Crystal Warrior: Through All Eternity (Atlantean Crystal Saga Book 1) (26 page)

Almost quicker than the eye could discern, Taur's blade followed Gotham's and the two great warriors leapt bodily at each other. Taur wrapped his brawny arms about Gotham's chest and Gynevra fully expected to hear bone crack, but Gotham had gone for Taur's throat and soon lack of air made him twist and throw his opponent to the ground. When Taur began to follow him down, Gotham raised his feet and thrust at his chest throwing Taur back and giving himself time to leap upright.

For such big men they were incredibly agile and with amazing feats of skill and strength they hurled each other about the arena. There was no indication that scarce six months had passed since Gotham's leg had almost been severed. The strong metal helmets protecting their heads clanged against stone time and time again and each man's body was raw and bleeding. All the while they goaded and taunted one another with insults most foul. The shamelessly unpartisan crowd roared and screamed its delight in support of whoever appeared to hold the advantage.

When Gotham had first thrown aside his sword, Gynevra felt an intense relief, believing there was less likelihood of either of them being killed. Deep in her heart she acknowledged whatever she might feel about Gotham she hadn't yet reached the point of desiring his death. But as she watched the focused deadly intent with which the two fought, fear clutched her vitals. She was afraid to watch yet afraid not to, afraid to breathe, afraid to move.

Lady Darlen sat rigid to her left, her perfectly manicured hands white-knuckled in her lap. To her right, Anya hissed and huffed, and swore audibly from time to time. Gynevra could only watch with a terrified fascination. Gotham had Taur's head clamped under his arm and was shoving the bigger man swiftly backwards toward the low stone wall below the Adonai's terrace. Her heart stopped and her eyes burned like fire in her head. With a violent muscle-bulging twist of his body, Taur threw Gotham sideways onto the ground. Leaping on him, they rolled and thudded across the stones as if their bodies were not the flesh and blood of ordinary mortals.

From deep in her heart rose an invocation, which she muttered over and over. ‘Great Goddess Ist, Sacred Mother of Atlantis, let there be no more death this day. So mote it be.’

Anya placed her hand over Gynevra's twisting fingers and joined her voice to the quietly impassioned invocation.

Taur slammed Gotham's body sideways into the far stone wall yet he sprang up almost on the rebound and swung a mighty fist into the side of Taur's head, sending his helmet clattering across the stones. A cry of alarm escaped Gynevra then. Without his helmet Taur was vulnerable. Then it seemed Ist had heard her prayers, for a detachment of the Royal Guard trot-marched into the arena, and splitting six to a man, by brute force separated the brawlers who continued to strain against their captors and shout and curse.

When it was certain the men were firmly held, King Orestes came down into the arena between the two and shouted for all to hear, ‘Take your swords and fight like Paggi, not dogs—or get out of the arena!’

Two of the Guard were dispatched to fetch the swords and a third thrust Taur's helmet back on his head. As soon as the King had regained the royal pavilion, the Guards let them go then leapt swiftly beyond reach of the lethal blades.

Gynevra fell to muttering the invocation again. Why hadn't the King simply stopped the fight and declared a winner? He had the power, and he'd had the moment. Now certain death stalked either her sacred partner and future King of Trephysia or the man she loved, the King of Nyalda.

Love, that emotion no Paggi lady could ever admit to. But there was no other word for the pain that flowered outwards from her heart when she looked on Cadal Isidor of Nyalda.

‘Great Lady Ist, it's not fair to make me choose,’ she whispered, ‘but if I must, and if I have a choice, please let Taur live.’

It was said, and if Gotham died the guilt would ride her till her own death. Nor did she have any doubt the clash of iron on iron and the thud of leather-shod feet on stone would haunt her long after this day was done.

Then between one breath and the next a red slash opened across Taur's chest. Gynevra rose half out of her seat and someone was moaning, ‘No! No! No!’ When she realized that someone was herself she sat back in her seat, gripping the arm rests, eyes staring at the blood gushing from the awful wound.

His sword clattered to the stones and his battered and bloodied body crumpled slowly after it. The crowd fell silent, every eye riveted on the raised sword of their Golden Prince who'd fought all day with a terrible lust for blood.

Gynevra felt the hair rise on top of her head and a sense of deadly cold shuddered through her being. If Gotham killed Taur now, as he lay unarmed at his feet, she'd kill the honorless bastard herself, in cold blood. Slowly Gotham's sword arm fell to his side. Then placing one foot on his fallen opponent, he thrust the sword upward again with both hands and shouted, ‘I am the greatest Warrior in Atlantis! I am the Rafid! I—am—ASAR!’

