by Grace Draven
His expression turned cold. “I’m better than those who called themselves my masters.”
She had insulted him and suffered regret for doing so. She shook it off. What did she care if she bruised his feelings? He’d forcibly taken her from all she knew, and while he promised to return her to Beroe, she didn’t really believe him.
The echo of hoofbeats made Gilene jump, certain she’d find Nunari horsemen bearing down on them. The steppe behind them was empty.
She turned back to find Azarion peering hard into the flames. “Savatar patrol,” he said. “They ride the Veil’s boundary. Krael can’t penetrate with its armies yet, but marked spies and traitors can get through.”
Gilene stared hard into the Veil, finally seeing the shadowy outline of riders coming toward them. “The fire is obvious in its protection, but surely it can be defeated? A protective shield wall, wagons that can withstand the flames long enough to break the Veil and drop Kraelian soldiers onto Savatar territory.”
“They’ve tried all those things. The wagons will make it through but carry nothing but men turned to kindling. This isn’t flame made with flint and fatwood. It’s god-fire like you cast. Water doesn’t quench it, and any person who touches it is instantly burned, no matter how well protected.”
She swallowed hard and edged her mount farther back from the Veil. Gilene knew herself to be impervious to the flame built by men and to the fire she summoned in the Pit each year, but who knew if this was the same? Despite Azarion’s insistence that she was his goddess’s handmaiden, she didn’t think herself beyond risk.
“How do you expect to get through?” she asked. “How do you expect to get your horse through?” The shadows of the riders on the other side grew clearer as they rode closer to the Veil.
Azarion watched them, his brow furrowed in thought. “The agacins who raised the Veil understood the need to protect but not to trap. This fire allows animals through as well as those who are marked by Agna’s blessing. I’m marked.” He pulled aside the neckline of his tunic to show a small starburst pattern etched into his flesh just under his collarbone where it met his shoulder. Gilene had noticed it when she helped him wrap his ribs in his cell but hadn’t thought it anything more than some self-inflicted scarification the gladiators practiced. Azarion straightened the tunic. “At their first year and naming day, every Savatar is given Agna’s mark by an agacin as protection against the Veil’s fire. As one of her handmaidens, you’re already protected from Agna’s fire by her blessing. You don’t need the mark.”
He sounded so certain. She wished she could believe him. “What if my witchery isn’t born of Agna? I will burn in her fire.”
He shook his head. “You won’t.” He guided his mount closer until both horses stood side by side, and Azarion’s leg pressed to hers. “You have to trust me, Agacin. I can’t leave you on this side of the Veil, and I can’t stay, but if I thought you’d burn, I’d figure out another way.” Again that wry smile flitted briefly across his mouth. “You aren’t much good to me as a pile of ash.”
“Ride through on my own, or you’ll carry me? That isn’t much of a choice. I risk death by fire no matter which I choose.”
He refused to bend. “You won’t burn.”
“Such faith in your goddess and her blessings,” she scoffed. The Veil simultaneously roared and whispered, its fire crackling, its flames blinding. “I’ll ride. At least if I die, I’ll do so knowing I made the choice.”
“We’ll blindfold the horses and lead them through. They won’t balk so much if they can’t see the flames.”
“What about the patrol on the other side? Will they be friendly to us or put us to the sword the moment we cross?” The irony of surviving the Pit, Midrigar, Nunari trackers, and an enraged barrow wight only to die at the end of a Savatar sword point would have made her laugh if it weren’t so frightening.
“It’ll depend on who they are and if they recognize me.” Azarion sounded supremely unconcerned.
She briefly closed her eyes. “I will die on this journey.”
They prepared the horses, using Gilene’s shawls to cover their eyes. Azarion held the reins of both mounts. Gilene stood next to him, staring at the horsemen who waited on the other side.
Azarion’s green eyes flared in his sun-bronzed face. Eagerness, triumph, confidence. All the things Gilene didn’t feel. Her stomach lurched this way and that, an internal dance of fear, and she knew the steps well.
