Crystal Warrior: Through All Eternity (Atlantean Crystal Saga Book 1) (13 page)

It had seemed like astral travelling. But where had she been? Despite training and practice in accurate recall and recording of such journeys, she retained only the impression of soaring through the sky, and three words which resonated through every fiber of her being.

‘—
unlocks your destiny
—’

The people were chanting. Energy vibrated the air and the Rafid’s voice rang out in the God-chant of consummation. Her own throat was dry, her body strangely light and—released. A vital ecstasy flowed through every nerve and fiber and with it the urge to raise her voice also in the God-chant. She must regain control of herself or she would yet commit something unforgivable.

‘Gyn'a? Do you have a cloth?’

Phryne! The Goddess initiated by her God. Gynevra was appalled at the dark emotion that once again surged through her, banishing the dazzling light. Jaw locked in silence, she helped Meryan clean the virgin blood from Phryne's thighs. She felt Taur trying to enter her mind. Phryne too. But at last she’d found an armor of dark fury which kept them both at bay through the next two hours—and three more couplings for each of which she had to anoint his rigid flesh.

The virile, horny arabo! It would be, already was, the longest night of her life. It was hard now, to recall the happiness with which she and her sisters had anticipated their involvement in the ritual. Naive children. As novitiate priestesses they'd been taught how to pleasure a man and how he might pleasure them. But they'd not been taught anything of how one man might excite merely with a glance while another moved one not at all. They'd been taught much of mechanics and nothing of chemistry.

Gone was any anticipation for the sounding of the longhorn at midnight, signaling the moment all fires in the city were to be extinguished. How could she feel a proper sense of awe when the Magus performed the magic ritual of calling down the new season's fire into faggots set in the sacred brazier when she felt like nothing so much as a log of wood herself?

Charred, burned out. Cold.

‘Gynevra.’ Priestess Allida touched her shoulder. ‘You're needed in the Healing Temple. Prince Gotham fades and none have the power to recall him. Your presence is requested there urgently. Linger not. I'm to take your place here. Two Trephysian warriors wait at the pillars to take you back down. Stay with them. It's not safe to go alone.’

She was released! The Gods smiled on her agony. She leapt from the central dais into the darkness beyond.

‘Where do you go?’

With stunning clarity Taur’s voice was in her mind, bringing her to a halt. The knowledge of another's need had cleansed her of anger, leaving only light in preparation for drawing in the universal healing energy. The Warrior had walked into her mind with the ease of one stepping through an open doorway.

‘Prince Gotham is dying. They've sent for me.’

‘Cursed Cronos! That shouldn't have happened! He seemed to stumble onto my sword. He must not die, Golden One. I charge you with his life.’

‘You charge me! It was by your sword he fell.’

‘Go, Princess! Why do you tarry to argue now when you wouldn’t open to me before? Go before it’s too late.’

Beating down the urge to turn and batter him to a bloody pulp with her bare fists, Gynevra ran from the sacred circle, and with a Trephysian warrior at either side, raced headlong down the hillside to Qrazil. At the Temple gates the warriors left her, their plea to heal their Prince going with her, a burden on her heart.

Through the stone halls lit by the muted glow of crystal lamps she raced, along silent stone corridors, by-passing the inner sanctum, through a side arch and into the Temple Gardens. Concealed light crystals offered soft illumination and night-scented flowers perfumed the air but tonight Gynevra was deaf and blind to the magic.

Her mind raced her feet as she sped toward the Sacred Pool. She would talk to the Archinus about what had occurred between her and Taur. The encounter had been spiritual and yet the sated aftermath of it had seemed acutely physical. Was such a thing possible? It was as if she'd been the Goddess on the altar instead of Phryne, as if... Gynevra stumbled, almost coming to her knees on the cinder path, the dying Prince for a moment forgotten.

She'd stolen her sister's Goddess energy.

She'd not speak to Ianthe or anyone else about what had occurred this night! For such a sin she'd be banished from the Temple in disgrace. Stunned into immobility, she clutched at a branch of overhanging frango palm and stared blankly into the darkness beyond it. Was it this very day she'd wished to be an ordinary citizen, free of the governance of the Temple? Hadn't they always been taught to be careful what they wished for? Ibn Ist! Forgive me if my foolish thoughts manifested this awful miscarriage of sacred power! How can I atone for this transgression of the Holy Law? As if whispered on the breeze, the answer was instantly in her mind. Heal the Prince.

Prince Gotham! Her discretions were as nothing when a man lay near death. Tugging off her gown, she rushed into the Sacred Pool, rapidly performed the ritual cleansing and began chanting the ancient healing invocations to clear her mind of all save the Prince's well-being.

