Among his racing thoughts Stroan chose to indulge only those that concerned Yuna, and found it ironic that they were both in similar situations. Surely she would understand. More importantly he thought of how now he could never tell Anza of his love for Yuna, something he had been working up nerve for and waiting for the appropriate time to bring to her attention.
“You know my hands are yours, my lady, wherever you would have them.” Stroan replied after what he thought to be too much silence.
“I speak casually, yet you address me formally,” said Anza, smiling knowingly. “You haven’t called me lady in private for weeks. You must not desire it.”
Was it true? How could he have given himself away so easily? No. How could he hide anything from someone as perceptive as her?
There was still time to turn it around and Stroan thought hard for the right words. He was a shrewd man himself, witty, and quick of tongue, and he knew he could pull this back together, even if it seemed Anza was already a step ahead.
“Forgive me, Anza, but if you could see into my heart and know the truth of it I wouldn’t have to force these words. The desire is well within me though I am not worthy, and being a servant and you the matriarch even thinking such thoughts leaves me uneasy.”
Stroan had found the perfect words, and they had sounded convincing because they were true. As he considered it, he didn’t know how anyone of the Condor who came to have such affairs with Anza brought themselves to the act without fearfulness, how they stood knowing that they would lie with the mother of the clan. While it was a thing he was sure happened, he didn’t know who it happened with or when it took place. Stroan had always imagined she had the great hunters to her chamber, being men of powerful physique and muscle, but now that he thought about it he couldn’t recall seeing one of them going to or from her chamber even one time. The only other answer he could come to was that there were none that he knew of that visited her chamber on a regular basis besides her servants, Yari Thorn, and himself. If she wasn’t regularly taking servants or the vixen archer to her bed, then it explained clearly to Stroan the additional duties of his role.
“You fear me still?” Anza laughed. “I swear my rank is more of a curse to me than a benefit.”
“There is a kind of fear that is good, Anza,” Stroan said quickly. “You know that the clan reveres you, and you make us strong by commanding such respect.”
Anza stretched her arms up and released a sigh, rising from the wicker stool. Taking a seat in her wooden chair that sat dead center against one of the four of the Great Aerie’s walls, she motioned Stroan to move the stool up and sit before her.
Stroan glanced over to the matriarch’s bed when he heard the words. He had eyed the stacked bear-skins, the satin coversheet and stuffed fox-fur pillows when Anza’s words turned him back towards her.
“I will command no such thing of you.” She smiled, eyeing him intently. “I can command anything of anyone here in the clan and they will do it—yet it yields little gratification unless they want to. Do you think me so simple as to command you to my bed? If I was after a simple lay I would’ve called one of the great hunters.”
Anza chuckled at her own statement and Stroan joined in with her—only he laughed at the irony of her reference to the hunters which he found to be more than a bit eerie.
“But enough on that matter,” said Anza, seeming to sense Stroan’s discomfort. “I would have you check on our hired hand and see if everything’s well. Everything should be ready in the valley as of now. Would you see to it?”
“Of course, Anza.”
“Since you doubted the efficiency of Ozgan,” said Anza eyeing Stroan with a grin, “go see for yourself if the girls are there.”
Stroan could do nothing but smile. “I will make sure of it,” he said with a faint bow of the head.
Stroan opened one of the aerie doors, stepped out onto the bank of the hill, and closed the door behind him. He scaled down the hill into the rocks. He was surprised at the emotions he felt—anger, and a bit of guilt. But stronger than these he felt helplessness—a feeling he had always loathed and swore he would do without. He didn’t like the idea of being helpless. He had always thought that people could change their situations. If they worked hard, were diligent, and found the favor of their god they could be raised from a situation of deficiency to distinction, from grief to glory. After all, he had been of the lowest class in his clan as a boy, and now he was second only to the ruler herself.
