Phoenix Unbound
Page 64
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Sky Below stretched toward the horizon under a veil of golden sunshine. Summer still held sway over the steppes, and the plume grass swayed in a whispering swath as far as the eye could see.
Azarion guided his horse through the grasses. Tall and lush, they brushed the horse’s belly and caressed Azarion’s shins. Gilene rode beside him, occasionally swatting at the midges stirred up by the horses’ passage through the grass.
They traveled west with an entourage of clansmen to Clan Eagle’s encampment, where the leaders of more clans were gathered. Azarion’s first act as ataman was to call for a gathering of the two councils and subchiefs of all the clans, asking that they meet in the largest clan’s camp.
Clan Eagle was the largest clan, its wealth the greatest in the confederation, and its ataman once Azarion’s father’s best friend. Calling a confederation gathering in the Eagle camp was a great honor and allowed Erakes Ataman to bask in the temporary role of kingly host. Azarion hoped to benefit from that vanity and gain the ataman’s support of the plan that had first made Gilene’s jaw drop in disbelief and would likely do the same to every ataman, agacin, and subchief who attended the gathering.
He was eager to reach their destination and dreaded their arrival at the same time. It marked the end of his time with Gilene. He wished he had left her in the Clan Kestrel camp, far to the east and deep in the Sky Below’s interior, but a promise made was to be kept. She had been patient but also unyielding in her insistence she return to Beroe as soon as possible.
His mare snorted and jerked her head to the side in a bid to avoid a quail startled into flight from the shelter of the plume grasses. The motion pulled hard on Azarion’s healing shoulder, and he bit back a curse at the arrow of hot pain that shot down his arm to his fingers.
“If that didn’t open your wound a little, I’ll be surprised,” Gilene said.
Azarion shrugged away the discomfort. “No harm done.”
At least he hoped not. Vua would strangle him with a length of catgut if he managed to undo her work, and his mother would help her. Nor did he relish a repeat of the feel of a needle sliding through his flesh.
Eleven days had gone by since Azarion’s fight with Karsas and his reclamation of Clan Kestrel’s chieftainship. In that time he’d drunk enough willow bark tea and bone broth to float a fleet of merchant ships. The bitter taste of the willow bark still lingered on his tongue.
During his convalescence, he’d given up his place in his mother’s qara to abide in the ataman’s much larger one. It was a generous space, far too large for just him, Gilene, and Saruke.
As his concubine, Gilene was expected to join him, and she did so without protest. Saruke had arrived soon after, her cart filled with her belongings she’d taken from the smaller qara. That dwelling now sheltered Tamura; Karsas’s widow, Arita; and Arita’s two children.
He’d never forget the joy in his sister’s face when Arita stepped across the threshold, her son and daughter in tow. The two women embraced, holding on to each other as if nothing else in the world existed around them.
Only when Azarion cleared his throat did they part. He nodded to Arita. “This is your home now for as long as you and Tamura wish it. I’ve gifted half of Karsas’s herd to your family to appease them.”
“Dower gift?” she asked, worry clouding her expression. It wasn’t uncommon for a chieftain’s widow to be claimed by her husband’s closest male relative after the man’s death, especially if she was still young. It raised his status among the clan, and the pretty Arita was not only a coveted prize but also a valuable asset for her clan and family. They would demand no less than half of Karsas’s horses in exchange for relinquishing her to Clan Kestrel a second time.
“Not dower price,” he said. “Adoption. You’re Clan Kestrel now, as are your children, regardless of whether you remarry a Kestrel man.” He doubted that would happen anytime soon.
Tears filled Arita’s eyes. She sniffed them away. “I thank you, Azarion Ataman,” she said and glanced at the grinning Tamura. “For everything.”
While Saruke approved of Azarion’s decision to invite Arita into their family, she chose not to stay with her daughter and Arita. Instead, she followed him and Gilene to the ataman’s tent on the pretense of taking care of him while he convalesced, and no amount of reassurances that he didn’t need the help changed her mind.
“It’s a selfish thing,” she admitted on the third day in their new abode. “I’m used to more peace and quiet. I’d forgotten just how noisy small children could be.” She winked at Azarion. “Better Tamura deal with it than me.”
The qara still held some remnants of Karsas’s presence, a kind of vulgar opulence that reminded Azarion of the empress Dalvila’s bedchamber but on a much more modest scale. He didn’t welcome the comparison and asked Saruke to cleanse the qara of any dark will or malice still lingering there.
He would have been fine staying in his mother’s qara with Gilene and sending Tamura to live with Arita in the more spacious tent, but the ataman’s qara served two purposes. It was a family home but also the gathering place for the ataman and subchiefs to hold council and administer the affairs of the clan. Its size could accommodate a large group of people and served to impress visiting clan atamans.
“How much farther until we reach Clan Eagle’s encampment?”
Gilene’s question pulled him out of his reverie. She twitched one of her braids over her shoulder, its long length thumping softly against her back. He liked how the sun wove gold light through her dark plait. She wore the garb he’d given her. It was Tamura who had revealed him as the giver.
“What a stupid thing to keep secret,” she had said, and flatly told Gilene, “What you’re wearing is a gift from Azarion. You should thank him.” With that, she gave an exasperated snort and strode away.
“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 an agacin wrapped 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. 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.
