by Grace Draven
The caravan leader’s eyes narrowed, his gaze suspicious. This wasn’t a man who let sympathy overwhelm caution. “Why did they let you live?” He peered beyond Azarion’s shoulder into the woods. “And I see no wife.”
Azarion shrugged. “She’s injured. I left her just within the trees there.” He gestured with a tip of his chin to where the agacin lay hidden. “I don’t know why they let us live. They didn’t share their reasons or their purpose. Not all murderers are thieves; not all thieves are murderers.” A quick glance behind the leader at the trader folk nodding their heads and murmuring told him his words had struck a chord.
The man himself remained unconvinced. His flat gaze flickered down. “You still have a blade on you. What manner of thief doesn’t take a weapon?”
“Not a very good one or maybe one who doesn’t think a common knife is worth dying for. I used it to defend us. I have a crossbow as well that fell from one of their saddles. I left it beside my wife.”
“Bring this wife to us. Only the wife.” They waited on the road until Azarion returned, the unconscious agacin heavy in his tired arms. He hadn’t wanted to leave the bow, but in this scenario, negotiation served him best, not force or threat.
The leader’s hard gaze settled on the witch. “Is your woman sick?”
In an instant, the fragile rapport Azarion had established with the traders vanished. Fear of plague burned away compassion in even the most softhearted person. His own heartbeat trebled as fingers on the crossbows’ triggers tightened. “Injured,” he assured them. “One of the thieves pushed her into the kettle of water she was boiling for our dinner. It spilled on her. She’s been scalded and is fevered from the wounds. Can you help her?” he repeated.
The agacin’s burn marks looked worse than a scalding, but telling this lot he held a fire witch injured by her own spells might get them both killed as quickly as if he confirmed the traders’ fears of plague.
A young woman emerged from behind the second wagon. Shorter than the agacin with lighter hair and sweeter features, she had the same color eyes as the caravan leader, only kinder and faintly melancholic. “Let me help her, Uncle.” She reached the man’s side, stretching up on her toes to speak softly in his ear.
He frowned, said something to the girl, shook his head at her reply, and finally gave a sigh and a roll of his eyes. He turned to Azarion. “You can travel with us as far as Wellspring Holt, but I’ll take that knife you’re carrying as payment for food and care of your wife, along with the crossbow.” He gestured for one of his men to retrieve the bow Azarion had left in the forest.
Azarion didn’t hesitate and turned his hip so another of the traders could remove the blade from his belt. He was now both injured and unarmed. He shifted the agacin in his arms. “It’s a good knife,” he assured his new host.
The other man took the blade, hefting it in his palm to test its balance, turning it this way and that to inspect the edge. “It is. I’ll use it well.” He gestured to his niece and an older woman who joined them during their bargaining. “Put your woman in Asil’s wagon. Halani there can see to her. You’ll have to walk like the rest of us.”
Azarion nodded. He could do that, welcomed it, in fact. Sitting hurt. Lying down was agony, running an exercise in torture. The pain of his cracked ribs might finally subside if all he had to do was walk. “My thanks.”
The girl called Halani motioned for him to follow her. Her uncle and the older woman Azarion assumed was Asil fell into step on either side of him.
Asil offered him a sweet, vapid smile. “What’s your name?” She possessed a young voice, at odds with her aged features.
“Valdan of Pran.” That lie spilled as easily from his lips as all the others before it. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between lies and truth if he kept this up. He didn’t regret it. His real name might be noted and possibly recognized. It was common enough among the Savatar, not so much in the Empire, and the Gladius Prime known as Azarion had achieved great notoriety among the populace who attended the fights in the Pit.
Unlike Asil, the caravan’s leader didn’t smile, and his gaze raked Azarion from head to foot. “You’ve the look of the nomads from the Sky Below about you.”
Azarion almost stumbled at hearing the Savatar words used in describing the Stara Dragana. It had been a long time since anyone he knew called it the Sky Below. Homesickness, buoyed by newfound hope, swamped him. He held the agacin a little closer.
