by Grace Draven
That raised an outcry. Judging by the sudden consternation on Erakes’s face, Gilene guessed this information was new and caught him by surprise. “How do you know this to be true?”
“Because I fought alongside and against Pit gladiators who once served in the Kraelian army. Men of high place who fell from favor when they incurred the wrath or displeasure of their commanding officer or a nobleman of more power.” Azarion paced a little in front of Erakes, every step tracked by his enraptured audience. “The Empire is secure in its belief it’s impervious to attack from outside its borders. They don’t bother with secrets, and these men were free with their knowledge while they trained or waited to fight in the arena.
“We all know there are four Kraelian garrisons perched alongside the Serpent, each about nine leagues from the base of the Gamir Mountains on the other side of Goban lands. Three are manned by battalions, the fourth—the largest—by a legion. Together, they can march as many as eight thousand men across those mountains and onto Goban territory. They haven’t done it yet because it’s too easy to pick them off in the narrow passes.”
Erakes waved a hand, unconcerned. “But for what purpose? The Goban are numerous enough to hold their territory if the Kraelians try such a thing, and the Empire won’t empty out its garrisons just to conquer farmers and their crops.”
“No, but they’ll do it to stop a people who can field an infantry, and they’ll take control of the iron the Goban bring out of their mines. They’ll do it if it means they can conquer Savatar land without breaking the Veil.”
An expectant hush settled even deeper onto the qara as Azarion continued. “The Krael Empire is long-lived because it’s long-thinking. It devours its neighbors by slow degrees instead of immediate attack. It’s the predator that waits in the cave, the spider at the center of the web. Ever patient, never merciful.” Gilene shivered at the picture his words created. “The Empire puts it about that its garrisons protect the traders who travel the Serpent from the bandits who plague the route. The traders know these bandits are Kraelian soldiers who rob to line their pockets and fill the garrison coffers.”
Another ataman spoke up. “If that’s so, why don’t the caravans quit traveling the trade road?”
“Because what they lose in these robberies can be made up elsewhere in profit. To abandon the Serpent altogether would see them exiled from the Trade Guild, also controlled by the Empire, and their riches dwindled to the scrapings left by the established free traders.”
“What would you have the Savatar do?” Erakes motioned to a nearby servant for a refill of his tea.
“The Empire won’t stop with four garrisons. They’ll build four more and four more after that and the roads to reach every one of them. While the Gamir raiders destroy Goban crops and hold the mines, the Goban people will fight them and starve while doing it, far too busy staying alive to worry about a Kraelian garrison with a legion of soldiers being built right under their noses. Once the Empire gets a foothold in the mountains, we will be at war, and we will lose.” Azarion’s tone sharpened even more. “They outnumber us ten to one and can field both infantry and cavalry in great numbers. All they’ll need is a foothold and time, and the Sky Below will fall to the Empire from the east just like the plains of the Nunari fell in the west.”
The silence hung heavy as every person in the qara held their breath and he waited for Erakes’s response. Erakes stared at Azarion a long time, and Azarion stared back. Gilene wondered who might blink first.
Erakes didn’t blink, but he did speak. “What do you propose?”
A collective sigh ran through the qara as everyone exhaled and exchanged low-voiced commentary between them. Azarion didn’t relax his guard. He could claim victory for the first part of his bid in convincing the most powerful Savatar clan that his concerns were worthy. The more difficult part remained: convincing them that attacking the Empire first was not the plan of a madman.
“We sack Kraelag,” he replied.
Outraged shouts joined disbelieving laughter, but he remained stoic in the face of ridicule, his gaze never moving from Erakes, who didn’t join in the mockery. Instead, the ataman waited until the noise subsided before speaking, a glower darkening his face. “You, more than any of us, should understand what a foolhardy thing that would be to do. You’re neither an idiot nor mad, Azarion Ataman. This much I know; so why suggest something that would only result in the senseless deaths of thousands of Savatar?”
