The girl gestured to my medallion, bared by my low-cut gown. “Those who follow the Forbidden Scriptures honor the abiding love between Aillira and Veronis. The symbol you wear is the thorntree Aillira planted in the ruins of her palace and watered with her tears after Veronis was imprisoned. It still stands, a living tribute to their love, the oldest tree in all of Glasnith.”
Though I’d not known the story behind it, I’d seen this tree with my own eyes. The great thorntree at Aillira’s Temple.
I stared down at my mother’s medallion. Would I ever know how she came to worship Veronis and the Fallen Ones?
“It seems many nomads believe in the Forbidden Scriptures,” I said. “Those from Glasnith, and those from other lands as well.”
Zabelle smiled. “From near or far, we all came to be here after ill fortune found us. Nomads have been labeled heathens and criminals. How could we not sympathize with the Fallen Ones, when we too are fallen? We foreigners still honor the gods of our homelands, but we find room in our hearts and prayers for Aillira and Veronis, brought to ruin by their own families, trampled on by those seeking greater power. Not so different from us.”
No, not so different. I shared far more with my ancestor than a gift and a name.
Eathalin opened a small tin of crushed petals and glazed my lips rose and my eyelids lilac. “There. A near goddess, wrought in flesh. Worthy of a god’s ardor.”
I snorted.
“Perhaps in looks, but not manners,” Zabelle added. “Come, boorish goddess.”
“Wait.” Eathalin took a slip of parchment from her pouch and handed it to me.
The parchment was old, worn. I unfolded it and stared at the words, handwritten in the ancient tongue, the ink faded. Several seconds passed before I could speak. “Is this what I think it is?”
Eathalin nodded. “A copied passage from the Forbidden Scriptures. Every book may have burned, but not every page did. Some stories refuse to remain untold.”
I read the verse again:
From the guise of the great raptor, Veronis gazed upon her:
Sweet like honey, fresh like dew, a mortal heart thumping within her breast.
Aillira, child of the earth, daughter of the dust.
A moment. A breath. The fire of a thousand suns. The rise and fall of empires.
Silence. His choice. The death of a god.
Then, a vibration. A harmony.
His newly mortal heart beating in time with hers.
Veronis had given up everything—his immortality, his status, his powers—to be with Aillira. There was a time when I would have wondered why, but I was beginning to understand. Some things, some people, were worth risking everything for.
I started to hand the parchment back to Eathalin, but she shook her head. “Keep it. I have my own copy. Read it when you have doubts. It will give you strength.”
“Thank you.” I folded the page and, as Eathalin and Zabelle ducked out of the tent ahead of me, tucked it discreetly into the sheath with my knife.
We emerged into twilight. This corner of the camp was deserted, but I heard noises on the other side. I was suddenly nervous. “If I’m to play the role of Aillira, what must I do?”
“It’s the role you were chosen to play.” Eathalin’s hand squeezed mine. “When you see Veronis, Aillira’s spirit will fill you, and you will know.”
The festival had begun. Shouts of celebration rang through the camp. We came upon the crowd, and I saw it clearly, nomads of all cultures and ages gathered together, talking, laughing. Atop a raised wooden platform, a woman and two men played a jaunty tune on fiddles and flutes while people clapped and danced in spirited disorder. The mood was joyous.
In the middle of the gala, one man stood out even among the distinctive nomads. He wore a crisp white tunic, matching deerskin jerkin and trousers—the way Veronis once wore the form of a deer to spy upon Aillira. His hair hung loose around his shoulders, with a few small braids slinking through it. His eyes were a calm, bright ocean.
Eathalin urged me forward. “Not yet,” I said, watching Reyker.
Despite their wary reception when we’d arrived, the nomads seemed drawn to him. Men spoke with him eagerly, throwing an arm around his shoulders as they leaned in to hear his response. Women stared with rapt desire, batting their lashes. He talked and laughed, completely at ease. It made my heart swell.
My presence sent ripples through the crowd, nomads elbowing and whispering. The musicians’ song ended abruptly.