“My mother was a Nunari clanswoman, my father a Kraelian soldier.”
Halani, striding ahead of them, spoke over her shoulder. “And your wife? How is she called?”
Azarion glanced down at the witch’s flushed features, recalling once more the man standing by the cart in Kraelag, shouting a name as Azarion galloped toward her. She had snarled at Azarion when he used it, refusing to claim it as hers.
“Gilene,” he said. “Her name is Gilene.” And for the first time since he’d broken free of his bondage to the Empire, he was certain he spoke the truth.
CHAPTER FIVE
Gilene’s first thought when she regained consciousness was that someone had spoon-fed her a bowl of sand while she slept. The gritty burn in her throat hurt each time she swallowed, and her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. She tried to lick her bottom lip only to stop at the dry scrape of chapped skin. She cracked open an eyelid to a blurry view of shapes and colors. One shape, made of shades in red and yellow and black, moved toward her. “Thirsty,” she croaked.
A gentle hand gripped the back of her neck and lifted her enough to sip from a cup held to her mouth. “Sip,” said a soft, female voice. “Slowly or you’ll be sick.”
Gilene did as instructed, controlling the urge to gulp as cool water filled her mouth and slid down her throat in a soothing tumble. She mumbled a protest when her nurse took the cup away, and reached for it with a trembling hand. “More.”
A hand stroked her hair. Once more the soothing voice spoke. “In a moment. Let your stomach get used to having something in it. Rest for now.”
She was lowered back to a soft pillow, a covering that smelled of bay leaves instead of stale sweat tucked around her shoulders. Her vision remained blurry despite her best effort to blink it clear. Another shape joined the first one.
“She has pretty hair,” a younger voice said.
“She does, Mama. Now leave her be. She’s injured and needs rest.” A cool palm curled over Gilene’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Shh. Sleep. When you wake again, your man will be here with you.”
Gilene frowned, confused. Man? What man? The spell sickness turned her mind into a mud puddle. She had no man. None wanted a fire witch made barren by her magic and fated to “die” every year, doomed to both physical and emotional ruin by the time her unfortunate successor assumed her role as Beroe’s savior. She fell asleep to the soft croon of a woman singing and the ache of resentment in her belly.
She awakened again—hours or minutes or days later, she couldn’t tell—to the glow of an oil lamp and the curve of a painted night sky above her.
Her gaze traveled across an enclosed horizon, pausing at points to note neatly stacked chests and barrels set against slat walls washed in shades of teal and amber. The sound of voices penetrated their barriers. Men and women talking and singing, children laughing, all accompanied by the bleat and bray of livestock. The bed on which she lay rocked beneath her in a rough cradle’s sway. Where in the gods’ names was she?
“You’re awake.”
The familiar sound of the deep voice sent a cascade of memories tumbling past her mind’s eye: the floor of the Pit consumed in fire; the spirits of the sacrificed women departing; the painful lurch toward her brothers, who waited with their cart for her; and most of all the gladiator who extorted her cooperation and repaid her help by abducting her.
Gilene’s gaze snapped to the large figure folded in
to a cross-legged position near her knees. Azarion. She would remember his name until the day she died and not with affection. His green eyes caught the ambient light of the lamp, and the somber expression he wore highlighted the high curve of his cheekbones. A beard shadowed his jaw. She tried to sit up, but the blankets tucked around her felt heavier than iron, her muscles weaker than a crone’s on her deathbed.
Azarion rested three fingers on her shoulder and effortlessly pushed her supine once more. “Halani says your fever’s broken, but you need to rest a little longer. The poultice she used on your back and leg worked wonders. Without it, you’d still be feverish and lying on your side.”
Gilene’s thoughts spun. She had so many questions, with only memories made hazy by fever to find her answers. She lay very still, searching for the hot agony of the burns left by her magic, and felt nothing except an extra bit of padding against her back. Her fingers sought and found the bandage on her thigh, discovering as well that, under the blankets, she was as bare as a newborn.