Gilene had asked him the exact same thing.
Kraelag was a fortified city with thick walls supported by watchtowers, ramparts, and deep ditches. The standing army defending it numbered in the thousands and could be called forth in a matter of hours if needed.
She’d seen the massive catapults waiting between the curtain walls, their munitions of giant stones and the architectural wreckage of old ruins piled into heaps beside them, waiting to be hurled onto an invading force. The Savatar were a nation of horse soldiers versed in cavalry tactics. Sacking Kraelag required siege warfare.
“Because we want the Empire to think its capital is besieged. They will call up not only their closest legions but also those from the garrisons that ride the Golden Serpent.”
Erakes’s eyes narrowed, and now he stood to pace, one hand stroking his beard in thought. “They’ll leave the garrisons manned by only a few.” His eyes gleamed in the dim lighting. “Vulnerable. Easy to destroy.”
Azarion nodded. “Yes. We split the confederation forces. Half to ride to Kraelag from the west. We’ll have to cross the plains and possibly fight the Nunari along the way.”
“Or gain them as allies. They’ve never rested easy under the Empire’s yoke,” Erakes said.
“Hope for the best but prepare for the worst. Just as the Kraelians are greater in number than we are, the Savatar are greater in number than the Nunari. That they won’t expect our incursion into their territories will also work in our favor.”
A wolfish grin replaced Erakes’s glower. “While the Empire panics and sends more of its soldiers to defend the capital, our eastern forces join with the Goban to sack the closest garrisons and take control of those stretches of the Serpent.”
The blood raced through Gilene’s veins as she listened to the two men flesh out the plan Azarion had hatched while he waited for the Fire Council to proclaim her an agacin. No wonder he had been so patient all that time. He had planned this strategy in detail, prepared to argue for its validity. The moment he was made ataman, he’d taken action.
Their battle plans roused her excitement. Anything that cut a wound in the Empire’s hide made her smile, but she also knew that the course Azarion wanted the Savatar to take meant a path of no return and open war with the mightiest, cruelest empire that ever controlled the world known to men.
“We don’t have the men, the time, or the supplies to lay siege to Kraelag,” Erakes said abruptly.
Azarion shook his head. “No, we don’t. And truth be known, we don’t need to. We just need to keep the Kraelian armies busy defending her long enough that our eastern forces can do their work. Then we flee back behind the safety of the Veil.”
“Cut off their grain supplies,” Gilene volunteered into the pause.
The weight of numerous stares suddenly pressed down on her. She ignored it to focus on the man whose judgment would decide how all this might end.
“What do you mean, Agacin?” Erakes moved closer to her.
“Kraelag stores its grain supplies in granaries at the harbor of Manoret on the mouth of the river Oret.” She knotted her fingers together, uneasy beneath so many doubtful stares. “Dyes, linen, and silk are kept there as well. My family are dyers. Each month we deliver our dyes to Manoret for shipment. Those granaries are the capital’s main food supply. Any siege would be short if the city faces starvation, no matter how strong the walls.”
Azarion’s slow smile was cold and calcu
lating, and Gilene shivered at the sight. “And the more desperate might well just open the gates for us.”
Erakes’s gaze held a glitter of suspicion. “You are of the Empire, Agacin. Why would you betray its weakness to us?”
She bristled. “Because the Empire is a blight, its capital a maggot feeding on a corpse. I’ve witnessed its savagery firsthand and the joy it takes in the misery it inflicts on its citizens as well as its slaves. Ask Azarion Ataman. He knows of what I speak. You must be loyal to something in order to betray it. I owe the Empire nothing, least of all my loyalty.”
Erakes stared at her a moment longer before turning to Azarion. “If she returns to the Empire, she could reveal our plans.”
Azarion shrugged. “To the Empire, she’s an unknown village woman. They won’t believe her.”
Still unconvinced, Erakes returned to scrutinizing her while addressing Azarion. “Have you seen these granaries?”
