms loaded with a stack of clothing. She dropped them into Gilene’s lap. “Dress quick. Karsas has summoned you both to his qara. The Fire Council waits there.”
Azarion strapped his stocking boots to his newly clad legs. “I’d rather hunt wolves than eat with his ilk.”
“Better they eat with you than eat you,” Saruke rejoined. “Besides, I didn’t say anything about them feeding you.” She gestured for Gilene to hurry it along.
Gilene cast a quick glance at Azarion. He was busy with his belt and knife, and she took advantage of the moment to shrug out of her stained tunic and pull on the one Saruke brought her. The trousers followed before Saruke handed her a pair of shoes free of dirt or mud.
Gilene glanced down at herself and gasped. The outfit she wore now was obviously meant for special occasions instead of everyday wear. Heavily embroidered and beaded at the neck and over the chest, the tunic was made of felt so soft, it rivaled the feel of silk on her bare skin. Wide, bell-shaped sleeves edged in luxurious fur draped down her arms to almost cover her hands. More fur lined the hem, and colorful embroidery decorated the trousers.
“This is lovely,” she breathed. Saruke smiled. “Who was so generous to loan such a fine garment to me?” She tried not to succumb to the terror of possibly spilling something on it.
Saruke’s smile turned sly. “It isn’t a loan; it’s a gift. Suitable for an agacin who is about to meet her sisters of the Fire.”
Gilene’s heart sank. She plucked at the tunic. “This isn’t meant for one such as I. I’m not Savatar. I don’t even think I’m agacin.” She glanced at Azarion, whose shuttered expression revealed nothing. “I can’t accept such generosity. I have no means of repaying it.”
Saruke’s smile fell away, and her eyes narrowed. “A gift is just that. Given with gladness and without expectation of repayment. If you refuse it, you’ll insult the giver in the worst way.”
Embarrassed heat flooded Gilene’s cheeks, along with guilt. She resided among Azarion’s people under duress, here only until she helped him fulfill his ambition to reclaim his inheritance. What she wore now was meant for someone who wanted to be here, who wished to be Savatar and all that such a thing entailed. She was not that person.
However, she had no wish to give offense. Not here, among people she barely understood and knew so little about. “Will you not tell me their name so I can thank them myself?”
Saruke shook her head. “You don’t know them, not really. You wearing their gift will speak of your appreciation.”
The gift giver would remain mysterious, and Gilene set aside her curiosity over Saruke’s enigmatic statement to concentrate on the situation at hand. She faced Azarion once more while Saruke re-braided her hair before winding it into a bun at the back of her neck.
“What will the Fire Council do when I face them? Are there questions I should expect? A trial I must endure?” That made her heart lurch a little. “You know my power hasn’t retu
rned and won’t for at least another month or two.”
She didn’t lie. Her abilities took time to return, and it had been less than a month since the Rites of Spring in Kraelag. Hints of her ability to cast illusion had shown themselves, but not the power to summon or control fire. The waiting never bothered her before. Now, she had to exercise patience. No amount of wishing or anger would hurry it along.
Azarion’s gaze swept her from head to foot. If he was impressed with her appearance, he hid it well, and an odd niggle of disappointment lodged itself under her breastbone. She blamed the unwelcome feeling on her alarm at facing the Fire Council.
“You’ll be questioned and tested by nine priestesses, including the chief priestess, whom the Savatar call the ata-agacin. We address her as Ata.” He frowned a little. “It would be better if they witnessed you wielding fire, but I’ll tell them you summoned it to help us both escape the Empire, and it drained you. That’s no less than the truth.”
She gave a wry laugh. “But hardly the whole story.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you really want to tell them the whole story?”
“Not unless I have to. You realize the chance of them declaring me an agacin is slim at best, even though there were witnesses to me walking through the Veil unburnt.”
His broad shoulders lifted in a brief shrug. “Maybe, but your reasons and those witnesses will be enough for them to return for a second consideration once your power does show itself.”
Gilene shuddered. Two council sessions. She dreaded the first one and didn’t want to imagine having to deal with a second one.
Azarion escorted her through the camp toward the ataman’s qara. She was grateful for his company. Her success in this endeavor was as important to him as it was to her. His unwavering faith in her ability to recapture her magic surprised her. There was a steadfastness to this man that, at times, annoyed her but now helped calm her fears. The press of his hand on her lower back as he guided her through the makeshift alleyways created by the qaras comforted her.
The ataman’s tent was the largest in the encampment and, at the moment, the most crowded. Someone had removed the felt covering at its peak, allowing a column of sunlight to spill downward and illuminate the floor layered in decorative rugs. The lit braziers set in various spots provided more light and warmth as well.
Karsas and his subchiefs sat on the floor in a half circle that hugged the qara’s perimeter. In front of them, nine women dressed in Savatar finery and intricate headdresses that sparkled with beads also sat, facing the newcomers. More people, whose rank and status Gilene could only guess, stood against the qara’s walls. All eyes settled on her and Azarion, and the buzz of idle chatter fell silent.
Azarion bowed to the women as well as to the ataman and his subchiefs. “Agacins,” he said in an admiring voice. His tone flattened. “Ataman,” he said, addressing Karsas behind them.
Even in the dim light cast by the braziers, there was no mistaking Karsas’s thin half smile at his cousin addressing him as chieftain. His eyes, green like Azarion’s, shifted to Gilene. She offered him and the priestesses a quick bow as well.
“Ataman. Agacins,” she said in smooth Savat. Two words she knew in the language of the steppes, important words. She was learning more every day but still relied on trader’s tongue to communicate, as well as translations offered by Azarion, Saruke, and occasionally Tamura.
