“Sacrilege,” she said.
He nodded. “Sacrilege.”
She sighed. “Very clever, though never have I seen someone so eager to enter into combat.”
“Combat is all I’ve known for a decade. I’m not afraid.”
It wasn’t an empty boast. He didn’t fear a fight to the death with Karsas. In fact, he looked forward to it. That thirst for revenge had kept him alive, seen him through more battles than he could count as well as the vicious affections of an empress whose cruelty knew no bounds.
Gilene didn’t possess that kind of cruelty, only a misplaced and unreciprocated loyalty to people who didn’t deserve it. The ghost of a smile drifted across her mouth. “I can’t imagine you afraid of anything, Azarion.” The smile faded at his expression. “What?”
There was nothing of the Empire he wished to keep in either his home or his memory. Nothing save this resolved, enduring woman. “You don’t address me by name often. I like the sound of it on your tongue.”
He drew close, pleased beyond words when she didn’t step back from his nearness. “Agacin who does not pray, I won’t ask for your prayers before I face the atamans. Instead I’ll ask for a kiss. One of luck.” His fingertip brushed the underside of her chin. “Will you grant me that?”
There was a softness to her eyes and mouth that seduced him. “I’m an unlucky woman.”
He traced the line of her jaw. “Not to me.”
He slowly lowered his head, his heart thumping even harder when Gilene raised her face to his. Her cheek under his lips was smooth, giving, the skin over the bony ridge of her nose thin and fragile. Her eyelashes tickled his mouth when he brushed her closed eyelids, and a slow pulse beat at her temple. She was sublime, unweathered by the ceaseless wind that whipped across the steppe.
Even were she coarsened by years under the Sky Below’s sun and breath, he’d still be drawn to her, find her beautiful. There was a brightness to her that shone from the inside, not of sunlight or the fire she wielded, but of the kind of light that winked off a sword blade.
Her lips were as soft as her cheek, her mouth welcoming as she opened slowly to him. He nibbled at her lower lip before teasing its surface with a sweep of his tongue and was rewarded for the caress with her startled inhalation. Despite her obvious surprise, she didn’t back away but leaned forward even more, coaxing him with the angle of her body to do it again.
Azarion obliged her, settling his hands on the slight curves of her waist to draw her into his embrace before deepening the kiss. He made love to her with his mouth, reveling in the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her lips pressed against his, the way her shallow breath drifted from her nostrils to fan across his beard.
The hands that unleashed fire pressed gently against his ribs, recalling a moment in a gloomy cell when her hesitant touch on his bruised, bloody body had offered succor.
Her soft moan set him alight quicker than any flame she might have summoned. One hand edged toward her tunic’s hem, the other sliding upward to bury itself in the intricate knot of braids bound at her nape. He forgot about the councils waiting for him, his challenge against Karsas, even Karsas himself. Here, now, there was only Gilene in his arms and the grim realization that this magic was as ephemeral as the bright spark on steel.
The snap of the qara’s door flap signaled they were no longer alone. Azarion, reluctant to end the kiss, sucked on Gilene’s lower lip a final time before straightening. He kept his arms around her, and she didn’t pull away from him.
Saruke stared at them both, her face inscrutable. “It’s time,” she said. “The atamans call you to stand before them, my son, and state your challenge.”
* * *
• • •
The qara erected to house both councils and witnesses was a large one set away from the other groupings of qaras that marked where Clan Kestrel camped and where members of the visiting clans erected their tents. Multiple braziers heated the interior, and lamps cast a warm light on the occupants, who sat on blankets, furs, and pillows, awaiting Azarion’s arrival.
They were the atamans of all the other Savatar clans, along with the subchiefs of Clan Kestrel. The atamans sat on one side, while the Fire Council, consisting of the powerful agacins, sat on the other.
Azarion gave Gilene a short bow. She returned it with a quick nod before striding to the side of the qara where the agacins sat and taking her place among them. She looked pale and serene. The only evidence of the passionate embrace they’d just shared was her lips, still rosy from Azarion’s kisses.
Karsas didn’t sit with the chiefs. Instead, he emerged from the shadowed periphery of the qara to stand beside Azarion. He spoke to Azarion, voice pitched low. “When I kill you in combat, I will return your body in pieces to your mother, and then I will hang your witch from the center pole of my qara.”
Karsas’s threat wasn’t even a ripple on a still pond. Azarion had dealt with the like many times when fighting in the Pit. A tactic used to manipulate your opponent into reacting without thinking. Azarion ignored him in favor of studying the expressions of each ataman.
He recognized most of them, chiefs when his father ruled Clan Kestrel. Some bore a few more lines on their faces; others were so wizened and frail, they traveled from place to place in the Sky Below in carts instead of on horseback. Two looked close to his age, successors to their chieftainship either through birthright or challenge.
The ataman of the oldest clan, Clan Wolf, spoke first. “Azarion, son of Iruadis, child of Clan Kestrel, you stand before us. What is your claim?”
“I claim my birthright as ataman of Clan Kestrel.” At his declaration, Karsas noticeably bristled.
“Clan Kestrel already has an ataman,” Karsas snapped. “Chosen by the Ataman Council.”
Azarion didn’t waver. In the end, this was strictly a formality, a bid to gain permission from the other atamans to challenge Karsas in ritual combat for the right to assume the chieftainship. He addressed the council directly. “Only because I was sold to the Empire by my own clansmen at my cousin’s bidding.”
The crowd erupted into shouts, punctuated by Karsas’s bellows of denial. Azarion waited for the chaos to die down and the councils to bring order. Once the qara’s occupants settled, he continued.
“Karsas sits in my father’s place for that reason alone. I have returned and with Agna’s blessing.” He nodded to where Gilene sat among the other agacins.
Karsas flung out a dismissive gesture in Gilene’s direction. “She isn’t even Savatar. A false agacin.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Every agacin stiffened or frowned, affronted by the accusation.
Clan Wolf’s ataman raised an eyebrow. “Not according to the Fire Council. They have claimed her as one of their own.” He turned his attention back to Azarion. “We recognize your claim and the blessing, but it’s only enough if Karsas agrees to step down and relinquish his place as ataman.” He looked to Karsas. “Do you relinquish?”