since forgotten.
‘It is time, Azyuna.’
His voice broke into her prayers. His hand clamped over her wrist and drew her
inexorably to her feet. Her legs shook and she could not remain upright except
through his hold on her. When he shook her slightly she only closed her eyes
tighter and swayed limply in his grasp.
‘Open your eyes, girl. It is time!’
Obedient to the outside will Seylalha opened her eyes and shook back her hair.
The hand that gripped her was clean. The voice that commanded her had something
of that forgotten wild land of her birth in it. His hair was the same colour as
her own, but he was not a man come to claim his bride. She hung from his grip as
mute and fearful as the quiet women behind the torn netting.
‘You are obviously the one to make Azyuna’s pleas – however little you resemble
her. Do not force me to hurt you more than I must already!’ he whispered
urgently, leaning close to her ear, his breath as warm and thick as blood. ‘Or
have they not told you the whole legend? I am myself, I am Vashanka – we both
grow impatient, girl. Dance because your life depends on it.’
He flicked her wrist and sent her sprawling to the blood-dampened carpet. She
brushed her hair away with a forearm made red from his grip. The man-god had
shed the sombre clothing he had worn for the killing and stood near the pillows
in a clean gold-worked tunic, but the crude sword still hung by his thigh – a
rusty blush on the white tunic to mark where its cleaning had not been complete.
She read the tension in his legs, the minute extension of his left hand towards