She accepted the flask Azarion offered her without comment, took a careful swallow, and handed it back to him. “Where am I?”
“In a free trader’s wagon. The caravan master’s niece and sister have been taking care of you.”
Gilene recalled the voices of two women, one calm and soothing, the other girlish and sweet. “How long have I been ill?”
“Three days with fever.” She gasped and tried to sit up once more, only to fall back again as muscles sore from lack of use cramped in protest. Azarion frowned but didn’t touch her. “Lie still. You’re not helping yourself by doing that.”
She rubbed a hand over her cheek, wincing at the ache still lingering where Azarion’s knee had struck her. Her skin felt clammy, and her scalp itched. Memories fluttered like moth wings through her mind, fragile and fleeting. The pain in her back, begging her captor to let her go, the scent of despair blanketing cursed Midrigar, and the living darkness hovering just beyond the threshold of the ruined temple, watching as she and Azarion climbed the steps to the sheltered portico. The recollections made her shudder.
“How did we escape Midrigar?” She remembered the thing summoned by the dead, her own panic overriding the fever as Azarion searched frantically for something to draw a protective circle around them.
Azarion’s features sharpened, and she caught the glimmer of true horror in his eyes. “The sacrifice of a tracking party and a sprint to the gate,” he said. His gaze flickered away for a moment before returning to her. “You were right. Midrigar is no sanctuary for anyone. More than the dead linger there.”
She blinked at him, stunned by his ready willingness to admit his error. It even had the vague ring of apology. Crowing over it served neither of them, so she simply nodded and went back to her questions.
“How did we end up with traders?” When he recounted the tale, it was her turn to frown. “Do these people know who you are?”
His relaxed manner disappeared, replaced by the implacable demeanor. His eyes darkened, gaze harder than emeralds. “They know I’m Valdan of Pran, traveling with my wife, Gilene, to the Silfer markets to sell dye. We were attacked and robbed on the road. You were burned when the pot of water you were boiling spilled on you during the struggle.” He bared his teeth at her when she opened her mouth to protest. “The fever clouded your memory, wife. I traded my knife and a crossbow for help.”
More terrifying memories surfaced: the thing screeching at them from the gate’s threshold, the lone tracker raising his crossbow to fire at them, and his quick death from Azarion’s blade. She shivered.
“We’ll be near the town of Wellspring Holt by tomorrow evening.”
Wellspring Holt. She had visited the town as a child with her family for the summer wedding of a distant relative. It would be simple to find her way back from there to Beroe. She just had to escape the gladiator. She eyed him, her renewed anger burning away her lethargy. “What’s to stop me from telling them you’re an escaped Pit slave known as Azarion?”
He shrugged, the easy gesture belied by the narrowed gaze. “Nothing except whatever sense of responsibility you carry. If you tell them, you sentence them to die. I’ll be forced to kill every one of them so they won’t sell me back to the Empire. That includes the woman who nursed you and her mother, who is like a slow-witted child.”
If the power she wielded hadn’t been drained dry in the Pit, she’d set him on fire and worry about reparations for the wagon later. “What has the Empire made of us that we both kill innocents without hesitation?”
Another shrug. “Survivors.”
Her rage sapped what little strength Gilene had left. Her eyelids grew heavy even as she struggled to stay awake and bargain with her captor. “Will you let me go when we reach Wellspring Holt?”
“No.”
She refused to let the bastard Savatar see her weep. “Why not? That your people revere fire witches is all well and good, but I don’t want to be abducted and worshipped. I just want to go home.”
Azarion leaned forward and placed a finger against her lips. “Shh,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument, no matter how softly spoken. The look he leveled on her was curious. “Why haven’t you burned me to escape?” Her mutinous silence didn’t deter him. “Because you can’t,” he said, answering his own question. “At least not yet. You’re like a lamp that’s burned away its oil. You need time to replenish as well as to heal.”
