Now all Raegar had to do was to convince Treia that she must learn the secret to controlling the Vektan dragon. He would be savior of his people. He would ride through the streets in a chariot. The crowds would praise his name and throw flowers in his path. The Empress would crown him with laurel leaves. She might well make him Priest-General.
He found Treia seated by herself on a bench in the shade of an oleander. She sat with her accustomed stiff-backed rigidity, her hands in her lap. He could not tell from looking at her whether she had been successful convincing Aylaen or failed utterly. One could never tell what Treia was thinking or feeling.
When he had first met her, he had thought her frigid, a woman born to die a virgin. Even when it became obvious that she was in love with him, she had grown stiff and cold in his arms whenever he had tried to make love to her. He had taken others to his bed during those months, so he did not feel the lack of female companionship. Yet he was surprised to find that he wanted Treia. He wanted to break through her shell of ice and make her his own.
He still remembered how she had come across him in the Hall of Vindrash on the Dragon Isles. She had feared he was dead and she was overjoyed to find him still alive. In the transports of her joy, she had given herself to him with abandon, not once, but several times. And their lovemaking had been like that ever since, passionate and fiery. He felt his blood burn at the memory. He saw her sitting on the bench, cold to all the world, and he thought of her sweating in his arms, moaning and digging her nails into his flesh.
He wondered if Aylaen would be like her sister in that regard. With her red curls and fiery temper, he imagined that she would be like a catamount in his bed.
He looked around.
“Where is Aylaen?” he asked.
“Zahakis came to fetch her. She is in training for that silly game. Don’t worry,” Treia added, seeing him frown, “I told Zahakis she must return to the Temple tonight. She has agreed to go to the Spirit Priestesses.”
“Excellent,” said Raegar, his good humor restored. “In truth, I’m glad she’s gone.” He grasped hold of her arm and pulled her close. “Come with me.”
“Where? We will miss morning prayers.”
“No, we won’t. We have time. This won’t take long.”
He led her to a small shrine located on the grounds. The shrine was small and shabby, one of the first built to Aelon when he was newly come to this world. The Priest-General had rededicated it to one of the lesser gods of Aelon’s pantheon.
The priests and priestesses went to this shrine, though not to worship. Surrounded by a thick stand of pine trees, the shrine offered one of the few places on the Temple grounds where lovers could find some privacy. Most couples came here by night. Raegar could not wait for night, however.
The shrine was small, more like a mausoleum. He pushed open the heavy door and drew Treia inside and slammed the door shut, leaving them in darkness. She knew immediately what he wanted and she gave a fierce cry and clasped him in her arms. He lifted the skirts of her robes and shoved her up against a wall. He fumbled and grunted and she moaned with pleasure and in moments, their lovemaking was over.
A bell began to ring, summoning the faithful.
Treia shook down her skirts and combed her fingers through her tousled hair. Raegar smoothed his robes and caught his breath. When they were both seemly, they left the shrine, walking back toward the Temple.
“You know I love you, Treia,” Raegar said.
“I know,” she said softly. “I love you. I adore you.”
“I want us to be happy together always. I want us to be married.”
“I spoke to Aylaen,” said Treia. “She will do what we ask. Or rather, she will do what Garn asks.”
Raegar nodded. “I understand.”
“She expects him to be alive, living and breathing.”
“The Spirit Priestesses are accustomed to such expectations. They know how to handle people. She will be disappointed at first, but speaking to him, talking to him will whet her appetite. They will give her hope . . . hope that someday there will be more.”
They were drawing near the Temple, merging with other people coming to pray. Treia lowered her voice.
“How will the Spirit Priestesses know to get this right? She must think she is talking to the man she loved. The man she’s known since they were both children together.”
“You forget the power of Aelon,” said Raegar confidently. “He will work his holy magic. You will see.”
“And these Spirit Priestesses know what ‘Garn’ must tell her to do? What he must say to her, ask of her?”