“We’ll walk through together, Agacin,” he said.
She frowned. “I will haunt you until you die should you be the cause of my death. You’ll know no peace.”
He didn’t mock her threat as she half expected. Instead he offered her a brief bow and a solemn expression. “I haven’t known peace in a long time.” He gestured with a hand toward the Veil. “Come. It’s time.”
CHAPTER TEN
Their pass through the Veil was less of a rush and more of a crawl. Azarion held the reins for both horses in one hand and walked slowly through the fire. Gilene followed, her palm pressed against his back as the flames swallowed them. He could hear the staccato rhythm of her breathing. He knew she’d cross the Veil without incident. Knew it down to his bones. She didn’t, and she didn’t fully believe him.
“Can we not go any faster?” Her voice trembled.
He wished he could grant her request and rush them both through the Veil, but he risked spooking the already anxious horses. “Just keep walking, Agacin, and don’t look at the fire. We’ll be through soon enough.”
Her fear was justified. As a young boy, he and other boys in his clan would ride out with the patrols, learning the roles they’d assume as men and warriors. They often went back and forth through the Veil—as much to numb themselves to the fire’s intimidation as to train their horses not to fear it when they crossed into Nunari territory on raids. It didn’t matter how many times he crossed; the first sight of the roaring, crackling beast always made his stomach drop to his feet.
“Shouldn’t you be holding your sword instead of the horses’ reins?” she said, the words muffled as she spoke them into his tunic. Her steps shadowed his from behind as he led them through the Veil.
“Only if I want to be shot full of arrows the moment we reach the other side.” The fiery wall towered above them, blinding but oddly lacking any heat. It was a trap for the unwary and the unknowing who assumed that such an absence meant it was harmless. “There are at least four Savatar archers watching us with their bows drawn and their arrows nocked. If they see me holding steel, they’ll kill us once we emerge.”
“Remember what I said. My spirit will haunt you all your days.”
Magic and fire spiraled and pulsed around them, flames licking at their clothes, skin, and hair. Nothing burned. Behind him, Gilene gasped in wonder at the brilliance around them.
The great fire, summoned by agacins now long dead and fed by those who came after them, generation upon generation, cavorted in a chaotic dance all around them.
“I’m not burning!” Relief rang through Gilene’s exclamation.
Fire coursed over and around them, leaving only the resonance of its magic behind to lick their skin. Azarion’s prickled with the sensation: a low hum more felt than heard as if the magic fueling the god-fire sang to his blood instead of his ears. The sensation was similar to when he lay beside the sleeping Gilene in the barrow’s darkness. Her own magic thrummed like this, only not nearly so strong, and he was certain he’d felt its presence near the somber Halani when they traveled with the free traders’ band. He even felt it around his mother sometimes. A stray thought occurred to him. Did others feel this sensation as he did? Or was it unique to him, like his unexplained ability to see through illusion?
The blindfolded horses followed Azarion’s tug on the reins, their ears flicking left, right, and back as they listened for a predator. They didn’t fight the lead, and so
on the little group walked out of the Veil, unhurt and untouched by the divine fire.
Azarion tensed at the warning creak of a saddle as a nearby rider adjusted his seat on his mount. The four archers who waited for them on this side of the Veil faced him, bows drawn as he had predicted.
They wore garb similar to that of the Nunari—long-sleeved quilted tunics woven of wool and edged in fur, woolen breeches held tight to the lower legs by leather stocking boots cross-strapped at the calf and tied off at the ankle. Leather armor overlaid their clothing in a protective covering, and all wore either caps or helmets. Their swords and knives remained sheathed, but the arrows nocked to their bows and aimed at Azarion and Gilene posed more than enough of a threat.
Three of the four men were young, not many years beyond their first beard. The fourth was older, closer to Azarion’s age, if he were to guess, and it was this one who guided his horse forward to confront them. Azarion recognized none of them, which was a relief in itself. He had feared one or more of the Savatar waiting for them to cross might be one of his cousin’s henchmen.
