A Heart of Blood and Ashes

by Milla Vane

  That was more like Syssia, too. Throat aching, Yvenne nodded.

  His eyes still upon her, Maddek said gruffly, “Just as we guard our hearts when we face a worthy opponent.”

  Kelir grunted an agreement.

  Maddek released her hair and pulled her back closer against his chest, as if willing her rigid spine to soften again.

  She could not, though he’d agreed with Kelir’s assessment. Some nameless hurt still twisted within her chest. But she knew not what it was and could only say tightly, “You say walls are false comfort and fear. But you know what it is to feel helpless. You have seen warriors injured and know there is nothing you can do to stop Rani from coming for them. Yet still you try to halt the bleeding, do you not?”

  Voice suddenly grave, he said, “Many times I have done so.”

  “Because you must do something. You must try. Perhaps walls will not stop Farians from coming or stop a Destroyer, but at least it is something that can be done. And so they feel not as helpless—which is the most terrible of all feelings.”

  Kelir nodded solemnly. “That it is.”

  “It truly is. There is nothing I hate more.” Her chest hitched, and the rest burst from her in a rush. “And never have I felt constricted in my robes and linens.”

  “No?” Maddek prompted quietly against her hair. “Are they comfortable, then?”

  “They are. But even if they were not, it would please me to wear them, because they are made by Syssians. I am proud to wear them. Nowhere else are silks so fine and colors so bright—and I decorate myself in the accomplishments of my people. Just as Parsatheans decorate themselves with their pride, wearing drepa claws and red linens. Even when you are not in battle, you declare to the world that you are warriors who are always ready to ride.”

  “That is truth,” he agreed softly. “It is much the same.”

  Mollified, she finally eased back against him. “And my robes are not intended as armor against savages or raiders. But that does not mean they serve no use or give no protection. On this journey, I’ve been stung and bitten by fewer insects than every one of you—and have spent less time scratching my ass.”

  This time laughter shook through his reply. “That is also truth.”

  CHAPTER 24

  YVENNE

  If she weren’t to be the queen of Syssia, Yvenne would have liked to be the queen of Drahm. So much there was to see. So much there was to smell. So much there was to eat.

  Just beyond the gate, mongers selling their wares from stalls and carts filled a market square. The mouthwatering scent of cooking meats set her stomach to rumbling and Maddek to laughing before he tossed a coin to a fishmonger.

  All the food was on skewers, it seemed, which made eating atop a horse so very easy—and every bite was seasoned with salt, as if prepared for a midwinter feast instead of sold in the street. As they continued on toward the bridge, Yvenne happily devoured a skewer of bloodfish, followed by a skewer of octopus. Maddek had quickly finished his own skewer of fatty boar, so she shared with him a charred tentacle, reaching back over her shoulder and feeding him some of the tastiest, crispiest bits.

  The air was humid and thick with the scent of the sea and the perfume of the sunfruit trees that shaded the cobblestone avenue. Everywhere, there were Gogeans—walking and riding and driving carts and leading animals—and she watched them all, yet there was also only Maddek, taking each bite she offered. Licking away the salt. Sucking lightly at her fingertips.

  So hard and hot he was behind her. How desperately she wanted him inside her.

  Almost dizzy she felt, acutely aware of all that surrounded her yet hardly recalling any of the journey from the gate to the river. Then the avenue opened to the bridge, and sheer amazement sat Yvenne up straight in the saddle as she stared ahead, skewer forgotten in her hand.

  The Destroyer had dropped a similar bridge upon a village. Yet the bridge was so wide, if any of the villages they’d seen had been dropped upon it, still there would have been ample room to pass by on either side. And it was so long that every village they’d passed could have been lined up, walled edge to walled edge, and still not reached across to the northern side.

  Drahm had not built villages upon the bridge. Instead another city seemed to live upon it. The bustling market square near the southern gate was but a mewling infant to the market they passed through now, a labyrinth divided into districts of common wares. Nearest were the livestock pens—and after the stench reached Yvenne, her tentacle seemed not so appealing.