He was a loathsome snake and a liar, a thief, and a butcher, but he was most definitely not stupid. Gilene seethed and pulled her blanket up to cover her face and shut him out of her sight. “Go away,” she muttered.
She waited for him to say something else, but he stayed silent and did as she asked. The wagon rocked when he stood and creaked on its struts as he hopped out of the shelter.
He left the door open, and Gilene peeked out from the covers to see sunlight gild the door frame. Azarion’s deep voice echoed back to her, along with the soft voice of a woman—the one Gilene associated with slender hands and a soothing touch.
A shadow filled the opening for a moment, and the wagon swayed again, this time under the feet of a woman wearing dusty skirts and a reassuring smile. Gilene guessed her similar in age to herself. She wore her brown hair in an intricate plait that fell over one shoulder to her hip, its end tied with a beaded ribbon. She assumed Azarion’s previous place by the bed.
“Your husband said you were awake. How are you feeling?” The woman had gray eyes, velvety as a dove’s wings, somber as a pall monk’s prayers.
Gilene swallowed back the denial that she was married, and certainly not to her captor. She licked dry lips, wishing she’d partaken more from the flask Azarion had handed her. “Much better. Are you Halani?” At the other’s affirmative nod, she continued. “He said you nursed me. Thank you.”
The trader woman’s smile widened. “My mother, Asil, helped too, though she offers company more than help. I’ve poulticed your back to ease the pain and speed healing and done the same with your leg. I’m not much of a healer, but it should work.”
Gilene’s erstwhile nurse didn’t give herself enough credit. The pain in her back and thigh was almost gone, hardly a sting remaining to remind her that fire magic wielded a whip against its user. “It’s wonderful and hurts very little now. I’m grateful.” Azarion had neatly trapped her into silence. There was no way she’d reveal his true identity to these people, if only to spare Halani, whose kindness had eased her suffering.
Halani laid her hand over Gilene’s forehead. “Your skin is still cool. No more fever. Do you feel well enough to eat?”
Gilene’s stomach rumbled in answer, and both women laughed. Halani stood. “I’ll be back with some broth and a little bread.”
The scent of herbs filled the wagon’s small space when she returned and set down a bowl of warm broth and a hunk of bread on a tray atop a storage chest. She h
elped Gilene sit up, tucking pillows behind her as a back rest. “If you’re too weak, I can feed you.”
Keeping her hands as steady as possible, Gilene reached for the bowl and spoon Halani offered. “I can do it.” She hated the aftermath of her magic use as much as the reason for using it. Left weak as a babe for several days, and just as pitiful, she had to rely on her family’s help. Coming from strangers, it was even worse. She’d eat the soup on her own if it half killed her.
The first sip made her eyebrows lift. “This is better than good. Did you make it?”
Halani chortled. “I only wish I possessed such skill with a cooking pot. That’s Marata’s doing. He’s the caravan’s cook and used to run the kitchens on a Kraelian nobleman’s estate. If my uncle had to get rid of all of us save one, he’d keep Marata.”
“Your uncle is the caravan leader?” The chime of small bells sounded outside, the mark of those who refused to join the Trade Guild and obey its stricter laws.
Halani straightened the blankets at Gilene’s feet before offering her a napkin. “Aye. When it’s safe enough and there isn’t a war or two going on, our caravan travels most of the hinterland roads. Our best profits come from the garrisons.” She frowned. “I’m sorry to hear the thieves took your horse and goods. Your husband said they even stole your dye pots.”
Gilene tried not to choke on her broth. Azarion—Valdan, whatever he chose to call himself at the moment—spun a false tale better than a spider did a web. And she was forced to validate his lies. She dabbed at her lips with the napkin. “All can be replaced. We’re just lucky to be alive.” The last, at least, was a hard-won truth. Between the Rites of Spring and the predator in Midrigar, it was a wonder neither of them was dead yet.