by Grace Draven
Azarion stroked her cheek. “As is this woman of Beroe. The entire camp is talking about the raid and how you chased off the Saiga. Your power has returned then?”
“Only a little.” She stood and gestured for him to follow her to the cook fire. Azarion and Saruke watched, curious, as she waved her palm over the brazier’s diminutive flames, making them jump. “This is the extent of my ability for now.” She noted Saruke’s confusion. “And this is how I can make the flames look bigger with illusion.” Her short incantation turned the merry fire into a jet that shot toward the qara’s peak. Saruke scuttled back on a gasp; Azarion did not, and Gilene suspected he saw through this trickery as easily as he’d seen through all those she’d cast previously. “Your agacins may still not consider it enough to believe I’m one of them.”
“If you show them this, how could they not?”
His absolute confidence in things never failed to surprise her. She admired his certainty, that focused will and careful strategizing, even when he had wielded it against her. There was much to be said for that kind of self-possession. “And if they do, will you then challenge Karsas for the role of chief?”
“Yes. It’s long past time. Summer will end, and we’ll be settled far into the east for the winter. I’ll need to return you home before then.” An odd intensity settled over his face, making an equally strange flutter tickle Gilene’s insides. “That is if you still wish to go.”
They stared at each other, Saruke forgotten. Had Azarion asked this question a month earlier, Gilene would have thought him thickheaded. Everything she had done so far was an exercise in negotiation and tactics that would increase her chances of seeing Beroe again. Now, however, she hesitated to answer. Once, wish and need had been synonymous with each other. They were beginning to diverge. She frowned, unsettled by the notion. “I have to go. My family needs me. I have a duty to them and to Beroe.”
A rare scowl darkened his features. “What is Beroe’s duty to you, Gilene? You give the villagers everything, and they give you what? Their silence? Their secrecy? Their promise not to punish your family as long as you return to Kraelag each year? The clans would welcome you if you chose to stay. No Rites of Spring to suffer, no forced march to the capital or a night spent being used by a gladiator. You live easily among us now and, as an agacin, would be welcomed by any clan, not just Kestrel.”
Saruke suddenly rose, her expression bemused. “Keep an eye on the fire while you talk. I need to borrow something from Odat. I’ll return soon.”
Her obvious bid at giving them privacy wasn’t lost on either Gilene or Azarion. He watched his mother leave before turning back to Gilene. “She wants you to stay. You’ve been a good companion for her.”
Gilene liked Saruke, with her nuggets of wisdom parsed out to any who listened, and she found the dour Tamura fascinating if not a little intimidating. They had made her sojourn among the Savatar not just bearable but enjoyable. The life of the Savatar was a hard one on the steppes, harder than life in Beroe if she discounted her annual trek to the arena, but she embraced it. Still, her duty lay to the west, though she now wished it otherwise. “I’m not Savatar.”
Something in his expression made her breath catch. Despite her reluctant but growing affection—and attraction—for him, as well as his straightforward admiration for her, they were still captor and captive. Her resolve to return home hadn’t changed.
She held still when he lifted her braid from her shoulder and ran his hand down its length in a slow caress. “You have a Savatar’s strong heart. And you’re Agna’s handmaiden.”
“Not yet. The council still has to decide that one, and I still have to pass their tests.”
He snorted. “By now, the camp is buzzing like a hornet’s nest with the news of you scaring away the Saiga. With as many people who saw you summon fire and have spread the word, I doubt there’s a priestess among the council who will deny you the status.”
She didn’t possess his confidence, but so far he had been right in his assumptions. “What do you think Karsas is saying right now?”
A tight-lipped smile dipped in malice curved his lips. “I’m surprised my ears aren’t on fire yet with all the cursing of my name I’m sure he’s doing right now. He was certain you’d never regain your powers.”
“You’ll challenge him to combat?” Her stomach clenched as she said the words.
His fingers traveled along her braid as if it were a strand of prayer beads. “As soon as the ata-agacin declares your status.”
