That evening, in the Savatar war camp, Azarion stood outside hisqaraand peeled off his blood-caked armor, letting each piece drop to the ground. He swiped a hand across his face, succeeding only in smearing more blood on his skin. He was drenched in sweat, the splatter of entrails, and horse shit. The Savatar had won the day, and while he was pleased with the outcome, he didn’t dare call it a victory. They had to get through tomorrow and a sunrise that would surely reveal the arrival of reinforcements from outland Kraelian garrisons.
The light of a nearby torch revealed the approach of a visitor. A tall shadow solidified into his sister. Like Azarion, she was filthy and bloody, with dark shadows painting the skin under her eyes. Still, she gave him a triumphant grin and raised a flask in offering.
Azarion sat in the dirt and invited her to join him with a wave of his hand. She settled next to him and passed the flask. Her braids had come unraveled, and her dark hair spilled over her shoulders to drag through the dust in a tangled mass. “It was a good day,” she said.
He took a swallow of mare’s milk before passing the flask backto her. “It was a bloody day, and we aren’t any closer to breaching the main gates.”
She shrugged. “But we’re still here, still ready to fight tomorrow, and a lot of Kraelian dead are fertilizing those fields right now.” Her side-glance was puzzled. “Besides, didn’t you say in council we didn’t need to actually breach the city? Just keep the garrisons focused on it long enough for our eastern forces to capture the Gamir section of the Golden Serpent and destroy those garrisons?”
That had been his plan, the one he repeated numerous times, first to Erakes and the otheratamans, then to the Kestrel clan, and finally to the Goban. Sacking the city wasn’t the primary goal, though Gilene’s idea of capturing the granaries and holding them ransom to avoid a long siege worked in their favor.
Gilene. Azarion sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger in an attempt to lessen the pressure of a headache blossoming behind his eyes. A day didn’t go by that he didn’t think of her, a night that he didn’t ache to have her next to him while he slept. His worry for her gnawed incessantly at him. Were the autumn and winter not taken up by planning for this battle, he might well have succumbed to the overwhelming temptation to ride for Beroe and fetch her back.
It would have been easier to let her go and let her be were she returning to a peaceful life, instead of a wretched one.
“What troubles you, Brother?” Tamura regarded him steadily, her green eyes, so like his own, bright in the torchlight.
He stared in the city’s direction, its walls and towers hidden by trees and shadow. “The equinox is upon us tomorrow. The Empire always celebrates it with the Rites of Spring.”
A strong hand gripped his forearm, and he glanced down to see Tamura’s slender fingers, with their broken, dirty fingernails,clutching his vambrace. Sympathy softened her hard features. “Do you think theagacinis in Kraelag?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I sent two scouts to find out. I’d hoped to hear from one or both tonight.”
As if fate heard him and chose to humor his concern, a man entered the pool of light and bowed to Azarion. “Azarion Ataman, I have news.”
Azarion stood, his exhaustion forgotten as his stomach somersaulted in anticipation of the scout’s words. Tamura stood with him, a comforting hand on his back. “Tell me.”
“The Rites of Spring will be observed tomorrow. Those women who were tithed as sacrifices will burn at midday.”
Tamura’s flattened hand seized into a fist, gathering Azarion’s tunic tight in her grip as he lunged forward, ready to bolt through the camp and over the bloody fields, straight into enemy territory so that he might scale the walls or beat down the gates with his fists and retrieve the woman who had captured his soul and held it willing hostage.
“Her trial is not yours, Brother,” Tamura hissed in his ear. “She will survive it. You won’t if you run into the arms of Kraelians waiting to hack your head from your shoulders!”
The scout edged away from the pair, wary of Azarion’s reaction to his news and Tamura’s snarling warnings.
Azarion shook her off and exhaled a shaky breath through flared nostrils. Gilene would survive the fires tomorrow, but what about after, with the city under siege and no doubt closed to any who would enter or leave it now except the armies? His gut churned at the thought of what she might be enduring now, in a cell with a gladiator still raging from a day’s fighting in the arena, blood still hot and his lust high.
He closed his eyes, hands fisted at his sides so tight, hisknuckles turned white. Tamura’s words—“She chose this, Azarion. She knew what awaited her”—did nothing to ease the fury boiling inside him. Gilene was so close, but she might as well have been trapped on the moon for all that stood between them.
Azarion sent the scout away with a short thanks. He didn’t return to his seat next to the meager fire he’d started earlier, choosing instead to pace, his weariness burned to ash.
Tamura reclaimed her spot and watched her brother while she drank. “Hold your anger, nurse it, fan it until you can taste it on your tongue and smell it in your nose, but don’t waste it on some fool rescue attempt that’ll see your head on a gate spike for the Kraelians to jeer at when the sun rises.”
He halted to glare at her. “Would you follow this advice if it were Arita in Gilene’s place?”
She gave a humorless chuckle. “You ask that as if I’d have a choice in the matter. I wouldn’t, and neither do you.”
Azarion growled and resumed his pacing. His sibling was annoyingly correct. Dawn and battle couldn’t come soon enough. He would hack his way through every Kraelian soldier and breach the gates alone if necessary to get Gilene out of Kraelag alive.
He spent the remainder of the evening with the otheratamansand commanders, going over last-minute plans for the following day. The stars mocked him from on high, reminders of a better night when the fire witch of Beroe whispered his name in a loving voice and welcomed him into her arms and body.
At dawn he’d fight; at noon she’d burn. If the gods were merciful, neither would die.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The catacombs below the city hadn’t changed in the year since Gilene had last walked across their floors. Still squalid and fetid, they welcomed her and the newest crop of Flowers of Spring into their labyrinth to await the immolation most of the capital had turned out to watch.
Rumors ran rife throughout the city, filtering down even to these depths, of savage steppe nomads who threatened Kraelag and fought the Kraelian army on the wide expanse of untilled farmland that stretched north of the capital’s main gate. Still no one seemed concerned. No one fled the city or hid in their houses. Even the emperor and empress remained in residence and planned to attend the Rites. All believed the powerful Kraelian force would annihilate, or at least drive away, the horse clans, and such a clash would not interfere with the popular Rites of Spring.