  Everywhere before, the Parsatheans had been given wide berth by other travelers. Now there was no berth to give as they made their way through the maze of stalls and carts. Singly they rode through the narrow alleys, often with people walking so close they pressed up against the horse’s side and bumped into Yvenne’s legs. Once she and Maddek were brought to a complete halt, their mount crowded against a nearby kergen pen as a wagon creaked by in the opposite direction, the wooden bed filled with a leathery egg bigger than the ox that hauled it. Steadily they made their way to the west edge of the bridge—to escape the odor that the sea breeze carried in, Yvenne assumed, until they reached an alley where a few dozen horses waited.

  Yvenne threw a disbelieving glance over her shoulder. “You sold four mounts just this morning!”

  “I only want to look,” Maddek said, his dark gaze already assessing the animals.

  So too were the other warriors, and only look they did—for a very long time, especially when they came across a yearling that appeared to Yvenne no different than her short-backed gelding Maddek had been eager to be rid of. Yet both Kelir and Danoh dismounted for closer examination while the horse preened and pranced under their attention. When they eventually continued on through the market, it was hard to judge who looked more sorry—the Parsatheans or the horsemonger.

  Until she heard Danoh’s curse. By the time Yvenne looked back, the warrior had already turned around and was riding into the crowd. It was not long before she reappeared, leading the yearling behind her mount.

  Though that morning the warriors had all made much of how difficult it would be to find a bargeship to carry the horses, not a word did the other Parsatheans say now. Instead they looked on with approval for Danoh and admiration for the horse.

  It proved to be the first of many purchases, though the remainder were supplies for the voyage north. Jute sacks bulging with dimpled sunfruit, baskets filled with nuts and dried berries, stacks of salted meats wrapped in broadleaves. The ship would have basic provisions, Maddek told her, but they hoped to sail in haste. So they could not spend days procuring more but must buy what they needed now.

  Those needs included a bow and quiver of arrows better suited to the length of Yvenne’s arm. When Maddek bought those for her, so pleased was Yvenne that when they finally rode out of the market and had a sudden view of the river widening into the sea, she did not even remark upon how very wrong he’d been to claim that everyone behind Drahm’s walls denied themselves of beauty.

  She did, however, send a pointed glance to Kelir, who laughed and did a fine job of poking at Maddek in her stead.

  Nearing the center of the bridge, the alleys became avenues again and the crowds thinned, the buildings not so densely packed together. Until abruptly there were no avenues at all, but a square that stretched the broad expanse of the bridge from east to west—and at its heart stood a temple sculpted from moonstone.

  Yvenne stared at it with widened eyes, the clutch of emotion upon her throat so hard and fierce that she only managed a whisper. “Is that Vela’s temple?”

  “It looks to be,” Maddek replied evenly—as if he were not at all affected by the sight of the pearlescent temple carved from a single colossal block. The ancient builders had sculpted the stone walls to such thinness that any light shone through it, whether sun or moon or merely candles lit within, so that the stone always seem
ed to glow.

  Toric’s voice sounded as awed as Yvenne’s. “I have only seen newer temples made of marble in Ephorn and Goge. How does this one still stand?”

  “Because Anumith and his warlords never came to this city,” said Kelir.

  And the Destroyer had razed every temple except for those belonging to the sun god, Enam—the god whom he’d claimed had escaped the sun’s fiery prison and now lived within him, lending the Destroyer all of his great powers.

  “My father never rebuilt any of Vela’s temples in Syssia,” Yvenne said softly. “After my mother claimed her throne, she began to. Then she was poisoned and my father forbade the building of any temples, for he said they might enrage the Destroyer and draw his wrath down upon Syssia again. So only the temple to Enam is left.”

  “There are no temples at all on the Burning Plains,” Maddek said. “Before or after the Destroyer.”

  “Not even in Parsa?” That great city had once formed the heart of Parsathe.

