by Grace Draven
I was born in front of this barrow. My mother insisted on it.
What lay in the soil under that barrow?
“Do you know something of the draga illusions, Gilene?”
Gilene’s expression must have prompted the ata-agacin’s question. Gilene wasn’t willing to share her knowledge of Azarion’s peculiar talent.
“No, Ata,” she replied. “I know nothing of dragas or their powers.” In that she spoke the truth and didn’t look away from the ata-agacin’s hard stare while the other woman delved deep for a lie.
After a tense moment, the priestess nodded. “How do we know these aren’t simply candle flames with illusion cast over them?”
Gilene gestured to the items whose flames still burned due to her magic. “If you run your hands over those flames, you’ll see their heat speaks true. And it’s easy enough to prove. The raiders didn’t discover my trickery because they didn’t stay long enough to question it. Had they lingered, they might have figured out the fire they ran from was only a small one.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I still don’t understand why Agna would bless you. Do Kraelians even worship her?”
A shiver of apprehension cooled the perspiration gathered in the shallow valley of Gilene’s back. There was real danger in this question. The ata-agacin didn’t strike her as a zealot despite her chastisement of her fellow handmaiden. Still, the fervor of belief didn’t always accept that some might not embrace it with the same enthusiasm. “I don’t understand it either, Ata,” she admitted. “I worship no god, Kraelian or otherwise, and unlike you, I pay a price for summoning fire.”
The air in the qara grew noticeably heavier as the priestesses hunched toward her like crows over a carcass.
“What do you mean, ‘a price’?” The ata-agacin moved closer to where Gilene stood, her watchful gaze curious and wary.
Gilene shoved back a sleeve of her tunic to reveal a burn scar under her forearm. A tug at the tunic’s neckline showed another. “There are more,” she said. “My back and legs. My ribs. One on my stomach. They appear after every summoning. Burns that heal quickly but scar when they do. The greater the summoning, the worse the injury and the scar.” Her revelation garnered her a frown, but one more of confusion than disapproval.
“And yet you’re blessed and walked through the Veil unharmed.” The ata-agacin tilted her head, studying Gilene in a new way, as if she were an animal she’d never seen before. “Are your burns payment or punishment, I wonder.”
Punishment? It was Gilene’s turn to frown. Punishment denoted wrongdoing. What had she or the fire witches before her done to deserve such punitive consequences for wielding fire? “I don’t understand.”
The ata-agacin gestured toward the other priestesses. “Neither do we, though I have my suspicions.”
Gilene hoped the ata-agacin intended to share them and not leave her puzzling over why she suffered injury when she was supposedly blessed by the Savatar fire goddess.
“Agna’s blessing is given only to a few. It’s an ungentle beast, tamed by belief and faith in the mother that created it. Those of us who receive the blessing are Agna’s handmaidens. We’re supplicants in her service. We believe.” The ata-agacin paused, an unspoken message in her enigmatic gaze.
Gilene stiffened. She didn’t recognize Agna, didn’t worship her, and was most certainly not a supplicant. Was this why she was wounded after each summoning? Because she didn’t believe? Didn’t worship? Wasn’t beholden? A blessing was a sanction, not a gift, and it was hard to be grateful to someone when you didn’t even believe in them.
“Maybe the goddess doesn’t see you if you don’t see her.”
“I can’t worship something I have no faith in,” Gilene protested. She’d gone too many years rejecting deities to suddenly embrace one wholeheartedly.
The ata-agacin shook her head. “No, you can’t. So for now, you pay a price for the blessing.” She gestured toward the qara entrance. “Wait outside. When we’ve made our decision, one of us will call for you.”
Her abrupt dismissal didn’t bode well, but Gilene didn’t stay to argue. Outside, the sun shone bright in a clear sky, and while the curious crowd had grown impatient and diminished, Tamura and Azarion still waited.
Tamura bent for a quick peek into the qara before straightening to question Gilene. “Well?”
