Dawn of Swords (41 page)

“And this was Deacon’s idea?”

“It was.”

“What was his inspiration?”

She shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure, actually. You will have to ask him.”

“I’ll do that.”

The temple was much larger than he’d expected, and it took them almost fifteen minutes to walk halfway across the spherical path. There Patrick saw the entrance to the temple proper, a tall rectangle bordered by thick stone and topped with the image of a dove flying into a waiting pair of hands.

“We only find peace with each other,” Rachida said. “That is the meaning of the symbol.”

“Interesting,” said Patrick.

She stopped him just outside the entryway, pulling him aside so that others could go through unimpeded. She looked at him gravely, those luminous green eyes so seductively framed by her dark hair. She seemed like a legendary creature who wished to lure him into harm’s way. Patrick grinned at the thought, knowing that no matter where she led him, he would follow willingly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“This is a holy place to us, but sometimes people lose control. The prayer service is…stimulating, you could say. I want to make sure you are ready for it.”

“I’ll be fine,” he replied, wishing he were as confident as he sounded. “Trust me.”

Rachida nodded. “Very well.”

Her fingers slid down his arm until they found his hand, which she took in hers. She stepped through the portal and led him down a long, cramped passage that opened up into a tall, circular room. That was when Patrick noticed that the temple had no ceiling, only a hole above that allowed the light of the heavens to shine down on those inside. Given that it was past noon and the sun had taken root lower on the horizon, the torches on the walls were blazing.

In the center of the room was a round stone rostrum, the sole furnishing. There were no seats at all, simply cushions stacked by the door, a couple of which Rachida snatched up, handing him one. The place was packed, and Rachida led the way as they wedged through the cramped maze of worshippers until she found an open space a few short feet from the base of the rostrum. Claiming it, she threw down her cushion. Patrick followed her lead. When they sat, Rachida leaned into him, her satin-covered breast pressing into the side of his arm. He thought his head might explode from the contact.

It took quite awhile for the crowd inside the temple to situate themselves. There was a living buzz in the air, a palpable charge that made all the tiny hairs on Patrick’s arms stand on end. Rachida leaned in, propping her chin on his shoulder.

“Just remember,” she told him, “feel the energy. Feed off it, but do not act. Priestess Aprodia directs the service and provides the inspiration, but she is not to be touched, no matter how close she comes to you.”

Feeling lost, Patrick said, “As you wish.”

The deafening layer of murmurs ceased, and all fell quiet. Patrick watched as a set of double doors swung inward. Out slunk a nude woman, her flesh bronzed, her hair straight and black, her eyes as pale as spent coals. She had the body of an earth goddess, with wide hips and abundant breasts, between which was a strangely alluring tattoo of a bird with wings spread. The woman—Priestess Aprodia, he assumed—was indeed a splendid creation, and were it not for the woman sitting beside him, he might have thought her the most exquisite in all the land.

The priestess climbed atop the rostrum and stood there, motionless, for what felt like an incredibly long time. Her head then suddenly snapped to the side, lashing her hair about, and her body began moving in wild gyrations. Sweat slicked her flesh, making it shine, as she whipped this way and that, reaching her arms to the sky and then drawing them in like she was holding all of creation against her abdomen, sliding her legs apart until they formed a straight line, rocking back and forth, cupping her breasts with her hands, lifting them, separating them, lolling her head around in circles, panting, moaning, yelping like a wolf in heat.

Aprodia leaned forward, pulling herself across the floor, then slid her legs out from beneath her. She rolled onto her back and lifted her legs high in the air; then, with her hands gripping her ankles, she spread them wide. Patrick, sitting eye level with the platform, stared directly into her womanhood, eyes bulging in disbelief. It was certainly the strangest form of worship he’d ever seen. He had no notion how to react.

The priestess spun around, allowing those on the other side of the room to see her as well. Patrick felt the energy in the room multiply, doubling and then doubling again, and when he finally tore his eyes off the dancing beauty before him, he saw that he and Rachida were among the few who were still watching the display. The rest were locked in private passions all their own, lips pressed together, tongues probing, hands exploring. He glanced
at Rachida and saw that she was staring at Aprodia as intently as Patrick had.

