Phoenix Unbound
Page 48
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They walked half the barrow’s perimeter before climbing to its peak. The elevation afforded them an even better view of this part of the steppe. Below them, their horses meandered through the grass, idly grazing side by side. Gilene shielded her eyes with one hand and made a slow pivot to survey her surroundings. “It’s a good spot for a spirit to look out onto the living world.”
It was indeed, and Azarion prayed his own spirit might enjoy the view as well when it came time to join his ancestors in the burial mound.
They hiked down the barrow’s slope and completed their walk around its base, stopping when they came upon a withered bundle of herbs and flowers tied with a strip of yellow cloth embroidered in an intricate design of beads and horsehair thread. Gilene bent for a closer look but didn’t pick up the flowers. “What is this?”
He thought he recognized the cloth, or at least the beadwork. “Offerings, mementos. That looks like my mother’s stitchery. Tamura must have brought her here recently.”
A niggle of guilt wormed through him. He’d been here only once since his return to the Sky Below, to see his father’s bones laid out in the barrow and to leave an offering of his own to all his ancestors who had died and who now slept in this grave. He should have visited more than once. Should have brought Saruke here instead of relying on Tamura to do it. His sister had carried that responsibility, and others as well, on her own for long enough.
Gilene touched his arm. “I’ve always believed that talking to the dead is sometimes easier than talking to the living.” She shrugged at his questioning look. “They listen better.” She gestured toward their blankets and the remnants of their meal. “We need to return to camp. I’ll pack everything and wait for you.”
She left him in front of his mother’s offering, and he listened as she whistled to the horses. Azarion knelt beside the flower bundle. Iruadis’s bones lay inside the barrow, but Azarion liked to believe his spirit was out here, enjoying the wind and the smell of new grass alongside his son. Azarion closed his eyes and called up the image of his father when he last saw him, aged by the elements and diminished by illness but still powerful, still the respected ataman of a respected clan.
He kept that image in his mind as he prayed, first to Iruadis for guidance in pursuing his plan to retake the chieftainship and then to the pantheon of Savatar gods, especially Agna, for both mercy and favor. The wind caressed his ears, whispering its own supplications.
When he returned to the spot where he and Gilene had shared their food and conversation, he discovered their supplies packed away in the nearby satchel and Gilene stretched across both blankets, asleep in a pool of sunlight. He crouched down, making plenty of noise so as not to startle her when she opened her eyes and found him leaning over her.
She reached up with one hand to thread locks of his hair through her fingers. Azarion held his breath, stunned by her action and fearful he might ruin the moment with so much as a twitch.
“Did you pray?” she asked in a sleepy voice that set every nerve in his body to sparking. He nodded. Her touch was light as a moth’s wings in his hair. “And did your gods listen?”
“I hope so.” He bent lower, drawn helplessly down to her pale mouth. Still, she didn’t move away.
Her fingertips traced a path across his face from cheekbone to cheekbone and over the tip of his nose. He closed his eyes when she repeated the action, this time going the opposite direction to journey across his eyelids before settling at the sensitive pulse point near his temple. When Azarion opened his eyes once more, he found her watching him intently, her eyes fathomless. They were so close now, he could feel the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.
“I once thought I would always hate you, gladiator. That isn’t true now.” Her words set his heart to soaring, only to plummet it back to earth with those that followed. “I no longer hate you, and I will still never forget you.”
He almost kissed her then, tethered to her by both desire and regret. Her eyes closed, black lashes soft on her cheeks, the fragile skin of her eyelids even paler than her mouth.
A chorus of whistles froze him in place. Gilene’s eyes snapped open, and in a flash, she’d rolled out from under him and clambered to her feet. Azarion rose more slowly and joined her in her search for the source of the sound. A group of riders galloped toward them from the south, and Azarion recognized Tamura’s smoke-gray mare in the lead.
Gilene reached for the satchel by her feet. “We’ve been gone a long time. They probably think we’ve come to a bad end.”
He clasped her arm. “Gilene.”
She turned to him then, her features once more set in the pinched visage she’d worn during their flight from the Empire. “Don’t. Please. After all we’ve been through so far, together and separate, don’t you think we both deserve some measure of peace?”
She twisted free and strode to her horse, leaving him to gather up the blankets. They saddled their mounts in silence and soon joined Tamura and her party in a leisurely ride back to camp.