Reyker was one of the last to turn. His eyes met mine, widening. The nomads between us parted. The men kneeled and the women curtsied, like we were royalty.
Mago lifted Eathalin onto the platform. She stood beside the musicians and cleared her throat, until everyone fell silent. When she spoke, her voice was clear, resonating through the camp. “Once the world had only three seasons: autumn, winter, and spring. On a night like this, many moons ago, Aillira, the first god-gifted daughter of Glasnith, met Veronis, god of all creatures.” Translations wended through the crowd, ensuring all the nomads understood. “The heat of their love created summer. It is that love we honor tonight.”
Reyker and I stared as if seeing each other for the first time. This was mere pageantry, yet Eathalin had spoken truly. I was filled with the wonder of it, like the gods themselves were in attendance, like Aillira whispered in my ear: Go to your Veronis.
We moved toward each other slowly. Aillira and Veronis. Lira and Reyker.
When he was an arm’s-length away, Reyker kneeled and bowed his head, hands crossed over his heart. “Aillira, light of my soul.”
I took hold of his chin, lifting it to gaze upon his face.
In his eyes, I saw our past. The first time we met, when I was nothing but a captive girl from a foreign land, and he’d cut his mark in my skin to shield me. When I killed a Westlander and he wiped the blood from my hands. Asking me to run with him, killing his brethren to save me, wrenching my mind from Draki’s grip.
I saw Aillira and Veronis too, gazing into each other’s eyes through us, their love burning hot enough to heat the world and incite wars between mortals and immortals alike.
I didn’t know if it was my voice or Aillira’s that said, “Rise, Veronis, blood of my heart.”
He shot to his feet, arms circling my waist. His lips touched mine, and we burned. Lira and Aillira. We held them hard, kissed them deeply. Reyker and Veronis.
The crowd cheered, showering us with the milk-white petals of moonflowers, falling over us like summer rain. I heard Eathalin, sounding far away. “My friends, tonight and all nights, I bid you to burn brightly and love fiercely. For all else is dust!”
“All else is dust!” the nomads chanted in response.
Our kiss was enduring. A single moment unfolded into many, with the two of us suspended inside each one. We lived lifetimes in the span of heartbeats, ours and the characters we’d embodied, brought to life by each other’s lips.
It went on so long the nomads coughed into their hands. They joked and heckled. When that didn’t stop us, they lost interest. The musicians started to play again. The dancing began anew. “Cut the beast!” someone shouted. Others echoed the sentiment.
Reyker tensed, pulling back to reach for his hidden dagger.
No, I seethed. No one will hurt you. No one will take you from me. I spun toward the voices, grappling for my own knife, ready to fight with him. Ready to kill for him.
I saw Mago carving up a roasted boar, passing around portions of meat.
“Cut the beast,” Reyker said with a laugh.
He pulled me against him, and I relaxed at the soft sound of his laughter. It loosened the spell. The spirits of the first god-gifted daughter and her divine lover left us. I was simply Lira. He was only Reyker.
It was more than enough.
The festival was a chaotic, jub
ilant affair.
We dined on roasted boar. We drank ale and cider and foul things brewed in casks for months that the nomads swore would help us live a hundred years or conceive ten strong warrior sons. Reyker raised his tankard at me, and I blushed.
Mago beckoned to us from the bonfire, eager to talk of weaponry with a Westlander. He showed us his Bog Man spear, pointing at the white splinters jutting from its tip. “Adder fangs. We use them in spears and arrows. Each fang holds drops of venom. A single drop from a glancing blow sickens a man, weakens him instantly. A direct hit lodges them deep in the flesh, enough to kill within hours. Shower arrows on an army from a distance and you can defeat them without engagement. Even if your enemy escapes, he won’t survive. There’s no antidote.”
I edged back a bit. “Seems unduly risky. What if you nick yourself?”
He pressed his thumb against a fang, drawing blood.
I gasped, but Mago laughed. “I’m immune,” he explained. “All Bog Men are. It’s only deadly to the rest of you.”
