“Why didn’t you tell me?” Gilene had glided a hand down one of her sleeves, her brow creased in a puzzled furrow.
“Because we were still adversaries then. You would have chosen to wear your rags over anything I might give you. Tell me I’m wrong.”
She had laughed. “You’re not wrong.”
At the moment, she wore the yellow sash of anagacinwrapped around her narrow waist. It complemented her tunic.
“How much farther?” she repeated.
He swept a hand toward the gathering clouds in the distance.
“If the weather holds, we’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. Theatamanalready has scouts following us.”
Her eyes widened. She turned one way on the horse’s back, her gaze sweeping the rolling landscape before turning the other way and doing the same. Except for a far-off stand of trees growing by a stream, the land was clear. “Are you certain? Where are they hiding?”
Azarion smiled. “You’re assuming they’re on horseback like us. These are Erakes Ataman’s best runners. They lurk in the grasses, a good hiding place even for a tall man. Whatever we do is reported back to Erakes.”
A day later and half a league from the encampment, an escort of twenty warriors met them and led their group back to a wide expanse of ground covered by what seemed like an eternal stretch of black feltqaras, their peaked roofs crowned with colorful family banners that snapped in the wind.
Azarion guided his horse closer to Gilene’s. “Erakes will offer you aqaraof your own during our visit.”
A tiny frown marred her brow. “Why would he do that? Am I not your concubine?”
How he wished it were so in more than name and assumption. “You’re anagacinfirst and will be given the choice of where you’ll sleep.” He was tempted to cajole her into staying with him. Not once had she slept in a different place than he since his return to the Savatar, and while he missed her next to him on the same pallet, he had grown accustomed to having her nearby.
Azarion stayed silent, hoping she’d refuse Erakes’s offer in favor of sharing aqarawith him. It lent more credence to her support of him as the newatamanof Clan Kestrel, but the choice was ultimately hers.
“I’m not interested in my ownqara,” she said. “I share one with you at home. There’s no reason I shouldn’t do so here.”
It was a good thing he was an adept rider, or he would have fallen off his horse from shock. Gilene referred to the Kestrel camp as home. Azarion schooled his expression into a bland mask. She remained unaware of her very telling reference, only arching her eyebrows at his delayed response.
“As you wish,” he said. He inwardly rejoiced at this small slip of the tongue, this peek into her thoughts. A hope he dared not nurture flared to life inside him. Would she change her mind? Turn her back on Beroe and stay with the Savatar? Stay with him if he asked?
Clan Eagle’s population was easily five times greater than Clan Kestrel’s. While all clanatamanswere considered equal on council, an unspoken deference was shown to Erakes Ataman by the other chiefs. As theatamanof the biggest, wealthiest clan, he wielded considerable influence. His word might not be law, but it carried weight. Only the Fire Council equaled him in influence, a fact theagacinswere quick to remind him of at every joint council session.
Now the camp had swelled to twice its size with the arrival of the other clan leaders and their entourages. Azarion and his group navigated a path through the encampment, passing curious onlookers who gathered to welcome the newatamanand the outlanderagacinwho accompanied him.
Erakes met them at the entrance to an enormousqara. TheqaraAzarion inherited from Karsas would have easily fit inside it with room to spare.
He, Gilene, and his retinue of subchiefs and Kestrel warriors dismounted to stand before Erakes. All save Gilene saluted him with flattened hands thumped over their hearts.
Erakes eyed them in silence before he suddenly grinned and yanked the taller Azarion into his arms for a rib-cracking embrace.
Azarion’s healing shoulder and back spasmed. It took every bit of control he possessed not to instinctively hurl theatamanaway from him.
“Stop!”
The entire camp froze at Gilene’s exclamation.
Erakes’s arms fell away. He turned to face the woman who dared shriek at him, and Azarion inhaled a grateful breath.
“Did you not know?” she said in slow, careful Savat. “Azarion Ataman was injured while fighting Karsas and is still healing.”
Erakes’s thunderhead scowl dissipated. His gaze swung back to Azarion, sweeping him from head to toe. “You look well enough. Where were you wounded?”
“Shoulder and back.” Azarion gestured to Gilene with one hand. “I’m honored by theagacin’s concern for my health.”
He hadn’t missed the way Erakes’s hand had dropped to his sword pommel at Gilene’s protest, as if he’d been tempted to skewer her for such blatant impertinence. A quick reminder that she was one of Agna’s handmaidens seemed prudent.