The soundless dance kicked up in tempo, the priestess thrashing about as if she were caught in a cyclone that would surely rip her from the ground and send her shooting into the heavens. She leapt from the stage, amazingly not landing on any of the spectators, and continued to gyrate as she made her way around the room. Her hands caressed her body, moving over her nipples, her stomach, her hips, her sex. She stopped a few feet from where Patrick and Rachida sat, thrashing her head around so violently that her hair became a blur, and then reached down and slipped a finger inside herself. Patrick’s jaw dropped open. The priestess began to shudder, working her hand up and down, round and round, yelps and hisses escaping her tightly clenched teeth.

Patrick discomfort grew, yet Rachida’s eyes were still locked on the scene playing out a few mere feet from them. He noticed her hand was inching closer and closer to
down there
. He hesitated before leaning toward her and whispering, “Um, Rachida, we should go.”

Rachida was snapped from her trance.

“Now?” she said, sounding disappointed. “The service isn’t over.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just…I don’t…this isn’t for me, I think.”

Rachida’s face froze, then spread into a smile. Patrick was beyond relieved.

“Very well,” she said. “I understand.”

By then Aprodia had moved on to the other side of the room, continuing with her unabashed, animalistic cries and shrieks. Patrick helped Rachida to her feet, and together they maneuvered through the maze of grinding and copulating couples.

It wasn’t until they’d exited the cramped passageway that Patrick realized that the inside of the temple reeked of sweat and unwashed bodies. He looked at Rachida, who bore an odd expression on her face. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, but before he could,
she grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him along the circular path. She seemed hurried now, frantic. She banged on a succession of wooden doors as they passed them by, hearing the surprised yelps of those within.

“What are you
doing?
” Patrick asked, winded from both the odd sexual show he’d just witnessed and the effort it took his short legs to keep up with her much longer ones.

Instead of answering, Rachida continued with her frenzied running and pounding on doors. Then she suddenly stopped short, and it took Patrick a second to grasp the reason—the last door had given no answer. She grabbed the handle, yanked the door open, and then pulled Patrick inside.

The room was small and stank like the inside of the temple had, offset somewhat by a stick of incense burning on the table in the corner. The only other furniture was a slender cot. Rachida stood before him, trembling, her fingers nervously tapping just below her breasts. The tentative yet restless look in her eyes worried him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I like you,” she replied, the words spurting out. “I need to be with you. Now. Right here.”

Patrick was speechless.

“Please, Patrick. This is important.”

“Well…I…um…what about your husband?” he finally managed.

Rachida waved her hand dismissively, though her gaze still danced with edginess.

“Peytr is my husband in name only. It is a matter of convenience and no more. His interests lie elsewhere…as do mine.”

Tentatively, Patrick reached out and touched her. She closed her eyes, still shaking, and let him. Part of him wasn’t entirely sure whether he should be doing this, but his bewildered mind berated that part of himself into submission. His thick fingers lifted the straps of her satin dress and slid them off her shoulders. The dress dropped, stealing down her body, exposing her bareness
underneath. Patrick gasped when he looked at her. She was perfect in every way.

He gently touched her nipples. She cringed at first, but then seemed to relax. Slowly he steered her to the bed and sat her down. She began to quake so violently, he feared her nervousness and tried hard not to think about why. As she lay down, he gently began to kiss her all over. She kept her arms by her sides, not touching him. He found it odd but was willing to accept it.

His hand slipped down from her breasts to her belly, to the tuft of hair below that, then between her legs. Her thighs tensed, trapping him there. Her eyes shot open and she stared at him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking away from him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She was crying, and the small tears running down the sides of her face were like knives cutting into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning away. “I should have known better.”

“No,” she said, grabbing him. “It’s not you. It’s not…what you think.”

“Then what?” he said, whirling on her.

Rachida slid away from him, her head drooping, her eyes downcast.

“I have never been with a man,” she said. “I have never even
liked
a man. Moira is the love of my life and has been ever since we were children.”

