Page 14 of Firebird (The Fire That Binds #1)

XIII

MALINA

“Wait for me here,” I told Ivo.

He nodded and leaned against the outer wall at the entrance of the Temple of the Dead. I’d passed other temples, the one for Vesta where the vestal virgins kept the goddess’s eternal flame burning, the most prominent in the forum. But if I was betraying my own gods to pray to a Roman one, I didn’t want any of the others. This was where I longed to be.

Bunica was likely screaming at me from the afterworld for entering a Roman temple. But I’d prayed to our gods Zamolxis and Bendis for years in the wilderness. Look where that had led me. I needed more powerful help.

It was the witch inside me who pushed me now, so I obeyed. I wrapped a scarf over my head as I walked inside. Down a short corridor, I passed a line of columns into a grander domed space, the interior of the temple, which was cool and silent. Shocked, because I was expecting the god of the underworld, Pluto, I froze at the sight of the figure looming large above me.

At the temple’s center stood a magnificent white marble statue of Proserpina, a beacon of light shining on her from an oculus above. She took my breath away.

In half-skin, she spread her arms and wings wide as if in welcome. She was bare-breasted with a sash tied loosely around her hips, one clawed foot and slender leg extending from the drapery. Her tail curled in a way that indicated she was in movement. She was heading somewhere with a fierce, determined expression on her lovely face, coils of hair falling over one shoulder.

Heavens, she was lovely. If the real Proserpina was half as beautiful as this artist had rendered, she would be almost too magnificent to behold.

To the right, a white marble statue of Pluto loomed in an alcove, lit with oil lamps. I gave him a cursory glance. He was also beautiful, horns and spikes sprouting from his head in half-skin as some dragons bore them. But he didn’t occupy this space and dominate the temple as his wife did.

A priestess in white, her head and face veiled by gossamer fabric, walked to the front of the temple, knelt, and whispered a quick prayer. I watched her, wondering about the white dragons, the females who were born being an anomaly to their kind, forced to become priestesses at Roman temples simply by expectation of their birth.

Of course, what choices did any of us truly have? By birth, we were forced into some circumstance and place in this world that wasn’t of our choosing. But of the gods’.

I stared up into the fierce expression of Proserpina. She’d been stolen from her home above and forced to marry Pluto and live in his world below. But fear or grief or remorse wasn’t what I saw on her expression now. She’d taken control of her fate. She’d become a queen in her own right. And she was stepping forward to greet and welcome the souls entering her husband’s kingdom.

The priestess rose from her kneeling position. She glanced at me and was about to walk right past when I asked her, “Why do you worship Proserpina and not Pluto?”

The priestess moved in her fluid way to stand and face the statue with me. “Because she rules the underworld.” Her voice was soft and pleasant.

“No, she doesn’t.” That wasn’t what I’d always been taught about the Roman gods.

“Trust me,” said the slim priestess, standing nearly a foot taller than me, as most patricians did. “She does.”

“How does she do this?”

The priestess faced me. I could barely see pale pink eyes behind the veil. “Because she rules her king’s heart. He will do anything for her. Therefore, supreme power is always in her hands. Not his.”

Then she slid away and disappeared down another corridor leading to the back of the temple while I remained pleasantly dumbfounded.

Without waiting another moment, I stepped forward and knelt before Proserpina, removing the cloth bag I carried with me. I’d borrowed the one that Stefanos used when gathering eggs for that was all I could find.

I pulled out four red geraniums. Kara had tended the pot of flowers that decorated the atrium of Julian’s home, and I didn’t think anyone would miss a few buds .

Two petals had fallen off but otherwise they were just as perfect as they were in Julian’s atrium. They reminded me of my baby sister, Kizzy. She loved flowers, always plucking them from meadows and adorning her hair, skipping along and smiling.

I say she was the baby, though she was only a few minutes younger than her twin, Kostanya. But Kizzy always seemed younger, so innocent and sweet. Kostanya was serious and watchful, the leader of the two.

My hands trembled as I placed the first flower before the altar of Proserpina where other offerings had been laid—food, flowers, even silver denarii, and promises to the gods scrawled on parchment.

