Blinded by the Sun (Erythleh Chronicles Book 4) (2 page)

She was not a mother, but she was a protector and a provider. She looked fondly about her at the knots of people going about their daily business. There was a ripple of excitement running through the city, as there always was when a raiding party returned. Their success meant food, medicines, cloth, and perhaps a few luxuries. Those that ventured beyond the safety of the hidden caves were also the soldiers, the protectors of those who could not fight, those that had to stay behind. Her other duty was to interfere with the work of the slavers wherever possible, and that was a duty that Lyssia relished. She felt a measure of recompense for the life that had been stolen from her when her blade sank deep between the ribs of some bastard attempting to abduct innocent children from an unsuspecting village.

The cave that she called home, her personal space, was at the end of a warren of staircases and tunnels, some of which she had to duck to pass through so that she didn't scrape her scalp or knock her skull. Her cave was compact, but comfortable. Since she was not messy by nature, it was tidy; everything was in its place. Such was the way of things in Sken, everyone lived simply, no one lived beyond their means. No one had wealth to flaunt; it wasn't a concept that would be tolerated, even if there were means to aspire to such lofty heights. Everything about the city, about all of its spaces, about the dwellings, could best be described as sparse.

The rush of adrenaline was ebbing. Raiding was the activity that Lyssia enjoyed least. It was necessary to the survival of the Skenites, but it left her feeling grimy with guilt; it was stealing. The nomadic traders depended on the success of their caravans every bit as much as the Skenites depended on the success of pillaging them. Most of the Skenite warriors felt exactly the same way, and subscribed to one of two techniques to avoid the yawning pit of self-recrimination. One method was to start drinking, and Lyssia was sure that Fett was already making a start on that course of action. The second, which she was equally sure that Fett would indulge in, was to fuck the misgivings away.

Lyssia didn't like the woozy feeling of disconnection that came from being drunk; she preferred to be in control of herself and aware of her surroundings at all times. Unless she truly wanted the half dozen children tugging at her skirts, the second option was not a practical one. There were plenty of opportunities to find a mate in Sken; indeed, she had a casual connection with Braedeth that both took advantage of when they felt the need arise, but their relationship had well-defined limitations.

Now, following the raid, Braedeth would be seeking more than Lyssia was willing to give. For all that they indulged in the quest for mutual pleasure, she had never offered her virginity to him. It wasn't that she disliked the idea of being joined to him by parenthood should she catch with child, it was that she abhorred the idea of raising her children in Sken. Years before, Lyssia had determined that she would rather die without having known the love of her own child, than to raise one in fear, in hiding. She would rather strive for a better life for the children both within and beyond the caves.

Having shut and locked the door to her room, Lyssia lifted the heavy mass of her hair from the back of her neck to allow the damp skin access to the dry air. She chose to braid her long hair, rather than attempt to wash it, or live with it shorn. The numerous thin braids were woven with colourful strands of wool, beads and feathers that clinked as she moved, unless she bound them with a scarf. Although water was available in Sken, there was not so much that it could be used without caution, and the systems for transferring fresh and dirtied water between the reservoir and all the dwelling places were still somewhat primitive.

Feeling only the merest bit relieved, Lyssia set about undressing. She unwound the long length of cloth that protected her skin and scalp from the brutal sun, and folded it into a neat square. She unfastened the leather strips and pieces that were the closest thing to armour that could be worn in the heat, and placed them to one side to be oiled at a later time. In the extreme temperatures and an atmosphere full of dust, if the hides weren't kept supple, they would soon stiffen and crack. She placed her clothes in a neat pile and, once naked, went to the bowl and pitcher that were tucked into a hollow in the wall. She lifted the scrap of cloth from the bowl and poured some water from the earthen jug so that she could wash herself. The water was not cold; it was the same temperature as the air. Its only redeeming quality was that it was wet.

The feeling of being clean barely lasted past the moments it took her to drop the cloth back into the bowl of gritty water. She was hungry, but she didn't have the energy to seek out food. Such an effort would have involved dressing and leaving the cave to mix with people. Lyssia wanted to be alone. She stumbled over to her bed, a low pallet in the corner of the cave, which was strewn with cotton cloths over rough woollen blankets in place of any kind of mattress. She wanted to give in to the overwhelming need to sleep, to fall into a blank space of no thought and no care. Finally, she let the last dregs of tension seep out of her muscles. Her mind relaxed, and she found the oblivion she sought.

Chapter Two

"Your Majesty."

Kavrazel turned at the sound of Consul Otal's voice. The Thrissian diplomat had been resident in Vulc since Kavrazel had been a child. A newcomer to the country, but expert in the intricacies of politics and diplomacy, the stern man had become a mentor, and something of a father figure to the young king, and had remained so for all the years since. If not for Otal's calming, measured advice, Kavrazel would have razed Thrissia to the ground for this latest insult.

