Phoenix Unbound
Page 57
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
Even were she coarsened by years under the Sky Below’s sun and breath, he’d still be drawn to her, find her beautiful. There was a brightness to her that shone from the inside, not of sunlight or the fire she wielded, but of the kind of light that winked off a sword blade.
Her lips were as soft as her cheek, her mouth welcoming as she opened slowly to him. He nibbled at her lower lip before teasing its surface with a sweep of his tongue and was rewarded for the caress with her startled inhalation. Despite her obvious surprise, she didn’t back away but leaned forward even more, coaxing him with the angle of her body to do it again.
Azarion obliged her, settling his hands on the slight curves of her waist to draw her into his embrace before deepening the kiss. He made love to her with his mouth, reveling in the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her lips pressed against his, the way her shallow breath drifted from her nostrils to fan across his beard.
The hands that unleashed fire pressed gently against his ribs, recalling a moment in a gloomy cell when her hesitant touch on his bruised, bloody body had offered succor.
Her soft moan set him alight quicker than any flame she might have summoned. One hand edged toward her tunic’s hem, the other sliding upward to bury itself in the intricate knot of braids bound at her nape. He forgot about the councils waiting for him, his challenge against Karsas, even Karsas himself. Here, now, there was only Gilene in his arms and the grim realization that this magic was as ephemeral as the bright spark on steel.
The snap of the qara’s door flap signaled they were no longer alone. Azarion, reluctant to end the kiss, sucked on Gilene’s lower lip a final time before straightening. He kept his arms around her, and she didn’t pull away from him.
Saruke stared at them both, her face inscrutable. “It’s time,” she said. “The atamans call you to stand before them, my son, and state your challenge.”
* * *
• • •
The qara erected to house both councils and witnesses was a large one set away from the other groupings of qaras that marked where Clan Kestrel camped and where members of the visiting clans erected their tents. Multiple braziers heated the interior, and lamps cast a warm light on the occupants, who sat on blankets, furs, and pillows, awaiting Azarion’s arrival.
They were the atamans of all the other Savatar clans, along with the subchiefs of Clan Kestrel. The atamans sat on one side, while the Fire Council, consisting of the powerful agacins, sat on the other.
Azarion gave Gilene a short bow. She returned it with a quick nod before striding to the side of the qara where the agacins sat and taking her place among them. She looked pale and serene. The only evidence of the passionate embrace they’d just shared was her lips, still rosy from Azarion’s kisses.
Karsas didn’t sit with the chiefs. Instead, he emerged from the shadowed periphery of the qara to stand beside Azarion. He spoke to Azarion, voice pitched low. “When I kill you in combat, I will return your body in pieces to your mother, and then I will hang your witch from the center pole of my qara.”
Karsas’s threat wasn’t even a ripple on a still pond. Azarion had dealt with the like many times when fighting in the Pit. A tactic used to manipulate your opponent into reacting without thinking. Azarion ignored him in favor of studying the expressions of each ataman.
He recognized most of them, chiefs when his father ruled Clan Kestrel. Some bore a few more lines on their faces; others were so wizened and frail, they traveled from place to place in the Sky Below in carts instead of on horseback. Two looked close to his age, successors to their chieftainship either through birthright or challenge.
The ataman of the oldest clan, Clan Wolf, spoke first. “Azarion, son of Iruadis, child of Clan Kestrel, you stand before us. What is your claim?”
“I claim my birthright as ataman of Clan Kestrel.” At his declaration, Karsas noticeably bristled.
“Clan Kestrel already has an ataman,” Karsas snapped. “Chosen by the Ataman Council.”
Azarion didn’t waver. In the end, this was strictly a formality, a bid to gain permission from the other atamans to challenge Karsas in ritual combat for the right to assume the chieftainship. He addressed the council directly. “Only because I was sold to the Empire by my own clansmen at my cousin’s bidding.”
The crowd erupted into shouts, punctuated by Karsas’s bellows of denial. Azarion waited for the chaos to die down and the councils to bring order. Once the qara’s occupants settled, he continued.
“Karsas sits in my father’s place for that reason alone. I have returned and with Agna’s blessing.” He nodded to where Gilene sat among the other agacins.
Karsas flung out a dismissive gesture in Gilene’s direction. “She isn’t even Savatar. A false agacin.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Every agacin stiffened or frowned, affronted by the accusation.
