Phoenix Unbound

by Grace Draven

  He swept a hand toward the gathering clouds in the distance.

  “If the weather holds, we’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. The ataman already 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 felt qaras, 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 a qara of 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 an agacin first 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 a qara with him. It lent more credence to her support of him as the new ataman of Clan Kestrel, but the choice was ultimately hers.

  “I’m not interested in my own qara,” 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 clan atamans were considered equal on council, an unspoken deference was shown to Erakes Ataman by the other chiefs. As the ataman of 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 the agacins were 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 new ataman and the outlander agacin who accompanied him.

  Erakes met them at the entrance to an enormous qara. The qara Azarion 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 the ataman away 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 the agacin’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.

  The wide smile Erakes wore earlier returned. “The affection of one of Agna’s blessed is no easy thing to win. Killing Karsas was a far easier task.” He offered Gilene a bow, acknowledging her status as a sacred agacin before all his clan. “Welcome to my encampment, Agacin. Clan Eagle is honored by your visit and that of Azarion Ataman.”

  She bowed in return. “I am honored to be here, Erakes Ataman.”

  Erakes ushered them all into his qara. Servants showed them to places where they could sit and rest in luxury. Numerous lamps ringed the dwelling, and the scent of roasting meat filled the air, making Azarion’s mouth water.

  The qara was a crowded place, filled with Erakes’s family and servants as well as the atamans from the other clans. Each called a greeting to Azarion, along with congratulations on reclaiming his clan’s chieftainship.

  A finely dressed woman directed the servants with efficient ease. Azarion recognized her as Erakes’s wife, though the ataman didn’t introduce her to his guests.

  He bellowed for wine, mare’s milk, and food to share with the visitors. It was the start of a drawn-out process involving generous hospitality and hard-driving negotiation.

  Gregarious by nature, and a hedonist with great appetites for food, music, drink, and women, Erakes was a shrewd negotiator and an ambitious clan chieftain—exactly the kind of man Azarion’s plan might appeal to if presented the right way.

  He would have to be careful. Iruadis himself had once said Erakes made for a loyal friend and a dangerous enemy. He was Savatar through and through, proud of his heritage and the land that birthed him and the many generations of his ancestors before him. His love for the Sky Below was superseded only by his hatred for the Empire.

  He and Azarion swapped stories between them, including Erakes’s recollections of growing up with Iruadis and the scrapes they got into as boys. Azarion, for his part, spoke briefly of his enslavement to the Empire and watched as Erakes’s genial mood darkened. Azarion turned the conversation to a lighter subject before the ataman grew even grimmer. They bantered with the other atamans and subchiefs for the next hour about inconsequential things, each man measuring the other as either potential ally or adversary in future dealings. Nearby, Gilene sat among six of the nine agacins, carrying on her own conversation or listening to the atamans’ conversations, her expression guarded and hawkeyed.

  A servant girl approached Erakes and whispered in his ear. He nodded and sent her off before turning back to Azarion. “We have a qara for you and one for the agacin if she wishes it. Your subchiefs are welcome to stay with other families.” He held his cup up to a servant for a refill of wine. “The last of the atamans, Tulogan of Clan Lynx, will arrive late tonight. We’ll all get a good sleep and meet here again tomorrow once the sun has burned away the ground fog and hear what you have to say. Until then, I bid you all good evening.”

  They were dismissed and escorted out by more of the efficient servants. After declining the qara for the agacin, Azarion and Gilene followed one of the servants to a qara set near the camp’s center.

  Once inside, Azarion surveyed their surroundings, noting its many luxuries.

  “This isn’t nearly as big as Erakes’s qara,” Gilene said as she wandered the interior, pausing at various spots to admire the silk rugs that lined the floor and the elaborately embroidered hangings that graced the walls. �
��But it’s certainly as opulent.”

  “It probably belongs to one of Erakes’s subchiefs.”

  Carved stools joined plush backrests for those who preferred not to sit on the ground. Velvet coverlets in jewel colors draped pallets, and the lit candles smelled of beeswax instead of tallow.

  “Does it appeal to you?”

  The few belongings he possessed and those that became his at Karsas’s death were basic by comparison. Clan Kestrel had never been as large or as wealthy as Clan Eagle, even at its height.

