This morning she sank a bundle of rovings into a kettle of bright yellow dye and stirred it with her rake. The felters spun and laid out yarn while arguing incessantly with each other, no doubt over how the design should be laid down. Loud whistles and a series of shouts from one side of the camp interrupted their squabbling.
Gilene didn’t dare leave the kettles unattended, but craned her neck to see what had given cause for such commotion. Soon, a line of wagons, like the ones parked throughout the Kestrel camp, rolled toward them, accompanied by an escort of mounted riders.
As one, the felters paused, then hurriedly stood, wiping wet hands on their aprons. They spoke in animated whispers, several glancing at Gilene. Because she didn’t speak Savat, their excitement over these visitors puzzled her. Their focus on her made her uneasy.
Saruke came to her aid as she watched the wagons approach. “News travels fast,” she said in trader’s tongue.
Gilene spared her a quick glance. “What do you mean?”
“That is the Fire Council. They’ve heard the Kestrel clan has an agacin. They’ll want to speak to you. Leave the kettles and go back to the qara to change. I’ll follow in a moment.”
Gilene’s stomach dropped at the news. She did as Saruke instructed and hurried to the qara. Azarion met her en route, leading one of the horses he’d taken from the Nunari he’d killed. He was dressed in the garb of the Savatar, with bits of his hair braided at the temples, and wore a felt hat to keep the rest tamed. A bow rested across his back, along with a quiver of arrows at his waist. Except for his clean-shaven features, which were already shadowed with a beard, any hint of Kraelian about him was gone.
He carried a brace of marmot in one hand and fell into quick step beside her. “You saw the Fire Council arrive?”
She nodded. “Your mother sent me back to change, though I don’t know what else I’m to wear.” Her wardrobe was limited to her Kraelian clothes, which were no more than rags at this point, and the tunic and trousers borrowed from Tamura. Those she now wore, and despite the apron, they were splotched and stained.
“She or someone will bring you something to wear.” Azarion left his horse outside the qara and followed Gilene inside.
The interior’s warmth eased the stiffness in her cold fingers but didn’t stop the chattering of her teeth. She was nervous as well as cold. She strode to her sleeping pallet and sat down to remove her shoes and trousers. The tunic’s length hid most of her body except her calves, and while Azarion had once seen her fully naked, she wasn’t inclined to strip in front of him a second time.
He was busy with his own disrobing until he was down to a loincloth that left very little to the imagination. Gilene knew what he looked like dressed only in skin and bloody welts. She’d seen the whip marks and slashing scars that decorated his back, shoulders, and sides. His chest and abdomen bore more of the same—souvenirs of his time as a Pit gladiator. He wore them with neither pride nor shame, just as she wore hers.
Years training as a gladiator had made their mark in more than just scars. Azarion was tall, but so were many of his clansmen. Lean and toughened by life on the steppes—much of it spent on horseback—they lacked Azarion’s muscular bulk.
His broad shoulders flexed as he reached for a tunic, muscles rippling on either side of the deep indentation that highlighted the length of his spine and the narrowness of his waist. The men he had fought with and against in the Pit had all been shaped and honed to survive it, to please the crowd, to fight with sword and shield for long periods without tiring or slowing. Azarion had risen to the elevated rank of Gladius Prime not only by clever strategy but by brute strength, and it showed in every line of his body.
As much as she hated to admit it, he was breathtaking to behold, clothed or not. And she wasn’t the only one to think so. More than a few Savatar women viewed him favorably, and Gilene assumed some of their unfriendliness toward her stemmed from a touch of jealousy at the idea that she, and not one of them, was his concubine. If they knew the truth, she had no doubt he’d be mobbed at Saruke’s qara door by a crowd of enthusiastic, unwed maidens.
Unaware or uncaring of her silent scrutiny, he stepped into trousers and was donning a tunic when Saruke strode in, arms loaded with a stack of clothing. She dropped them into Gilene’s lap. “Dress quick. Karsas has summoned you both to his qara. The Fire Council waits there.”
Azarion strapped his stocking boots to his newly clad legs. “I’d rather hunt wolves than eat with his ilk.”
“Better they eat with you than eat you,” Saruke rejoined. “Besides, I didn’t say anything about them feeding you.” She gestured for Gilene to hurry it along.
Gilene cast a quick glance at Azarion. He was busy with his belt and knife, and she took advantage of the moment to shrug out of her stained tunic and pull on the one Saruke brought her. The trousers followed before Saruke handed her a pair of shoes free of dirt or mud.
Gilene glanced down at herself and gasped. The outfit she wore now was obviously meant for special occasions instead of everyday wear. Heavily embroidered and beaded at the neck and over the chest, the tunic was made of felt so soft, it rivaled the feel of silk on her bare skin. Wide, bell-shaped sleeves edged in luxurious fur draped down her arms to almost cover her hands. More fur lined the hem, and colorful embroidery decorated the trousers.
“This is lovely,” she breathed. Saruke smiled. “Who was so generous to loan such a fine garment to me?” She tried not to succumb to the terror of possibly spilling something on it.
Saruke’s smile turned sly. “It isn’t a loan; it’s a gift. Suitable for an agacin who is about to meet her sisters of the Fire.”
Gilene’s heart sank. She plucked at the tunic. “This isn’t meant for one such as I. I’m not Savatar. I don’t even think I’m agacin.” She glanced at Azarion, whose shuttered expression revealed nothing. “I can’t accept such generosity. I have no means of repaying it.”
Saruke’s smile fell away, and her eyes narrowed. “A gift is just that. Given with gladness and without expectation of repayment. If you refuse it, you’ll insult the giver in the worst way.”
Embarrassed heat flooded Gilene’s cheeks, along with guilt. She resided among Azarion’s people under duress, here only until she helped him fulfill his ambition to reclaim his inheritance. What she wore now was meant for someone who wanted to be here, who wished to be Savatar and all that such a thing entailed. She was not that person.
However, she had no wish to give offense. Not here, among people she barely understood and knew so little about. “Will you not tell me their name so I can thank them myself?”
Saruke shook her head. “You don’t know them, not really. You wearing their gift will speak of your appreciation.”
The gift giver would remain mysterious, and Gilene set aside her curiosity over Saruke’s enigmatic statement to concentrate on the situation at hand. She faced Azarion once more while Saruke re-braided her hair before winding it into a bun at the back of her neck.
“What will the Fire Council do when I face them? Are there questions I should expect? A trial I must endure?” That made her heart lurch a little. “You know my power hasn’t returned and won’t for at least another month or two.”
She didn’t lie. Her abilities took time to return, and it had been less than a month since the Rites of Spring in Kraelag. Hints of her ability to cast illusion had shown themselves, but not the power to summon or control fire. The waiting never bothered her before. Now, she had to exercise patience. No amount of wishing or anger would hurry it along.