“We don’t have the men, the time, or the supplies to lay siege to Kraelag,” Erakes said abruptly.
Azarion shook his head. “No, we don’t. And truth be known, we don’t need to. We just need to keep the Kraelian armies busy defending her long enough that our eastern forces can do their work. Then we flee back behind the safety of the Veil.”
“Cut off their grain supplies,” Gilene volunteered into the pause.
The weight of numerous stares suddenly pressed down on her. She ignored it to focus on the man whose judgment would decide how all this might end.
“What do you mean, Agacin?” Erakes moved closer to her.
“Kraelag stores its grain supplies in granaries at the harbor of Manoret on the mouth of the river Oret.” She knotted her fingers together, uneasy beneath so many doubtful stares. “Dyes, linen, and silk are kept there as well. My family are dyers. Each month we deliver our dyes to Manoret for shipment. Those granaries are the capital’s main food supply. Any siege would be short if the city faces starvation, no matter how strong the walls.”
Azarion’s slow smile was cold and calculating, and Gilene shivered at the sight. “And the more desperate might well just open the gates for us.”
Erakes’s gaze held a glitter of suspicion. “You are of the Empire, Agacin. Why would you betray its weakness to us?”
She bristled. “Because the Empire is a blight, its capital a maggot feeding on a corpse. I’ve witnessed its savagery firsthand and the joy it takes in the misery it inflicts on its citizens as well as its slaves. Ask Azarion Ataman. He knows of what I speak. You must be loyal to something in order to betray it. I owe the Empire nothing, least of all my loyalty.”
Erakes stared at her a moment longer before turning to Azarion. “If she returns to the Empire, she could reveal our plans.”
Azarion shrugged. “To the Empire, she’s an unknown village woman. They won’t believe her.”
Still unconvinced, Erakes returned to scrutinizing her while addressing Azarion. “Have you seen these granaries?”
“I have. When the gladiators were sent to fight in other cities, we shipped out of Manoret. They’re well guarded but not impenetrable. The soldiers guarding them are equipped to fight off thieves, not armies.”
Erakes slowly pivoted, his gaze sweeping the qara and its occupants, before returning to Azarion. “I agree that the Empire grows more dangerous by the day and that the Veil is no longer the surest way to protect the Savatar. Your plan is risky. If it succeeds, we’ll be fighting for Savatar sovereignty and doing so on two fronts. If we fail, we’ll be fighting for our lives. Those are hard choices for the Ataman Council to make.”
Gilene hugged herself and tucked her hands under her arms to hide their shaking. If the clans united, they’d make a formidable enemy. If the Savatar allied with the Goban and possibly the Nunari, the Empire would quake before them. Maybe, just maybe, it would then be far too busy staving off attacks from the steppes to indulge in the barbarous rituals associated with the Rites of Spring. A tiny flame of hope flared to life inside her.
“War is never an easy choice,” Azarion said. “Do I have your support in this?”
Silence greeted his question, and Gilene’s heart plummeted to the floor until Erakes offered his hand to Azarion and the two men clasped forearms.
“The council must decide together, but I lend my voice to yours. Clan Eagle stands with Clan Kestrel in this.” He turned to the other atamans. “What say you? Are we in agreement?”
A chorus of enthusiastic ayes answered him. Gilene laughed aloud when Azarion suddenly pulled her into his arms, a wide grin curving his mouth before he kissed her long and hard to celebrate his first victory in this risky, dangerous endeavor. Gilene hoped it wouldn’t be his last.
After several toasts of tea and mare’s milk, she excused herself from the gathering to catch a few hours of much-needed sleep in the borrowed qara. She didn’t hear Azarion return, waking only briefly to feel him slide under the blankets to curl against her.
“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.”