That deliverance arrived on the thud of hoofbeats and a hard voice bellowing, “Hold! Don’t shoot him yet.”
A man dressed like his comrades, but carrying a sword instead of a bow, trotted up to Azarion on a chestnut mare. His gray hair, tied in a top knot, matched the color of his beard, and he studied Azarion and Gilene with a hard, flat stare. His beard was decorated with tiny beads tied off at the ends of braids that dangled from his chin, and he wore a red sash wrapped around his trim middle, the badge of a Savatar tirbodh, a captain of archers.
Azarion’s gut wrenched. This man he knew. Memories of childhood, of better days and hard bruising, of pragmatic wisdom and endless patience. Agna continued to rain good fortune on him by sending the one archer captain who would stay his hand at killing him.
“You’re wearing Kraelian garb and Nunari weapons but walked through the Veil. Let me see your mark.”
Azarion dropped the reins and pushed aside the tunic’s neckline to expose his shoulder. If anything, the tirbodh’s gaze hardened even more. “You’re Agna-marked, so likely a spy. You and your woman. Where’s her mark?”
Gilene huddled behind him, trying to make herself as small as possible. “She doesn’t bear one. She doesn’t need it.”
The captain’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so? You look Savatar; she doesn’t, yet she walked through the fire. If I wasn’t curious about that, you’d both be dead right now.”
The archer closest to him spoke. “He says his name is Azarion, son of Iruadis Ataman.”
That revelation snapped the tirbodh rigid in the saddle. His weathered features paled for a moment, and the tiny beads in his beard clicked together. When he spoke again, he almost spat the words between his teeth. “Iruadis Ataman had only one child, a son with the name you claim.”
Azarion shook his head. “No. He had three children. Another son before me who died in infancy and a daughter younger than I am named Tamura. You know I speak the truth, Masad.” They all visibly startled at his use of the tirbodh’s name. “You delivered her of my mother in a pasture when she’d herded goats too far from the encampment to make it back in time for a midwife’s help.”
Masad’s eyes glittered, and his jaw clenched. “Disarm and toss your weapons on the ground. Then you sit.” He gestured to Gilene. “Both of you.”
The implacable command carried an implied threat. Refuse and die. Azarion slid his forearm out of the shield’s straps and flung the shield on the ground.
“What did he say?” Gilene’s mild tone didn’t quite disguise her unease.
He untied his sheaths, sending his sword and both knives the way of the shield.
“He wants us to sit down, Agacin. We do as he says. Our lives depend on it.” He dropped to the ground, pulling her down next to him.
Masad regarded them from the high place atop his horse. “The last time I saw Azarion, he was as tall as you but without the breadth of shoulder or the muscle. That beard of yours can be hiding any face.” He pointed to one of the knives Azarion had surrendered. “Have your woman use that to shave you, so I can see what hides behind the hair.”
Azarion froze. Gilene, extorted and compelled, was unwilling to be here but unable to leave, and he was supposed to hand her a knife and offer his throat? She returned his shuttered stare with a wide-eyed one of her own.
“What? What did he say?”
He might still die this day, even if it wasn’t by Masad’s hand. “He wants you to take one of those knives and shave me so he can see my face better.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she rocked back on her haunches. A calculating spark lit the black of her pupils before her gaze slid from him to the waiting Savatar, then to the knives. He wanted to remind her that once her fire returned, she’d have the ability to murder him at any time. Now, though, was not the time.
Gilene rose and made her way to where the knives lay in the grass, keeping a wary eye on the Savatar. She bent to pick up one of the blades and unerringly picked the sharper of the two. At least if she shaved him, she wouldn’t nick him too badly, and if she cut his throat, his death would be swift.
She returned, weapon clutched in her hand, to crouch before him. Dark humor flickered in her equally dark eyes. Sunlight winked off the blade as she lifted it and moved closer to his face. He held his breath.
“So tempting,” she murmured.
“So foolish,” he replied just as softly, his stare never wavering from hers.
“Trust me.”
Those two words, spoken by her this time instead of him, punched him in the gut. Azarion understood helplessness and the vulnerability of having your entire life—your fate—in the hands of someone who considered themselves your master. In those instances, he wasn’t expected to trust nor asked to believe anything others told him. Still, he had blinded himself to Gilene’s point of view, far too focused on his own goals and his surety that he’d never hurt her to truly understand her disbelief in his assurances. Trust was earned, not freely given.
Every instinct urged him to snatch the blade out of her hand and put space between them. Instead he sat motionless while she carefully cut away the thick beard and scraped the bristle until he was clean-shaven and nick-free with his jugular intact. Her fingertips on his jaw and cheeks made his skin tingle. A light, capable touch, but something about it heated his body in a way that the most sensual caress never had. When she finished, he remembered to breathe.
Gilene knee-walked a short distance from him and carefully set the knife in the grass in front of her, signaling the watching Savatar that she wasn’t a threat. A half dozen stares rested on him; Gilene’s thoughtful, the archers’ curious, and Masad’s stunned.
“You are your mother’s son,” the tirbodh said on a disbelieving exhalation. “Agna’s mercy, I thought you dead these many years.” He dismounted, strode to where Azarion still sat, and stretched out his hand. Azarion took it and was yanked to his feet, then into a hard embrace that sent shards of pain through his newly healed ribs.
The other archers stared at them, astonished, and slowly lowered their bows. Masad released Azarion, his craggy features wreathed in smiles. “Come back from the dead. This is a good day. A good day! Where have you been?”
The smile fell away when Azarion told him. “Enslaved by the Empire.” He glanced at the archers listening behind their captain. Now was not the time to reveal details. “I’ve much to tell.”
Masad nodded, understanding Azarion’s unspoken message. “And much to hear.” He turned his attention to Gilene. “Who is your woman?”
Azarion gestured for Gilene to stand by him. She came willingly, obviously deciding that he was, for now, the safer alliance. “This is Gilene of Be . . .” He almost said Beroe, but the fleeting shot of alarm across her features as she guessed what he was about to say stopped him. “Krael,” he amended. “She’s an agacin. Blessed by Agna but without our marks. As you saw, she didn’t burn in the Veil.”
Gilene made a distressed noise when the gazes resting on Azarion suddenly fell on her. “What did you just tell them?”
“That you’re an agacin.” He turned back to Masad. “Speak in trader’s tongue so she can understand.”
Masad raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “You’re both blessed then,” he said in the language understood by any who lived in or near the Krael Empire and the Golden Serpent. “Come. You’ve traveled a long way and over Nunari territory to reach us. The encampment isn’t far, and many will be happy to see you again.”