Gilene’s eyes met Azarion’s and stayed. “They’re making their decision now. I passed their tests. The rest is out of my hands.”
Tamura tapped her brother on the arm. “What will happen if they choose not to recognize her as one of theirs?”
Azarion shrugged. “Then I remain as I am. The returned son of the once-ataman Iruadis. Nothing more.”
“And Gilene?”
Gilene refused to look away, hoping he read the message in her eyes. You promised.
“Gilene will return to the Empire.”
His declaration literally made her wilt. Relief that she would return to Beroe in time. Disappointment over what she’d leave behind—days spent among the beauty of the Stara Dragana, acceptance among a people who saw her as something more than a useful sacrifice, and a driven man who enchanted her a little more each day.
Any more discussion halted when one of the agacins appeared at the entrance. “Come,” she said. “The decision is made.”
Gilene gave both brother and sister a quick nod before following the agacin inside the qara. Butterflies beat swift wings under her rib cage. She couldn’t account for her dread of the priestess’s decision. However they decided, she would still go home. She had fulfilled her part of the bargain with Azarion, yet she found herself knotting and unknotting her fingers, silently willing the council seated before her to accept her as one of their own.
The ata-agacin rose. The others followed suit. “Gilene of Krael,” she said. “You aren’t Savatar, yet you wield fire. You cast the magic of deception and don’t worship any god known to your people or ours. Yet Agna has blessed you, resides within you. You aren’t like us, yet you are as we are. The Fire Council recognizes you as a true agacin. Welcome to the Hearth, sister of the Flame.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Saruke stepped back and swept Azarion with a critical look softened at the edges by pride. “You look like an ataman. They will note this when you stand before them.”
For all that some atamans and subchiefs might admire his appearance, Azarion doubted any would be influenced by it in their decision regarding his challenge. “I don’t think they’ll care, Ani.”
His mother sniffed. “They’ll care. Don’t think they haven’t noticed how Clan Kestrel has dwindled. Clan Wolf is glad of it. They have risen because we’re diminished, and they won’t welcome your bid to reclaim the chieftainship. The others, though . . . they know better. All the clans need to be strong now. The Empire will find a way around the Veil in the west by encroaching from the east and overcoming the Goban. It’s just a matter of time, and we’ll be overrun by Kraelians and Nunari before we know it. All the Savatar are in danger. We can’t afford to have someone as weak as Karsas leading us now.”
She wasn’t telling Azarion anything he didn’t already know. His clan stuttered under the leadership of an inept ataman. Karsas had always craved power and prestige, and he was ambitious enough to plan his own cousin’s enslavement to clear the way for his rise to clan leader. But he didn’t know how to wield power once he possessed it, and the clan had suffered for it. It was long past time that Azarion take back what was rightfully his and save his clan.
Gilene stood just behind his mother. She wore the yellow sash of an agacin wrapped around her slender waist. It was a bright splash of color against the heavily embroidered tunic he’d given her to wear during her second test before the Fire Council. She still didn’t know the identity of the generous benefactor. He no longer feared she’d give it back if she knew he’d been the one to gif
t it to her, but he wanted her to enjoy the outfit without wondering how she’d repay him for it or assume it had been given to soothe hostilities between them.
“Do you need me to stand with you?” she said.
“No. You’ll be there as part of the Fire Council anyway. The atamans will approve or reject my challenge; the agacins will witness it and make sure the outcome is just.”
A week earlier, the Fire Council had finally proclaimed Gilene an agacin. Tamura had whooped her glee at the announcement and made quick work of spreading the news throughout the Kestrel encampment.
They expected him to rejoice as well and put forth his challenge immediately. Instead, Azarion quietly escorted a shocked Gilene back to his mother’s qara and served her multiple cups of tea until she stopped shaking. He then knelt before her and bowed over her hands. “Well done, Agacin,” he said. Triumphant elation warred with a melancholy that constricted his breathing. He no longer had a reason to keep her in the Sky Below.
