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Shadows of Destiny
Rachel Lee
To Holly, for the song of Anahar.
And to Matt, for the courage of the Anari.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Chapter One
“And be ye faithful always, one to the other,” the priestess intoned quietly.
“And be we faithful always, one to the other,” Tom Downey and Sara Deepwell responded.
“The grace of the gods be with you always,” the priestess said. “You are now one before this company, before the gods, in this world, and in every world where you may travel.”
Tom and Sara kissed. Cilla Monabi could feel the radiant glow in her sister Ilduin’s heart, and her own heart shared Sara’s joy. Yet this time of joy would be fleeting. Sara met her eye, just for an instant, and nodded. She, too, knew.
But for tonight, they would celebrate.
The stones of Anahar did not sing in celebration, though Cilla could feel the joy of the gods as she walked through the temple. A precious love was joined, and even in a world fraught with war and the black hatred of Ardred, that precious love was worthy of joy.
The marketplace before the temple was adorned with the trappings of a wedding, for in the wake of the war that had taken so many of their number, the Anari longed for just cause to wear their finest, cook their best, sing and dance beneath the stars. Cilla found Ratha at the edge of the crowd, his iridescent blue-black face impassive, his obsidian eyes unreadable.
“Dance with me, cousin,” she said.
“I cannot,” he replied quietly, almost with shame.
Cilla placed a hand on his strong, muscled, scarred arm. “Look around you, Ratha. The men and women of Monabi Tel are dancing. Giri was their kin, and my own as well.”
“He was my brother,” Ratha said. “We had endured so much together. I am not whole without him.”
They had endured much, Cilla knew. Ratha and Giri Monabi had been betrayed by Cilla’s brother, captured by Bozandari slavers and sold on the block, until Lord Archer Blackcloak had gained their freedom. Their hardships had not ended then, for as they rode with Archer they had found themselves drawn into the lives of warriors. When they had finally returned to Anahar, at the dawn of winter, it had been to kill their betrayer, and then to train and lead the Anari in war.
Ratha had atoned for killing Cilla’s brother, for she had witnessed that act, and her brother’s confession, and pronounced it justice. Such was her right as an Anari priestess and judge. But Ratha had sojourned in the desert to cleanse his soul, and he had returned a different man. Still a warrior, but no longer with a thirst for blood. He had hoped that Giri, too, would find that redemption. Instead, Cilla knew, Ratha had watched as Giri was cut down in the savage battle of the canyon that had destroyed the Bozandari invaders.
And Ratha had not been whole since.
“Dance with me,” she said again, softly, insistently. “Dance with me as Giri would have, with joy in his heart and a jest on his lips. That was your brother’s magic, Ratha. Do not let it die with him.”
He moved as if his limbs were stiff with frost. But he moved. Cilla took his hand and led him to the dance.
Tess Birdsong, too, patiently tried to draw a man to dance. But like Ratha, Archer Blackcloak seemed to find little room for joy in his heart. Guilt weighed upon him like a mantle of lead, and Tess knew it was a guilt neither she nor a wedding could push aside. Yet somehow, she must.
She was no longer the terrified, confused, lost woman who had awakened in a field of blood and death those many months ago. But enlightenment had borne a steep price. Though she had not chosen it, destiny had chosen her, and she was as shackled to its whims as an Anari slave in a Bozandari market.
And still, she did not know who she really was. Amnesia had stolen most of her memory, and while the Temple of Anahar had revealed moments of her past to her, it had failed to fill in all the empty places.
Tonight