“Who are you?” The older Savatar spoke in Savat, his suspicious gaze flickering back and forth between Azarion and Gilene, noting their appearances, Azarion’s armament, and the distinctly Nunari tack on the horses. Behind Azarion, Gilene stood silent, her hand no longer buried in his tunic, the space between them much greater. He mentally applauded her. She’d given him the room he needed to raise a fast defense.
“Azarion,” he replied in the same tongue. “Son of Iruadis Ataman and Saruke. Kestrel clan.”
The Savatar’s eyes narrowed, and his hand on the bow grip tightened. “Iruadis Ataman died six years ago. His son before that. You are a liar and a spy.”
All four bows lifted a notch as the archers prepared to fire. Gilene’s faint but fervent “Oh gods” echoed his own silent prayer to Agna for deliverance.
That deliverance arrived on the thud of hoofbeats and a hard voice bellowing, “Hold! Don’t shoot him yet.”
A man dressed like his comrades, but carrying a sword instead of a bow, trotted up to Azarion on a chestnut mare. His gray hair, tied in a top knot, matched the color of his beard, and he studied Azarion and Gilene with a hard, flat stare. His beard was decorated with tiny beads tied off at the ends of braids that dangled from his chin, and he wore a red sash wrapped around his trim middle, the badge of a Savatar tirbodh, a captain of archers.
Azarion’s gut wrenched. This man he knew. Memories of childhood, of better days and hard bruising, of pragmatic wisdom and endless patience. Agna continued to rain good fortune on him by sending the one archer captain who would stay his hand at killing him.
“You’re wearing Kraelian garb and Nunari weapons but walked through the Veil. Let me see your mark.”
Azarion dropped the reins and pushed aside the tunic’s neckline to expose his shoulder. If anything, the tirbodh’s gaze hardened even more. “You’re Agna-marked, so likely a spy. You and your woman. Where’s her mark?”
Gilene huddled behind him, trying to make herself as small as possible. “She doesn’t bear one. She doesn’t need it.”
The captain’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so? You look Savatar; she doesn’t, yet she walked through the fire. If I wasn’t curious about that, you’d both be dead right now.”
The archer closest to him spoke. “He says his name is Azarion, son of Iruadis Ataman.”
That revelation snapped the tirbodh rigid in the saddle. His weathered features paled for a moment, and the tiny beads in his beard clicked together. When he spoke again, he almost spat the words between his teeth. “Iruadis Ataman had only one child, a son with the name you claim.”
Azarion shook his head. “No. He had three children. Another son before me who died in infancy and a daughter younger than I am named Tamura. You know I speak the truth, Masad.” They all visibly startled at his use of the tirbodh’s name. “You delivered her of my mother in a pasture when she’d herded goats too far from the encampment to make it back in time for a midwife’s help.”
Masad’s eyes glittered, and his jaw clenched. “Disarm and toss your weapons on the ground. Then you sit.” He gestured to Gilene. “Both of you.”
The implacable command carried an implied threat. Refuse and die. Azarion slid his forearm out of the shield’s straps and flung the shield on the ground.
“What did he say?” Gilene’s mild tone didn’t quite disguise her unease.
He untied his sheaths, sending his sword and both knives the way of the shield.
“He wants us to sit down, Agacin. We do as he says. Our lives depend on it.” He dropped to the ground, pulling her down next to him.
Masad regarded them from the high place atop his horse. “The last time I saw Azarion, he was as tall as you but without the breadth of shoulder or the muscle. That beard of yours can be hiding any face.” He pointed to one of the knives Azarion had surrendered. “Have your woman use that to shave you, so I can see what hides behind the hair.”
Azarion froze. Gilene, extorted and compelled, was unwilling to be here but unable to leave, and he was supposed to hand her a knife and offer his throat? She returned his shuttered stare with a wide-eyed one of her own.