“For Enid,” I whispered. “I pray you’ve found peace, my dear friend.”

Then I placed the second red bud on the floor.

“For you, Kizzy.” I pressed my forehead to the cold stone and whispered a prayer that Proserpina would look after her in the underworld as well.

Sitting straight, I said, “For you, Kostanya.” I thought of my solemn sister, who’d always watched out for us, mothering us when Mama wasn’t with us as we traveled. Then I placed the flower next to the first and pressed my forehead to the stone again, whispering another prayer.

I set the final flower as a tear slipped free. I was closest to Lela since the twins had each other. That night we were attacked, she’d looked so beautiful in the gown Bunica had made for her, love shining in her eyes as she gazed up at Jardani.

When the Romans in half-skin had charged into the wedding at the center of our village, I’d frozen. I’d seen the one who swiped a claw across Jardani’s throat, spraying blood on Lela’s dress while she screamed. Papa had jerked me aside and shoved me toward the woods.

Run! His voice echoed in my mind now. I’d instantly obeyed him, noting the flash of relief on his face, and through the tether I’d attached to him the second he’d grabbed me. I ran as fast as my legs would take me deeper into the woods, panting and sweating, then I sensed a sharp pain through the tether, and instantly after, I felt nothing. The connection severed even while I reached and grasped for it with my magic, the ghostly frays slipping away into the ether.

That was when the tears had begun to fall. My papa was dead. And the rest of my family with him.

Later, I asked every traveler from Dacia if they’d heard any news of my village. One man had scowled when I mentioned it, saying he’d heard of the attacks, having lived a few villages away. He’d said that part of a Roman legion was drunk on bloodlust and had used not only my village but also several others to gorge themselves. Something about dragon madness had overtaken them.

When I’d asked the stranger about survivors, he’d shaken his head and said, “No one survived.”

Sniffing at the memory of Lela’s lovely face, I pressed my forehead to the stone and let my tears fall on the altar of Proserpina.

“Please, mother of the underworld, queen of the afterlife, watch over my sweet sister Lela.”

Then I gathered my bag, wiped my face, and headed toward the exit of the temple.

Right as I walked through the columns, a wintry wind passed through me, kissing my flesh and bones, the scent of wildflowers swirling around me.

Pausing, I turned and looked. “Kizzy?”

For some reason, the ethereal touch felt and smelled like her. Peace was left in the wake of her scent. “Sleep well, my darling.”

Then I wiped my eyes and left the temple. The sounds of a cart rattling and people shuffling about and talking loudly brought me back to reality. Ivo stood straight and smiled as I approached.

“Let’s get home,” I told him, knowing I’d be leaving tomorrow morning for Moesia. Not that I had anything to prepare for. Still, I wanted to wash and pack a few tunics, what little I had .

We walked side by side at a leisurely pace out of the forum and past some other shops toward the road that wound up to Julian’s home.

A sound coming from a tavern pricked my attention. The familiar instruments called to me like a siren song. The soft clink of metal zills, keeping in tempo with a lute and a tympanum beating a slow rhythm. My body jerked at the memory of Rukeli and Yoska. I could still see their grizzled, smiling faces as we took the stage.

Instantly, I hurried to one of the three doors of the tavern open to the street. Ivo followed and stood at my back as I leaned in the doorway.

Disappointment washed through me when I saw the faces of the musicians. I didn’t recognize them as anyone I knew in Dacia, not in our village or the ones close by. And yet, they felt familiar, especially when they played that music. The sound of home.

Then the woman, a dark-haired Dacian dressed in a plain tunic, not the colorful wardrobe of our homeland, her slave collar fixed around her neck, stepped up toward the front of the makeshift stage. She clicked the zills and danced slowly in a circle, a memory of Lela dancing the same way twisting my broken heart.

Then the Dacian woman sang, and my heart shattered a little more. She sang in our tongue, not in the common Latin. I covered my mouth to hide my sob. I hadn’t heard my own language in so many years. I’d forgotten how beautiful the lyrical sound was, a sweetness I’d been without for far too long.