She studied him while he stroked her hair, mesmerized by the action and by the heat of his gaze. “Your mother worries for your safety. I’m sure your sister does too.” Did her voice just sound breathy?
His gaze intensified. “Are you troubled as well?”
She wanted to tell him no, but that would be a lie. Once, her worry would have sprung from the fear of not making it home to Beroe. No longer. Her concern for him was just as strong, but it had little to do with her chances of returning to her village, and Gilene inwardly flailed at the realization.
“Gilene?” He spoke her name as if in prayer.
“Yes,” she said and gently pried her braid from his grasp.
He let her go, expression measuring, as if he peeled back layers of clothing, flesh, and muscle to look upon her spirit. “Even if I lose, I’ll make sure you’re returned home.”
Gilene didn’t pray. Gods were deaf, and life was short. She had better things to do than speak to those who didn’t or wouldn’t hear, yet she found herself silently beseeching the mercy of a goddess she refused to recognize for his continued welfare. Surely, Azarion’s devout belief in Agna had earned him some small bit of divine providence.
She asked him a question, one that had nagged her over the days and weeks as he effortlessly settled back into the life of a Savatar warrior. “You’ve lived your life a slave for ten years and have found freedom once again. You’ve endured much to return to your people. I remember what you told me that day by the barrow. I understand your wish to reclaim all you’ve lost, but is this chieftainship worth the risk of losing your life to Karsas?”
That piercing gaze turned inward and away from her. “If Karsas ruled with merit, I wouldn’t challenge him, but a lot has changed for my clan since I was sold, and none of it good. I truly believe I’ll be a better ataman than him.”
This was a man who would see his clan rise above all others in his lifetime. Gilene knew it in her gut. “I believe you’ll not only be better than Karsas, but best of all the clan atamans.”
His eyebrows rose, and a smile played across his mouth at her fervor. “I intend to be.” Once more she came under the piercing stare. “If you stayed, you would be given a high place among Clan Kestrel, a seat on the Fire Council, a bed in the ataman’s qara for as long as you wish.”
Something more lay beneath those words, an unspoken entreaty wrapped up in generosity. The odd flutter from earlier returned to dance beneath her ribs and tickle her heart.
Her family’s fate rested in her hands, and while she couldn’t recall any time where one of them offered her some escape from her own grim destiny, she knew herself incapable of abandoning them. She was Beroe’s fire witch and the means by which they protected themselves from the Empire. It had always been so. That acceptance rankled even more in the face of Azarion’s offer, but the guilt of abandoning others when she could save them would destroy her.
“I can’t,” she said, unable to hide the regret in her answer.
“Gilene . . .”
Tamura’s entrance into the qara interrupted whatever he planned to say. The woman’s eyes narrowed for a moment as she took in the scene of the two of them standing close together. Gilene stepped back, happy to put some physical distance between her and Azarion if for nothing more than to reclaim her ability to think and not just feel.
“Word has gone out,” Tamura announced. �
�The entire camp knows about the agacin’s deed. Riders have been dispatched to the other clan camps to tell the members of the Fire Council.” A wide grin eased her hard expression. “We will celebrate tonight.”
“Whatever for this time?” Even after weeks with the Savatar, Gilene was still flummoxed by the amount of celebrating they did, for everything from a girl’s first bleed to a child’s birth, to the recognition of some holy day.
Tamura eyed her as if she were daft. “Have you been outside this qara since you returned?” At Gilene’s “No,” she snorted. “A mountain of gifts from grateful families will soon block the entrance.”
Gilene gasped. “No! Send them back!” She grasped Azarion’s forearm. “Please,” she pleaded in softer tones. “No gifts. I did nothing to warrant them.”
The magic she summoned had been nothing more than small grass fires enhanced with trickery to fool the unknowing Saiga raiders. But even had it been more, she couldn’t accept the offerings. They were gifts in name only. Beneath their bounty and goodwill lay the expectation that she would do something similar in the future if the need arose. And she couldn’t drain her magic for them. She wouldn’t.