The crowd roared and the swelling waves of sound reverberated through Gynevra’s being, darkness clouded her vision, and she slumped forward. Anya caught her before she fell and curtly requested a priestess behind them to fetch Gobar. As the big man lifted Gynevra to carry her up the terraces to the Healing Temple, Gotham strode across towards them, still shouting and proclaiming himself the greatest warrior of all time.

Anya made no attempt to hide her malicious smile. The only person it really mattered the Prince impress was unconscious even of his presence.

By the time Gobar entered the Healing Temple Gynevra had regained her senses but the protective cradle of the Giant's arms reminded her of Nyd at Qrazil, and she snuggled against the wide chest with her eyes closed.

‘What's wrong with the Princess?’

Gynevra recognized the sharply concerned voice of Felonia, an older priestess for whom she had much respect.

‘She fainted, is all,’ came the voice of Anya, who'd hurried up the interminable flight of steps after Gobar. ‘Though I'm sure it's no surprise with my brother fighting like the animal he is!’

‘Lady, mind what you say!’ came the startled rejoinder from Felonia. ‘Your brother will one day be King and as such will have absolute power over the likes of you and me. I tremble for you when you are indiscreet in exposing your dislike of him.’

‘Dislike! Even you, Felonia, couldn't frame what I feel with such a lollygown word. I don't just dislike him, I positively—’

‘Anya, I beg of you hush! We are not alone. King Cadal Isidor lies here and though he’s lost much blood, he’s still conscious. His closeness to your brother is well known.’

Anya emitted a harsh, short laugh and said defiantly, ‘If they're still close after today's piece of madness then I'll never understand men! And I'll say again what I've said many times before, if Gotham ever becomes King then may the Goddess preserve us all.’

Gynevra's eyes flew open at the mention of Taur's presence and now she twisted her head the better to see the man on the healing table.

‘What use is a breara healer who's going to faint all over the place?’

The voice was taunting, teasing, and just loud enough to clear the last vestiges of fog from her brain.

‘Put me down Gobar,’ she commanded. With expressionless subservience the big man slowly lowered her to her feet. Gynevra gripped the edge of the table for support, and as she stared down at its bruised and bloodied occupant her consciousness narrowed to the two of them. Her very soul ached with what she felt for this man.

‘I thought he'd killed you,’ she whispered.

‘I wasn't about to let him do that, Golden One. I just let him nick me a little.’

‘You
let
him?’ she squeaked. ‘You
let
him do that to you! Why would you?’

Gynevra knew she was being entirely irrational but her feelings were such a mixture of relief and anger and disappointment she had no idea which was uppermost and she was shaking so badly she thought she might fly apart.

The deep green eyes she remembered bright with laughter and glowing with passion, were hard and angry.

‘One of us was going to die, Princess. Which one was your money on?’

The angry effort stole the last of his reserves and the incredibly long black silky lashes that were oddly incongruous on a warrior's visage, drifted down over the bruised and bloodied cheeks as he lost consciousness.

Gynevra laid her hand gently against his forehead and murmured, ‘I asked Ist to spare you—’ then she stopped for it was obvious he could no longer hear her, and she didn't think he'd want to know she hadn't really wanted Gotham to die either—just—

Sweet Ist, if she didn't get some action here he could still die from loss of blood while she stood mooning over him! The thought was enough to instantly restore the clarity of her mind and to send a novice to fetch her laser crystals.

Only as she entered the sacred pool after the healing was completed did she allow herself to consider what Taur's defeat meant to her in her role as Adonai.

She would
not
lie on the altar with Gotham.

The thought a flag of fire in her brain, she doused herself seven times, leapt up the steps and made a cursory swipe at her body and hair with the drying linen. Still dragging her gown into place, hair dripping down her back, she hurried into the Temple in search of the Archinus.

Lady Darlen was exactly where she'd been at her instigation all through the healing, channeling grounding energy through the patient. Realizing the older woman was being exceedingly accommodating to her commands in the hopes of still placating her onto the altar as Adonai, only firmed her decision. The Archinus could accommodate all she liked, Gynevra muttered, but she wouldn't be placated.