Four priestesses stood about the man on the table in the center of the Great Healing Hall when she hurried in. Bathed in soft crystal light, he lay still and colorless as a corpse beneath the domed gem roof in which the ancient healing symbols were outlined in clear quartz. By day the brilliance was almost dazzling, the healing power excessive. At night the effect was softly muted, powered only by crystals in the gardens outside. The energy was still intense but Gynevra knew it wouldn't be enough to save the gravely injured man. A mere wisp of vitality held Gotham of Trephysia to the earth plane.

The women breathed a collective sigh of relief at sight of Gynevra. It was rare for one of her youth to achieve the six-knotted belt of the hexad priestess. Though only seventeen it seemed she'd been born with the healing power and wisdom of one thrice that age. It was as much for this as her standing as daughter of the Archinus and the paramount King that they bowed in deference while making room for her at the table.

As she stepped into place there was no lingering awareness of herself as Gynevra, the young woman whose body could betray her with its DragonBlood needs.

‘What has been done so far?’

‘We’ve stanched the bleeding and sealed the wound. It wasn't easy. It was very deep.’

‘Let me see.’

The cloth removed, the Golden Stallion lay before her, a magnificent, recumbent sculpture. He was every bit as visually perfect as the King of Nyalda, yet Gynevra found while she appreciated his beauty she was only vaguely moved by it. There was none of the enervating fever and desire that had attacked her at sight of Cadal Isidor’s dark perfection.

There was no time to wonder. She merely gave thanks for the fact then let her gaze focus on the raw red line slashing from the lower left side of his belly straight down through the glistening golden curls of his pubic hair. He'd come close to having his leg severed at the hip. The awful wound had also come very close to his formidable male organ but fortunately it didn't appear to be damaged at all. It seemed only fair to be certain. He'd not thank her for calling him back to the shame of this life could he no longer function as a man.

‘There’s no damage to the—kondemon?’

‘No, Lady. We don't think so.’

They'd cauterized and sealed the outer sheath of flesh and skin. Likely the wound still bled in the deep inner tissues. There was no telling what injury he may yet sustain. Not only his life but his future as a king, a man, and sire of Children of the Dragon, lay in her hands.

‘Cover him please. We must move him into Uranil.’

‘I doubt he'll sustain being shifted,’ worried Delida, the most senior of the priestesses.

‘He won't survive else,’ Gynevra stated categorically. ‘Uranil's his only chance—and we must move quickly. I want the copper table set up in there.’

Chapter 8

Dawn was lightening the emerald and crystal ceiling of Uranil when Gynevra and Delida returned from the sacred pool where they'd completed the post-healing cleansing ritual. Focused once again in her physical body, Gynevra crossed to the Prince. He was resting comfortably and she shared a moment of quiet gratification with Delida.

It was difficult to believe she'd spent almost six hours locked into the healing energy. The awful wound was mended but it was doubtful whether Gotham of Trephysia would regain the agility required of a warrior. Could he ever fight for and win the right to perform as Rafid again? If he couldn't, would he thank her for saving his life?

Would Phryne?

Thinking of her sister, rekindled the emotions of jealousy and guilt from the night before. Gynevra bit down on her lip and stepped away from the bed. As a healer she must sublimate all negativity while in the Healing Temple. Knowing she was going to have a struggle with this, she turned to leave. Before she'd taken a step toward the doorway, the Archinus entered as she had several times during the night.

Moving to her daughter's side, she murmured, ‘How does he fare now? King Orestes and Queen Althaea are anxious for their son. As is King Ahron. May I send word he's out of danger?’

Forcing thoughts of self aside, Gynevra studied the drawn cheeks and the steady rise and fall of the broad chest.

‘Ta’a,’ she murmured.

A soft sigh of relief escaped Ianthe.

‘The Wise One, our ancestress Electra, would be very proud of you, my daughter.’

Words of praise were rare from the Archinus, therefore to be treasured. Heart beating a little faster, Gynevra bowed her head in acknowledgement.

Ianthe laid her hand on Gotham's golden head and closed her eyes. With a bitter yearning she fought to suppress, Gynevra thought her movuon had never seemed more awe-inspiring—nor more remote. In scarlet silk, nine knotted ennead belt, and wearing a cloak of midnight blue and the star amethyst head-dress and breast-plate of seven strands of beaten silver set with gems in the seven sacred colors, she epitomized the power, mysticism, love and beauty of the Goddess she served.

The Prince had sired a child on Ianthe in a Sacred Joining ritual nine years before. Alienor, an angel child with her sire's golden beauty, entranced all who came in contact with her. Such intimacy between two people created a connection that never completely faded and when that intimacy took place within the context of the Sacred Ritual of the Gods, the connection was at the deepest soul level.