The Sky Below stretched toward the horizon under a veil of golden sunshine. Summer still held sway over the steppes, and the plume grass swayed in a whispering swath as far as the eye could see.
Azarion guided his horse through the grasses. Tall and lush, they brushed the horse’s belly and caressed Azarion’s shins. Gilene rode beside him, occasionally swatting at the midges stirred up by the horses’ passage through the grass.
They traveled west with an entourage of clansmen to Clan Eagle’s encampment, where the leaders of more clans were gathered. Azarion’s first act as ataman was to call for a gathering of the two councils and subchiefs of all the clans, asking that they meet in the largest clan’s camp.
Clan Eagle was the largest clan, its wealth the greatest in the confederation, and its ataman once Azarion’s father’s best friend. Calling a confederation gathering in the Eagle camp was a great honor and allowed Erakes Ataman to bask in the temporary role of kingly host. Azarion hoped to benefit from that vanity and gain the ataman’s support of the plan that had first made Gilene’s jaw drop in disbelief and would likely do the same to every ataman, agacin, and subchief who attended the gathering.
He was eager to reach their destination and dreaded their arrival at the same time. It marked the end of his time with Gilene. He wished he had left her in the Clan Kestrel camp, far to the east and deep in the Sky Below’s interior, but a promise made was to be kept. She had been patient but also unyielding in her insistence she return to Beroe as soon as possible.
His mare snorted and jerked her head to the side in a bid to avoid a quail startled into flight from the shelter of the plume grasses. The motion pulled hard on Azarion’s healing shoulder, and he bit back a curse at the arrow of hot pain that shot down his arm to his fingers.
“If that didn’t open your wound a little, I’ll be surprised,” Gilene said.
Azarion shrugged away the discomfort. “No harm done.”
At least he hoped not. Vua would strangle him with a length of catgut if he managed to undo her work, and his mother would help her. Nor did he relish a repeat of the feel of a needle sliding through his flesh.
Eleven days had gone by since Azarion’s fight with Karsas and his reclamation of Clan Kestrel’s chieftainship. In that time he’d drunk enough willow bark tea and bone broth to float a fleet of merchant ships. The bitter taste of the willow bark still lingered on his tongue.
During his convalescence, he’d given up his place in his mother’s qara to abide in the ataman’s much larger one. It was a generous space, far too large for just him, Gilene, and Saruke.
As his concubine, Gilene was expected to join him, and she did so without protest. Saruke had arrived soon after, her cart filled with her belongings she’d taken from the smaller qara. That dwelling now sheltered Tamura; Karsas’s widow, Arita; and Arita’s two children.
He’d never forget the joy in his sister’s face when Arita stepped across the threshold, her son and daughter in tow. The two women embraced, holding on to each other as if nothing else in the world existed around them.
Only when Azarion cleared his throat did they part. He nodded to Arita. “This is your home now for as long as you and Tamura wish it. I’ve gifted half of Karsas’s herd to your family to appease them.”
“Dower gift?” she asked, worry clouding her expression. It wasn’t uncommon for a chieftain’s widow to be claimed by her husband’s closest male relative after the man’s death, especially if she was still young. It raised his status among the clan, and the pretty Arita was not only a coveted prize but also a valuable asset for her clan and family. They would demand no less than half of Karsas’s horses in exchange for relinquishing her to Clan Kestrel a second time.
“Not dower price,” he said. “Adoption. You’re Clan Kestrel now, as are your children, regardless of whether you remarry a Kestrel man.” He doubted that would happen anytime soon.
Tears filled Arita’s eyes. She sniffed them away. “I thank you, Azarion Ataman,” she said and glanced at the grinning Tamura. “For everything.”
While Saruke approved of Azarion’s decision to invite Arita into their family, she chose not to stay with her daughter and Arita. Instead, she followed him and Gilene to the ataman’s tent on the pretense of taking care of him while he convalesced, and no amount of reassurances that he didn’t need the help changed her mind.
“It’s a selfish thing,” she admitted on the third day in their new abode. “I’m used to more peace and quiet. I’d forgotten just how noisy small children could be.” She winked at Azarion. “Better Tamura deal with it than me.”
The qara still held some remnants of Karsas’s presence, a kind of vulgar opulence that reminded Azarion of the empress Dalvila’s bedchamber but on a much more modest scale. He didn’t welcome the comparison and asked Saruke to cleanse the qara of any dark will or malice still lingering there.
He would have been fine staying in his mother’s qara with Gilene and sending Tamura to live with Arita in the more spacious tent, but the ataman’s qara served two purposes. It was a family home but also the gathering place for the ataman and subchiefs to hold council and administer the affairs of the clan. Its size could accommodate a large group of people and served to impress visiting clan atamans.
“How much farther until we reach Clan Eagle’s encampment?”
Gilene’s question pulled him out of his reverie. She twitched one of her braids over her shoulder, its long length thumping softly against her back. He liked how the sun wove gold light through her dark plait. She wore the garb he’d given her. It was Tamura who had revealed him as the giver.
“What a stupid thing to keep secret,” she had said, and flatly told Gilene, “What you’re wearing is a gift from Azarion. You should thank him.” With that, she gave an exasperated snort and strode away.
“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 an agacin wrapped 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. 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.