  “Not even in Parsa.” It was Banek who answered—the only warrior old enough to have seen that city before it, too, had been razed. “There is only Temra’s Altar.”

  Which Yvenne recalled from their song of Ran Bantik, for the thief-king had stood upon it while imploring the tribes to unite against the Scourge. “Is her altar near the glass fields?”

  In the territory where the demon had been defeated. The tribe that included Kelir and Toric’s clan—and the clan of Maddek’s father—resided there.

  “It is,” Maddek confirmed with amusement deepening his voice.

  Why was that so humorous? Yvenne glanced away from the temple’s shining dome, but her attention was arrested by a man standing upon a platform a few paces away from the temple’s base.

  A naked man.

  Nor was he the only one. Entranced by Vela’s temple, Yvenne hadn’t taken much notice of the people milling about the square. Yet now she saw that several dozen men and women wore only the sheerest of robes or nothing at all—and many seemed to be on display. Other men and women approached them, as if the nudes were vendors in a stall . . . or perhaps they were the wares. For some who approached simply examined their bare forms, much in the way the Parsatheans had examined the yearling horse.

  “What is happening?” Her chest had tightened. “Will those people be sold?”

  Surely not. Surely not. Vela had forbidden such practices, just as she’d forbidden rape. Yvenne was not so naive as to believe no one defied that goddess’s laws. Yet never would she have thought anyone might defy those laws at the door of the goddess’s own temple.

  “Not sold,” Maddek told her. “Hired. They provide service to those with no partner but who wish to have their moon night.”

  “Oh.” Yvenne breathed more easily. “They are Vela’s consorts.”

  “They are.”

  Yet there were not nearly as many consorts as there were others—mostly young men and women, Yvenne realized now, and most a few years younger than she. Between all of them seemed an air of laughter and celebration. Perhaps some of it nerves . . . but mostly anticipation.

  “All of these people have their moon night tonight?”

  As she would. An event of such momentous importance—as a step toward claiming her throne, as a step toward defeating her father. Yet she did not take this step alone. Perhaps the reasons weren’t the same, but all across this city—across all the western realms—women and men would shed a drop of blood in offering to Vela.

  The realization filled her with wondrous emotion. Never had she been part of something in this way. Oh, if only this were Syssia. She could have shared in this celebration with her own people.

  Yet this was wondrous, too. Never had she looked upon a crowd and felt what they all felt. Because when Maddek touched her, her throne and her vengeance were far from her head. Instead she was filled with excitement, with desire, with anticipation.

  As they were.

  “Likely not all here are virgins,” Maddek said, and his voice had roughened in the way that abraded her skin in the most delicious manner. As if he was also thinking of the night ahead with desire and anticipation. “But many are.”

  “And they make their offering to Vela here?”

  “Some will. Nearer sunset, there is usually music and dancing, and not all make it to a bed. But many are here to visit the temple and seek a blessing from Vela’s priestesses.”

  Seeking such a blessing wasn’t necessary. And they had little time to waste.

  Yet her heart yearned for one. “Should I seek one, too?”

  “Do you wish to?”

  “I do.”

  “Then we will join the line outside the temple.”

  Never had Yvenne stood in a queue before. She thought waiting in line with seven Parsatheans was a new experience for the Gogeans, too. Maddek’s guard drew many looks—as did Fassad’s wolves. Rarely did the other virgins seem to register Yvenne’s presence in the Parsatheans’ tall and muscular midst, but the vendors who took advantage of the captive audience outside the temple missed no opportunity to hawk their wares. Soon she had another skewered fish, and was licking salty juices from her fingers when a cockmonger making her way down the line spotted her.

  Quickly the gray-haired woman glanced at each of the warriors, pausing speculatively on Toric. She looked back to Yvenne the barest moment before averting her gaze. “You must be the virgin?”

  Eyes wide, Yvenne nodded. The woman’s pushcart held an array of phalluses and potion pots and a multitude of leather straps whose purpose she could not imagine.

