Blinded by the Sun (Erythleh Chronicles Book 4) (3 page)

"Your Majesty! You grace us with your presence. Taan will be honoured indeed that you think of him, despite your busy schedule."

Kavrazel tried not to scoff at the gushing platitudes, or to bristle at the implied rebuke. "I have come to offer sacrifice to Taan, to thank him for his favourable blessing on the talks with Felthiss."

"Of course, of course. We have a black bull..."

The temple kept its own stock of animals, bred and reared for sacrifice. Mostly they provided chickens, rabbits, and foxes, but they kept small herds of sheep, goats, and cows. It made things much easier on ceremonial days, rather than have the crowds of worshippers arriving with all manner of beasts, turning the temple into a madness of clucking, lowing, and bleating. People were not forbidden to bring their own offerings, and they often did if the subject of their prayers was particularly important to them. A woman praying to be blessed with fertility might sacrifice a sow that she'd raised herself. A farmer praying for fortune with his crops might even open his own veins, particularly in a time of drought, and offer a portion of his previous harvest. Taan accepted sacrifices of blood and fire.

On the longest day of the year, in the midst of the hottest season, the most holy of holy days, some devotees seemed to lose their minds completely and sacrificed themselves, either slitting their wrists or stabbing themselves in the throat, or setting themselves on fire. Kavrazel always found such insanity disturbing and more than a little distasteful. He had a strong stomach and had seen his share of blood and gore, but the screaming of those acolytes was piercing, and more than once he had wondered if they didn't regret their zeal when the pain took hold.

"No," Kavrazel interrupted, and then softened his interjection with a smile. "A goat will do. We were never in so great a need of Taan's help."

"As you wish, Sire," Tethva simpered, and then his eyes turned shrewd. His bushy brows, much darker than the grey of his beard and hair, lowered. "But the almighty Taan arranged the stars so that Vuthron might prevail. He deserves recognition for his efforts."

Kavrazel was fairly sure that if the fire god even did exist, that he didn't give that much of a shit about the mortal people scurrying around like ants in a nest. "I think Taan would agree with me that little help was needed. Our enemies fear us, and rightly so."

"Very well, Sire." The priest's face relaxed back into an accommodating expression, but he gave an insultingly small bow, as much as he could do to make his displeasure with the king's point of view evident. He snapped his fingers, and two junior priests scuttled forward. After some muttered words, the priests scurried away.

"Are you well, Sire?" Tethva asked as they began to walk to the altar.

Kavrazel stifled a wince. Apparently they would be making small talk while he waited for the goat to be delivered.

"Yes, thank you for asking." He would never not be polite, unless he needed to be harsh. He didn't need to look at Girogis to see that his guard was rolling his eyes.

"Now that you've seen off this latest threat to our nation, might we hope you'll look to the provision of a heir for the kingdom?"

Kavrazel stiffened at the presumptuousness of the priest to raise such a subject with him, and wondered what in Taan's name the junior priests were doing with the goat that was delaying their return. "I assure you, I am well aware of the needs of the country."

"Of course, of course, I didn't mean to cause any offence. " Tethva didn't look sorry at all, in Kavrazel's opinion, "but yours is a powerful lineage, Sire. I think the crown would pass to your third cousin in the event of your death, as things stand. That would not be fortunate for Vuthron."

Kavrazel was well aware that his branch of his ancestry had a particularly potent bloodline. All of his family, no matter how distantly related, could raise the dead. It was the mark of the royal line, but not all could do it equally well. Some could only raise one or two bodies, just enough to prove that they were relations. Kavrazel could raise whole armies, and thanks to a quirk that was particular to his line of the family, he could raise the foreign dead.

Thankfully, he was saved from the need to converse further with the priest by the arrival of the goat. The animal was perfectly placid, as if accepting of its fate, but Kavrazel suspected that it had been drugged to make it more manageable. Its proud horns, each as long as a man's arm, curved back over its head. Its coat was glossy and smooth. It looked as though the delay had been the result of time spent grooming the animal.

The junior priests were dressed in simple, floor-length robes of red wool, with cowls and long, loose sleeves. Tethva's garments were immensely more impressive. There was an under-robe that was belted about his waist. The sleeves were short, but constructed from a large amount of material and gathered at the elbow. Then there was the intricately embroidered over-robe which was sleeveless and unfastened. The overall effect was of billowing sleeves that left Tethva's lower arms bare, a sensible accommodation for performing blood sacrifices, and which altogether made the man look much larger and more imposing than his short stature allowed.