She didn’t wish to antagonize the clan’s leader, though the role she assumed as his adversary’s concubine guaranteed he’d see her as a threat, especially if the fire priestesses proclaimed her one of Agna’s handmaidens like themselves. His hostile gaze crawled slowly over her. Gilene quelled the urge to scratch or swat away an invisible pest.
He’d yet to address her directly since her arrival to the camp, but she often caught him watching her as she went about the tasks Saruke assigned her. Azarion’s scrutiny could pierce armor and freeze one’s bones, and the natural way he carried himself warned anyone with any sense of self-preservation that he was a force to be reckoned with. Yet he lacked a certain slyness that his cousin possessed. Nor did his gaze make her skin crawl the way Karsas’s did. In a way, the ataman reminded her of the faceless abomination in Midrigar, and had his tongue flicked out to test the air, she wouldn’t have been surprised.
Karsas spoke in Savat, and Azarion translated for her in the same flat tone. “You’ve both been summoned here to prove Azarion’s claim that you, Kraelian woman, are actually a handmaiden of Agna.” A twitter of muffled laughter circled the qara at the faint mockery in Karsas’s voice.
Gilene schooled her features into an impassive mask. His was a well-aimed shot. He’d addressed her not by her name but by her origin. To those watching these proceedings, she was no longer Gilene or Azarion’s concubine. She was the Empire, an enemy of the Savatar. Anything she said now would be suspect.
“Yes, Ataman,” she replied in trader’s tongue, and said no more.
She glanced at the agacins facing her. They varied in age, young and dew-faced to elderly and gnarled. The one in their center, wearing the most ornate headdress, was a woman in her middle years, and judging by her place and the deference paid to her, the ata-agacin. Like the priestesses on either side of her, she hadn’t laughed at Karsas’s calculated jibe. She turned her attention to Azarion.
“Tell us why you believe this woman is blessed by Agna.” Unlike Karsas, she was willing to speak in trader’s tongue. Gilene caught Azarion’s brief smile of triumph. He’d just scored a minor victory over his adversary.
He bowed a second time and recounted his tale of first meeting Gilene a few years earlier and discovering her talent for summoning and controlling fire, albeit, the recounting contained a great deal of fabrication, espoused with the utmost sincerity. By the time he was finished, even Gilene almost believed the slave gladiator and the Kraelian fire witch were united in mutual affection instead of blackmail and bargaining. Azarion might not have been as overtly sly as his cousin, but he had a true talent for deception.
Silence reigned in the qara after that, except for one attempt by Karsas to speak. The ata-agacin raised a hand in wordless command, and he quieted. She shifted her attention to Gilene. “He says you walked through the Veil without burning, and there are witnesses here now who can verify it. I don’t think any of us have seen the like before from a person not of the Sky Below, and I hesitate to name you one of Agna’s handmaiden’s despite Azarion’s tale.”
Karsas injected his opinion. “He could be lying.” This time he spoke in trader’s tongue.
The priestess’s eyes narrowed. “He could be.” She snapped out an order in Savat, and the crowd leapt to do her bidding, filing reluctantly out of the qara. Even Karsas and his subchiefs rose to exit, though the ataman scowled and glared at both Azarion and Gilene as he passed. Only the priestesses stayed seated.
Gilene turned to Azarion, panic curdling in her belly. He grasped one of her hands and brought her fingers to his mouth for a quick kiss. His new beard tickled her knuckles, and his lips were light as a butterfly’s wings. He squeezed her hand briefly before letting it go. “They wish to speak with you alone. Remember what you face every year, what you would willingly face again next spring, and know this is nothing so hard as that.”
His words bolstered her courage, and she gave him a quick nod before facing the agacins again. She didn’t hear him leave but immediately felt his absence once he departed.
The chief priestess rose gracefully from her seat on the floor and began to circle Gilene. It was hard to do so, but Gilene remained in place, staring at the qara’s walls.
“The son of Iruadis speaks highly of you. He says you can wield fire, though your role in helping him escape his masters has robbed you of your power.”
“True on both counts.”
Nine stares measured her worth.
The priestess continued her interrogation.
“And you are also his concubine. This is true as well?”
Gilene hadn’t missed the suspicion in the woman’s eyes as Azarion spoke of his attachment to her. Had he said too much or too little? Her captor hadn’t yet demanded more from her so far other than her patience and her collusion, but she did live with him in his home and shared his bed if not his body. It was, in a way, the definition of concubine, and she didn’t have to lie about that. “Yes. I’m his concubine.”
She returned the priestess’s steady gaze and wasn’t the first to look away.
“A handmaiden of Agna has great influence among the Savatar. We approve alliances and marriages, battles, and new leaders of the clans. Azarion knows this. A chieftain’s son returned from the dead might well wish to claim what’s been lost to him. The support of an agacin would be very useful.”
Gilene considered remaining silent but thought better of it. The ata-agacin didn’t outright ask a question, but she did imply her want of a response. This was treacherous ground upon which Gilene stood. Who knew what alliances formed among the Savatar leadership? Who served whom in their ambitions? Who owed a favor or bowed to a threat? She searched for a reply she hoped wouldn’t compromise either Azarion or her.
“I can’t speak for Azarion’s wishes, but if that were true for him, would it be wrong to strive for such a thing if it helped the clan?”
The priestesses still seated glanced at one another, and one of the ata-agacin’s eyebrows did a slow climb. The corner of her mouth twitched up for just a moment. “No, it wouldn’t be wrong.” She motioned to one of the priestesses who brought her the basket. “You say you have no power to draw from now, but we’ll test you anyway. Let’s see if you’re as good with your magic as you are with your words.”
“You want to test me inside the qara?” Gilene took in her surroundings. Wood, felt, baskets. From its peak to its floor, Karsas’s home, like every other tent in the encampment, was potential kindling for an uncontrolled flame to become a devouring inferno.