With this intensely spiritual connection was Phryne now bound to Taur, and he to her; even more so if she had conceived a child. As if it had severed a vital artery, the thought threatened the strength in her legs.

‘Continue dosing him with the blood replacement elixir at each hour,’ she said to the priestess on watch, then added jerkily, ‘Excuse me, I'm—very tired.’

A cauldron of resentment seethed deep within her, threatening to bubble over in an unseemly display of emotion within the hallowed halls of the Healing Temple. Sketching a brief acknowledgement to the dignity of the Archinus, she hurried out into the courtyard and fled through the stone archways to the terraced gardens strung like jewels on the silver thread of a stream meandering through the rocky dells of the Temple Zodia.

As was her habit when needing guidance, she turned to Ist's Grotto beneath the Great Central Causeway. A soak in the steaming mineral waters might strip this savagery from her soul. Running down mossy steps she paused to press her forehead against the cool feet of the chalcedony form of the Goddess guarding the entrance. Then dropping gown, belt and emerald adornments she stepped down into the pool hidden beneath a cavernous ferny overhang.

If only she could shed guilt and jealousy as easily!

Instinctively seeking the shadows at the far side of the pool, she sank onto the stone ledge beneath the water, leant her head back against the rocky rim, closed her eyes and began deep rhythmic breathing in an effort to gain the meditative state. In connecting to the powerful Goddess energy she could seek forgiveness for her transgression during the ritual. And if she could release this mess of ugly emotion to the Goddess she'd not have to continually confront in her mind's eye the rippling of bronze muscle by firelight as Taur joined with Phryne and moved within her.

Filled her with his hard, thrusting flesh, planted his seed in her womb. Joined with her, God-soul to Goddess-soul. Made a child with her that would have his dark green eyes and her beautiful, golden hair. A child that would wear the black obsidian mating token to denote the origin of its siring.

This wasn't working!

The pictures filled her mind, each one more vivid, more focused than the one before. The bitter taste of jealousy completely over-rode any sense of guilt.

With a hiss of pent frustration she smote a fist into the water then slumped back. Maybe if she surrendered to the power of the emotions, let the memories of the night flow through her mind, they'd evaporate with the steam—then could she also exonerate the guilt lying heavy as a rock at the base of her gut. As she began to relax, the need to know what had happened between her and Taur became overwhelming.

She'd gone out of body. But how, when she'd not even been meditating? Had the Goddess been protecting her from the reality of what was transpiring on the altar? It wasn't like any astral travelling she'd ever done. She always knew where she'd been, what she'd seen and experienced when her spirit returned to her body. This time, all she'd had was a sense of great ecstasy and the frustrating memory of three words she didn't understand.

‘—
unlocks your destiny—
’

And the awareness she'd committed an inexcusable sin.

A splash, a ripple in the water snapped her eyes open. Her heart thudded against her ribs and all breath fled her lungs. A single shaft of sunlight slanted across the pool from the entrance and in its sparkling brilliance stood King Cadal Isidor of Nyalda, his naked torso glistening as if carved from smoky crystal.

In that instant she'd have been hard pressed to explain the meaning of guilt or jealousy, much less remember that she felt them. Her inner world split open and the tiny droplets of steam sparkling in the air against the dark walls of the grotto took on the substance of stars in a night-dark sky. She closed her eyes again. It was all very well to dream of how it would be to take such a man as a lover but to have those dreams take on the substance of reality was something else entirely. Gynevra drew in a deep breath, then let out a hiss of something close to panic when his voice came from close by. ‘Thank you, Golden One, for Prince Go's life. It would've been a senseless way for him to die.’

‘What—what are you doing here?’

He was so close she could touch him. She wished he'd step back into the shaft of light, give her a chance to capture the illusive vision of a warrior carved in crystal that hovered on the edge of her consciousness. She was desperate to reach out and touch the broad, glistening pectorals, the square, stubble-shadowed jaw. Yet all she could do was sink lower into the water and fold her arms across her breasts like a virgin novice at her first Life Studies classes—and stare.

And give thanks that she no longer had a maidenhead to protect with her life.

‘Thanking you for your gift of life to the Golden Stallion. Seeking you out as you knew I must.’

One black brow hooked roguishly above the emerald glint of his eyes and the mouth, which a moment before had been taut with anger, softened into a seductive smile.

‘How did you know where I'd be?’ she asked sharply, unwilling to address the suggestion of their attunement or let him guess the power of the excitement that gripped her.

‘The priestess Delida who was watching over Go' directed me here. She said it was a favorite place with you. I'm glad you chose to come here this morning, Golden One. It's the perfect setting for us.’