Gilene was withdrawn the remainder of the evening, claiming the effects of too much sun when Saruke questioned why she seemed so listless. Once their household had eaten and settled down for the night, Azarion gathered up a blanket and saddle pad to take outside.
“Where are you going?”
Gilene stood behind him, wearing a thin shift, her slender feet bare.
“I thought you might wish to have the bed to yourself for tonight.”
She hugged herself as if cold, though the qara still held plenty of heat created by the now cooling braziers. “I don’t.” She said nothing else, only dove under the covers of their shared pallet and pulled them up to her chin.
Azarion watched her for a moment before setting down his gear and undressing. He slid under the covers and lay on his back, counting the number of support poles in the qara’s roof. He and Gilene were more awkward now with each other than they had ever been, but he couldn’t find it in himself to regret the day and his time with her. Given the chance, he’d do it again, only this time, he would ignore any visitors and kiss the fire witch’s soft mouth.
He had started his third counting of the support poles, and was drifting off, when a pair of slender arms settled around his shoulders and tugged, coaxing him to roll to his side and into Gilene’s embrace. She lay farther up on the pallet than he did so that his cheek rested against her breast and her chin grazed the top of his head. Her fingers combed gently through his hair.
It would be effortless to roll her to her back, push up her shift, and spread her thighs. He wanted her so badly, the desire made him dizzy. Instead, he concentrated on his breathing, on the feel of her hands in his hair instead of her warm body pressed to his.
She would accept his touch, his taking of her. He knew it by the languid sprawl of her limbs on his, the shallow rise and fall of her breast under his cheek, the changing scent of her skin. But he didn’t want acceptance. He wanted enthusiasm, a passion for him that matched his for her. This embrace, as seductive as it was, came not from a place of lust but from one of solace.
So he settled harder against her and nuzzled the curve of her breast, content for now to listen to her heartbeat, rejoice in the knowledge she no longer hated him, and lament that such a change of heart wouldn’t keep her in the Sky Below.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Summer had finally settled hard on the steppes, chasing away the rains that had lingered for weeks and turned the land into a vast quagmire. The relentless wet had left everyone and everything a soggy, miserable pile of foul-smelling wool. The people, the sheep, the qaras. They all reeked and were in desperate need of drying out. Only the horse herds and the wandering chickens escaped the stench. Today was the first dry day, and the wind galloping across the plains was finally dry instead of damp.
It was indeed, and Azarion prayed his own spirit might enjoy the view as well when it came time to join his ancestors in the burial mound.
They hiked down the barrow’s slope and completed their walk around its base, stopping when they came upon a withered bundle of herbs and flowers tied with a strip of yellow cloth embroidered in an intricate design of beads and horsehair thread. Gilene bent for a closer look but didn’t pick up the flowers. “What is this?”
He thought he recognized the cloth, or at least the beadwork. “Offerings, mementos. That looks like my mother’s stitchery. Tamura must have brought her here recently.”
A niggle of guilt wormed through him. He’d been here only once since his return to the Sky Below, to see his father’s bones laid out in the barrow and to leave an offering of his own to all his ancestors who had died and who now slept in this grave. He should have visited more than once. Should have brought Saruke here instead of relying on Tamura to do it. His sister had carried that responsibility, and others as well, on her own for long enough.
Gilene touched his arm. “I’ve always believed that talking to the dead is sometimes easier than talking to the living.” She shrugged at his questioning look. “They listen better.” She gestured toward their blankets and the remnants of their meal. “We need to return to camp. I’ll pack everything and wait for you.”
She left him in front of his mother’s offering, and he listened as she whistled to the horses. Azarion knelt beside the flower bundle. Iruadis’s bones lay inside the barrow, but Azarion liked to believe his spirit was out here, enjoying the wind and the smell of new grass alongside his son. Azarion closed his eyes and called up the image of his father when he last saw him, aged by the elements and diminished by illness but still powerful, still the respected ataman of a respected clan.
He kept that image in his mind as he prayed, first to Iruadis for guidance in pursuing his plan to retake the chieftainship and then to the pantheon of Savatar gods, especially Agna, for both mercy and favor. The wind caressed his ears, whispering its own supplications.
When he returned to the spot where he and Gilene had shared their food and conversation, he discovered their supplies packed away in the nearby satchel and Gilene stretched across both blankets, asleep in a pool of sunlight. He crouched down, making plenty of noise so as not to startle her when she opened her eyes and found him leaning over her.