  Gilene dragged a finger over a carafe made of delicate glass the color of milk with wispy tendrils of mist caught in the design. She waved a hand to encompass the interior. “This would appeal to anyone for a short while.” She tilted her head to the side, a question in her eyes. “Do you not think it oppressive, though? It’s all beautiful in its way, but it isn’t the stars at night, and I feel as if I’d drown in silk and velvet by morning.” Her expression turned pleading. “I don’t wish to sound ungrateful of Erakes’s generosity or that of the chief who allowed us the use of his home, but would you mind so much if we slept outside? It’s warm enough, and the ground isn’t muddy. And we can use our own blankets to keep from soiling these.”

  Azarion was tempted to pull her into his arms. Instead, he bowed. “As the agacin wishes. We’ll sleep under the stars tonight and welcome the sunrise tomorrow.”

  She possessed a beautiful smile, one she showed far too seldom for his liking, and this time that smile was for him alone. They left the qara, fielding questions from those of both Clan Eagle and his own retinue; concerns the qara didn’t meet with their approval and offers to provide them with something else to their liking.

  Azarion assured them all he merely indulged the whims of the agacin, who wanted to stargaze and enjoy the warmer weather before the summer season faded to fall. Appeased, they left him and Gilene to journey outside the camp’s periphery, opposite the horse herds, where the grasses were thicker but shorter, and the ground was free of horse dung. They stopped at the fire where his soldiers gathered for the night and took with them saddle pads and blankets for making a bed.

  They were still close enough to the camp and its light to deter a visit from nocturnal hunters but far enough away to gain a modicum of privacy. The moon above them hung bright in the celestial black, creating shadows with razor edges on the Sky Below.

  Gilene helped Azarion lay out the makeshift bed. Once finished, she dropped down to the bed, toed off her shoes, and lay supine atop the covers, face tilted up to the sky and the stars salting its expanse.

  Azarion joined her, stretching out on his belly. He bent his arms to use as a headrest and rested his cheek on his forearms, content to watch the agacin watch the stars.

  She spared him a glance from the corner of her eye. “Surely, you can’t see the stars that way.”

  It didn’t matter to him. She was prettier than the stars and gleamed more brightly, in his opinion. The sour look that had seemed permanently stamped on her features when they first met was gone now, in its place, the beauty of fortitude. This was how he wanted to remember her after she returned to Beroe, he and the Savatar only a vague memory in her mind. If she bothered to recall them at all.

  “I’ve seen stars many times,” he said. “I’m just glad to be outside.”

  She smiled. “Me too.”

  They lay in companionable silence for several moments until she spoke again. “Do you think the atamans will agree with your plan? More importantly, do you think Erakes will agree to it?”

  He considered Gilene’s question before answering. “I really only need Erakes. With his support, the other atamans will follow. He hates the Empire even more than we do. His first wife died a captive in a Kraelian brothel before he could rescue her.”

  Even in the darkness, he saw Gilene flinch. “My gods, I don’t blame him. That poor woman.” Her eyes glittered. “I think there must be no depth the Empire won’t descend to in its cruelty.”

  “I’m counting on that hatred to sway him to my argument. He’s the canniest of the atamans and doesn’t turn away from a fight.”

  Gilene shifted to her side, her expression anxious. “Sacking the capital is a risky endeavor, Azarion, much like that mad tumble you took under Karsas’s horse.” Her lips quirked. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d call you reckless.”

  He mimicked her position, feeling the stretch of taut skin over his sore shoulder. “But you do know me better now. What do you call me?”

  “I think you’re fishing for compliments,” she teased.

  “I’m asking for your honesty, which you’ve always so generously shared with me, even at its harshest.”

  She stared at him without speaking, and Azarion wondered what she saw and whether it pleased her.

  “I would call you clever. Brave. Relentless in your pursuit of a goal. I don’t know what defines a good ataman, but I think you will be one for your clan. They’ll thrive under your leadership.” She frowned then. “Should you live long enough.”

  Azarion reached out to capture a flyaway strand of her hair. “I’ve fought too hard to stay alive this long to suddenly embrace death.”

  The steppe wind chittered a faint laugh as if amused by his defiance.