‘I refuse to lie on the altar with that—that—’

In an instant the Lady Darlen abandoned all pretense of accommodation or placation, left her post at the patient's head, grabbed Gynevra unceremoniously by the arm and marched her along the hallway to her office. Dropping the curtain behind them, the Archinus pressed her into a stuffed horse-hide chair and stood facing her, hands on her hips.

‘It's too late to turn back now, I'm afraid, Princess,’ she began firmly but reasonably.

‘I don't care how late it is,’ Gynevra snapped without waiting for Darlen to launch into her reasons. ‘I'll not lie on the altar with that—that murderer.’

‘You must, Princess,’ Darlen responded curtly. ‘The money's already in the Temple coffers, the Games were fairly won—’

Gynevra leapt to her feet.

‘How can you say that? If Cadal Isidor hadn't allowed Gotham to slice him it would have gone on to the death. Gotham would not have conceded short of death. You would've thought he was fighting his deadliest enemy! Anyone would think he'd never taken another man's sacred partner on the altar! And gloated about it, and strutted in front of their sacred partner as if he was some sort of God! I've heard all the stories about our great Prince, Lady Darlen. There are several high Paggi ladies here in Fyr Trephyr only too eager to tell me what a
Prince
I've joined with! He's a—’

‘Enough! Princess, you're becoming hysterical. Remember you're a priestess. To represent the Goddess on the altar is the greatest sacrifice you can make for Her, and the greatest honor you can receive for yourself.’

‘I'll—not—do—it.’ Gynevra sat back in her chair, spine regally straight, jaw set like a mule carved from rock, and glared at the Archinus.

Chapter 15

The Lady Darlen glared just as obdurately back. When Gynevra's glance never wavered, she struck the small iron gong by the doorway. Whoever answered the summons was summarily dispatched to bring Prince Gotham immediately. It wasn't far to the Sacred Arena but to Gynevra it seemed forever she and the Archinus sat facing one another and waiting, each obstinately and angrily silent.

With a cursory knock the Prince strode into the room, flagrantly careless of his grimed and bloodied half-naked state. The small room quickly filled with the overwhelmingly pungent aroma of sweat and drying blood. What had he been doing all this time that he’d neither bathed nor changed? Strutting and preening and demanding the accolades of a champion?

Lady Darlen was somewhat taken aback though quickly recovered while Gynevra felt her lip curl in ugly distaste as she wondered which was Taur's blood, and which the blood of a dead man.

‘The Princess says she'll not lie on the altar with you. I've tried to change her mind, to no avail. Perhaps you'll have better luck,’ the Archinus said, with an almost malicious sideways glance at Gynevra.

Gotham swung about to face her. One side of his face was grazed raw and his eye swelling and darkening. Yet she could clearly read his thoughts. He'd set out this day to prove to his people that contrary to ugly rumor, their Prince was still the greatest of warriors and he'd not allow her to deprive him of the opportunity to show he was also still the greatest of Rafids. The arrogance of his presence only strengthened her resolve.

Darlen's gaze flitted from one set, angry face to the other then obviously striving to keep her voice calm, she said, ‘I suggest you discuss it in the orchard.’

‘I'll not discuss anything,’ Gynevra stated unequivocally.

Grabbing her arm in a grip that would leave bruises, Gotham hauled her bodily through the lattice door into the Temple's experimental orchard. By eastern standards the trees were weedy specimens requiring more care and attention than the meagre crop warranted but neither noticed the trees.

‘What's the problem, Princess?’ he growled, dragging her at merciless speed through the rows of spindly trunks to the part of the orchard furtherest from the buildings. ‘You were all set to be taken by the padopan Bull, weren't you? Well, you've got the Golden Stallion and he can kurn better than that braa any day.’

Gynevra tried to wrench free but his fingers were curled round her wrist like a bronze grappling hook. He'd strip the flesh from her bones before he'd let her go. Her only weapon was her tongue and before he fixed on a way of stopping that she'd use it.

‘You want to know what my problem is, you great, puffed up Paggi oaf? My problem is I can't believe I'm bound to a man, a
Prince
, who would kill his best friend, and one of the nation's greatest warriors over something so—so sacred! You're a murderer, and you wouldn't care if you'd murdered thrice over! You're the most unconscionable doabra I've ever had the misfortune to know. What were you trying to prove?’

Suddenly his fingers were bruising the flesh of her upper arms and he hauled her hard against his filthy, bloodied chest, and snarled into her face, ‘I'll tell you what I
proved
, Princess. I proved that I'm the greatest warrior in Atlantis. But more than that, oh so much more than that,’ he said gloatingly, ‘I proved I'm not going to stand aside and watch that horned bastard put his kondemon in my woman. I proved that if my woman is going to lie on that altar then it's going to be me kurning her.’