Tethva took possession of the rope halter. As Grand Master he performed sacrifices, but on this occasion it was proper that the gift be given by the king. One of the junior priests produced a silver bowl, deep, and mottled with the marks of the hammer that had beaten it into shape. The priest knelt and held it under the goat's throat.

Kavrazel drew his dagger. All Vuthroan's carried a sacrificial blade. There were no particular requirements for the knives, accept that they were generally small, as they were carried at all times, and they needed to be kept razor sharp. They were never used for menial, everyday tasks. Most people considered it a mark of disrespect to Taan to take blood drawn by a sullied blade. Kavrazel's dagger was thin and formed completely of silver, with almost no discernible difference between hilt and blade. Some long lines had been worked into the metal by way of simple decoration, but it was far less ornate than one might have supposed for use by a king. In one fast, well-practised movement, Kavrazel drew the blade across the animal's neck, releasing its life blood into the bowl.

Tethva held the animal steady through its death throes, supporting it so that it didn't crash into the bowl and spill the precious blood. It wasn't the best position in which to fully drain the beast, but the quantity of blood was not necessarily important. When the flow had slowed to mere drips, Tethva hauled the animal onto the altar, which was a low, circular dais, set in the centre of the temple, so that all might see it. The roof above the dais was open, the better for Taan to witness, the better to funnel the choking smoke away from the congregation.

Tethva dropped the animal into place on the soot-blackened stone, and junior priests rushed forward to splash sticky pitch over the body. Kavrazel took the flaming torch that he was offered, one very like the others which sat in sconces on the walls turning the shadows into dancing spectres, and touched it to the tar. The carcass ignited with a whoosh; as it burned, Tethva took the bowl of blood and offered it to Kavrazel. The king accepted it, and drank deeply. Goat wasn't his favourite flavour, but it wasn't nauseating.

Kavrazel took the square of red silk that Tethva offered in return for the bowl and wiped his lips. "Blessings to Taan the almighty. May his power endure. May his will be right. May his enemies tremble before him. May his friends know the warmth of his blessings. May his fire burn forever."

"Blessings to Taan," echoed the holy men in unison.

Whilst Girogis and the priests took their turns to taste the blood and repeat the prayer, Kavrazel retreated to a quiet corner of the temple. The congregation would stand around the altar to witness and partake of the sacrifices, but beyond that wide circle there were velvet cushions set on the floor so that people could kneel and commune with their god in a modicum of privacy. Kavrazel selected a cushion, and dropped to his knees.

He didn't call on Taan, or try to think any particular thoughts at all. He made a determined effort to clear his mind completely. This latest challenge was past, and the coming day would bring its own difficulties. He felt the burden of his duties as a physical weight on his shoulders, but he would never even attempt to set that burden down. He was jealous sometimes of the way that his subjects seemed able to laugh and love as freely as they did, but he knew that their joy was driven by hard work and a never-ending struggle against forces beyond their control. It was his task to mitigate those forces, to stand in the way of that which would harm the people who looked to him for protection. It was a duty he would die performing.

Chapter Three

Mother of love, of life, and blessings

Goddess of strength and fire and song

Mother who cherishes all your children

Goddess smite those who do us wrong

Oh, Mother. Oh, Goddess, we honour and adore you

Oh, Mother. Oh, Goddess, our lives laid out before you

Each line of the rhythmic chant was punctuated with a yell. The folk songs that emerged from the western coast of the continent were rougher to Lyssia's ears than those of the south. Unlike the nations across the sea of Thleen, the peoples who lived in and around the Southern Wastelands offered devotion to only one deity, the mother goddess, Teema. They believed that from the All Mother, all things good and bad were derived. Any fortune was a sign of Teema's affection. Any unfortunate circumstance was the result of her unhappiness with the behaviour of her children, or an effort to school them in a lesson of some sort.

The goddess was depicted as a curvaceous woman, with heavy breasts and a pregnant body, but with few other defined features. The beauty of the goddess was to be found everywhere, and was not to be given a particular shape of eye or curve of lip. Every person and household had at least one statue of the goddess, no matter if it was only small enough to fit into the palm of a hand. The statues were used as a focus for prayers, and were believed to be charmed for luck.

The end of the song was celebrated with a round of applause and cheering. There was no particular event being celebrated. The gathering had begun with one woman, noted for her melodic voice, singing a song as she worked. Others had joined in the refrain, and when she had finished, another had taken up with a common tune from their village, and then another, and another. People had finished or ended their work to gather in the open centre of the largest cave. A spontaneous party had broken out, food and drink had found its way into the happy crowd, imbuing the atmosphere with the scents of sharp spices, and now it looked as though the gathering would continue long into the night.

