Gilene stood at the very front of the makeshift arena next to Tamura. Saruke flanked her daughter’s other side. Both women looked as grim as Gilene felt. Azarion had gotten what he wanted, the chance to challenge. That he might die in the effort to regain his birthright didn’t seem to bother him. It scared her, and if the tight expressions on his mother’s and sister’s faces were any indication, it terrified them.
Across the stretch of grass, she spotted Karsas’s wife and children surrounded by a retinue of his supporters. Arita wore a different expression from those who surrounded her, different from Tamura and Saruke. Hers was a bland facade, as if the confrontation about to take place held no more interest for her than watching sheep graze. Her children, a boy and a girl, neither of whom looked older than five or six, hugged her legs. Unlike their mother, they watched the gathering with wide, frightened eyes.
Gilene gestured to Arita with a lift of her chin. “What will become of Arita if Karsas loses?”
Tamura’s arms crossed, her fingers digging into her upper arms. Time in the sun had burnished her skin to a golden brown, but now the color leached away, and her green eyes, so like her brother’s, burned.
She glanced at Gilene from the corner of one eye. “It depends on many things. Arita and her children may return to her clan. She was Clan Eagle. They’d welcome her back simply for her value as a bride to another ataman.” Such bitterness laced her words that Gilene’s eyebrows rose. “Or she may choose to stay here if Azarion, as ataman, allows it.” This time Tamura faced Gilene fully, that green gaze as piercing as a lance. “He may also wish to take her for his wife and name her children as his. It’s been done before.”
Something lurched inside Gilene, an unexpected and unwelcome pain. The memory of Azarion’s kiss lingered in her mind and on her mouth. The brutal Pit fighter possessed many facets, including gentleness and passion. The thought of him sharing those with another made her nauseated and then annoyed.
Whom he chose or didn’t choose as his wife was no concern of hers. His reason for bringing her to the Stara Dragana and her role in his rise in status were fulfilled. He was nothing more to her than the means by which she’d return to Beroe, just as she was no more than the means by which he’d regain his rightful place among his clansmen. None of that eased the ache in her chest. Her mind spoke reason; her heart refused to listen.
“It must be hard for her to witness this fight.” She congratulated herself on the evenness of her tone.
Tamura shrugged and stared at Arita. A wistful look settled over her features. “I don’t know. Theirs was a match arranged by their families. Arita has always followed their commands above her own desires.”
There was far more to the woman’s comments than the surface meaning of her words, and the words themselves settled like stones in Gilene’s belly. She followed Tamura’s gaze. If Karsas had been the desire of Arita’s family, who was Arita’s desire? Had it been Tamura? She shook off her own jealousy over the idea of Azarion taking a wife, only to have melancholy take its place. If she interpreted Tamura’s unspoken emotions correctly, how sad it must be to watch the one you love bind themselves to another and start a life with them, a life played out before you every day, with nothing to do but watch.
She wished she could offer some comfort or even a simple touch on the arm to let Tamura know she understood, but Azarion’s sister was not a woman to welcome such an overt display of affection.
The crowd’s raucous din diverted her attention. Both Azarion and Karsas traveled along a cleared path created by observers standing on either side. Each man rode a mare and was unarmored except for vambraces and whatever meager protection padded leather tunics and heavy trousers might offer. Both carried a sword sheathed in a scabbard tied to the horse’s saddle instead of to the man himself.
The path opened up to the grassy arena where the two men would battle to the death for the title of ataman. They parted ways at its entrance so that Karsas circled to the left to pass in front of his wife and retinue while Azarion turned right and guided his mount toward the spot where Gilene stood with Saruke and Tamura.
A cheer from the crowd made Gilene look toward Karsas, who had lifted his son to his shoulder. He raised a triumphant fist in the air, a signal to the crowd that not only would he remain ataman but also his son would inherit the chieftainship after him.
Azarion ignored the spectacle. He leaned down from the saddle to grasp his mother’s hands with one of his and gave them a squeeze. She nodded once to him, a fierce tip of her head and an equally fierce scowl on her face proclaiming not only that she believed he’d win this fight but also that he better not disappoint her by dying. His lips twitched with the threat of a smile as he let her go to pause in front of Tamura.
His features softened, even as hers grew more severe. “Mura,” he said gently. “When this is over, seek out Arita and offer her and her children shelter. The qara will be yours. And hers, if you wish it.”
Tamura’s lips parted. Made speechless by his statement, she could only gawk at him. She reached for him and gripped his fingers so hard, they turned red at the tips. “May Agna visit all her blessings on you today, Brother,” she said fervently.
He squeezed her hand in return before letting go. He stopped in front of Gilene. “A blessing from a handmaiden, Gilene?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Gladly given.”
His eyes widened when she held out both arms to him. He lifted her so that she hung eye level in his embrace, his hands tight at her waist. She linked her fingers at his nape, offering a small smile when he gathered her close.
This time it was she who kissed him, an enthusiastic display of affection that made the crowd roar its approval and Azarion’s mare dance sideways at the cacophony surrounding them. It was a kiss of desperation, of fear, and even of hope. Gilene ended it almost as quickly as she began it, leaving both Azarion and her gasping.
She cupped his face in her hands and gave him her most ferocious scowl. “Don’t die, gladiator.”
He stole a second kiss from her before resting his forehead against hers. “I won’t, Agacin.”
Saruke’s smug grin when he set Gilene down was as much for her benefit as for the crowd’s. Gilene pretended not to see. She ran her tongue over her lips, still tingling from the kiss. Azarion continued his navigation of the circle, touching the outstretched hands of the Savatar gathered there.
When the ata-agacin entered the arena, the people quieted until there was only the wind and the occasional nicker of a restless horse. “Come forth, Karsas, son of Gastene, and Azarion, son of Iruadis.”
The two men rode forward until they stood on either side of the ata-agacin. The priestess raised both arms to indicate the opponents. “Savatar, before you stand the ataman of Clan Kestrel and the challenger to his title as chief. Azarion, son of Iruadis, has challenged, and Karsas, son of Gastene, has accepted combat to the death. Do you embrace the winner as your leader?”