There had been much celebration that evening among the clan. Clan Kestrel could now claim an agacin in their midst, the concubine of the old chief’s returned son. The people danced, sang songs, and toasted Gilene and the Fire Council.
Atamans and subchiefs from all the clans had arrived in an agreed-upon meeting spot unclaimed by any one clan and considered ground sacred to Agna. Here, the clans maintained a peace with each other long enough for the councils to meet and make decisions that affected the Savatar confederation as a whole. Today, he would stand before the leaders of all the clans, lay down his challenge, and pray they accepted.
Saruke gave his arm a last squeeze. “I’ll get your sister. May Agna, and all the gods, bless you today, my son.” She nodded to Gilene and exited the qara, leaving them alone within the glow of the brazier.
Azarion gazed at his newly recognized fire witch. She wasn’t truly his and never would be. She belonged heart and soul to Beroe, but for this moment, he could indulge in the daydream. “You’re agacin now, Gilene,” he said softly. “One step closer to your return to Beroe.”
Her head tilted to one side, her eyes reflecting only the shimmering light from the brazier. “And if they reject your challenge?”
“They won’t. They can’t. If they try, the decision will go to the Fire Council. The agacins defer to each other, and you support my bid. It is Agna’s blessing. To reject my challenge is to reject the blessing.” He reveled in the sudden bright glitter of admiration that entered her gaze.
“Sacrilege,” she said.
He nodded. “Sacrilege.”
She sighed. “Very clever, though never have I seen someone so eager to enter into combat.”
“Combat is all I’ve known for a decade. I’m not afraid.”
It wasn’t an empty boast. He didn’t fear a fight to the death with Karsas. In fact, he looked forward to it. That thirst for revenge had kept him alive, seen him through more battles than he could count as well as the vicious affections of an empress whose cruelty knew no bounds.
Gilene didn’t possess that kind of cruelty, only a misplaced and unreciprocated loyalty to people who didn’t deserve it. The ghost of a smile drifted across her mouth. “I can’t imagine you afraid of anything, Azarion.” The smile faded at his expression. “What?”
There was nothing of the Empire he wished to keep in either his home or his memory. Nothing save this resolved, enduring woman. “You don’t address me by name often. I like the sound of it on your tongue.”
He drew close, pleased beyond words when she didn’t step back from his nearness. “Agacin who does not pray, I won’t ask for your prayers before I face the atamans. Instead I’ll ask for a kiss. One of luck.” His fingertip brushed the underside of her chin. “Will you grant me that?”
There was a softness to her eyes and mouth that seduced him. “I’m an unlucky woman.”
He traced the line of her jaw. “Not to me.”
He slowly lowered his head, his heart thumping even harder when Gilene raised her face to his. Her cheek under his lips was smooth, giving, the skin over the bony ridge of her nose thin and fragile. Her eyelashes tickled his mouth when he brushed her closed eyelids, and a slow pulse beat at her temple. She was sublime, unweathered by the ceaseless wind that whipped across the steppe.
Even were she coarsened by years under the Sky Below’s sun and breath, he’d still be drawn to her, find her beautiful. There was a brightness to her that shone from the inside, not of sunlight or the fire she wielded, but of the kind of light that winked off a sword blade.
Her lips were as soft as her cheek, her mouth welcoming as she opened slowly to him. He nibbled at her lower lip before teasing its surface with a sweep of his tongue and was rewarded for the caress with her startled inhalation. Despite her obvious surprise, she didn’t back away but leaned forward even more, coaxing him with the angle of her body to do it again.
Azarion obliged her, settling his hands on the slight curves of her waist to draw her into his embrace before deepening the kiss. He made love to her with his mouth, reveling in the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her lips pressed against his, the way her shallow breath drifted from her nostrils to fan across his beard.
The hands that unleashed fire pressed gently against his ribs, recalling a moment in a gloomy cell when her hesitant touch on his bruised, bloody body had offered succor.