His disadvantages had been significant for he had been born male in a society where females were thought to be the better gender, and most men served as nothing but expendable soldiers, hunters, and breeders. His parents had also been of the low city, not having their own aeries in the high city, but leading a poor and simple life in the surrounding outer cliffs. They didn’t enjoy the luxury of sleeping in the protected aeries of the high city, but instead made their home with others of their kind among the low craters of the outer cliffs.
But Stroan changed his situation. Paying close attention to his society’s hierarchy, he’d learned that those of the highest rank were assassins—not run of the mill killers, but gifted mercenaries. These Condor were most valuable because of what they could offer to the clan, and the matriarch always took notice of them because they were essential in fulfilling her plan. They would never have the numbers or manpower to take Snowstone by force, but with wit, stealth, and strategy the new kingdom was naught but a killing away.
Stroan hadn’t been the only one to notice these things as a child. There were many others, and what started was a movement of young Condor all pushing to make a name for themselves by being the best assassins. What resulted were dozens of callow youths running off to their deaths, and a handful of skilled fighters becoming expert killers. Of these were Stroan, Yari Thorn, Minkus and Maza the twin deaths, and, of course, the three apostates. They were the ones who had given the Condor a name and reputation for having the lands most gifted mercenaries—so much that people of the highest importance had begun to call on them.
Stroan flew down the rocks to the low city, making his way toward the sound of the bleating herd until he came to the rams’ gorge. He slid down a tall, steep wall and looked ahead to see the gully widening in the distance where a cedar fence stretched across the way.
“Stroan!” Little Gargo called out enthusiastically, leaning on the rain-weathered cedar gatepost of the fence that spanned across the gulley. “Flint’s lookin’ all ready to go. You takin’ him out?”
The head stable master was a cheerful old man with a long gray beard and gentle eyes. He was quite short, but his posture was firm and upright, and he always seemed to have far more energy than a man should at his age.
“Aye, we’re heading out.”
Old Gargo skipped nimbly over to Flint’s stall, yanked the leather bridle off the front post and wasted no time securing it to the ram’s head.
Stroan started to tell him not to worry about it, but the old man had already slid on the nose band and fastened the cheek-piece, and was now tightening the brow-band around the horns. “I could’ve done it, Gargo.”
“Aye, but not as fast as me,” said Gargo, his eyes squinting as he grinned cheerfully.
“You may be right about that,” Stroan agreed. “Come, Flint.”
Gargo held open the gate as the charcoal ram obeyed Stroan’s voice. Exiting the corral the animal approached its master, and Stroan ran his hand along one of the long horns that extended into the air. Flint was young; his horns had just slightly started to curl.
Stroan hopped on.
“Until I see you next, Gargo.”
“Until then,” the old man called as Flint carried Stroan away.
Stroan whispered in the animal’s ear and patted the ram’s neck a few times and the mount went dashing out of the cliffs. They were gone from the Clouds in no time at all. After they had left the city behind, Stroan pulled the reins to slow the mount, allowing Flint to rest as they walked l
eisurely over the hillside plains.
It was too quiet outside the city—nothing but mountain cliffs and rocks stared silently as his mount moved nimbly through. Nature was watching him, it seemed, looking on from different places in the mountains, all thinking the same thoughts as he, but not daring to say a word. He didn’t blame them, either. He was in quite the situation.
Stroan knew he would lament this journey— traveling alone and in silence, with nothing to do but think of Yuna the whole time. She was in his thoughts even now, whispering as sweet as a goddess, telling him how she missed him and wished to be with him. But those sweet thoughts were short-lived. Stroan was soon gripped by a grim foreboding as his life and future with the clan flashed before him, and he saw himself not as a free man but a servant in Anza’s shadow. Among all this it wasn’t doing Anza’s bidding that made the future bleak, it was that nowhere among his visions of the future did he see Yuna by his side.
