She wished she could offer some comfort or even a simple touch on the arm to let Tamura know she understood, but Azarion’s sister was not a woman to welcome such an overt display of affection.
The crowd’s raucous din diverted her attention. Both Azarion and Karsas traveled along a cleared path created by observers standing on either side. Each man rode a mare and was unarmored except for vambraces and whatever meager protection padded leather tunics and heavy trousers might offer. Both carried a sword sheathed in a scabbard tied to the horse’s saddle instead of to the man himself.
The path opened up to the grassy arena where the two men would battle to the death for the title of ataman. They parted ways at its entrance so that Karsas circled to the left to pass in front of his wife and retinue while Azarion turned right and guided his mount toward the spot where Gilene stood with Saruke and Tamura.
A cheer from the crowd made Gilene look toward Karsas, who had lifted his son to his shoulder. He raised a triumphant fist in the air, a signal to the crowd that not only would he remain ataman but also his son would inherit the chieftainship after him.
Azarion ignored the spectacle. He leaned down from the saddle to grasp his mother’s hands with one of his and gave them a squeeze. She nodded once to him, a fierce tip of her head and an equally fierce scowl on her face proclaiming not only that she believed he’d win this fight but also that he better not disappoint her by dying. His lips twitched with the threat of a smile as he let her go to pause in front of Tamura.
His features softened, even as hers grew more severe. “Mura,” he said gently. “When this is over, seek out Arita and offer her and her children shelter. The qara will be yours. And hers, if you wish it.”
Tamura’s lips parted. Made speechless by his statement, she could only gawk at him. She reached for him and gripped his fingers so hard, they turned red at the tips. “May Agna visit all her blessings on you today, Brother,” she said fervently.
He squeezed her hand in return before letting go. He stopped in front of Gilene. “A blessing from a handmaiden, Gilene?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Gladly given.”
His eyes widened when she held out both arms to him. He lifted her so that she hung eye level in his embrace, his hands tight at her waist. She linked her fingers at his nape, offering a small smile when he gathered her close.
This time it was she who kissed him, an enthusiastic display of affection that made the crowd roar its approval and Azarion’s mare dance sideways at the cacophony surrounding them. It was a kiss of desperation, of fear, and even of hope. Gilene ended it almost as quickly as she began it, leaving both Azarion and her gasping.
She cupped his face in her hands and gave him her most ferocious scowl. “Don’t die, gladiator.”
He stole a second kiss from her before resting his forehead against hers. “I won’t, Agacin.”
Saruke’s smug grin when he set Gilene down was as much for her benefit as for the crowd’s. Gilene pretended not to see. She ran her tongue over her lips, still tingling from the kiss. Azarion continued his navigation of the circle, touching the outstretched hands of the Savatar gathered there.
When the ata-agacin entered the arena, the people quieted until there was only the wind and the occasional nicker of a restless horse. “Come forth, Karsas, son of Gastene, and Azarion, son of Iruadis.”
The two men rode forward until they stood on either side of the ata-agacin. The priestess raised both arms to indicate the opponents. “Savatar, before you stand the ataman of Clan Kestrel and the challenger to his title as chief. Azarion, son of Iruadis, has challenged, and Karsas, son of Gastene, has accepted combat to the death. Do you embrace the winner as your leader?”
As one, the clan shouted its acceptance. Karsas raised his fist again in another victory gesture. Azarion only gave a shallow bow in acknowledgment of the crowd’s response.
The ata-agacin bowed her head and clasped her hands, her pose one of prayer. The other agacins followed suit, and Gilene mimicked their gestures, if not their praying.
She edged closer to Tamura to whisper. “He’s very calm. Such peace must have served him well when he fought in the arena.”
“He was the same as a child,” Tamura replied in a whisper of her own. “Quiet, but also single-minded.”
“And stubborn, I suspect.” He would have to be to remain unbroken on the Empire’s wheel.
Tamura chuffed and rolled her eyes. “Very. But he was never unkind in his pursuit of those things he wanted. The years as a slave have changed him in some ways.”
Gilene sighed. “The Empire is a stain on the world. A wretched kingdom.”
The Savatar paid her and Tamura no attention, their focus on the ata-agacin and the two men waiting to spill blood on the Sky Below.
Tamura’s top lip twitched with a sneer. “Karsas is responsible for my brother’s enslavement. I hope Azarion kills him and takes his head.”
Gilene shuddered at the image her words conjured. “Kraelag trains its gladiators hard and often to fight well in the Pit. Azarion was the Gladius Prime. The best fighter with the most kills. The one the crowds made their bets on most, the one they all came to see. The favorite.”
Her words dredged up the dark recollections of the Rites of Spring with its carcass-strewn Pit and blood-soaked sand. And here she was, a witness to another fight in another arena, resulting in another death. The consolation of knowing this fight was for a purpose beyond the entertainment of a bloodthirsty and bored audience didn’t quell her horror.
Tamura suffered no such qualms. “Then let’s hope those skills see him through today and he comes out of this combat the winner. Our people need him. My mother needs him.”
Gilene nodded. I need him. The sentiment was unspoken, admitted only to herself and reluctantly at that. When had the man who was once only a means to an end become something more?
The ata-agacin finished her prayer and opened her eyes. She placed a hand on the neck of either horse. “To the victor, the clan,” she proclaimed and stepped back into the circle’s edge.
Though she tried her best to stay calm, Gilene’s breathing quickened. The two men parted ways, each going to an opposite side of the circle only to wheel their horses around in preparation for a charge. They’d each unsheathed their swords. The slender, curved blades favored by the Savatar were perfectly designed for slashing attacks from horseback.
She shouldn’t be afraid. Azarion was a renowned fighter, skilled in combat, and not just combat against men. The Empire pitted its fighters against animals as well—bulls, bears, lions, and wolves. Sometimes the men won, sometimes the animals did. Facing Karsas wouldn’t even make Azarion break a sweat. Gilene, on the other hand, felt it trickle down her back and sides as fear gripped her.
She jumped when, with a bellow, Karsas charged first, sword flashing in the sunlight. Azarion drummed his heels into his mare’s sides, and she raced toward the other horse. The ring of steel as the two blades met rose above the crowd’s clamor.
Like his kinsmen, Karsas was an excellent horseman. Nimble and fast, he avoided Azarion’s slashes by sliding half off his horse’s back only to swing back up and wheel his mount around on a tight pivot to face his opponent again. His mare, used to such acrobatics, didn’t so much as flick an ear when he sometimes dropped to the ground beside her, feet barely touching earth while he used her as a shield and vaulted atop her back once more after a charge.