“What? What did he say?”
He might still die this day, even if it wasn’t by Masad’s hand. “He wants you to take one of those knives and shave me so he can see my face better.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she rocked back on her haunches. A calculating spark lit the black of her pupils before her gaze slid from him to the waiting Savatar, then to the knives. He wanted to remind her that once her fire returned, she’d have the ability to murder him at any time. Now, though, was not the time.
Gilene rose and made her way to where the knives lay in the grass, keeping a wary eye on the Savatar. She bent to pick up one of the blades and unerringly picked the sharper of the two. At least if she shaved him, she wouldn’t nick him too badly, and if she cut his throat, his death would be swift.
She returned, weapon clutched in her hand, to crouch before him. Dark humor flickered in her equally dark eyes. Sunlight winked off the blade as she lifted it and moved closer to his face. He held his breath.
“So tempting,” she murmured.
“So foolish,” he replied just as softly, his stare never wavering from hers.
“Trust me.”
Those two words, spoken by her this time instead of him, punched him in the gut. Azarion understood helplessness and the vulnerability of having your entire life—your fate—in the hands of someone who considered themselves your master. In those instances, he wasn’t expected to trust nor asked to believe anything others told him. Still, he had blinded himself to Gilene’s point of view, far too focused on his own goals and his surety that he’d never hurt her to truly understand her disbelief in his assurances. Trust was earned, not freely given.
Every instinct urged him to snatch the blade out of her hand and put space between them. Instead he sat motionless while she carefully cut away the thick beard and scraped the bristle until he was clean-shaven and nick-free with his jugular intact. Her fingertips on his jaw and cheeks made his skin tingle. A light, capable touch, but something about it heated his body in a way that the most sensual caress never had. When she finished, he remembered to breathe.
Gilene knee-walked a short distance from him and carefully set the knife in the grass in front of her, signaling the watching Savatar that she wasn’t a threat. A half dozen stares rested on him; Gilene’s thoughtful, the archers’ curious, and Masad’s stunned.
“You are your mother’s son,” the tirbodh said on a disbelieving exhalation. “Agna’s mercy, I thought you dead these many years.” He dismounted, strode to where Azarion still sat, and stretched out his hand. Azarion took it and was yanked to his feet, then into a hard embrace that sent shards of pain through his newly healed ribs.
The other archers stared at them, astonished, and slowly lowered their bows. Masad released Azarion, his craggy features wreathed in smiles. “Come back from the dead. This is a good day. A good day! Where have you been?”
The smile fell away when Azarion told him. “Enslaved by the Empire.” He glanced at the archers listening behind their captain. Now was not the time to reveal details. “I’ve much to tell.”
Masad nodded, understanding Azarion’s unspoken message. “And much to hear.” He turned his attention to Gilene. “Who is your woman?”
Azarion gestured for Gilene to stand by him. She came willingly, obviously deciding that he was, for now, the safer alliance. “This is Gilene of Be . . .” He almost said Beroe, but the fleeting shot of alarm across her features as she guessed what he was about to say stopped him. “Krael,” he amended. “She’s an agacin. Blessed by Agna but without our marks. As you saw, she didn’t burn in the Veil.”
Gilene made a distressed noise when the gazes resting on Azarion suddenly fell on her. “What did you just tell them?”
“That you’re an agacin.” He turned back to Masad. “Speak in trader’s tongue so she can understand.”
Masad raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “You’re both blessed then,” he said in the language understood by any who lived in or near the Krael Empire and the Golden Serpent. “Come. You’ve traveled a long way and over Nunari territory to reach us. The encampment isn’t far, and many will be happy to see you again.”
Masad ordered his men to stand down and introduced them to Azarion by name. Azarion remembered the three younger ones as small children, now grown to early manhood. He didn’t recognize the archer close to his age, a man Masad proclaimed had come to Clan Kestrel through marriage to a Kestrel woman.