Reyker leaned in to inspect the fangs. A knot clenched my stomach suddenly, a finger of unease sliding down my spine. I grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t.”
He looked at me, reading something in my face, and stopped.
“I’ve recruited the best archers and spear-throwers among the nomads. I’m training them to use Bog Men weapons,” Mago said. “The hardest part is gathering the adders, though we’ve done a fair job. Zabelle hates the idea, but the prince believes we should make use of all our defensive skills.”
“Unlike me,” Zabelle said from behind us, “the prince has more faith in his warriors’ skills than concern for their blunders. Put that spear away, Mago, before you kill our guests.”
Mago gave her a chastised grin and slid the weapon into its thick sheath.
I wondered if Garreth could truly be a leader to these people, some of them from the mercenary clans he’d once hated. Then again, I was consorting with a Westlander. Perhaps Garreth had also learned to see past what his eyes told him and listen with his heart.
Zabelle took my empty tankard and her own, passing them to Reyker and Mago. “Bring your womenfolk more ale, my hearty warriors.”
As they left, she sat down beside me. “Even before Ghost Village, nomads came together to celebrate one another’s festivals. With so many people from so much of the world, there is one every moon. Though Eathalin proclaims this to be the most romantic Birth of Summer since Aillira and Veronis, thanks to you and your yeetozurri.”
“What happened to Eathalin?” I spied the girl, dancing with the other nomads. “She’s so young to be an outcast already. How did she end up here?”
“She’s a spell-caster, blessed by your gods. She created the veil that hides our village. But Eathalin’s people tried to force her to use her gift for wickedness. She ran away. We took her in gladly.”
Eathalin’s story wasn’t so different from my own. “Why didn’t she seek refuge at Aillira’s Temple?”
“She did. They turned her away. Your temple does not accept exiles. Those who run from their clans are considered apostates.”
I’d not known this, and it infuriated me. How dare the priestesses deny shelter to a Daughter of Aillira, especially one who needed their protection? It was a heavy blow to my hopes that anyone in Aillira’s Temple would listen to my pleas for help against the Dragonmen, because I was an apostate now too.
“We want you to stay,” Zabelle said. “To become nomads. Both of you.”
“So you can use us.”
“No more than your own clan. Your gift, and your yeetozurri’s knowledge and skills, can help us protect ourselves. But we ask for it freely. No chains, no torture. Where else on Glasnith is he safe? Where else can he court you openly?”
I glanced at Reyker, laughing at something Mago was saying. I’d abandon Stony Harbor to keep him safe from Torin and anyone else who wanted to hurt him, but could I really stay here and hide while Draki slowly conquered Glasnith and enslaved my people? Was that Garreth’s plan—to let the clans and the Dragonmen kill each other off?
“Tell me your prince’s name, Zabelle.”
“We tell no one our prince’s identity. It is dangerous for him. If you wish to know, you must wait here until he comes and ask him yourself.” Zabelle stood, casting a furtive look at me. “You should stay, Lira. Not only for us, but for you and your mate. Fate is not kind to those who tempt it, and I fear you are not safe beyond this village.” She left me to ponder her warning.
The night continued.
Reyker and I were coaxed into joining in the dances. Nearly every nomad wanted a dance with Aillira or Veronis, and it seemed like hours before we finally made it back to each other, too tired to do more than move in slow circles.
I leaned against him. “This morning you were an invader, and now the nomads respect you as an equal. I can’t believe you charmed them so quickly.”
“I charmed you.”
“You grew on me. Like moss. And it took weeks.” I ran one of his braids through my fingers. “Tell me. What changed?”
“Before you came as Aillira, the nomads asked me questions. About Iseneld. My family. You.” He smiled. “When I spoke, they no longer saw a Dragonman. They saw a good man. The man you made me.”
“Reyker. There was always goodness in you. Others tried to bury it. You lost yourself. I helped find you, that’s all.”
“You found me.” He kissed the top of my head. “It is everything.”
