The Light Within: A Winter's Tale (2 page)

Martise grinned.  “I promise to step all over your feet.”

Silhara adopted a wolfish smile in return.  “I promise to have my
hands up your skirt at least a dozen times.  And they’ll be a lot warmer than
your hands.”

They shared a small supper and more tea between them, saving the
powerful, fermented
arkii
for later.  As night fell, the sky cleared and
the snow stopped falling.  The unroofed
avastra
lay domed beneath an
indigo sky blanketed in stars.

An expectant hush settled over the crowd of Kurmans as the chiefs
from each of the nine tribes gathered and approached the pyre.  All but one
carried a small urn in gloved hands.  In each urn a flame flickered and danced
in its bed of coals.  The ninth chief held a staff and raised it to the sky. 
Silhara helped Martise to her feet as the crowd rose in response.

The chief spoke.  “Our young men have brought the silver thorn
from the hallowed places along with the four
yazata
fires:  temple,
hearth, lightning, and cremation.  We bring them together so they may become
the divine light of Damaza that resides in the hearts of all creatures and
brings blessing to our homes.”

He turned to Silhara and bowed.  “You honor us with your
presence, Silhara of Neith, child of our lost brother.  The fires await you.”

During the previous
sehads
he’d attended, the guest of
honor used a pitch-soaked torch to gather each of the four
yazata
flames
from the urns and set the pyre alight.  The same was done when it was time to
light the nine torches representing each tribe.  It was a somber ritual,
eagerly awaited by the attending crowd who knew once the fires were lit, the true
celebration started.

This year, Silhara planned to give them a spectacle they wouldn’t
soon forget.

He approached the chiefs holding the fire urns and gestured.  A
chorus of gasps and surprised yelps echoed throughout the
avastra
as he
drew a line of flame from the first urn.  It undulated in the air before
Silhara, charmed like a serpent by the movement of his hands.  The flame curled
in on itself, transforming into a distinct shape—the familiar mountain pony and
symbol of the Hursunga tribe.  Whistles and yips of approval carried through
the crowd as the fiery pony galloped across an aerial landscape to plunge into
the heap of wood and silver thorn.

Flames burst across the surface of the pyre, shooting sparks into
the black.  The roar of the crowd grew as Silhara coaxed flames from their
carry urns and shaped them into each tribe’s totem:  hawk and wolf, deer and
fox, rabbit and dog.  From the last urn, he drew the final two symbols—griffin
and raven.  They flew, hopped, bounded and loped into the fiery pyre.

Conclave would sneer at his antics.  Undignified, cheap tricks
performed by a vile crow mage to entertain ignorant nomads.  Silhara smirked at
the thought.  He drew fire from the brightly burning pyre.  Sacred flame made
up of the now combined
yazata
fires.  At the direction of his hands, the
fire spun itself into a glowing orb of heat until it hovered above his palms. 
Silhara invoked a two-word spell and blew on the orb.  It shot across the
avastra
,
above the crowd, toward the nine tall torches.  The orb split into smaller
orbs, each one bursting against a torch and setting it ablaze.

The crowd screamed its approval.  Silhara bowed before the nine
wide-eyed chiefs who bowed back.  The ritual was finished.  Time to celebrate.

Silhara caught a laughing Martise in his embrace and whirled her
into the dancing, leaping throng that encircled the bonfire.  “What do you
think?” he shouted above the noise.

She laughed.  “Lightning would have been more impressive.”  She
laughed even harder at his scowl.

“You are difficult to please.”  He twirled her across the ground,
her skirts snapping across his shins.

Martise danced into his embrace.  “For you, it is effortless. 
You please me just by being.”  She squeaked a protest when he nearly broke her
ribs in a hard embrace.

She kept her promise to trod on his feet during the dancing, and
he kept his, hands dipping and diving under her skirts to stroke her slender
thighs when he thought no one watched.  He managed not to embarrass his aunt by
falling into the bonfire, but he did drink enough
arkii
that the short
walk to their tent at dawn was more a slow stumble.

He couldn’t quite recall if he took Martise that night or if she
took him, or if it even mattered.  The only thing that mattered was he woke to
her wrapped around him, warm and naked beneath their layers of furs and
blankets.

The sacred fire burned for two more days with more celebrating,
feasting and drinking.  Bets were laid as to size of the crop of newborn
children each tribe would welcome in nine month’s time.  By the morning of the
last day, the bonfire had burned down to cooling ash, and Silhara thought he
might lose his stomach if he caught so much as a whiff of
arkii
.  His
bones ached from the cold and sleeping several nights on hard ground.  He missed
the ramshackle sanctuary of Neith and the comfortable warmth of Gurn’s kitchen.

Martise didn’t look any better than he felt.  She gave him a
tired smile.  “I miss home.”

Her words sent a rush of heat through Silhara’s veins.  He forgot
his aches and pains and loaded Gnat so quickly that more than a few tribesmen
stopped to inquire about his haste to leave.

Dercima embraced them both before they left, her ever-present
pipe clamped between her teeth.  She spoke around the pipe stem.  “You’ve
doomed yourself, you know.  They’ll clamor for you each year now, wanting you
to make fire horses and hawks and set the torches alight with glowing balls of
flame.”

Silhara scowled.  He hadn’t considered such repercussions when he
unleashed a touch of sorcery into the ritual.  “We’ll see,” he said in his
dourest voice.  He ignored the knowing smiles Dercima exchanged with Martise.

The Kurmans offered him a small torch lit by the sacred fire to
carry home to his hearth.  Silhara politely refused.

They were halfway home when Martise put to words the question
he’d been waiting for her to ask.  “Why did you refuse a sacred flame?  Don’t
you want Damaza’s blessing at Neith?”

She shared the saddle with him once more, riding in front so that
she faced him, her legs draped over his thighs, his body acting as shelter for
hers.  Her eyes burned bright in a face made pale by the cold.  Silhara traced
the graceful line of her neck with a gloved finger.

“I nearly killed us both trying to throw one god out of Neith,
Martise.  Why would I invite another one across my threshold after all that
effort?”

She tilted her head, puzzled.  “Damaza isn’t Corruption.  He is a
benevolent god to your people.”

“Benevolent or not, I haven’t met one yet who isn’t a boil on the
butt of humanity.”

Martise sputtered, caught between laughter and a horrified gasp. 
“You are the most blasphemous man I’ve ever known.”

Silhara’s free hand wandered over her shoulder to gently cup her
breast.  He wiggled his eyebrows at her.  “You would seduce me with flattery?”

She chuckled and placed her hand over his, pressing more firmly
against her breast.  “Is it working?”

His nostrils flared.  He wanted his wife, but in their
comfortable bed.  He’d have to coax Gnat to move a little faster.  Silhara
contented himself with planting light kisses across Martise’s chilly face,
warming her until a becoming flush suffused her skin.  He caught her mouth
under his, tugging gently on her lower lip before sweeping his tongue inside to
tangle with hers.

They broke apart on shallow breaths.  Silhara ran a thumb along
the slope of Martise’s jawline.  I need no god-fire at Neith to bless my days. 
You are the blessing of my house, Martise.  The light within me.”

~!~!~!~!~!~

Coming soon in early 2015

RADIANCE

Discover other titles by Grace Draven

Master of Crows

Entreat Me

All the Stars Look Down

The Lightning God’s Wife

Draconus

Wyvern

Arena

Courting Bathsheba

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