“I have. When the gladiators were sent to fight in other cities, we shipped out of Manoret. They’re well guarded but not impenetrable. The soldiers guarding them are equipped to fight off thieves, not armies.”
Erakes slowly pivoted, his gaze sweeping the qara and its occupants, before returning to Azarion. “I agree that the Empire grows more dangerous by the day and that the Veil is no longer the surest way to protect the Savatar. Your plan is risky. If it succeeds, we’ll be fighting for Savatar sovereignty and doing so on two fronts. If we fail, we’ll be fighting for our lives. Those are hard choices for the Ataman Council to make.”
Gilene hugged herself and tucked her hands under her arms to hide their shaking. If the clans united, they’d make a formidable enemy. If the Savatar allied with the Goban and possibly the Nunari, the Empire would quake before them. Maybe, just maybe, it would then be far too busy staving off attacks from the steppes to indulge in the barbarous rituals associated with the Rites of Spring. A tiny flame of hope flared to life inside her.
“War is never an easy choice,” Azarion said. “Do I have your support in this?”
Silence greeted his question, and Gilene’s heart plummeted to the floor until Erakes offered his hand to Azarion and the two men clasped forearms.
“The council must decide together, but I lend my voice to yours. Clan Eagle stands with Clan Kestrel in this.” He turned to the other atamans. “What say you? Are we in agreement?”
A chorus of enthusiastic ayes answered him. Gilene laughed aloud when Azarion suddenly pulled her into his arms, a wide grin curving his mouth before he kissed her long and hard to celebrate his first victory in this risky, dangerous endeavor. Gilene hoped it wouldn’t be his last.
After several toasts of tea and mare’s milk, she excused herself from the gathering to catch a few hours of much-needed sleep in the borrowed qara. She didn’t hear Azarion return, waking only briefly to feel him slide under the blankets to curl against her.
“Stay with me, Gilene,” he whispered in her ear.
“I can’t,” she murmured, still half-asleep.
“I will conquer all of the Empire to bring you back.”
She tucked herself deeper into the warm cove of his body, taking pleasure in the feel of him next to her. “Just survive,” she said and squeezed his fingers where they notched with hers. “That’s all I ask.”
“Swear you’ll do the same for me,” he urged.
“I swear.”
Sleep overtook her once more. She awakened later to the pleasurable caress of Azarion’s hands on her body and his lips on her skin. This time Gilene straddled him, her hand spread across his chest where the pounding of his heart made her palm pulse with each beat.
He rested inside her, softening with each sated breath he took. Like sunlight, like all light, firelight was kind to him, enhancing the beauty of his features and the color of his eyes. He watched her with a contemplative gaze.
Gilene slid her thumb across his lips. “What troubles you?”
“Have you ever wondered if what the Beroe fire witches do in the arena only makes things worse for them and Beroe?”
She tensed. The movement tilted her hips enough that Azarion slipped out of her. His hands tightened on her waist, and his green eyes darkened.
Something in his tone made her wary, and his words started a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “What are you saying?”
“The Empire holds the gladiator fights to entertain the crowds. They hold the Rites of Spring to gain the gods’ favor. Every Flower of Spring burned is a gift to them, the fire itself like wine. Entertaining the people in the seats is secondary. Entertaining and pleasing the gods is first and foremost if the Empire wants to maintain its power and control.”
He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know, but the way he phrased it made her skin crawl. She imagined deities quaffing fire from chalices while they devoured the dead of the arena like pieces of rotten fruit. “Go on.”
He looked away, as if deciding how to say what he wanted or even if he wanted to say it at all. His hands stroked her sides, and his expression was both wary and pitying. Every warning instinct inside Gilene surged to the forefront.
“I’ve seen you wield the fire the guards start on the pyre,” he said. “How you make it grow and surge and burn hotter. I’ve seen you build an illusion of the flames, creating rivers and lakes of more fire to fill the arena floor. You even turn yourself into one of those flames to escape the Pit without anyone the wiser.”