I settled deeper into his arms. “The nomads want us to stay in Ghost Village. What do you think? I know you must go back to Iseneld soon.” To free his people. By facing Draki. It was his destiny, one I was meant to help him achieve according to the mystic, even though I hated the thought. “But could you be happy here until then?”
I felt him nod. “If we are together, I can be happy.”
Reyker started to say something else, but a cry of anguish near the village entrance brought the gala to a standstill. The music and voices died. A cluster of men and horses were at the gates, shouting for help.
Nomads rushed forward, and Reyker and I followed. The men who’d arrived were bloody, some badly injured; healers took charge, barking orders, cleaning and binding what wounds they could. We circled around to where Zabelle questioned one of the men.
“Invaders attacked us,” the man was telling her. “We were camped near Moon Hill, about four leagues from here. There were only ten of them, but their leader was there, the giant yellow-eyed beast.”
Reyker’s arm slid around me.
“They were looking for a girl. When they didn’t find her, they killed half our men and took our women.”
I put a hand over my mouth.
“Was your party followed?” Mago asked. We all glanced at the gates. If the Dragonmen found their way through the spell, they would invade Ghost Village. They would destroy it.
“No. We made certain of it. But we’ve a few men still out there.” The nomad’s voice faltered. “They’re bringing along the corpses.”
“I did this,” I murmured. The dream. Not this time, Savage. “I taunted him.”
Reyker shook his head, shushing me.
Five men lay injured on the ground, shouting or weeping from pain. Two others were eerily silent. Healers crouched by each man. “We need you, Lira,” Zabelle said.
I let go of Reyker, moving to Zabelle’s side. “What can I do? I’m not a healer.”
“Not of bodies. But you can calm them.”
“I’ve never—”
“Please.” Her expression was grim. These were her friends, her people. They suffered, and there was nothing she could do.
“I’ll try.”
I went to the man crying loudest. He was spattered with dirt and blood, and a healer was sewing up a gaping wound over his rib cage. Two nomads held him down as he t
hrashed. I knelt beside him, taking his hand.
“You’re all right,” I lied. I could see muscle and bone. His chances weren’t good.
I laid my palm on his chest, entering his soul.
It was clouded, disarrayed. I waded through images and landscapes, not knowing what to do. I was used to looking for guilt. With Reyker, I’d plucked his memories randomly.
No, not randomly. I’d learned how to read each memory’s mood by the way it was presented. Dark pasts were buried, dull-hued. Pleasant ones were easily reached. They gleamed.
Concentrating on the shifting realms of the nomad’s soul, I found a meadow full of horses. Some were monstrous and regal, others shaggy and gentle. I wandered among them. Many shied and fled, but a few came close, sniffing me. I chose a white mare that reminded me of Winter, pressing my face to her coat. “Show me,” I said.
The mare reared. The memory sprang forth.
He runs through the tall grass, chasing her. She runs, laughing, her long hair trailing behind. He catches her, arms around her waist, swinging her off her feet. She holds his face, kissing him. They whisper sweet words to each other. This, the moment he realizes he loves her.
“Stay here,” I tell him. “Stay with her until the pain ends.”
I released his soul, pulling myself free.
When I opened my eyes, the man was quiet, lids drooping, face calm. Being inside Reyker’s memories was like wearing his skin, breathing his breath, sharing his every emotion. This had been different. I’d experienced, but not embodied. Even so, I’d connected with this man. I bent to kiss his brow and whispered in his ear, “Fight. Live. Return to her.”
The healer finished the man’s sutures. She nodded her thanks to me, and I stood, looking to aid the next man who needed it.
One of the nomads who’d been attacked was standing nearby, staring at me.
“The Dragon sought a god-gifted girl,” the nomad said, his gaze dark and wild. “With hair like ripe plums and eyes as green as leaves. He said she belongs to him and bears his mark as proof.” The man darted forward, grabbing me, fingers digging for the scar behind my ear. “It’s her! The Dragon said we could trade her for our women! We can get them back!”
Beasts of the Frozen Sun Page 23