Golden One. The husky undertones of his voice riffled over her skin, warm as the caress of a lover's breath. A harsh inner voice of reason reminded her Taur of Nyalda was a warrior and Son of the Dragon Beyond Compare. As such he was no woman's
lover
, nor ever would be. May he never know the stupid longings of her woman’s heart.

‘Why have you come?’

Please Ist, he'd not heard the pain in her voice.

‘Did you not know I would come to you?’

Hoped perhaps, but
know
?

‘D'naa. Why should I think you'd do that?’ she asked, struggling to inject a note of hauteur into her voice. He could so easily breach her defenses but she'd not fawn over him as other women did.

With a knowing smile, he ducked under the water, gripped her knees and slid his hands up her thighs. Before she could react he came out of the water with a quick toss of his long black hair and clasped her shoulders. Eyes glowing green and flecked with black and gold held her startled gaze.

‘We have unfinished business, you and I, Golden One.’

An insidious trembling began deep in her belly. Swiftly permeating the whole of her being, it stole any answer she might have made. She could only gaze with helpless envy at the water running down his chest and the silvery droplets clinging to his spiked black lashes.

‘I know your need as I know my own. Your skin is hot, your eyes glow, your blood surges for me,’ he murmured, thumbing the leaping pulse at the base of her throat. ‘No matter how you try to deny it, the truth is, you burn for me.’

Arrogant arabo! She should close her ears but he'd walk into her mind. In the power of his presence she couldn't remember one lesson on how to block unwanted communication.

She should close her eyes—but she could not.

His visage was a harsh and noble sculpture that despite its swarthy cast, declared him a Son of the Dragon as clearly as the tattoo above his right breast. The same tattoo which marked her a Daughter of the Dragon—bound, as was he, by the Edict of their illustrious grandfather, the late King Isidor.

Needing to rebuild a populace decimated by war, natural disaster and pestilence, and believing his own person to be the blueprint for a perfect humanity, Isidor had re-written the ancient Atlantean laws of ‘vibrational breeding'. By the old law, if a couple's vibrations didn't match, a sire was contracted for their child whose vibration matched that of the mother. In this way they ensured their children every chance of being balanced and harmonious souls.

Isidor, whose stature, fair visage, intelligence, and virility were unmatched by any in the land, modified the old law to ensure those who bore his desirable genes were recognized by the mark of the Dragon, crystal-lasered above their right breast. His male issue were deemed to carry the most desirable vibration for breeding with any Paggi woman and it became law that all Paggi children henceforth would be of the bloodline of Isidor. The siring services of these men were in such demand they had little need to contract a permanent union with any woman. As was said of the legendary prowess of Isidor himself, their sexual stamina was phenomenal. They earned the right to arrogance.

Struggling to retain a grip on her own pride Gynevra was nevertheless unable to prevent herself wondering how many more times ‘Asar’ had managed to join with ‘Ist’ after she herself had been called away to the Healing Temple, and was helpless to control the stain of envy discoloring her soul.

Her eyes were like pools of molten gold. How was it he'd never noticed her? She must have attended every DragonBlood Festival since her birth yet he didn't remember ever seeing her. Admittedly she'd have been heavily chaperoned to protect her valuable virginity from the rapacious likes of himself and his Dragon brothers. But he still couldn't conceive that he wouldn't have noticed the deeply sensual, golden promise of Gynevra of Poseidonia.

Then again, perhaps it was as well he hadn't. Who knew what danger he might've courted had his torch been lit for her before her virginity was expended according to Temple dictate? He'd never before wanted one woman above any other. Had never looked at a woman and ached with a need he knew could not be slaked by one night on an altar. Nor had he ever experienced a mind-connection of such ease and clarity with anyone, let alone at a first meeting.

She touched his inner being in a way that downright scared him, in a way that felt absolutely right yet which he knew to be terribly wrong. A Son of the Dragon, a King, a mighty warrior could never allow or admit to fear of anything, least of all a woman. But fear he did the way he felt when he looked into her eyes. Even more did he fear what he felt when he thought of the aging Magus of Oralin using her perfect virgin body to heal his failing virility.

Awash in the golden perfection of her he simply forgot she was bound to the Temple as Archinus Elect, and as such could be sacred partner to no man. She made him forget who he was, what was expected of him. Made him want more than any self-respecting DragonBlood sire would dream of wanting.

One woman for his alone. Her dependence, her fidelity.

Her—love.

Love! He was no peasant! Cloaba! He'd do what he'd come to do. Quench the fire she'd lit in his vitals when their eyes met across the Sacred Pool, give her a pace-stick by which to measure every other arabo who'd join with her after him, and leave with heart and mind as unmoved as before he'd first seen her golden beauty outshine all others.