Fire magic wasn’t limitless and the price to wield it steep. The light burn currently under her arm was the result of her building those small fires. Gilene conserved what she possessed not only to avoid the painful backlash of its use but also to ensure she had enough to make it through the Rites of Spring alive each year. If she helped the Savatar any more, she’d be unable to help Beroe when she returned, and that was where her first loyalty lay.
“No gifts,” she repeated.
“Then you will insult these people in the worst way, Agacin,” Tamura snapped.
Gilene glanced at Tamura’s face, dark as a storm cloud, then back at Azarion’s. His expression was far more enigmatic, as if he understood the reason for her refusal even if he might not agree with it.
“Unless you wish to offend every Savatar in this camp, you can’t refuse the gifts, no matter how well-meaning.” He must have seen the desperation in her eyes, because he covered her hand where it clutched his forearm. “Trust me. They won’t assume your power is theirs to use at will.”
With his assurances and no real choice in the matter, she reluctantly agreed to accepting the gifts and attending the celebration held in her honor that night.
Saruke’s qara grew cluttered with numerous goods—pots and baskets, felted lap rugs and slippers, finely carved bone needles, and skeins of thread spun from wool and even silk. There were fur-lined gloves and tunics edged at the hem and cuffs with marmot fur. Bridles made of intricately tooled leather joined horse blankets striped in vivid colors. And these were just the items stored in the qara.
Outside, among the livestock and horses, the wealth of Azarion’s family grew by several more goats, sheep, and a half dozen mares. The Savatar, to Gilene’s quiet horror, were generous in expressing their gratitude. She only hoped they wouldn’t hunt her down and punish her for her ingratitude when she left all of it behind with Azarion to return to her village at the end of the season.
Ten days after she built a monstrosity made of illusion and flame to frighten away the Saiga, the Fire Council once more congregated within the Kestrel clan’s camp. Gilene was torn between dread and relief at the arrival of all nine of the agacins and their entourages. The wait had seemed interminable, highlighted by her own fear that she had burned out what little magic she managed to recoup, and the venomous looks Karsas cast her way anytime she was in his vicinity.
Those looks were broadcast to Azarion as well and either blithely ignored or returned with a stare that would freeze a hot coal in midburn. Gilene was far more intimidated by the ataman’s obvious antipathy and strove to stay out of his way.
It was Tamura who escorted her to the qara reserved for the Fire Council’s gathering and their testing of a handmaiden. Gilene’s second trip to stand before the agacins was much like the first, made under the scrutiny of hundreds. Azarion stood near the entrance, his green eyes alight with both hope and faith. That look made the nervous sweat trickling down her back flow a little faster.
She and Tamura paused at the threshold, the hush around them a living entity that seemed to mock her. A woman appeared at the entrance to greet them, one of the nine priestesses Gilene remembered from the first council meeting.
“The Fire Council calls forth Gilene of Krael,” she said in a loud, clear voice. She stepped aside and made a half bow.
Tamura nudged Gilene forward. “Good luck, Agacin,” she whispered.
Gilene nodded, staring into the tent’s black maw. She didn’t dare glance at Azarion again to see his conviction in her success today. Her nerves were already stretched thin as it was.
The agacins were positioned as she remembered, in a half circle toward the back of the qara and facing the door. The ata-agacin stood at their center. An unlit brazier waited nearby alongside familiar items: candles, an oil lamp, a bundle of fatwood.
Gilene didn’t know the fire priestesses’ names. Such hadn’t been shared during the first test of her powers, but she recognized their faces and their expressions, ranging from guarded expectation to outright disbelief.
She appreciated their skepticism. She had failed the first tests. She wasn’t Savatar, and she didn’t believe in, nor worship, the goddess Agna.
The ata-agacin’s gaze scraped Gilene from head to foot. “We meet again, Gilene of Krael.”
Gilene bowed. “Hopefully for a better outcome, Ata.”
The priestess nodded. “Indeed.” She pointed to the candles. “Show us as before. Light the candle.”