Gynevra knew she was out of control, that she was inciting Gotham to the same irrational rage that had caused him to smash her head against the king’s high gerlain. But nothing would stop the furious spate of feelings now. If she'd had a knife she'd have stabbed him, over and over and over.

‘How many women have you kurned on the altar—and in their bedrooms for that matter—while their sacred partners had to watch? You can't handle it, can you, when it's you doing the watching! You can't handle it when someone else roguad a nafli! You great selfish unfeeling arabo!’

‘The only bastard who finds this bloody gold-mine will be
me
, telon,’ he growled, and slapped her hard across the face.

Before she could recover from the shock, he ripped her fine linen priestess-gown from neck to hem, threw her to the ground and straddled her. Trapping her by her hair, he ground his teeth against her lips in a violent parody of a kiss.

Her hands were free and she raked them with relish down his back, which had to be tender from the way Taur had thrown him around the stones of the arena. He reared back with an ugly oath and gripped her wrists, pinning them to the ground above her head.

‘Padopan telon!’ he grunted, and crushed her lips against her teeth until she tasted blood. The more she fought and writhed against him the harder he kissed. But when he left her mouth there was little relief. With a diabolic knowing he swirled his tongue round the inside of one ear then the other and a whirl of panic hit the depths of her belly. The arabo knew every secret to her arousal. She fought, kicked, wriggled, and grunted against him knowing she only aroused him further, to a state bordering mania. But she couldn't stop fighting. Wouldn't.

Then his mouth closed over her breast and the fire trails through her blood were lit. It had been four tonni since her body had last been sated and its neediness over-rode the furious loathing in her heart. No-o-o! She arched her back and tried to roll from under him, but he clamped her between his legs and sucked and bit until pain prevailed over anger, and she cried out.

‘You're mine, telon!’ he growled, and bent to suckling the other breast with equal ferocity.

Somewhere in the midst of the pain was passion. Her words of hatred and anger became words of pleading, words of wanting, begging. Even the scent of blood and sweat on his skin was acting on her senses like some sort of aphrodisiac. When he reared into her Gynevra thought she would fly apart with the ecstasy of it and before the fire had been doused she hated herself more than she'd ever hated the Prince. Long after he'd collapsed beside her, his face smug with laughter, she'd stored the haunting sounds of her own cries of delight in the deep recesses of her brain from whence she knew they'd return often to taunt her of her weakness.

She'd lost the battle. She no longer had any firm ground from which to fight. With a closed sullen face she followed Gotham back into Lady Darlen's office. There could be no doubt what had taken place in the orchard. Her gown was ripped in half, her hair hung in a ragged, tangle down her back, and her mouth had to look at least half as bruised and swollen as it felt. Darlen wore a smile of cat-like satisfaction and for the first time since leaving Poseidonia, Gynevra longed for the remote rectitude of Ianthe. She might have missed the point as a mother, but as Archinus she was impeccable. She would never have abandoned one of her priestesses to the ravening appetites of an aroused Paggi oaf with bloodlust in his eyes.

‘We'll all meet again at the altar, My Lady,’ Gotham stated grandly, making a swift and triumphant exit.

‘So he's put some sense in your head,’ Lady Darlen commented with acerbity.

Gynevra bared her teeth in an attempt at a nasty grin.

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

The Archinus ignored the blatant disrespect and said, ‘We must get you prepared.’ Then she crossed to the gong once again and rang for Anya.

By the time, three hours later, she stood naked with her handmaidens at the steps to the Sacred Pool and Gotham and two priests stood naked on the other, she knew the wine served them at the feast had been heavily laced with huoda. The old wound on her forehead throbbed but that was to be expected on account of the fearful tumult filling her. But the throbbing in her breasts and loins came from another cause entirely. Archinus Darlen had decided not to risk an unresponsive Goddess.

The haze of orange light wavering in Gotham's aura told Gynevra he'd also drunk of the drug. Her skin burned as if fiery feet danced all over it. Even anger transmuted into passion and desire as she stared across at the Prince, his muscular shoulders and chest gleaming from a liberal application of healing salve. That he was ready for the godly performance expected of him was in no doubt and Gynevra couldn't take her eyes off him. Whatever else her Golden Prince was, none could dispute his noble physique. Where now her antipathy, her angry words of repudiation? Burned up in a flare of huoda, no doubt. When the thought left her flushed with desire instead of simmering with anger, she closed her mind, resigning herself to the power of the moment.

