“Whatever for this time?” Even after weeks with the Savatar, Gilene was still flummoxed by the amount of celebrating they did, for everything from a girl’s first bleed to a child’s birth, to the recognition of some holy day.
Tamura eyed her as if she were daft. “Have you been outside this qara since you returned?” At Gilene’s “No,” she snorted. “A mountain of gifts from grateful families will soon block the entrance.”
Gilene gasped. “No! Send them back!” She grasped Azarion’s forearm. “Please,” she pleaded in softer tones. “No gifts. I did nothing to warrant them.”
The magic she summoned had been nothing more than small grass fires enhanced with trickery to fool the unknowing Saiga raiders. But even had it been more, she couldn’t accept the offerings. They were gifts in name only. Beneath their bounty and goodwill lay the expectation that she would do something similar in the future if the need arose. And she couldn’t drain her magic for them. She wouldn’t.
Fire magic wasn’t limitless and the price to wield it steep. The light burn currently under her arm was the result of her building those small fires. Gilene conserved what she possessed not only to avoid the painful backlash of its use but also to ensure she had enough to make it through the Rites of Spring alive each year. If she helped the Savatar any more, she’d be unable to help Beroe when she returned, and that was where her first loyalty lay.
“No gifts,” she repeated.
“Then you will insult these people in the worst way, Agacin,” Tamura snapped.
Gilene glanced at Tamura’s face, dark as a storm cloud, then back at Azarion’s. His expression was far more enigmatic, as if he understood the reason for her refusal even if he might not agree with it.
“Unless you wish to offend every Savatar in this camp, you can’t refuse the gifts, no matter how well-meaning.” He must have seen the desperation in her eyes, because he covered her hand where it clutched his forearm. “Trust me. They won’t assume your power is theirs to use at will.”
With his assurances and no real choice in the matter, she reluctantly agreed to accepting the gifts and attending the celebration held in her honor that night.
Saruke’s qara grew cluttered with numerous goods—pots and baskets, felted lap rugs and slippers, finely carved bone needles, and skeins of thread spun from wool and even silk. There were fur-lined gloves and tunics edged at the hem and cuffs with marmot fur. Bridles made of intricately tooled leather joined horse blankets striped in vivid colors. And these were just the items stored in the qara.
Outside, among the livestock and horses, the wealth of Azarion’s family grew by several more goats, sheep, and a half dozen mares. The Savatar, to Gilene’s quiet horror, were generous in expressing their gratitude. She only hoped they wouldn’t hunt her down and punish her for her ingratitude when she left all of it behind with Azarion to return to her village at the end of the season.
Ten days after she built a monstrosity made of illusion and flame to frighten away the Saiga, the Fire Council once more congregated within the Kestrel clan’s camp. Gilene was torn between dread and relief at the arrival of all nine of the agacins and their entourages. The wait had seemed interminable, highlighted by her own fear that she had burned out what little magic she managed to recoup, and the venomous looks Karsas cast her way anytime she was in his vicinity.
Those looks were broadcast to Azarion as well and either blithely ignored or returned with a stare that would freeze a hot coal in midburn. Gilene was far more intimidated by the ataman’s obvious antipathy and strove to stay out of his way.
It was Tamura who escorted her to the qara reserved for the Fire Council’s gathering and their testing of a handmaiden. Gilene’s second trip to stand before the agacins was much like the first, made under the scrutiny of hundreds. Azarion stood near the entrance, his green eyes alight with both hope and faith. That look made the nervous sweat trickling down her back flow a little faster.
She and Tamura paused at the threshold, the hush around them a living entity that seemed to mock her. A woman appeared at the entrance to greet them, one of the nine priestesses Gilene remembered from the first council meeting.
“The Fire Council calls forth Gilene of Krael,” she said in a loud, clear voice. She stepped aside and made a half bow.
Tamura nudged Gilene forward. “Good luck, Agacin,” she whispered.
Gilene nodded, staring into the tent’s black maw. She didn’t dare glance at Azarion again to see his conviction in her success today. Her nerves were already stretched thin as it was.
The agacins were positioned as she remembered, in a half circle toward the back of the qara and facing the door. The ata-agacin stood at their center. An unlit brazier waited nearby alongside familiar items: candles, an oil lamp, a bundle of fatwood.
Gilene didn’t know the fire priestesses’ names. Such hadn’t been shared during the first test of her powers, but she recognized their faces and their expressions, ranging from guarded expectation to outright disbelief.
She appreciated their skepticism. She had failed the first tests. She wasn’t Savatar, and she didn’t believe in, nor worship, the goddess Agna.
The ata-agacin’s gaze scraped Gilene from head to foot. “We meet again, Gilene of Krael.”
Gilene bowed. “Hopefully for a better outcome, Ata.”
The priestess nodded. “Indeed.” She pointed to the candles. “Show us as before. Light the candle.”
She had done this during the first test with dismal results. This time, though, the red stream of magic flowed through Gilene’s arms and down to her fingertips. The wick of each candle burst into life with a sizzle.
Every agacin sat a little straighter, and a few leaned forward, their doubt in her abilities burned away as quickly as the tallow coating the wicks.
The ata-agacin shared a speaking glance with her fellow handmaidens before returning her attention to Gilene. “Now the lamp.”
Braced for failure even after the successful lighting of the candles, Gilene exhaled when the lamp’s wick flared to life, the flames licking greedily at the oil. The shadows it cast danced along the qara’s felt walls as if in celebration of her accomplishment. The fatwood followed, burning to ash under her flame.
Whatever dubiousness regarding Gilene’s power lingered with the agacins, it was gone now. They watched avidly as the ata-agacin pointed lastly to the cold brazier. “Light it.”
This one required more power, and Gilene felt its drain as she concentrated on lighting the brazier. It roared to life with a burst of fire before settling down to burn the dried dung piled in the fuel bowl.
The ata-agacin raised an eyebrow. “Others say the flame you wrought to scare off the raiders was far greater than this. A wall of fire that turned into a draga.” She might acknowledge the existence of Gilene’s power, but by the look on her face, she wasn’t particularly impressed with it.
“A bit of trickery,” Gilene replied. “Fire isn’t my only power.” This time she incanted an illusion spell, raising a more epic simulacrum of the modest flames dancing in the brazier. A wave of fire washed across the floor in a rushing tide, surging up the qara’s walls and support columns to billow out across the roof.
The priestesses leapt to their feet, frantically gesturing to summon their own power and control the fire that threatened to turn the qara into a roaring conflagration. They gaped, wide-eyed, when Gilene abruptly ended the illusion with a single word. The qara returned to its ambient gloom, with lamp, candle, and the brazier flames cheerfully flickering away.