Phoenix Unbound
Page 34
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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 soon 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.
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 soon 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.
