“What happens now?” Gilene asked, leaning against Azarion’s side as they stood at the crowd’s periphery.
“The atamans will return to their clans and do as you’ve seen Erakes do: inform the clan what’s to happen. We’ll then meet with the Goban people to offer an alliance. I’d be surprised if they refused. They’re the ones most vulnerable to the Empire right now.” He kissed the top of her head. “I promise I will do all in my power to make sure we reach Kraelag by the equinox.”
Gilene held on to the promise of that hope with both hands. The coordination alone for such a task was monumental with no guarantee of success. Even if the clans of both peoples agreed to ally themselves, their chances of failure were equal to, if not greater than, those of victory.
“Do you truly believe it’s worth so much chaos and death?” She knew his answer, knew he’d asked this question of himself many times before she did.
His voice never wavered. “Down to my soul, Agacin. I’ve been a slave of the Empire. Never again will I be so, nor will my people, not if I have any say in the matter.”
That evening, the people celebrated around a communal fire. There were wrestling matches, drinking games, dancing, singing, and trysts made in the swaying shadows of the concealing plume grass. Gilene and Azarion joined in the revelry, determined to enjoy this last night among the free-spirited Savatar who had taken her into their midst, and though they didn’t see her as one of their own despite her magic, they welcomed her and treated her well. She was both agacin and Azarion Ataman’s concubine—a potent combination of power and influence. Given time, the Savatar would accept her fully. This she knew. There was, however, no more time.
Her coupling with Azarion later that night bore the hallmarks of desperation and silent farewell that left him dour and her grief-stricken. At dawn, his entourage thanked Erakes for his hospitality and departed for the Clan Kestrel encampment with promises to host the ataman of Clan Eagle there soon.
They were a day and evening into their return when she, Azarion, and Masad left their party to turn back toward Clan Eagle’s camp and the narrow passage that took travelers through the Veil and over the sliver of Nunari territory into the boundaries belonging to Krael proper.
“Don’t linger,” Azarion instructed Masad. “The Savatar respect the rule that agacins are free to choose the clan and camp of their preference, but some may interpret that rule differently for Gilene and keep her trapped here.”
Masad nodded. “We’ll ride hard, travel at night, and rest during the day.”
His words conjured up an unpleasant memory for Gilene. “No sleeping in barrows,” she said. “Ever again.” The tirbodh gave her a puzzled look and then a shrug.
Azarion nudged his horse to stand alongside hers. His face was set, his lips thin and drawn tight against his teeth. “Should you have second thoughts, don’t hesitate. Masad will lead you back to the Sky Below without question.”
They stared at each other as the tirbodh guided his own horse away to allow them privacy. Gilene reached out with a shaking hand, stricken when Azarion drew back from her touch.
“Don’t,” he said, and his voice was harsh. “If I touch you, I won’t let go.”
She breathed back the tears gathered in her nose and throat, making her eyes ache. “Goodbye, gladiator. Our bargain is met. Good luck.” If she said his name, she’d fall apart.
He didn’t suffer such weakness, and her name was a prayer on his lips. “Farewell, Gilene of Beroe.”
He turned his horse and galloped back to where their camp slept under the moon’s waning light. Gilene followed his shadow until it blended with all other shadows, and the sound of hoofbeats faded, leaving only the wind’s dirge in their wake.
She guided her own horse to where Masad waited, and offered him a watery smile. “Beroe waits, Masad. I’ve been long away.”
* * *
• • •
The villagers’ ecstatic relief at seeing her ride into the village alongside Azarion’s uncle was short-lived. The miller’s wife saw her first and raced down the street toward the house of the most senior village elder. Soon the street was filling with people, all calling her name as if she were a conquering hero returned to them in splendor. They stared at Masad, wide-eyed and wary of the fierce-looking warrior riding beside her as their horses ambled slowly down the main avenue toward the house Gilene shared with her mother and sister.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, Masad. We can feed you and put you up in a bed. The hearth keeps all the rooms warm enough.”
He declined her offer. “I’m needed elsewhere, Agacin,” he said. His gaze swept the crowd gathered nearby, unabashedly watching them. He lowered his voice. “Are you certain you won’t come back to the Sky Below?”
No, she wasn’t at all certain, and maybe one day, she would go back. But, like him, she was needed elsewhere. “Maybe one day,” she said. “Not today.”
He bowed, wished her well, and rode out of Beroe as quickly as he had appeared, the look in his eye a worried one.
That worry wasn’t without basis. Once the initial celebrations over Gilene’s return had ended, the villagers’ relief at having her back had soon turned to resentful suspicion. She looked none the worse for wear for her sojourn in the Stara Dragana, and in no time the questions of what happened to her became poisoned with the taint of accusation. Even her family eyed her askance at times, though none of them dared to ask the questions she saw in their faces. Had she truly been abducted? Or had she fled only to change her mind and return to Beroe out of guilt or because she had no other place to go?
As witnesses to Azarion tossing her across a horse’s back and racing through the capital’s streets, her brothers had at least zealously assured any who asked that she’d been an unwilling captive. Her mother and Ilada, though . . . Gilene had caught the dubious expressions on their faces more than once during the long wax and wane of the winter season.
She returned to the tasks that had always been hers when she lived in Beroe—helping her mother and sister with the household chores, working in the dye houses. It didn’t take long for her hands to stain green once more. The rhythm and pace of the village was as familiar to her as her own reflection. Sleepy and slow in winter, always with an undercurrent of dread as everyone anticipated the coming of spring and the arrival of Kraelian slavers.
Gilene shared nothing of her knowledge regarding Azarion and his plans, and offered little about her time among the Savatar, even when her mother and Ilada pressed her for details.
“You’ve become so secretive, Gilene,” her mother fussed, giving her dish towel an annoyed snap as they worked together washing and drying the supper dishes one evening.