“Both the Priest-General and I have spoken to the Spirit Priestess who will be undertaking the ritual. She is venerable, experienced. She understands.”
They had reached the Shrine. The doors remained closed. People were gathered in groups, laughing and talking. They had some time yet.
“Tell me about these Spirit Priestesses. What do they do? You say they communicate directly with Aelon. How? Do they talk to the god, like Draya talked to Vindrash?”
Raegar explained. “The Spirit Priestesses of Aelon live and work apart from the warrior-priests and the Mission-Bringers,” he told her, “because the Spirit Priestesses need quiet to hear the voice of the god. The numbers of the Spirit Priestesses are relatively low. Few could meet the qualifications and, of those who do, fewer still agree to undergo the procedure that will bind them to Aelon for the remainder of their lives.
“Spirit Priestesses are required to lay bare their hearts and souls to Aelon and be obedient to his will in all things. Spirit Priestesses are not permitted to marry or take lovers,” Raegar said. “Their lives are dedicated to the god and his holy works. Spirit Priestesses are in direct communication with the god, but Aelon does not speak to them on a personal level, not as Vindrash spoke to Draya.
“Aelon communicates with his Spirit Priestesses through the gemstones embedded in the flesh of their cheeks or, with those of higher rank, on their foreheads.”
Treia found this difficult to believe.
“The embedding of the gems is known as the ‘gift of enlightment,’ ” said Raegar, “and it is a most holy ceremony, performed in secret, with only Spirit Priestesses in attendance. Not even the Priest-General knows what transpires during these ceremonies.”
“Does the crystal powder the women poured into the tattoo in Skylan’s arm allow slaves to communicate with the god?” Treia asked.
“No, no,” Raegar said. “The crystal powder allows the god to communicate his will to his slaves, let them know of his displeasure. A slap on the hand, such as a mother gives a naughty child.”
“I see. Then why didn’t you do that to Aylaen?” Treia demanded, confronting him. “Why didn’t you tattoo her? Then Aelon could have forced her to reveal the secret.”
“I have hopes that she will come to Aelon of her own accord,” said Raegar.
“You have hopes she will come to your bed,” Treia muttered.
“You wrong me, Treia,” said Raegar, drawing himself up. “Aylaen is your sister. I love her for your sake. Nothing more.”
Not precisely true, but Raegar was biding his time. Once he and Treia were married, he could do what he pleased. Aelon knew that men have needs, that it took more than one woman to satisfy these needs. Many men kept female slaves in their homes for that very reason. He did not try to explain it to Treia. She would never understand.
He turned his back and walked off by himself, letting Treia feel the full weight of his displeasure. After a few moments, he heard her come running after him. He smiled inwardly.
“I am sorry, my love,” she said meekly. “Please forgive me.”
He forgave her with a kiss and they walked to the Shrine of Aelon together.
The doors to the Shrine swung open. Raegar drew Treia close and said softly, “Bring Aylaen to the Spirit Priestesses at sunset this night. Remember, my love, if we summon the Vektan dragon to defeat the ogres, we will be the saviors of S
inaria. Nothing will be too good for us!”
After the service, the Priest-General summoned Raegar to meet with him in his office. Raegar waited a short time for Xydis to conclude a previous appointment, then he was ushered inside.
Xydis gestured to a chair. Raegar had barely seated himself when Xydis said, with his customary abruptness, “We must do something about Acronis. The Empress informed him of the threat posed by the ogres, how they intend to attack Sinaria. I sent a request that due to the emergency, he hand over command of his triremes and his private army to me, as the law of Aelon requires in time of crisis.”
“And he refused,” said Raegar.
“Not only did he refuse, he had the unmitigated gall to tell me that his men would refuse to serve under my command! I told him they would be under your command. He said that his men had even less respect for you than they did for me.”
Raegar flushed in anger. “Tell the Empress he flouts the law. Have him arrested.”
“I cannot,” said Xydis. “I will need his army in this battle. His soldiers are better trained, better equipped than ours. If I had his wealth, the men would fight for me.”