Before Stroan’s recent suspicion that the matriarch had her eyes on him, the only thing keeping him and Yuna apart was their duty to the clan, and they accepted this believing that after Anza’s plan was fulfilled they would be free to love and live as they pleased. But how complicated things were now, for Anza had made it clear that she desired him. Making matters all the more grave was Anza’s statement regarding the nature of her intentions. “If I was after a simple lay …” Her words reverberated through Stroan’s mind until he was sick to his stomach. What more could she want from him?
The answer came quickly and Stroan cringed at the possibility that his matriarch wanted far more than his body. His body he could give if necessary—if Anza simply needed him to satisfy her carnal desires, he would accommodate. But his heart had long since been claimed.
She must never know.
To tell Anza now of his love for Yuna could possibly put Yuna in danger, for he had no idea how the matriarch would react. Anza clearly favored him. Stroan thought hard, trying to remember if there was anything he had done to make her believe that he also shared the same feelings for her. Was it the massages and rubbing of oil? She had requested those of him, and anyone in the clan would have performed those duties happily. Or was it those nights when they had confided in one another? He was her right hand and they had worked closely together for years. Such camaraderie between them should certainly be expected. Or maybe it was that Anza knew he could never refuse her—if she wanted to take him as a lover she would. If she wanted even more than that—a handsome, smart and honorable man to call her own—she would have that as well.
But she had told him that she would never command him to her bed. She wanted him to want to be with her, and Stroan realized that she had some respect for him, and that he meant more to her than a simple bedfellow or plaything. It seemed that this desire of hers was both carnal and emotional, and that’s what made things all the worse. Things had shifted abruptly. Before, he had waited for the right time and place to tell Anza of the love between them, but now he must keep this secret from her as if his life depended on it. So once again, he could say nothing of how he truly felt.
Anza was far from a fool. If he was going to hide this from her, he had to act as if all was well, and that meant not being opposed to anything that she wanted of him. After all, what other reason would he have for not wanting to lie with Anza besides there being another woman in his heart? Anza was exceptionally beautiful and the most powerful person of all the clan. Most men would be on their knees praising the gods for just one chance to be with her, so of course she believed he shared the same feelings. What man wouldn’t? If nothing else, she was offering him a great privilege, or so she most likely believed.
If only she knew the truth of it all.
Stroan hoped her feelings for him would pass quickly on to another, for he could no longer act uninterested if he was to hide the truth about him and Yuna. Anza was the most desirable woman of all the Condor in terms of both status and beauty. Only by denying her would she know there was another.
Stroan ceased his thinking of Yuna and beheld the vast green plains ahead. Flint had brought them quickly out of the mountains. He would follow these plains along the hillside, passing Vlysa on the east, and travel west for a few hours longer until he came to Red Valley.
Stroan cupped his hand around the base of Flint’s right horn and whispered softly into the ram’s ear. “Are you tired, Flint? The stream is coming up ahead. We’ll take a rest there.”
Directly to the west, a light wood decorated with bright green ferns bordered the edge of the hills, its greenery nourished by the cool brook that ran throughout the trees. Stroan had taken this way several times to get to the capital and always rested in the same spot among the shaded wood by the brook.
Stroan brought Flint to a stop and hopped off. Between each mossy bank the clear water trickled over the stones. The stream was small, but lively, with water as clean and cold as snow. The two wasted no time hovering over it and drank until refreshed.
Stroan emptied the remnants of his water bag onto the ground and refilled it with the cool water from the stream. Flint was still drinking.
“Had enough, Flint?”
The animal lifted his head and looked at Stroan, showing large yellow orbs that glistened in the light.
“Nice and cold, isn’t it?”
Flint bowed his head back toward the stream and lapped the water a few more times. The evening sun crept through the trees, adding a fine luster to his dark gray coat.
“That’s right, get your fill before we head out,” said Stroan, seating himself on the bank then lying back. The mid- summer sun had been draining, and the damp ground of the bank felt good against his back and neck as he lay against the cool earth. He didn’t want to move.