The city of Sken was home to a myriad of cultures and traditions, brought by the people who sought shelter from every corner of the continent. Songs and stories, clothing, food, drink, and methods of cooking were shared and merged. Although the customs were still somewhat distinct and could be defined, the lines were beginning to be blurred. Sken was becoming a melting pot, and from that stew its own identity was being born.

Lyssia stayed on the edges of the crowd. She was enjoying watching everyone else enjoying themselves. She didn't want to be a part of the revelry. Seeing the way that the disparate residents were coming together made her miss her own family far too keenly, even after so many years, to take her place in the community she lived in. She watched the young girls dancing, and smiled when she caught sight of the boys watching the girls. She had loved dancing as a young girl. She still remembered the steps. Her body still remembered the feel of moving to the insistent drum beat, until it seemed to be the organ pushing the blood through her veins, rather than her heart. She remembered when the boys and young men had watched her with such avid eyes.

Stirred by the reminiscence of the flush of first arousal, Lyssia found her eyes drawn to Braedeth. He was also apart from the crowd, leaning back against one of the gigantic wooden columns that supported the ceiling of the cave. He was watching the dancers, too. She would never have expected him to be immune to their charms. As if drawn by her gaze, he turned and caught her eyes. His brown eyes caught the candlelight; they twinkled, perhaps with devilish thoughts. Knowing him as she did, Lyssia didn't doubt that the glint was not wholly due to the flickering illumination. He shook his black curls out of his eyes with a toss of his head, and pushed away from the column, his arms still folded across his chest. With almost every resident of the city in close proximity, the temperatures in the cave had risen dramatically. Lyssia was cool enough in her long cotton gown, belted at the waist with a length of twisted rope. Braedeth was still wearing his loose cotton trews, but he was shirtless, his golden skin glistened with sweat. Intricate patterns of black ink indelibly inscribed over his left arm and pectoral muscles identified him as a warrior of the tribe he'd given up to join Sken.

As he made his way over to her, skirting the outlying small groups of happy Skenites, the strains of a new song rang out. The happy chatter died away as people stopped talking in order to listen. This one was mournfully tuneful; it brought a tear to Lyssia's eye, but she swiped at it with her fist before it could form fully and fall. The song was one from her village; she knew the words and the tune. Once upon a time she had sung it often.

When the lonely dark comes calling

Ever be our guide

When the night looms long 'til morning

Bestow on us your fire

Shine with strength and love and honour

That all around might see

What it is to be a child of Teema

What it is to be loved by thee

When the day is bright and gentle,

When birds sing, rivers run, and crops grow

When all is fruitful and abundant

Let not our pride bring us too low

Shine with strength and love and honour

That all around might see

What it is to be a child of Teema

What it is to be loved by thee

When he reached her, Braedeth did not attempt to take a seat by her side. He unfolded his arms, and held one hand out to her. Lyssia reached up and grasped it, and allowed Braedeth to assist her to her feet with a brief pull. He added a little extra force as she rose, enough to ensure that when she gained her full height she was almost pressed against his chest. The scent of him, sharp and male, surrounded her.

"Shall we dance?" Braedeth asked with a grin. He hadn't yet released Lyssia's hand, and she hadn't yet tried to reclaim it.

"Not here."

Braedeth cocked one eyebrow. "My room?"

Lyssia had barely finished nodding her assent before his lips crashed against hers. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight against him, as her hands found their way to his hips, her fingers digging into the muscles there. They were not the only couple to indulge in such an open embrace; many were allowing themselves to be swept away on the tide of the jovial atmosphere. She and Braedeth parted and began to make their way through the maze of steps and corridors to his room. As they navigated the narrow corridors she heard many a soft sigh and harsh grunt from the shadowy corners that they passed.

Once they had gained the sanctuary of his room, Braedeth locked the door behind them. Security wasn't a necessity in Sken, but on a night such as this, it would be unusual if a drunken couple or two did not mistake the wrong door for their own. Neither party would want to be interrupted. The click of the latch sent a thrill through Lyssia's body, a white hot blaze that set every nerve ending alight.

She allowed herself to be pressed back against the door as Braedeth claimed her mouth. His fingers tangled into her braids, holding her, steadying her, before tracing down the column of her neck. He tugged lightly at the loose neckline of her shift. Lyssia let go of the ties of his trews that she had been attempting to unfasten, and instead unknotted the rope at her waist so that when Braedeth brushed the cotton over her shoulders and down her arms it fell to the floor unimpeded.