He made an impatient gesture. “Acronis sails off on voyages fraught with danger, yet never fails to return unscathed. Sometimes I wonder what Aelon is thinking.”
“I don’t see that we would gain much if Acronis died,” said Raegar. “His estate would go to his daughter and, from what I hear, she is as obdurate as her father.”
Xydis was amused. “Unlike you barbarians, women cannot inherit property in Oran. And since Acronis has no male heirs, the estate would come to the crown. And from the crown, to the Church.”
Raegar was angry at the insult. He let it go, however, as he let go a thousand others. He considered Xydis’s words and wondered, suddenly, if the man was hinting at something.
“Acronis does not need to sail the ocean to find danger,” Raegar said, feeling his way forward tentatively. “He could easily fall victim to a thief or run afoul of one of the city’s gangs.”
“We are working hard to find a way to rid our city of such criminal elements,” said Xydis mildly. Then he added, “But, yes, the Legate falling victim to a murderous gang would be a shame. We should pray to Aelon to keep him safe.”
Xydis paused, then added, “Especially tonight. The Legate and that cousin of yours, Skylan, and the ogre, Keeper, have been invited to the Palace for the celebration of the opening of the Para Dix games. He will be returning to his villa well after darkness falls. . . .”
“Let us pray,” said Raegar, with a smile.
CHAPTER
12
* * *
BOOK TWO
The first training session for the Para Dix took place the morning that Raegar and Xydis met. The Torgun were marched to the playing field by the Tribune’s soldiers, who ordered them to sit on the ground and keep quiet. Aylaen arrived shortly after, escorted by Zahakis. All Aylaen could think about was Garn and the claim that Aelon could bring her lover back to life. Garn had attained what every warrior longed for—he had died a hero’s death. He would be in Torval’s Hall. If she dragged him away . . . Unhappy and troubled, warring between doing what she longed to do and doing what she knew she should do, she sat apart from the others, her head bowed.
Skylan, keeping an eye on the guards who were talking to Zahakis, managed to slide closer to Aylaen.
“Did you find out anything about Wulfe?” he asked.
Aylaen gave a start and stared at him as if she had no idea who he was.
Skylan eyed her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course,” she said shortly.
“Are you sure? You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine!” she said, glaring at him.
“Did you ask about Wulfe—”
Aylaen flushed guiltily. “I didn’t . . . have a chance. I’m sorry.” She hunched her shoulders and turned away from him.
The ogre came into view, lumbering across the playing field. The day before, Skylan had told his men that an ogre godlord was going to teach them how to fight. He told them what he learned about the Para Dix, which was, in truth, next to nothing because he hadn’t been paying attention. At first Sigurd and the others refused to believe him, and then, when he swore an oath on Torval’s beard that he was telling the truth, they were outraged—at him.
“We are supposed to fight and bleed while these goat-fornicating Southlanders jeer at us!” Sigurd said angrily.
“You can always go back to picking up rocks,” Skylan said. “You were good at that, I hear. I, for one, want the chance to hold a sword in my hand.”
Sigurd glowered, realizing he’d put himself in a bad position. Given manual labor or the chance to fight—no matter if it was for show—the other Torgun would side with Skylan. Even Sigurd’s most loyal supporter, Grimuir, was looking uncertain.
“I will fight in this Para Dix,” said Sigurd grandly. “The men will need their Chief to lead them.”
Once, not so long ago, Skylan would have leaped down Sigurd’s throat. He had come to the realization that rainy night on the Venjekar, when he had almost given way to despair, that the Torgun’s greatest strength lay in each other. To win this battle, they would have to stand together, shoulder to shoulder, as in the shield wall.
Keeper ordered the Torgun to stand, the tattoo of Aelon keeping them under control. The Torgun obeyed, sullenly, glaring at the detested ogre. Keeper looked them over, eyeing them up and down.
He walked over to Sigurd. “You call yourself a warrior, Graybeard? I am not surprised you ended up as slaves.”