  “Do you wish to have a night filled with pleasure?”

  “I do,” Yvenne said eagerly. By the way all of the Parsatheans seemed to push in closer, not only Yvenne was interested in what pleasures the woman had to offer.

  “Which is your partner?”

  With her skewer, Yvenne gestured to Maddek.

  The cockmonger pursed her thin lips, giving Yvenne’s would-be husband a doubtful glance. She waved her hand above the display of phalluses. “And which of these is similar to his size?”

  Maddek grunted. “It matters not. She needs no cock but mine.”

  Yvenne gave him an irritated glance. No other lover would she take, but that did not mean she would never have to see to her own pleasure. “That one is,” she said, pointing to a midsized ivory shaft. Standing beside her, Kelir choked, and she heard muffled snorts from the other warriors behind her.

  Eyes narrowing, Maddek said softly, “I will have to give you a closer look.”

  Why? She was not mistaken. “How do I make it swell?” she asked the cockmonger.

  “These do not swell.”

  Oh. Yvenne eyed the selection again. “None of these are his full size.”

  “As I feared. You are very small to his very large.” Sympathy warmed the woman’s voice and her gaze touched Yvenne’s before averting again. She selected a small clay jar from her cart and held it nestled in her palm. “Not always is such a fit easy, especially if you are not well prepared. But I have a potion that oils your sheath—and it has a pleasant fragrance and flavor.”

  Maddek grunted again. “She will be well prepared.”

  The cockmonger gave him a knowing look. “What of the back passage?”

  Dryly he said, “Even with oil, she will never be prepared for that.”

  That was likely truth. He’d one time introduced his smallest finger to that part of her while feasting from her cunt. After her initial embarrassment and discomfort had passed, it had been quite pleasurable—and it had been quite enough.

  “It prepares the back passage?” With keen interest, Kelir came closer. “What is the perfume?”

  “There is a variety. This is the rose.”

  “We’d best purchase three or four pots, if we are to spend a full turn aboard a bargeship with little else to do
,” Ardyl said as the cockmonger opened the lid for Kelir to sniff. “And there might be a sailor who captures our eye. Do you have half-moon milk and sleeping draught?”

  The woman nodded, her face alight with anticipation as she switched her attentions from Yvenne to the Parsatheans more likely to buy her wares. Then her face was simply alight, as if the moon shone directly upon her instead of the sun, and a sudden hush fell around the square.

  Heart leaping into her throat, Yvenne glanced to the temple—which glowed white, as if brightly lit from within. The presence that she always felt at the back of her mind had vanished, yet she sensed no absence. Instead it was as if the presence had simply moved outside her mind and swallowed the temple ahead.

  Chest swollen with emotion, she stepped in that direction.

  Her breath jolted from her lungs when Maddek abruptly snagged his arm around her waist, dragging her protectively against his side. His sword was drawn, his jaw hard, his gaze not moving from the shining temple.

  “It is only Vela,” she told him, but he spoke at the same moment, giving orders to the others—who were also armed. As if that might make any difference.

  “Prepare to ride,” he commanded tightly, and began backing with Yvenne toward the horses.

  “It is only Vela,” she said again, but it was lost as Kelir called out a warning.

  “Maddek!” Disbelief filled the warrior’s alert. “Look to our mounts.”

  “And the wolves,” Fassad said, his voice not alarmed but awed.

  For they were all in a similar stance—down on left foreknee, heads lowered. As if bowing. Yvenne had never seen the Parsathean mounts balk at anything the warriors asked of them, yet when Danoh urged one horse to its feet, the animal refused to move.

  The glow through the moonstone walls faded. In a wave expanding outward from the temple’s entrance, the crowd erupted in disbelieving cries and threw themselves to the ground, some on knees and others prostrating. The cockmonger joined them, gasping and pressing her forehead to the cobblestones. Within moments, no one in front of Yvenne stood upright, giving her a view of the veiled figure in black robes who had emerged from the temple.