Her soft moan set him alight quicker than any flame she might have summoned. One hand edged toward her tunic’s hem, the other sliding upward to bury itself in the intricate knot of braids bound at her nape. He forgot about the councils waiting for him, his challenge against Karsas, even Karsas himself. Here, now, there was only Gilene in his arms and the grim realization that this magic was as ephemeral as the bright spark on steel.
The snap of the qara’s door flap signaled they were no longer alone. Azarion, reluctant to end the kiss, sucked on Gilene’s lower lip a final time before straightening. He kept his arms around her, and she didn’t pull away from him.
Saruke stared at them both, her face inscrutable. “It’s time,” she said. “The atamans call you to stand before them, my son, and state your challenge.”
* * *
• • •
The qara erected to house both councils and witnesses was a large one set away from the other groupings of qaras that marked where Clan Kestrel camped and where members of the visiting clans erected their tents. Multiple braziers heated the interior, and lamps cast a warm light on the occupants, who sat on blankets, furs, and pillows, awaiting Azarion’s arrival.
They were the atamans of all the other Savatar clans, along with the subchiefs of Clan Kestrel. The atamans sat on one side, while the Fire Council, consisting of the powerful agacins, sat on the other.
Azarion gave Gilene a short bow. She returned it with a quick nod before striding to the side of the qara where the agacins sat and taking her place among them. She looked pale and serene. The only evidence of the passionate embrace they’d just shared was her lips, still rosy from Azarion’s kisses.
Karsas didn’t sit with the chiefs. Instead, he emerged from the shadowed periphery of the qara to stand beside Azarion. He spoke to Azarion, voice pitched low. “When I kill you in combat, I will return your body in pieces to your mother, and then I will hang your witch from the center pole of my qara.”
Karsas’s threat wasn’t even a ripple on a still pond. Azarion had dealt with the like many times when fighting in the Pit. A tactic used to manipulate your opponent into reacting without thinking. Azarion ignored him in favor of studying the expressions of each ataman.
He recognized most of them, chiefs when his father ruled Clan Kestrel. Some bore a few more lines on their faces; others were so wizened and frail, they traveled from place to place in the Sky Below in carts instead of on horseback. Two looked close to his age, successors to their chieftainship either through birthright or challenge.
The ataman of the oldest clan, Clan Wolf, spoke first. “Azarion, son of Iruadis, child of Clan Kestrel, you stand before us. What is your claim?”
“I claim my birthright as ataman of Clan Kestrel.” At his declaration, Karsas noticeably bristled.
“Clan Kestrel already has an ataman,” Karsas snapped. “Chosen by the Ataman Council.”
Azarion didn’t waver. In the end, this was strictly a formality, a bid to gain permission from the other atamans to challenge Karsas in ritual combat for the right to assume the chieftainship. He addressed the council directly. “Only because I was sold to the Empire by my own clansmen at my cousin’s bidding.”
The crowd erupted into shouts, punctuated by Karsas’s bellows of denial. Azarion waited for the chaos to die down and the councils to bring order. Once the qara’s occupants settled, he continued.
“Karsas sits in my father’s place for that reason alone. I have returned and with Agna’s blessing.” He nodded to where Gilene sat among the other agacins.
Karsas flung out a dismissive gesture in Gilene’s direction. “She isn’t even Savatar. A false agacin.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Every agacin stiffened or frowned, affronted by the accusation.
Clan Wolf’s ataman raised an eyebrow. “Not according to the Fire Council. They have claimed her as one of their own.” He turned his attention back to Azarion. “We recognize your claim and the blessing, but it’s only enough if Karsas agrees to step down and relinquish his place as ataman.” He looked to Karsas. “Do you relinquish?”
Karsas crossed his arms. “No.”
It was no less than Azarion expected and everything he’d hoped for before entering the qara. “Then I demand the right to ritual combat to reclaim the role from Karsas, son of Gastene.”