Clan Wolf’s ataman raised an eyebrow. “Not according to the Fire Council. They have claimed her as one of their own.” He turned his attention back to Azarion. “We recognize your claim and the blessing, but it’s only enough if Karsas agrees to step down and relinquish his place as ataman.” He looked to Karsas. “Do you relinquish?”
Karsas crossed his arms. “No.”
It was no less than Azarion expected and everything he’d hoped for before entering the qara. “Then I demand the right to ritual combat to reclaim the role from Karsas, son of Gastene.”
A wave of whispers and murmurs rolled through the qara as the chieftains and witnesses gathered bent their heads to comment to each other.
The ataman of Clan Wolf settled a hard stare on Karsas. “Do you accept or decline, Ataman of Clan Kestrel? If you decline, you relinquish.”
This time Karsas openly sneered at Azarion. “I accept.”
“Then as the challenged, you may choose first blood or death.”
A hush filled the qara. Karsas had no real choice despite the options given. If he chose first blood, he would survive, but the Savatar viewed such a choice as cowardly. He’d lose face with his clan, and the clan itself would lose even more status in the confederation. Sooner or later, he’d face another challenger and another after that, or else be found dead of some mysterious illness that struck no one else in his household.
Karsas was sly and murderous but not a fool. “I choose death,” he announced.
Clan Wolf’s ataman turned to Azarion. “Do you accept the terms?”
Finally. Ten years after hard struggle and patient resolve . . . “I accept,” he said.
The atamans gathered closer together to discuss among themselves for a few moments. When they finished, they all stood. The ataman acting as spokesman turned to the Fire Council. “Does the Fire Council approve the challenge and the terms of combat?”
The ata-agacin stood as well. “We approve on both counts.”
Azarion exhaled.
“You have today and this evening to make your sacrifices and appeal to the gods for their mercy.” The ataman nodded to both Azarion and Karsas. “Tomorrow, at noon, you fight.”
A huge crowd had gathered outside the qara, curious as to the meeting’s outcome. Karsas shoved his way through the throng toward his qara, his face a thundercloud.
Azarion allowed the clans to swarm around him, answering their questions repeatedly as to what the atamans said and when the combat to decide the chieftainship would take place. The time for judgment regarding his ability to lead began now. Those who questioned him also gauged his behavior among them, deciding whether to remain neutral in this affair, offer him their support, or withhold it in favor of Karsas.
Her lips were as soft as her cheek, her mouth welcoming as she opened slowly to him. He nibbled at her lower lip before teasing its surface with a sweep of his tongue and was rewarded for the caress with her startled inhalation. Despite her obvious surprise, she didn’t back away but leaned forward even more, coaxing him with the angle of her body to do it again.
Azarion obliged her, settling his hands on the slight curves of her waist to draw her into his embrace before deepening the kiss. He made love to her with his mouth, reveling in the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her lips pressed against his, the way her shallow breath drifted from her nostrils to fan across his beard.
The hands that unleashed fire pressed gently against his ribs, recalling a moment in a gloomy cell when her hesitant touch on his bruised, bloody body had offered succor.
Her soft moan set him alight quicker than any flame she might have summoned. One hand edged toward her tunic’s hem, the other sliding upward to bury itself in the intricate knot of braids bound at her nape. He forgot about the councils waiting for him, his challenge against Karsas, even Karsas himself. Here, now, there was only Gilene in his arms and the grim realization that this magic was as ephemeral as the bright spark on steel.
The snap of the qara’s door flap signaled they were no longer alone. Azarion, reluctant to end the kiss, sucked on Gilene’s lower lip a final time before straightening. He kept his arms around her, and she didn’t pull away from him.
Saruke stared at them both, her face inscrutable. “It’s time,” she said. “The atamans call you to stand before them, my son, and state your challenge.”
* * *
• • •
The qara erected to house both councils and witnesses was a large one set away from the other groupings of qaras that marked where Clan Kestrel camped and where members of the visiting clans erected their tents. Multiple braziers heated the interior, and lamps cast a warm light on the occupants, who sat on blankets, furs, and pillows, awaiting Azarion’s arrival.
They were the atamans of all the other Savatar clans, along with the subchiefs of Clan Kestrel. The atamans sat on one side, while the Fire Council, consisting of the powerful agacins, sat on the other.
Azarion gave Gilene a short bow. She returned it with a quick nod before striding to the side of the qara where the agacins sat and taking her place among them. She looked pale and serene. The only evidence of the passionate embrace they’d just shared was her lips, still rosy from Azarion’s kisses.
