“True on both counts.”
Nine stares measured her worth.
The priestess continued her interrogation. “And you are also his concubine. This is true as well?”
Gilene hadn’t missed the suspicion in the woman’s eyes as Azarion spoke of his attachment to her. Had he said too much or too little? Her captor hadn’t yet demanded more from her so far other than her patience and her collusion, but she did live with him in his home and shared his bed if not his body. It was, in a way, the definition of concubine, and she didn’t have to lie about that. “Yes. I’m his concubine.”
She returned the priestess’s steady gaze and wasn’t the first to look away.
“A handmaiden of Agna has great influence among the Savatar. We approve alliances and marriages, battles, and new leaders of the clans. Azarion knows this. A chieftain’s son returned from the dead might well wish to claim what’s been lost to him. The support of an agacin would be very useful.”
Gilene considered remaining silent but thought better of it. The ata-agacin didn’t outright ask a question, but she did imply her want of a response. This was treacherous ground upon which Gilene stood. Who knew what alliances formed among the Savatar leadership? Who served whom in their ambitions? Who owed a favor or bowed to a threat? She searched for a reply she hoped wouldn’t compromise either Azarion or her.
“I can’t speak for Azarion’s wishes, but if that were true for him, would it be wrong to strive for such a thing if it helped the clan?”
The priestesses still seated glanced at one another, and one of the ata-agacin’s eyebrows did a slow climb. The corner of her mouth twitched up for just a moment. “No, it wouldn’t be wrong.” She motioned to one of the priestesses who brought her the basket. “You say you have no power to draw from now, but we’ll test you anyway. Let’s see if you’re as good with your magic as you are with your words.”
“You want to test me inside the qara?” Gilene took in her surroundings. Wood, felt, baskets. From its peak to its floor, Karsas’s home, like every other tent in the encampment, was potential kindling for an uncontrolled flame to become a devouring inferno.
The ata-agacin raised that questioning eyebrow once more. “To put your doubt to rest . . .” She gave a wordless gesture at one of the braziers. The coals flared a vivid orange before an arc of flame burst from the brazier’s confines to follow the movements of the ata-agacin’s hand. It hovered in midair before twisting around itself into an interlocking figure like a serpent swallowing its tail. A wave of heat cascaded down Gilene’s body as the flame whipped around her, coiling up her frame but never touching. The priestess gave a final, sharp gesture, and the fire raced across the qara, where it plunged into another brazier, making those coals snap and spark while smaller flames licked the grate in a merry dance. Not even a hint of burnt cloth tainted the air.
“Your turn now, outlander,” the priestess said.
Gilene didn’t know whether to laugh or applaud, the first because she knew her efforts would come to naught. The second because the ata-agacin’s control of flame had been impressive to witness.
She didn’t protest when they fished out candles from the basket and set them around her with instructions to set them alight, either one at a time or all at once. Nothing happened. The candles remained unlit. A cold brazier was brought forth, and under Gilene’s hand, it remained dark and cold. An oil lamp. A handful of fatwood. A square of charcloth. Nothing caught flame in her hands.
“I said from the beginning,” she told the priestesses, “I may be able to summon fire and force it to do my bidding, but not yet. What power I possess, I’ve used up for now.”
The ata-agacin stretched out her arm. “Give me your hand.”
Gilene did so, and a bubble of blue fire burst across their clasped fingers. The priestess’s grip tightened as the flames traveled up both their arms, but Gilene didn’t struggle. She returned the other woman’s stare with one of her own as the flames danced along her shoulder and neck and cascaded down her chest until she and the priestess were engulfed. She felt the fire’s heat, but only its heat, and squinted her eyes against the bright illumination. Soon the brightness faded, as did the heat. The flames died away, leaving both women unscathed.
The ata-agacin let her go and took a step back, her expression puzzled. “You don’t burn, just as we don’t. That is indeed the hand of Agna there.” She returned to her sisters, and they gathered together in a huddle to talk in whispers.
Gilene didn’t move, a small kernel of hope that even without a demonstration of fire summoning, her resistance to burning might be enough proof to get them to declare her one of Agna’s handmaidens. If so, then achieving her goal of returning to Beroe was that much closer.
The agacins finished their discussion and, as one, turned to Gilene. The ata-agacin’s words sent Gilene’s stomach plummeting to her shoes. “We recognize your ability to not burn and believe you when you say your power is depleted for now. However, it isn’t enough to declare you a handmaiden. We need to see you summon and see you control the gift that Agna bestows on her priestesses. When your magic reawakens, have Azarion or the ataman send a message to us. We’ll return and test you again.”
Tears welled on Gilene’s lower lids, and she blinked to force them back. Despite her best intentions not to hope too much for a different outcome, the ata-agacin’s refusal to recognize her was a crushing disappointment. It meant more weeks living among strangers, viewed either as an outlander by the clan members or as a threat by their ataman. All she wanted was to go home. Her resentment for Azarion, dulled a little these past few days, sharpened once more. She wanted no part of his machinations, and she followed the priestesses out of the qara, dry-eyed and grim.
They were met by a crowd of curious clansmen, with both Azarion and Karsas waiting on either side of the qara’s entrance. When the ata-agacin shook her head, the crowd lost interest and slowly dispersed. Karsas lingered, a gloating smile twisting his vulpine features. Gilene turned away and followed a stoic Azarion back to his mother’s tent.
They were met by a dour Tamura and a more sympathetic Saruke, who offered cups of tea as consolation. Their qara was quiet, with only the clink of the teapot against a cup to break the silence as Saruke administered refills.
Azarion’s gaze looked beyond the qara’s lattice frame and felt covering to some invisible horizon, his face forbidding. The unaccountable urge to apologize to him hovered on Gilene’s lips, and she bit them nearly bloody to stop the words. She had nothing to apologize for. This was his failure, not hers. Saruke had told her earlier that upon Iruadis’s death, the agacins had voted unanimously to make Karsas ataman. Until that vote was challenged by another agacin, it trumped Azarion’s right to reclaim the chieftainship through ritual combat.
Gilene’s spirits fell even more, and she suspected she wore the same disappointed scowl as Tamura across from her.
Azarion set aside his cup and rose to rummage through a set of trays that acted as Saruke’s pantry. He returned to their circle around the brazier with a flask. “This calls for something stronger than tea.” He thumbed the top off the flask and took a swallow before passing the flask on to Gilene. “Not unexpected,” he said. “But still not a good day.”