Kavrazel had been ready to march his armies through the forest of Thorak and into the streets of the Felthissian capital itself, following Erkas' declaration of war. But Erkas was dead now, and his sister was ruling their country, and she did not hunger for conflict. She had travelled to Vulc to speak peace with him, and to negotiate terms for an entente between their countries. Kavrazel was watching from the window of the tower, a good vantage point to observe Serwren and her entourage as they began their journey home. He had watched as the convoy followed the twisting turns of the road until they had been hidden from view in the depths of the forest that surrounded Vulc.

All he'd ever known, and judging by the books of the history of his country, all the Vuthroans had ever known, was denigration and condemnation for the sacred practices they held dear. They had traditions just as any other culture did, but for some reason, every other culture felt it their duty to break the Vuthroans of their customs.

Except maybe now things were changing, or at least the stalemate had been put in place once more. He'd just concluded a series of tense negotiations with Serwren. Erkas' twin did not share his belief that the Vuthroans were barbaric, she had seemed almost enlightened on the subject. Kavrazel had heard the reports, the whispers carried as fact about Serwren's relationship with Seddrill, Vuthron's emissary in the Forum of Felthiss, but he hadn't credited the gossip with much truth. At least, not until Seddrill had sent his own reports.

The two countries, Vuthron and Felthiss, were never going to be staunch allies, but they were no longer on the verge of war.

"What do you think?" Kavrazel asked Otal. The emissary had been present at the negotiations, but Kavrazel wanted to hear his final, private, verdict.

"You did well. Peace is always an achievement."

"Do you think it will last this time?"

"Peace never lasts. It's the nature of men to wage war, to be discontent with their lot. Some last longer than others, but it's never forever."

Kavrazel sighed heavily. "That makes me tired." He was, in truth, exhausted. The negations had been arduous, and it had taken much of his concentration to not simply kill Serwren on her arrival, and take matters into his own hands. He constantly seemed to be managing the whims of other countries. All he'd ever wanted for Vuthron was for the country to be left to itself. Such imprudence would have solved nothing, and it certainly wouldn't have brought peace to Vuthron, not immediately. The hard way had been the best way, as it usually was, as Otal had counselled.

He wanted nothing more than to retire to his chambers, but the king of the country could not disappear in the middle of the day, even if he had done his duty. However, he was tired, his nerves felt stretched, his muscles were tense, his mind was whirling. He needed peace, some time to gather his thoughts, or to clear his mind. There was only one place where he could find such respite during his working day.

"Do we have any more business to attend to?"

"No, not today."

"Good. I shall go and make a sacrifice at the temple of Taan, to thank him for blessing our talks."

There was a thin thread of sarcasm in Kavrazel's tone, and Otal chuckled in answer. In private, between his most trusted confidents, Kavrazel made no secret of the fact that he did not devoutly believe in the gods. Vuthroans worshiped the same deities as many other countries, but they held Taan, God of fire, in prominence. Aweer, Goddess of air, Doohr, Goddess of water, Thyar, God of earth, were considered lesser gods, almost nonentities. All Vuthroans paid tribute to the fire god, by blood or by fire, and it was expected that their king do the same with regular piety.

"Better make it something worthy, maybe a bull, just to show how well the talks went."

"A goat, I think, will do." Kavrazel scrubbed his palm over his short hair and down over the scruff of beard that he'd let grow over the past few days, to show how unaffected he was by the presence of another monarch. "I wouldn't want anyone to think that I wasn't confident about the outcome. I might even make it a chicken. Taan's might will always overcome, after all."

"A goat might be prudent. There's no profit in arrogance."

Kavrazel shrugged. "It doesn't much matter to me, but a goat is less mess than a chicken. Damn things run around without their head spurting blood everywhere if you lose hold of them."

Both men laughed, remembering an incident at the temple only a moon or two before when just such a thing had happened to a wealthy merchant, decked in his finest silks and jewels, making a sacrifice that was insultingly small for his obvious wealth. Kavrazel was not devout, but he appreciated that a person should make sacrifice in accordance with their status.

"Will you change first?" Otal asked.

Kavrazel looked down at himself, and made a few movements to examine his clothing. Nothing was out of place. There was no particular style to Vuthroan clothing, other than that all the citizens uniformly only wore black. On this day, he was wearing a suit cut from finely woven wool. He had unfastened the coat at the earliest possible opportunity, finding the high, stiff collar too restrictive, but he closed the silver hasps now.

"No, I'll do." Kavrazel sighed heavily. He really did feel immensely tired. This latest threat had been neutralised, and the excitement of their foreign visitors would soon be forgotten. The coming days loomed, one after the other, with numbing predictability.

Otal moved, as if to take a step forward. "Are you feeling well?"

"Yes," Kavrazel exhaled, and tried to expel the tedium that clouded his mind with his breath. "It's just... Sometimes..." he tailed off, unsure how to put his emotions into words.

"Aaahhh," Otal nodded understandingly. "You'll have thirty-nine years next year. Maybe it's time..."

"No," Kavrazel interrupted with a wave of his hand. "No more talk about wives, for Taan's sake. I've heard everything everyone has to say on that matter."

"Taan forbid some of them might have a point," Otal said dryly.

Kavrazel motioned at the ceiling and the walls of the room. "I have a castle full of people surrounding me. How could I be lonely?"