Flint finally finished drinking and lay down next to his master. Stroan gently stroked the animal, and then turned his attention to the horizon. The sun was declining over the hills, and the edge of the sky held a bright red hue that even Flint noticed before long.
“I know it’s beautiful,” said Stroan, standing up, “but we must be going. Dusk will be on us soon and we still have at least another hour to go.”
Stroan mounted up, whispered, “Go, go,” into the ram’s ear and patted the animal’s neck until it was racing out of the wood. The crimson-hued horizon soon faded as dusk settled in, and Stroan knew Red Valley was close when the hills smoothed out and they were met by the prairie that wound between the mountains. In the distance, Stroan could see the two grand mounts that RedValley lay between, their tall peaks barely visible in the darkening sky.
Nightfall had just come when Stroan took a breath of the valley air and tasted what he thought to be smoke among the usual grassy must. Curious, he breathed in deep to check, and smelled it even stronger this time—first the scent of charred wood, then the acrid odor of stuffy ash following shortly after. Moving forward a while longer, he heard a slight commotion, and not long after when the valley’s path led him around the base of a mountain that had once blocked his view of Red Valley, he saw the great blaze in the distance. The place he had come to see about was on fire.
A group on horseback rode off into the hills, most double-mounted from what he could see. The captives! Closer to the blaze were a few slow moving figures crawling about the ground, and though Stroan couldn’t make out their clothing or any other identifiable factors through the dark, he reasoned that they had to be Snowguards.
More interesting than the sight of the burning storehouse, the captives escaping on what looked to be the Snowguards’ horses, or the three wounded men struggling to escape—three out of many more that he was sure lay dead and burning inside the stable—there was a man walking calmly from the fire with a woman in his arms. Stroan knew immediately the scene he saw was this man’s doing, but he didn’t know why or how.
Who is he? Who dares to interrupt the plans of the Condor—and of Tiomot? Did he do it for the woman in his arms? Does he love her? Did he do it for love?
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nbsp; YARI ALWAYS SEEMED BOTHERED, standing there as usual with her lips pulled wryly in discontent, eyes squinting with suspicion under wild black bangs that crimped down like ruffled feathers. Tight, tanned leather covered her from her shoulders down to her upper thighs; her limbs were bare and bronze. She stood looking light on her feet, arms and shoulders faintly trembling as if she were shivering from the cold, and her neck shaking as if her head was too heavy a weight to carry. That was Yari’s manner—looking so deceitfully fragile—arms shaky, shoulders twitching on occasion, fingers jittering like she was always waiting to make a move.
She stood tall for a woman, though not as tall as Anza, and she was always armed as if she were going to war. Her bow rested in her hand, and on her back two full quivers of arrows were strapped crossing each other, so she could pull from over either one of her shoulders—which she was proficient at doing.
“But who was it?” questioned Yari Thorn.
“I know not who it was,” Stroan answered with a sigh.
“I told you he was a stranger—I’ve never seen him before.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
“For what? The place was already burned down!”
“To learn his motives,” said Yari, coarsely. “Men don’t think. Anza, I’ll find out—”
“You said he carried a woman away in his arms?” asked Anza, bidding silence of both Yari and Stroan. The lady was seated calmly on stacked furs in the center of the Great Aerie’s floor. She had summoned Stroan and Yari Thorn there for an early morning meeting, and it was clear that she hadn’t been up for long.
“Aye,” Stroan answered.
“Do you think he came for her alone and freed the rest in the process? Or did he aim to free them all?”
“I know not,” said Stroan.
Yari Thorn chuckled with a sort of hiss, and rolled her eyes before fixing them upon Stroan with a glare. “He doesn’t know anything,” she mocked. “Maybe he was hired to free her, Anza, by someone who knew she was captured and where she was being held. Maybe he knew her personally— she could have been a friend or relative of his.”
Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten (Order of Fire Book 1) Page 12