Stepping out of the Temple and into the arena lit by forty low-smoking oil lamps Gynevra felt golden energy fizz all about her and her feet seemed not to touch the cool smooth stones underfoot. Real fire was a hallowed commodity in Fyr Trephyr, used only in holy ritual. The flares, reflected back from the high glass peaks above, created an atmosphere of great spiritual moment.

The procession halted before the altar and the Magus raised his crystal tipped rod of power to the heavens and proclaimed the invocation to prepare the womb of the Goddess to receive the seed of the God. Gynevra's legs became like reeds in the wind, then her whole body began to shake and burn with an all-consuming heat. If they didn't hurry she was going to fall smoldering to the stones.

Four priests lifted her high above their heads, turning her to the four directions as the Magus chanted the powerful paean of thanks to the Gods for the harvest. Heart pounding like a roaring surf in her breast, she was filled with a terrible mixture of impatience and fear. Once tethered to the altar she'd be at the mercy of Gotham as Asar.

Before she could act on the heretical thought of escape that entered her mind at the thought of being under Gotham's protection, they'd laid her face down on the altar and tethered her at wrists and ankles with silken ropes. The gold-net Goddess-gown fell like a drape all about the sacred stone and a flaring ululation of excitement rose from the throats of the crowd pressing against the ropes of the Arena.

But Gotham still had to light the Sacred Flame with his bare hands before he could truly call himself the God, and join with the Goddess; the flame, which was deemed to transform mere mortals into Gods in the eyes of the populace. If the Rafid failed to ignite the Flame then he would be an ordinary man joining with an ordinary woman on a block of stone for the public delectation of the many gathered to watch. But joining by the light of the Sacred Flame symbolized the creative spark, or the life force of the Gods that promised new life for the province and its people for the coming year.

She found if she turned her head sideways she could watch as he climbed the three steps to the huge polished copper bowl that held the highly flammable oil of the Sacred Flame. His body had been massaged with healing salve and the dance of firelight through the gold-net of the God-gown made his perfect warrior's body appear to shimmer with golden light. She knew it was pointless to hope he failed for she had no doubt he would have her with or without benefit of the Sacred Flame and bluster his way through the shame of it later.

Her neck grew tired before he'd raised the energy and she had to let her head fall, but the sullen rumble of noise through the crowd told her he'd failed at the first try. She sensed the highly charged silence of the waiting crowd as he began raising the energy again and then came the hiss of the igniting flame quickly followed by a roar of excitement. With her eyes closed, her ears were more sharply attuned and she could clearly discern shouts of anger and abuse amid the adulation and encouragement. The Prince had lost a lot of popularity that day, and thus no doubt, had she. There would be many who'd say he'd killed a man out of lust, or even more heinous, love, for her.

Before another thought could enter her mind, he'd entered her. Somewhere in her passion-fogged brain she found it to be grateful for the huoda for every time he touched her through that long painful night she was ready and moaning—truly a Goddess desirous of her God.

It was late the following afternoon before she woke, her body stiff and sore, her mind gummy from the after-effects of huoda. She could only groan when Difleer asked if she'd like something to eat or drink. All she wanted was to return to that place of dark retreat where she didn't have to feel—or think. But the housekeeper was not to be put off and lacking the energy to argue, Gynevra sat up and allowed her to arrange the clagrenon behind her. Then, dark eyes shining as if she harbored a delicious secret, she placed a tray across her mistress's knees. There was a small bowl of sweetened, curdled goat's milk with compote of dried plums.

Fruit of any sort was so rare in Fyr Trephyr Gynevra suddenly found she did feel a little hungry. Difleer always seemed to know just what would tempt her appetite, whatever her mood. Picking up the spoon, she was about to take a mouthful when she became aware Difleer seemed to be watching her—in anticipation.

‘What?’ she demanded, spoon poised halfway to her mouth.

‘You've a message,’ Difleer said succinctly, nodding to the tray.

As Difleer spoke, Gynevra spied the folded breskin under the plate, and frowned. ‘If it's from the Prince—or the Archinus—you can take it away and burn it.’

‘It's not.’

Giving Difleer a quick sideways glance, Gynevra reached for the breskin and turned it over to examine the wax seal. It was stamped with the Bull of Nyalda.