Keeper clenched his large fist and punched Sigurd in the face. Sigurd went down in a heap, his face covered in blood. Grimuir leaped on the ogre’s back, wrapping his arms around Keeper’s neck. The ogre reached behind, grabbed hold of Grimuir, and flipped him up and over his head. Grimuir landed flat and lay there staring stupidly at the sky. Zahakis and his men were lounging on the sidelines, watching, grinning.
“Get up, both of you,” Keeper ordered.
Grimuir heaved himself to his feet. Sigurd muttered a curse and spit a gob of saliva mixed with blood on the ogre’s boot. Keeper walked over to Sigurd and, using the maltreated boot, kicked him in the head, knocking him out cold.
Keeper looked around at the others.
“Any of the rest of you want to test me? Or maybe you just feel like hitting someone. Come on.” The ogre beckoned. “Go ahead. Give it a try. No? Then we will start practice. Our time is limited. Your first game is tomorrow afternoon.”
He glared at Aylaen, who was standing with her arms crossed over her chest, staring at her boots.
The ogre looked sourly at Zahakis. “I have never trained a female. Does the Legate insist on putting her in the game?”
Zahakis nodded. “He believes she will be an attraction. The crowd will love her.”
Keeper scowled.
Zahakis shrugged.
Keeper heaved a sigh and asked Aylaen sourly, “Have you been tested in battle, Female?”
Aylaen was somewhere else. She didn’t even seem to hear him.
“You, Female!” Keeper said loudly.
Aylaen blinked and lifted her head.
“Are you battle-tested?” Keeper asked.
“She has been tested,” said Skylan. “She fights well.”
Keeper was puzzled. “Is it the custom of your people for females to fight?”
“Aylaen was chosen by the Goddess Vindrash to fight for her. The goddess gave her a blessed sword to use in battle.”
The ogre was regarding Aylaen with new respect. “You know that the Para Dix is dedicated to Aelon, Female. Will fighting for a god of the Southlanders offend your goddess?”
“Of course it will,” Aylaen said coolly. “The rage of Vindrash will strengthen my arm.”
The Torgun glanced at each other and nodded.
“Tribune Zahakis,” said Keeper, “see to it that the female’s sword is returned to her. And give
the males their weapons, as well.”
The Torgun wondered if they had heard him right. Their eyes widened, their jaws dropped. They looked at each other. They looked at Skylan for confirmation. He kept his face straight, giving away nothing of his feelings.
Sigurd, who had been lying unconscious on the ground, started to groan, putting his hand to his ringing head. Grimuir went to help his friend stand. He muttered something.
“Huh?” Sigurd grunted. “Our weapons? The fools are giving us back our weapons?”
Skylan could have kicked him in the head again. Sigurd shook off Grimuir’s aid and staggered off to join his fellows.
“Don’t get your hopes up.” Keeper grinned at them. “You will be armed, but only during the game. And you will use your weapons with Aelon’s sanction. Try attacking me, for example, and you will feel Aelon’s wrath.”
Skylan glanced down at his bandaged arm. When the tattoo didn’t sting and burn, it itched. He could attest to Aelon’s ire and he had to concede that the god knew how to make his presence felt. Still, Skylan’s heart soared. He would be armed. His men would be armed. Someday, somehow, with Torval’s blessing, they would find a way to use their swords to escape this place.
Keeper launched into an explanation of the game. The ogre pointed to the center of the playing field that consisted of a circle blocked out in concentric squares, large on the outside, becoming smaller and more numerous in the center. Six enormous boulders, equidistant from each other, stood around the circle’s outer boundary.
“The priests light a bonfire in the center of the field. The object of the game is simple. You must capture the fire. As I say, the object of the game is simple,” Keeper repeated. “The playing of the game is not.”
The Torgun shook their heads. How difficult could it be to capture a fire?
“I am your chief—” Keeper began.
“Like hell you are,” Sigurd said, his words muffled by blood from his broken nose.
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