She returned, weapon clutched in her hand, to crouch before him. Dark humor flickered in her equally dark eyes. Sunlight winked off the blade as she lifted it and moved closer to his face. He held his breath.
“So tempting,” she murmured.
“So foolish,” he replied just as softly, his stare never wavering from hers.
“Trust me.”
Those two words, spoken by her this time instead of him, punched him in the gut. Azarion understood helplessness and the vulnerability of having your entire life—your fate—in the hands of someone who considered themselves your master. In those instances, he wasn’t expected to trust nor asked to believe anything others told him. Still, he had blinded himself to Gilene’s point of view, far too focused on his own goals and his surety that he’d never hurt her to truly understand her disbelief in his assurances. Trust was earned, not freely given.
Every instinct urged him to snatch the blade out of her hand and put space between them. Instead he sat motionless while she carefully cut away the thick beard and scraped the bristle until he was clean-shaven and nick-free with his jugular intact. Her fingertips on his jaw and cheeks made his skin tingle. A light, capable touch, but something about it heated his body in a way that the most sensual caress never had. When she finished, he remembered to breathe.
Gilene knee-walked a short distance from him and carefully set the knife in the grass in front of her, signaling the watching Savatar that she wasn’t a threat. A half dozen stares rested on him; Gilene’s thoughtful, the archers’ curious, and Masad’s stunned.
“You are your mother’s son,” thetirbodhsaid on a disbelieving exhalation. “Agna’s mercy, I thought you dead these many years.” He dismounted, strode to where Azarion still sat, and stretched out his hand. Azarion took it and was yanked to his feet, then into a hard embrace that sent shards of pain through his newly healed ribs.
The other archers stared at them, astonished, and slowly lowered their bows. Masad released Azarion, his craggy features wreathed in smiles. “Come back from the dead. This is a good day. A good day! Where have you been?”
The smile fell away when Azarion told him. “Enslaved by the Empire.” He glanced at the archers listening behind their captain. Now was not the time to reveal details. “I’ve much to tell.”
Masad nodded, understanding Azarion’s unspoken message. “And much to hear.” He turned his attention to Gilene. “Who is your woman?”
Azarion gestured for Gilene to stand by him. She came willingly, obviously deciding that he was, for now, the safer alliance. “This is Gilene of Be...” He almost said Beroe, but the fleeting shot of alarm across her features as she guessed what he was aboutto say stopped him. “Krael,” he amended. “She’s anagacin. Blessed by Agna but without our marks. As you saw, she didn’t burn in the Veil.”
Gilene made a distressed noise when the gazes resting on Azarion suddenly fell on her. “What did you just tell them?”
“That you’re anagacin.” He turned back to Masad. “Speak in trader’s tongue so she can understand.”
Masad raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “You’re both blessed then,” he said in the language understood by any who lived in or near the Krael Empire and the Golden Serpent. “Come. You’ve traveled a long way and over Nunari territory to reach us. The encampment isn’t far, and many will be happy to see you again.”
Masad ordered his men to stand down and introduced them to Azarion by name. Azarion remembered the three younger ones as small children, now grown to early manhood. He didn’t recognize the archer close to his age, a man Masad proclaimed had come to Clan Kestrel through marriage to a Kestrel woman.
Assured now that any danger from this patrol was past, Azarion gathered up and belted on his sword, and retrieved his knives. Gilene removed her shawls from the horses’ eyes, shook them out, and wrapped herself in their layers. She stood next to her mare, features tense. “What now?”
He gestured for her to mount. “Stay next to me and hold your tongue. You’ll learn much by listening. I’ll make sure Masad speaks in trader’s tongue so you can understand.”
“They aren’t planning to kill us then?” Her voice was steadier now.
“We won’t be dying yet.” He tipped his chin to thetirbodh. “That’s Masad. He’s my mother’s brother, the man who trained me up as a Savatar warrior. My clan’s encampment isn’t far. He’ll lead us there.”
Her hands clenched the reins, tightening so that her horse backed up a step in response to the inadvertent signal. “Then this ordeal is just beginning.”
Part of him—the part eager to see his remaining family again, eager to confront an old enemy face-to-face—wanted to refute her statement, but he didn’t. Were she not anagacin, she’d be shunned by the Savatar as an outlander, a Kraelian outlander at that. Even her status as one of Agna’s handmaidens didn’t guarantee friendly overtures and instant acceptance.
He leapt into the saddle and guided his horse to walk beside his uncle’s. Masad ordered his men to ride ahead of them. After learning the news of his father’s death, Azarion dreaded Masad’s answer to his question. “Are my mother and Tamura still alive?”
Masad chortled. “Your mother and sister are well and thriving. Saruke rules the clan from her favorite rug.” His features turned dour with a touch of sorrow. “Your father would have been overjoyed to see you again.” His mouth curved down. “Karsas is theatamanof Clan Kestrel since Iruadis died.” He eyed Azarion. “You’re not surprised.”
Azarion’s casual shrug belied the fury cascading through his veins. “I would have been had you named another.” His cousin had plotted long ago to assume the role of Clan Kestrel’s chieftain, even if it meant stealing it from the rightful heir.
Masad’s attention shifted to Gilene. He spoke in the trader’s tongue. “You can truly wield fire?”
She nodded and kept her reply succinct. “Yes.”
He eyed her a little longer before turning to Azarion. “The Fire Council will want her to prove it. Seeing her walk through the Veil will give truth to your story, but they’ll want more. The Ataman Council will want to speak with you as well.”
Azarion had waited ten long years for such an opportunity. “Iwant to speak with them.” His cousin Karsas sat wrongly as head of Clan Kestrel, and Azarion wanted justice. Killing your relatives through ritual combat was accepted by the Savatar. Selling them into slavery was not. Karsas had taken the coward’s way in getting rid of his rival.
Masad edged closer to him, his voice barely above a murmur. “Even with anagacinby your side, you’ll still have to face Karsas in ritual combat for the chieftainship.”
