Azarion’s gaze swept her from head to foot. If he was impressed with her appearance, he hid it well, and an odd niggle of disappointment lodged itself under her breastbone. She blamed the unwelcome feeling on her alarm at facing the Fire Council.
“You’ll be questioned and tested by nine priestesses, including the chief priestess, whom the Savatar call the ata-agacin. We address her as Ata.” He frowned a little. “It would be better if they witnessed you wielding fire, but I’ll tell them you summoned it to help us both escape the Empire, and it drained you. That’s no less than the truth.”
She gave a wry laugh. “But hardly the whole story.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you really want to tell them the whole story?”
“Not unless I have to. You realize the chance of them declaring me an agacin is slim at best, even though there were witnesses to me walking through the Veil unburnt.”
His broad shoulders lifted in a brief shrug. “Maybe, but your reasons and those witnesses will be enough for them to return for a second consideration once your power does show itself.”
Gilene shuddered. Two council sessions. She dreaded the first one and didn’t want to imagine having to deal with a second one.
Azarion escorted her through the camp toward the ataman’s qara. She was grateful for his company. Her success in this endeavor was as important to him as it was to her. His unwavering faith in her ability to recapture her magic surprised her. There was a steadfastness to this man that, at times, annoyed her but now helped calm her fears. The press of his hand on her lower back as he guided her through the makeshift alleyways created by the qaras comforted her.
The ataman’s tent was the largest in the encampment and, at the moment, the most crowded. Someone had removed the felt covering at its peak, allowing a column of sunlight to spill downward and illuminate the floor layered in decorative rugs. The lit braziers set in various spots provided more light and warmth as well.
Karsas and his subchiefs sat on the floor in a half circle that hugged the qara’s perimeter. In front of them, nine women dressed in Savatar finery and intricate headdresses that sparkled with beads also sat, facing the newcomers. More people, whose rank and status Gilene could only guess, stood against the qara’s walls. All eyes settled on her and Azarion, and the buzz of idle chatter fell silent.
Azarion bowed to the women as well as to the ataman and his subchiefs. “Agacins,” he said in an admiring voice. His tone flattened. “Ataman,” he said, addressing Karsas behind them.
Even in the dim light cast by the braziers, there was no mistaking Karsas’s thin half smile at his cousin addressing him as chieftain. His eyes, green like Azarion’s, shifted to Gilene. She offered him and the priestesses a quick bow as well.
“Ataman. Agacins,” she said in smooth Savat. Two words she knew in the language of the steppes, important words. She was learning more every day but still relied on trader’s tongue to communicate, as well as translations offered by Azarion, Saruke, and occasionally Tamura.
She didn’t wish to antagonize the clan’s leader, though the role she assumed as his adversary’s concubine guaranteed he’d see her as a threat, especially if the fire priestesses proclaimed her one of Agna’s handmaidens like themselves. His hostile gaze crawled slowly over her. Gilene quelled the urge to scratch or swat away an invisible pest.
He’d yet to address her directly since her arrival to the camp, but she often caught him watching her as she went about the tasks Saruke assigned her. Azarion’s scrutiny could pierce armor and freeze one’s bones, and the natural way he carried himself warned anyone with any sense of self-preservation that he was a force to be reckoned with. Yet he lacked a certain slyness that his cousin possessed. Nor did his gaze make her skin crawl the way Karsas’s did. In a way, the ataman reminded her of the faceless abomination in Midrigar, and had his tongue flicked out to test the air, she wouldn’t have been surprised.
Karsas spoke in Savat, and Azarion translated for her in the same flat tone. “You’ve both been summoned here to prove Azarion’s claim that you, Kraelian woman, are actually a handmaiden of Agna.” A twitter of muffled laughter circled the qara at the faint mockery in Karsas’s voice.
Gilene schooled her features into an impassive mask. His was a well-aimed shot. He’d addressed her not by her name but by her origin. To those watching these proceedings, she was no longer Gilene or Azarion’s concubine. She was the Empire, an enemy of the Savatar. Anything she said now would be suspect.
“Yes, Ataman,” she replied in trader’s tongue, and said no more.
She glanced at the agacins facing her. They varied in age, young and dew-faced to elderly and gnarled. The one in their center, wearing the most ornate headdress, was a woman in her middle years, and judging by her place and the deference paid to her, the ata-agacin. Like the priestesses on either side of her, she hadn’t laughed at Karsas’s calculated jibe. She turned her attention to Azarion.
“Tell us why you believe this woman is blessed by Agna.” Unlike Karsas, she was willing to speak in trader’s tongue. Gilene caught Azarion’s brief smile of triumph. He’d just scored a minor victory over his adversary.
He bowed a second time and recounted his tale of first meeting Gilene a few years earlier and discovering her talent for summoning and controlling fire, albeit, the recounting contained a great deal of fabrication, espoused with the utmost sincerity. By the time he was finished, even Gilene almost believed the slave gladiator and the Kraelian fire witch were united in mutual affection instead of blackmail and bargaining. Azarion might not have been as overtly sly as his cousin, but he had a true talent for deception.
Silence reigned in the qara after that, except for one attempt by Karsas to speak. The ata-agacin raised a hand in wordless command, and he quieted. She shifted her attention to Gilene. “He says you walked through the Veil without burning, and there are witnesses here now who can verify it. I don’t think any of us have seen the like before from a person not of the Sky Below, and I hesitate to name you one of Agna’s handmaiden’s despite Azarion’s tale.”
Karsas injected his opinion. “He could be lying.” This time he spoke in trader’s tongue.
The priestess’s eyes narrowed. “He could be.” She snapped out an order in Savat, and the crowd leapt to do her bidding, filing reluctantly out of the qara. Even Karsas and his subchiefs rose to exit, though the ataman scowled and glared at both Azarion and Gilene as he passed. Only the priestesses stayed seated.
Gilene turned to Azarion, panic curdling in her belly. He grasped one of her hands and brought her fingers to his mouth for a quick kiss. His new beard tickled her knuckles, and his lips were light as a butterfly’s wings. He squeezed her hand briefly before letting it go. “They wish to speak with you alone. Remember what you face every year, what you would willingly face again next spring, and know this is nothing so hard as that.”
His words bolstered her courage, and she gave him a quick nod before facing the agacins again. She didn’t hear him leave but immediately felt his absence once he departed.
The chief priestess rose gracefully from her seat on the floor and began to circle Gilene. It was hard to do so, but Gilene remained in place, staring at the qara’s walls.
“The son of Iruadis speaks highly of you. He says you can wield fire, though your role in helping him escape his masters has robbed you of your power.”