Karsas didn’t sit with the chiefs. Instead, he emerged from the shadowed periphery of the qara to stand beside Azarion. He spoke to Azarion, voice pitched low. “When I kill you in combat, I will return your body in pieces to your mother, and then I will hang your witch from the center pole of my qara.”
Karsas’s threat wasn’t even a ripple on a still pond. Azarion had dealt with the like many times when fighting in the Pit. A tactic used to manipulate your opponent into reacting without thinking. Azarion ignored him in favor of studying the expressions of each ataman.
He recognized most of them, chiefs when his father ruled Clan Kestrel. Some bore a few more lines on their faces; others were so wizened and frail, they traveled from place to place in the Sky Below in carts instead of on horseback. Two looked close to his age, successors to their chieftainship either through birthright or challenge.
The ataman of the oldest clan, Clan Wolf, spoke first. “Azarion, son of Iruadis, child of Clan Kestrel, you stand before us. What is your claim?”
“I claim my birthright as ataman of Clan Kestrel.” At his declaration, Karsas noticeably bristled.
“Clan Kestrel already has an ataman,” Karsas snapped. “Chosen by the Ataman Council.”
Azarion didn’t waver. In the end, this was strictly a formality, a bid to gain permission from the other atamans to challenge Karsas in ritual combat for the right to assume the chieftainship. He addressed the council directly. “Only because I was sold to the Empire by my own clansmen at my cousin’s bidding.”
The crowd erupted into shouts, punctuated by Karsas’s bellows of denial. Azarion waited for the chaos to die down and the councils to bring order. Once the qara’s occupants settled, he continued.
“Karsas sits in my father’s place for that reason alone. I have returned and with Agna’s blessing.” He nodded to where Gilene sat among the other agacins.
Karsas flung out a dismissive gesture in Gilene’s direction. “She isn’t even Savatar. A false agacin.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Every agacin stiffened or frowned, affronted by the accusation.
Clan Wolf’s ataman raised an eyebrow. “Not according to the Fire Council. They have claimed her as one of their own.” He turned his attention back to Azarion. “We recognize your claim and the blessing, but it’s only enough if Karsas agrees to step down and relinquish his place as ataman.” He looked to Karsas. “Do you relinquish?”
Karsas crossed his arms. “No.”
It was no less than Azarion expected and everything he’d hoped for before entering the qara. “Then I demand the right to ritual combat to reclaim the role from Karsas, son of Gastene.”
A wave of whispers and murmurs rolled through the qara as the chieftains and witnesses gathered bent their heads to comment to each other.
The ataman of Clan Wolf settled a hard stare on Karsas. “Do you accept or decline, Ataman of Clan Kestrel? If you decline, you relinquish.”
This time Karsas openly sneered at Azarion. “I accept.”
“Then as the challenged, you may choose first blood or death.”
A hush filled the qara. Karsas had no real choice despite the options given. If he chose first blood, he would survive, but the Savatar viewed such a choice as cowardly. He’d lose face with his clan, and the clan itself would lose even more status in the confederation. Sooner or later, he’d face another challenger and another after that, or else be found dead of some mysterious illness that struck no one else in his household.
Karsas was sly and murderous but not a fool. “I choose death,” he announced.
Clan Wolf’s ataman turned to Azarion. “Do you accept the terms?”
Finally. Ten years after hard struggle and patient resolve . . . “I accept,” he said.
The atamans gathered closer together to discuss among themselves for a few moments. When they finished, they all stood. The ataman acting as spokesman turned to the Fire Council. “Does the Fire Council approve the challenge and the terms of combat?”
The ata-agacin stood as well. “We approve on both counts.”
Azarion exhaled.
“You have today and this evening to make your sacrifices and appeal to the gods for their mercy.” The ataman nodded to both Azarion and Karsas. “Tomorrow, at noon, you fight.”
A huge crowd had gathered outside the qara, curious as to the meeting’s outcome. Karsas shoved his way through the throng toward his qara, his face a thundercloud.
Azarion allowed the clans to swarm around him, answering their questions repeatedly as to what the atamans said and when the combat to decide the chieftainship would take place. The time for judgment regarding his ability to lead began now. Those who questioned him also gauged his behavior among them, deciding whether to remain neutral in this affair, offer him their support, or withhold it in favor of Karsas.
