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.
That deliverance arrived on the thud of hoofbeats and a hard voice bellowing, “Hold! Don’t shoot him yet.”
A man dressed like his comrades, but carrying a sword instead of a bow, trotted up to Azarion on a chestnut mare. His gray hair, tied in a top knot, matched the color of his beard, and he studied Azarion and Gilene with a hard, flat stare. His beard was decorated with tiny beads tied off at the ends of braids that dangled from his chin, and he wore a red sash wrapped around his trim middle, the badge of a Savatartirbodh, a captain of archers.
Azarion’s gut wrenched. This man he knew. Memories of childhood, of better days and hard bruising, of pragmatic wisdom and endless patience. Agna continued to rain good fortune on him by sending the one archer captain who would stay his hand at killing him.
“You’re wearing Kraelian garb and Nunari weapons but walked through the Veil. Let me see your mark.”
Azarion dropped the reins and pushed aside the tunic’s neckline to expose his shoulder. If anything, thetirbodh’s gaze hardened even more. “You’re Agna-marked, so likely a spy. You and your woman. Where’s her mark?”
Gilene huddled behind him, trying to make herself as small as possible. “She doesn’t bear one. She doesn’t need it.”
The captain’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so? You look Savatar; she doesn’t, yet she walked through the fire. If I wasn’t curious about that, you’d both be dead right now.”
The archer closest to him spoke. “He says his name is Azarion, son of Iruadis Ataman.”
That revelation snapped thetirbodhrigid in the saddle. His weathered features paled for a moment, and the tiny beads in hisbeard clicked together. When he spoke again, he almost spat the words between his teeth. “Iruadis Ataman had only one child, a son with the name you claim.”
Azarion shook his head. “No. He had three children. Another son before me who died in infancy and a daughter younger than I am named Tamura. You know I speak the truth, Masad.” They all visibly startled at his use of thetirbodh’s name. “You delivered her of my mother in a pasture when she’d herded goats too far from the encampment to make it back in time for a midwife’s help.”
Masad’s eyes glittered, and his jaw clenched. “Disarm and toss your weapons on the ground. Then you sit.” He gestured to Gilene. “Both of you.”
The implacable command carried an implied threat. Refuse and die. Azarion slid his forearm out of the shield’s straps and flung the shield on the ground.
“What did he say?” Gilene’s mild tone didn’t quite disguise her unease.
He untied his sheaths, sending his sword and both knives the way of the shield.
“He wants us to sit down,Agacin. We do as he says. Our lives depend on it.” He dropped to the ground, pulling her down next to him.
Masad regarded them from the high place atop his horse. “The last time I saw Azarion, he was as tall as you but without the breadth of shoulder or the muscle. That beard of yours can be hiding any face.” He pointed to one of the knives Azarion had surrendered. “Have your woman use that to shave you, so I can see what hides behind the hair.”
Azarion froze. Gilene, extorted and compelled, was unwilling to be here but unable to leave, and he was supposed to hand her a knife and offer his throat? She returned his shuttered stare with a wide-eyed one of her own.
“What? What did he say?”
He might still die this day, even if it wasn’t by Masad’s hand. “He wants you to take one of those knives and shave me so he can see my face better.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she rocked back on her haunches. A calculating spark lit the black of her pupils before her gaze slid from him to the waiting Savatar, then to the knives. He wanted to remind her that once her fire returned, she’d have the ability to murder him at any time. Now, though, was not the time.
Gilene rose and made her way to where the knives lay in the grass, keeping a wary eye on the Savatar. She bent to pick up one of the blades and unerringly picked the sharper of the two. At least if she shaved him, she wouldn’t nick him too badly, and if she cut his throat, his death would be swift.