Braedeth grunted a curse that Lyssia supposed might have passed as a compliment, not that she cared about his manners or civility. She returned to her mission to free Braedeth from his clothes, and gasped in satisfaction when she succeeded in freeing his stiff shaft. His trews joined her dress in the muddle of cotton on the dirt floor of the cave. He bent his head to her breasts, biting and sucking at her nipples in the way that he knew made her crazed. Lyssia took his cock in her fist and began to run her fingers and palm over and over the silk-clad rod of iron. When Braedeth slipped his fingers between her thighs, Lyssia shifted her stance to allow him better access, and increased the pace of her stroking.

She arched her back, pushing away from the wooden door as Braedeth's fingers found the most sensitive spot inside her. The tempo of her hand faltered as she was distracted by a warm wave of pleasure. With a grunt, Braedeth pulled his fingers away. Lyssia didn't complain, because he was spinning her and pushing at her shoulders. Knowing that his bed was behind her, Lyssia allowed herself to drop. She fell across the blankets with a soft whumpf, which was echoed when Braedeth followed her down to his pallet. He slanted his lips over her mouth and their tongues tangled in a slick dance of desire. Lyssia tasted the bitter tang of the fermented mango juice that he had been sipping. She pulled back an infinitesimal amount, just enough space for her to take Braedeth's bottom lip between her teeth and give it a quick nip.

With a low growl, Braedeth began to shift his body. Lyssia followed his lead, knowing what it was that he intended. They squirmed and twisted until Braedeth's head was between her thighs. He held his body over her so that she wasn't crushed as his cock slipped between her waiting lips. His hips began a deliberate rhythm, matched by his tongue as it lapped at her folds. Lyssia reached up and scratched her nails along his ribs and over his flanks, eliciting a growl that she felt against her delicate skin. Braedeth flexed in response to the small pain. She gripped his hips, controlling his movements, an action that he mirrored as her body began to writhe and twist of its own accord, driven by the sensations he was wringing with his ministrations.

When he nipped at the point of her pleasure, and focussed his attentions there, Lyssia cried out around his shaft and moved with enough violence that she knew Braedeth's fingers would bruise her skin with the effort of holding her still. She didn't care, she only cared about the growing pressure low, low in her body, of the movement of Braedeth's tongue and lips, and of the way that his shaft felt in her mouth, strong and solid, and the salty taste that tantalised her tongue.

For long moments, Lyssia was lost in the movement and taste of their bodies. The only sounds in the room where their sighs and grunts, and the whisper of flesh sliding over flesh. Soon, their frantic gasps were accentuated by frenzied moans as they both reached a pinnacle of pleasure that erupted and washed over them, wiping away any cares or worries. Braedeth continued to feast on her body as she cried out, even as she swallowed his release. When his shaft had slowed its pulses, he rolled off her. She relaxed into a puddle of skin and bone, feeling the remnants of her own climax throb gently to nothing.

Lyssia shifted as Braedeth rolled around on the pallet. He pulled her close again, and she settled her head onto his chest. He wrapped his arm around her and held her to him. She fell asleep listening to his heart thump in his chest.

~o0o~

"Braedeth! Lyssia! The Hall! Now!"

Fett's booming bass yells sounded like they were coming from inside the room, rather than the other side of the still-locked door.

"We're coming!" Braedeth called back, his voice rough with sleep.

Lyssia rolled off the pallet and pulled her dress on. She didn't bother to belt it, but caught Braedeth for a quick kiss, a brief press of lips, before heading to her own room. There would be only one reason for Fett to be calling them so urgently. Usually, the Skenites had plenty of notice about the trade caravans. Runners from Nari usually brought news of the expected date of departure. If they couldn't gain that intelligence in advance; even if they left the city at the same time, travelling alone and unencumbered meant they were much swifter than the lumbering groups of humans, animals, and cargo. This kind of immediacy only occurred when they received news of a slaver party.

The slavers had always been a secretive group, not out of any shame that they were trading in fellow men and women, but because they were jealous of their prizes, of the profit they made. The small bands of thieves, usually consisting of as many Vuthroans as natives, never gossiped about which town they planned to raid, or when they would set out, and unlike the traders, they changed their routes across the desert every time they travelled.

The Skenites had tried to insinuate spies amongst the slavers, but all had been found out. The results of those attempts had been humiliatingly gruesome. The spies were either flayed, or had all their limbs smashed. Unless they died from the shock and pain of the torture, they were left alive, and hung from the walls of Velth for the birds and animals to finish off. It wasn't a punishment sanctioned by the leaders of the city, but neither did they stop it. Their city thrived from trade of all manner of things, and blood slaves had always proven to be one of the more profitable sources of income. They had no wish to see their coffers depleted by discouraging the practice of stealing people from their lives.