She reached up with one hand to thread locks of his hair through her fingers. Azarion held his breath, stunned by her action and fearful he might ruin the moment with so much as a twitch.
“Did you pray?” she asked in a sleepy voice that set every nerve in his body to sparking. He nodded. Her touch was light as a moth’s wings in his hair. “And did your gods listen?”
“I hope so.” He bent lower, drawn helplessly down to her pale mouth. Still, she didn’t move away.
Her fingertips traced a path across his face from cheekbone to cheekbone and over the tip of his nose. He closed his eyes when she repeated the action, this time going the opposite direction to journey across his eyelids before settling at the sensitive pulse point near his temple. When Azarion opened his eyes once more, he found her watching him intently, her eyes fathomless. They were so close now, he could feel the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.
“I once thought I would always hate you, gladiator. That isn’t true now.” Her words set his heart to soaring, only to plummet it back to earth with those that followed. “I no longer hate you, and I will still never forget you.”
He almost kissed her then, tethered to her by both desire and regret. Her eyes closed, black lashes soft on her cheeks, the fragile skin of her eyelids even paler than her mouth.
A chorus of whistles froze him in place. Gilene’s eyes snapped open, and in a flash, she’d rolled out from under him and clambered to her feet. Azarion rose more slowly and joined her in her search for the source of the sound. A group of riders galloped toward them from the south, and Azarion recognized Tamura’s smoke-gray mare in the lead.
Gilene reached for the satchel by her feet. “We’ve been gone a long time. They probably think we’ve come to a bad end.”
He clasped her arm. “Gilene.”
She turned to him then, her features once more set in the pinched visage she’d worn during their flight from the Empire. “Don’t. Please. After all we’ve been through so far, together and separate, don’t you think we both deserve some measure of peace?”
She twisted free and strode to her horse, leaving him to gather up the blankets. They saddled their mounts in silence and soon joined Tamura and her party in a leisurely ride back to camp.
Gilene was withdrawn the remainder of the evening, claiming the effects of too much sun when Saruke questioned why she seemed so listless. Once their household had eaten and settled down for the night, Azarion gathered up a blanket and saddle pad to take outside.
“Where are you going?”
Gilene stood behind him, wearing a thin shift, her slender feet bare.
“I thought you might wish to have the bed to yourself for tonight.”
She hugged herself as if cold, though the qara still held plenty of heat created by the now cooling braziers. “I don’t.” She said nothing else, only dove under the covers of their shared pallet and pulled them up to her chin.
Azarion watched her for a moment before setting down his gear and undressing. He slid under the covers and lay on his back, counting the number of support poles in the qara’s roof. He and Gilene were more awkward now with each other than they had ever been, but he couldn’t find it in himself to regret the day and his time with her. Given the chance, he’d do it again, only this time, he would ignore any visitors and kiss the fire witch’s soft mouth.
He had started his third counting of the support poles, and was drifting off, when a pair of slender arms settled around his shoulders and tugged, coaxing him to roll to his side and into Gilene’s embrace. She lay farther up on the pallet than he did so that his cheek rested against her breast and her chin grazed the top of his head. Her fingers combed gently through his hair.
It would be effortless to roll her to her back, push up her shift, and spread her thighs. He wanted her so badly, the desire made him dizzy. Instead, he concentrated on his breathing, on the feel of her hands in his hair instead of her warm body pressed to his.
She would accept his touch, his taking of her. He knew it by the languid sprawl of her limbs on his, the shallow rise and fall of her breast under his cheek, the changing scent of her skin. But he didn’t want acceptance. He wanted enthusiasm, a passion for him that matched his for her. This embrace, as seductive as it was, came not from a place of lust but from one of solace.
So he settled harder against her and nuzzled the curve of her breast, content for now to listen to her heartbeat, rejoice in the knowledge she no longer hated him, and lament that such a change of heart wouldn’t keep her in the Sky Below.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Summer had finally settled hard on the steppes, chasing away the rains that had lingered for weeks and turned the land into a vast quagmire. The relentless wet had left everyone and everything a soggy, miserable pile of foul-smelling wool. The people, the sheep, the qaras. They all reeked and were in desperate need of drying out. Only the horse herds and the wandering chickens escaped the stench. Today was the first dry day, and the wind galloping across the plains was finally dry instead of damp.
