Phoenix Unbound
Page 71
“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.”
“I don’t want it to be easy, Gilene!” He gripped her arms to give her a light shake. “I want it to be so hard, you’ll change your mind.” He kissed the bridge of her nose. “I understand your devotion to your family, though I think they and the entire village are cowards. What they demand you do for them, what they expect you to do for them . . . it’s cowardice, and I can’t find sympathy for them. Are they really worth your sacrifice? Your suffering?”
“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.”
“I don’t want it to be easy, Gilene!” He gripped her arms to give her a light shake. “I want it to be so hard, you’ll change your mind.” He kissed the bridge of her nose. “I understand your devotion to your family, though I think they and the entire village are cowards. What they demand you do for them, what they expect you to do for them . . . it’s cowardice, and I can’t find sympathy for them. Are they really worth your sacrifice? Your suffering?”