  “When we leave this encampment, it’s a three-day ride through the Siraces Valley and another six days across Kraelian lands before you reach Beroe. It’s a four-day return ride to the Kestrel camp. Will you not return with me, Gilene?”

  He dreaded letting her go but had sworn to her he would. That oath didn’t stop him from trying to convince her to stay.

  Her eyes were so dark, no more than a play of shadows and the secrets she held close. “And what would I return as, Ataman? The concubine agacin?”

  “You’ve seen the respect and regard all Savatar hold for the agacins. You’re a handmaiden of Agna.”

  “I don’t even believe in your Agna,” she protested.

  “And yet she chose you as one of hers. You don’t have to stay with Clan Kestrel. Any clan would gladly welcome you into their midst.”

  Her face shuttered into an expressionless mask. “They are still strangers, people who know nothing of me nor I of them despite their honoring my role as Agna’s handmaiden. Home is among those who love you.”

  Azarion rolled partially atop her, startling a gasp out of her.

  He traced the line of her nose. “My mother has great affection for you. As does Tamura.” She snorted at that assertion. He pressed on. “What if I said I loved you, fire witch?” Her entire body tensed under his, and her lips parted on another gasp. “Can that not be enough to convince you to stay and make the Sky Below your home?”

  A lone tear trickled from the corner of her eye and slid into the hair at her temple. “You’ve wanted a great deal from me, Ataman. You want my heart as well? Have me abandon all I’ve known to stay here with you?”

  He bent to kiss her right eyelid, then her left, the salt of her tears stinging his lips. “I’m a greedy man. I want all of you, heart, soul, and body. You already have all that I am. It seems only fair.”

  Deep down, he knew she’d refuse. Even if their relationship hadn’t been founded on extortion, struggle, and captivity, she was single-minded in her devotion to a duty for which she’d never receive thanks nor recognition from those she saved year after year. If, as she said, home was truly among those who loved you, then Beroe wasn’t her home. He didn’t know whether to hold her in sympathy or shake her from frustration.

  He couldn’t regret asking her to stay. Soon they would part for good, and he was desperate to keep her.

  “The same family awaiting you in Beroe willingly surrenders you to Kraelian slavers every spring so that you are raped and burned.” His voice sounded harsh to his ears. She might love her mother and siblings, but she hated her fate. Azarion suffered no qualms in reminding her of that f
act.

  “Stay with the Savatar,” he argued. “If I can convince Erakes that my plan is sound, has merit, and we unite to attack the Empire’s capital, the Rites will end. No more Flowers of Spring to sacrifice. No more burning in the Pit. No worrying whether someone’s mother, daughter, or sister will be tithed.”

  They stared at each other until Gilene sighed and raised her hand to trace Azarion’s eyebrows with her fingertips. “That is a dream to hold close during the hard nights, but a dream it still is. Until you and the Savatar can make it a reality, I have to go back. I can’t abandon my mother or my sister or any of the women who rely on me to protect them from the Empire. I will survive it. They won’t. In my place, would you turn your back on them?”

  She asked the question he’d hoped she wouldn’t. It was the one he couldn’t deny without lying, and he’d lied to her enough already. “No. I’d go back.”

  Her watery smile reflected in her gaze. “You risked everything to return to your people.”

  He moved so that he didn’t crush her with his weight but could still feel the length of her against him. “Risked you as well.” More words hovered on his tongue, difficult to express in a way that kept him honest but still conveyed his regret.

  “Had there been another way to gain my freedom and regain the chieftainship other than abducting you, I would have chosen it. You can rightfully fault me as merciless and without compassion for your plight. I did what I did without thinking of your own circumstances. It was wrong, and though I can’t regret bringing you to the Sky Below, I am sorry you suffered for it.” He stroked her cheeks, loving the feel of her smooth flesh under his fingers. “That was no way to repay someone who only helped me. I don’t ask your forgiveness, Gilene. I don’t think I could give it were I in your place, but ask of me what you will, and I will do all in my power to fulfill it.”

  Gilene’s tears had dried, leaving only the remnants of their silvery tracks on her cheeks. She stretched under him, long legs entwining with his. A procession of emotions crossed her features, quick as lightning flashes. Azarion wished he could interpret each one, but they were gone as soon as they appeared.