“Except you.”
He didn’t smile at her grim quip. “Gilene, for all that your fire and illusion keep the Flowers from suffering agonizing deaths and allow you to run away so you can return home, they only spur the Empire to make the ritual greater every year.”
She gasped. “That isn’t true.” He held her in place when she tried to climb off him, his words like blows from his fists.
He winced at her distress but was relentless. “Shh. Listen to me. Listen.” She stilled, and his features grew blurry in her vision. “The people praise the spectacle, certain the gods are among them and approve the sacrifice. Your control of fire, and the illusion you create from it, makes it act in ways fire doesn’t act on its own.” He stopped, allowing time for his words to sink in.
A terrible revelation rose inside her. “The people see divine intervention, the presence of the gods among them.”
“Yes.”
She covered her mouth with a hand. Wretched sounds of grief still escaped past the barrier of her palm. What had she done? What had Beroe done these many decades? In trying to save itself, it had only made things worse for everyone subject to the tithe: itself, other villages, every family with a daughter who dreaded the coming of spring and the knowledge they might have to give up that child as a sacrifice.
Azarion’s arms slid around her and gathered her close against him. She sobbed in his arms, drenching his skin. He stroked her back, her hair, and her arms, and planted soft kisses on her temple and cheekbone. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he whispered in her ear. “Forgive me.”
She continued to cry for several moments while he held her in silence. When there were no tears left, she squirmed out of his embrace to snatch a cloth from a table holding the washbasin and blew her nose until her ears rang.
Azarion watched her from their tumbled nest of blankets, his face pale, green eyes dark with anguish. Gilene returned to the bed and knelt in front of him. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said. “They’re hurtful words, but that doesn’t make them less true, and I needed to hear them. I wish all of Beroe could hear them.”
“This would be a very crowded qara.” His gentle teasing made her smile, and he reached out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “It’s just a guess based on what I observed, Gilene. I could be wrong.”
She exhaled a tired sigh and shook her head. “I wish I could believe you were, but it makes too much sense to deny
. The Empire does demand more tithes. More women stand with me each year.”
She scraped her palms across her damp cheeks to dry them, her thoughts racing. “What am I to do? I can’t just let the women burn next to me, hearing them scream as their flesh melts off their bones. And how would I escape the Pit if I didn’t create the illusion of more fire?”
“Don’t go,” Azarion said. “Stay here with me on the Sky Below.”
“That’s a wish, not a solution.” She rose to clean up and dress. A bubble of tears still lodged under her ribs, making it hard to breathe, but she didn’t succumb to it. The time for weeping was done. She needed a clear head to plan. She studied Azarion where he still reclined in their bed.
His mouth was set in a thin line, his visage dark. “Spring will be the best time to attack Kraelag. The Empire won’t expect us to march our forces while snow is on the ground and the rivers are frozen.” He captured her hand when she returned to him. “Moving an army across winter landscape is slow and difficult. Gilene, I can’t guarantee we’ll reach Kraelag in time to stop the Rites of Spring. Even if we’re standing before the gates, it may not be enough to save you and the others from the immolation.”
Gilene saw it in his eyes. Desperation. Fear. Fear for her and what she faced. She squeezed his fingers. “I’m not afraid,” she lied.
“I am,” he snapped. His expression shuttered, and he stood to yank on his clothing. “You’re determined to go back.”
She looked away. “What else can I do?”
He came to stand before her. “You can stay here! You’re an agacin now.”
Gilene chuckled, a humorless sound. “A concubine agacin.”
He was an ataman, an unmarried one with alliances to forge. His people would expect him to marry.
“Be my wife,” he argued. “Treasured and beloved.”
That bubble of tears threatened to burst inside her. Gilene closed her eyes. “Stop, please. Your words only make it harder.”