"Company is not the same as companionship," Otal said.

Kavrazel was stuck for a moment by the simplicity of his advisor's words, and how they pierced his soul. "Regardless, old friend. Now, I go to kill a goat. Perhaps I should kill a bull, and ask for a wife as well?"

"I still think a goat will suffice," Otal muttered.

"You think so little of my worth?" Kavrazel asked, heading for the sole door in the room.

"No, I think so little of your prospects, based on the young ladies that have been paraded before you," Otal answered, following him through the door and down the winding staircase.

"Then perhaps," Kavrazel raised an eyebrow, "I should sacrifice a fish, or something smaller."

"Now, now," Otal counselled, as the hum of chatter of everyday life in the castle rose up to meet them. "Pride comes before fall."

~o0o~

The road that led to the great temple of Taan started with all the appearances of any other road in the country, but well before it reached its destination, it became much wider and flattened out. It cut a brutal scar through the forest. The trees had been cleared for several paces on either side of the edge of the road. Considering that the temple was situated in the densest part of the forest, the approach felt as exposed as an open meadow.

The carefully maintained road ended at the base of the grey stone steps. There were two hundred steps from the path up to the door of the ornate building. The building of the temple had been commissioned by one of Kavrazel's distant ancestors, during one of the more ornate periods of architecture that the country had known. The staircase was divided by stone balustrades, tipped and segmented by statues of burning figures. The temple itself was visible from miles around, emerging from the perpetual cloud of smoke and mist that wreathed the country. The structure was decorated with more carvings and mouldings that depicted images pleasing to the God of fire.

Kavrazel had ridden to the temple. It was too long a journey to walk, and he hated being confined in the official royal carriage. He hated the way the polished wood and glass separated him from the life being lived beyond his own sphere. Young as he had been when he'd taken on the duty of the crown, he hadn't needed anyone to tell him that he needed to see the lives that his subjects lived. If he was to make good decisions on their behalf, he needed to see what their world was to them. He didn't have as much time as he would have liked to fully absorb the world outside the bubble of the throne room, but he made the effort not to shy away from it.

He dismounted from his sleek, jet stallion at the base of the steps, and handed the reins to an eager servant boy who had dashed forward before the horse's hooves had ceased to stamp. The temple was a fair ride from the castle and the journey had done much for Kavrazel's state of mind. From the moment he'd crossed the moat that surrounded castle Vulc, he had felt lighter in spirit.

He hadn't ridden alone. Vuthron was an insular country, which hosted few outsiders. He was fortunate in the love and good opinion of the people that he ruled over, but then he had always tried to earn their respect. It was generally considered that there was little threat to his well-being beyond the castle walls, but still, it was not deemed appropriate for him to travel alone. It was not deemed appropriate for him to be alone hardly at all, at least outside his private chambers. It was wearing, but it was all he'd ever known.

If Otal was the closest thing he'd known to a father figure, then Girogis was the closest thing he had to a friend. He was Kavrazel's bodyguard, but since the king didn't need much active guarding, they had developed a closer relationship. Kavrazel started up the steps, setting a brisk pace. Girogis easily matched it, and they shared a grin. Kavrazel increased his speed, and the race began in earnest.

About half way up the steps, before his lungs started to feel the effort, and at about the point that the muscles in his knees started to protest the effort of climbing, Kavrazel reflected, as he always did, that such a climb kept even a king humble. He had to take this steep route just as everyone else did. There was no contraption to save his energy, no easier way into the temple for those with wealth or titles. On the day of the full moon and on other holy days, the farmers and miners, whose bodies were hewn from the earth, could be seen passing the sweating and huffing gentry of the country with ease and sly smiles.

Kavrazel reached the top step half a stride before Girogis. He was fairly sure that he'd won the race on merit. He didn't think that his guard's pride, or his competitive nature, would let him lose the competition on purpose, even to make his monarch look good. Kavrazel trained to military fitness, and it was Girogis who trained with him and goaded him when he didn't think he could run another mile, or lift another set of weights. He was a king who led from the front; if there was a battle to be fought, he would be out there on the field with his troops. The people of Vuthron enjoyed spectacle games, preferably gladiatorial matches. The contests ranged from hand-to-hand combat to jousting with lances on horseback. Kavrazel did not compete regularly, but he liked to be able to give the crowd a thrill now and then by donning his black armour.

The doors to the temple were open, as they always were. There were always several priests present, milling around, doing... whatever priests did, at any time of the day or night. It was unlikely that there would be many worshippers present today; the full moon was two nights away. Kavrazel relaxed a little more. He was looking for peace, and to perform this act of duty. He didn't want to turn the visit into a performance.

He had barely stepped through the archway, and already he saw that the head priest, Tethva, had spotted him. The grand master hurried over, his stately robes of scarlet silk billowing with the movement. The priest was officious, and had a tendency to meddling, but no more than was bearable. Since Kavrazel was not devout, and since he had a country to run, he attended the temple only on the days of the full moon, and on the main holy day, which was the longest day of the year. He could put up with Tethva for those short periods.