“So…you don’t like me?”

“No, I like you, Patrick, just not…in that way.”

Patrick couldn’t contain his exasperation.

“Then why are we here?”

She sucked on her upper lip, looking absolutely radiant despite her obvious sadness. “I wish to be with child. I wish to be with
your
child.”

Patrick groaned.
Not this again. Not now.
Why didn’t she ask him for a ride to the moon or for him to shit gold into a chamber
pot? There were plenty of other impossible things she could try to barter out of him for sex.

“I see,” he said, sighing. “I thank you for telling me so, but I’m sorry to say, you’re going to be greatly disappointed.”

“Why?”

“I can have no children.”

That caused a sad grin to stretch across Rachida’s exquisite countenance.

“I know of your…problem,” she said. “Your sister told me. I have taken precautions in that regard.”

“You what? How?”

“A little bit of research. A little bit of magic. Antar helped greatly in that regard. And Peytr’s library is extensive.”

“And that’s all it takes? I won’t have to lick a toad or eat a bunch of mushrooms? Because I’ve tried both, at my sisters’ behest, and I assure you, neither had the promised effect.”

“No toads, no mushrooms.”

“Oh.” Patrick leaned back on the bed. He looked to Rachida again and narrowed his eyes. “But why
me?
”

“You are from one of Ashhur’s First Families,” she said, running a hand through that exotic curly hair of hers. “It
had
to be you. Haven was built for the solidarity of all peoples. All who want to live within our borders can do so. I have always wanted a child, and I want that child to reflect the values that we’ve instilled in this land. What better symbol than a child born of the offspring of the First Families of both gods?”

Patrick really didn’t think such a child would be all that special or amazing, but then again, it wouldn’t take much convincing for him to give her what she wanted. The word
please
was really all that was necessary, and even that was debatable.

“You are
certain
your spells and whatnot will work?” he asked.

She bit her lip.

“As certain as I can be,” she said.

He reached out and fanned his fingers over her eyes, closing them.

“Despite my appearance, I do know my way around a bedroom. If you’ve never been with a man, then let me guide you. Don’t look if you don’t want to. Think of Moira or your hope for a baby—whatever you need to do. Just let me know if I hurt you.”

“You’re still willing to do this?” asked Rachida in a faraway voice, keeping her eyes closed. “You do not find this an insult to your honor?”

Despite the bizarreness of the past hour, Patrick let out a heartfelt laugh.

“Trust me, Rachida, I’ve been insulted in far, far worse ways than this.”

C
HAPTER

21

A
sentry patrolled the bridge in the deep of night, blocking any chance Crian had at crossing, as usual. He lingered at the edge of the Ghostwood, peering around the trunk of a giant spruce tree, waiting, hoping he might get his chance soon. The sentinel disappeared around the bend, offering him a brief opening, but a replacement soon appeared. He fell back into the safety of the woods, cursing to himself.

There was smoke in the distance, appearing over the sepia-colored grasses like a bulbous black snake. A cookfire, he assumed, lit by the unit that had been sent to capture him. He snuck back through the trees to the small camp he’d made untold days before. It was a rustic setup, nothing but a pile of clothes for a bed and a torn-apart nightshirt tied to a tree for shelter. He’d lost his candles while in flight, dropping them in the middle of the dark and confusing woods. Not that he minded too badly. These woods, and the lengthy river that ran through them, were all that had saved him from capture. All throughout Neldar, the Ghostwood was considered a haunted and evil place. Superstitions and legends abounded of how the ghosts of the dead resided there alongside the lingering
specters of the creatures that Celestia had supposedly spirited from Dezrel to pave the way for humankind.

But Crian knew better. Of all his family, he was the only one whose relationship with Jacob Eveningstar had been amicable, and when he was younger—before the First Man had left the east to take up permanent residence in Ashhur’s Paradise—Jacob had taken pains to teach him the topography of all of Dezrel, disclosing what was legend and what was not, describing the many natural oddities that existed throughout the land’s four corners. Jacob had laughed off the legends of Ghostwood, which was known for its haunting murmurs.