She had done this during the first test with dismal results. This time, though, the red stream of magic flowed through Gilene’s arms and down to her fingertips. The wick of each candle burst into life with a sizzle.
Every agacin sat a little straighter, and a few leaned forward, their doubt in her abilities burned away as quickly as the tallow coating the wicks.
The ata-agacin shared a speaking glance with her fellow handmaidens before returning her attention to Gilene. “Now the lamp.”
Braced for failure even after the successful lighting of the candles, Gilene exhaled when the lamp’s wick flared to life, the flames licking greedily at the oil. The shadows it cast danced along the qara’s felt walls as if in celebration of her accomplishment. The fatwood followed, burning to ash under her flame.
Whatever dubiousness regarding Gilene’s power lingered with the agacins, it was gone now. They watched avidly as the ata-agacin pointed lastly to the cold brazier. “Light it.”
This one required more power, and Gilene felt its drain as she concentrated on lighting the brazier. It roared to life with a burst of fire before settling down to burn the dried dung piled in the fuel bowl.
The ata-agacin raised an eyebrow. “Others say the flame you wrought to scare off the raiders was far greater than this. A wall of fire that turned into a draga.” She might acknowledge the existence of Gilene’s power, but by the look on her face, she wasn’t particularly impressed with it.
“A bit of trickery,” Gilene replied. “Fire isn’t my only power.” This time she incanted an illusion spell, raising a more epic simulacrum of the modest flames dancing in the brazier. A wave of fire washed across the floor in a rushing tide, surging up the qara’s walls and support columns to billow out across the roof.
The priestesses leapt to their feet, frantically gesturing to summon their own power and control the fire that threatened to turn the qara into a roaring conflagration. They gaped, wide-eyed, when Gilene abruptly ended the illusion with a single word. The qara returned to its ambient gloom, with lamp, candle, and the brazier flames cheerfully flickering away.
“What magic is this?” demanded one of the priestesses.
Gilene shrugged. “It’s illusion. The draga that frightened off the Saiga raiders
was the magic of deception, not fire.” She didn’t mention Azarion’s odd and unexplained ability to see right through illusion conjuring.
Another agacin scowled at her. “This isn’t Agna’s blessing.”
“No, it isn’t.” The ata-agacin’s measuring gaze raked Gilene a second time. Where before her regard had been one of faint dismissiveness, it was now that of cautious respect. “No agacin has ever controlled illusion before.”
“Maybe she isn’t truly Agna-blessed.”
The priestess reared back when the ata-agacin turned on her. “No one controls fire without the goddess’s blessing,” she snapped. “You speak blasphemy.”
The other woman paled and raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Forgive me, Ata.” The other priestesses drew away from her as if they feared whatever retribution the goddess might visit on their sister would somehow spill onto them.
Gilene watched it all and wished herself anywhere but here, before these rigid judges who would determine her worthiness and, in turn, Azarion’s ability to claim the chieftainship of Clan Kestrel.
The ata-agacin returned her focus to Gilene. “Illusion isn’t a blessing of Agna’s.” Her brow creased as her gaze turned inward. “But there are old tales, some spoken, others carved on the barrow steles. The ancient dragas used illusion to walk among us. It was once believed that draga blood spilled on sacred ground sometimes imparted its magic to those who lived on or near it.” That piercing gaze snapped back to Gilene. “Where were you born?”
Gilene cast back in her memory for any mention by her parents or the village elders regarding something unique in Beroe’s location but found nothing. She shrugged. “A village of no importance except for its dye exports.”
Part of her wanted to howl with laughter at the idea she and the Beroe witches before her had somehow inherited magic from long-dead creatures that, until recently, she hardly believed ever existed. Yet another part of her wondered. No one could ever explain why a witch, with the ability to control fire and cast illusion, was born every generation to Beroe, in different families. What if her small, insignificant village was more than it seemed? And what if it explained Azarion’s own unique talent for seeing through illusion? The ata-agacin’s question of where Gilene was born made her pause as she recalled what he had told her when they sat together before his family’s barrow.