A Roman soldier walking by stepped up to the open door ahead of me to listen, but I’d heard enough of the song to know he shouldn’t be hearing it, even if he didn’t know Dacian.

Unraveling my tether, I latched onto him instantly, recognizing the authoritative presence at once. Without even thinking, I poured an unwarranted fear into him, whispering through the magic that something must be wrong at home, urging him there.

The Roman soldier instantly stepped away from the door and marched up the hill in a hurry. Relaxing, I turned my attention back to the singer. Instantly, her words hit my heart.

“What does she sing?”

I spun at the sound of Julian’s voice, and looking over my shoulder, I was surprised to see it wasn’t Ivo hovering at my back.

Julian’s steady, golden gaze held mine, a touch of sympathy in those depths.

“What words does she sing?” he clarified, since I’d done nothing but stare.

Turning back to the tavern, I noticed the audience was a mixture of slaves from different countries and a few plebeians, free Roman men and women. No soldiers, like the one I’d sent away. I focused on the singer, who could’ve been my mother. She bore the same regal face—a woman who’d lived hard, and loved hard as well.

She clinked the zills and twirled once, then began singing the chorus again in that slow, sonorous tempo.

“We live in the moment, for a stolen heart and a pretty face…”

“Malina,” he interrupted. “You’re speaking in Dacian. I don’t understand.”

Another tear rolled that I’d lapsed so easily into my native tongue, my heart yearning for home like never before. But some part of me wanted him to know the singer’s words, the hurt they caused as she sang them so beautifully. So I began again in Latin.

“We live in the moment, for a stolen heart and a pretty face… we stare into an abyss, with a brave soul and the gods’ grace.”

I swallowed hard as she paused. When she began singing again, I continued to translate for Julian, who’d eased closer, his chest pressing against my shoulder blade. My body automatically leaned back, needing his strength, needing someone to lean on and help me with this heartbreaking burden of loss.

“We must not imagine a future that cannot be… we must bow to the demons and cherish what they cannot see. ”

I stopped translating on the next line. My pulse quickened as he remained fixed behind me, his hand wrapping around my waist as he lowered his head to whisper.

“Keep going, Malina.” His words vibrated against my skin. “Tell me what the demons cannot see.”

The demons were Romans. The demons were him.

I listened to the Dacian singer until she’d repeated the lines again. I leaned back, pressing more fully to his chest. He stiffened and kept still as I continued on.

“For we have hearts greater than they know, that fire cannot burn, that spilled blood cannot show.” The Dacian’s voice rose with heavy emotion, and I translated the last. “No chains or pain will ever hold us here. If we ever hold the sword, it is us they will fear.”

The crowd erupted into a roar of applause, even the freeborn. That should’ve been a warning to him, that not all Romans felt truly free under his emperor’s reign. But Julian didn’t rage or seem angry. The tether between us remained calm and still. He simply squeezed my waist, then nudged me away from the tavern.

“Come on.”

I didn’t resist, walking at his side along the more deserted road to his home. Ivo was waiting not far ahead. He loped toward us, then followed behind.

The cheers grew more distant but her words were stamped on my very soul, burrowing into my bones like a charm. Then I suddenly worried for them.

“You aren’t going to punish them, are you? Turn them in?”

I felt his sharp gaze on me as we walked. “For singing? No.”

“For singing about rebellion.” She likely sang in Dacian knowing very few Romans would even understand her words.

“Malina, if they didn’t sing about a day when they’d be free, they’d be nothing but lifeless shells. ”

“Wouldn’t your emperor be upset if he knew slaves were openly singing about such things? Threatening violence to your kind?”

He paused and drew me to a stop, both his hands wrapping around my shoulders. There was no one on the road but us and Ivo, who suddenly stepped to my side as if to protect me.

Julian sighed and looked at him. “It’s all right, Ivo. We are only talking.”

Ivo stepped away and pretended to be enamored with a bush on the shoulder of the road.

I gritted my teeth, preparing for a lecture. But that wasn’t at all what he’d intended.

“The emperor won’t ever know,” he said gently, sliding his palms to my throat, one thumb brushing softly at the base where my pulse beat. “Do you know why? Because they sing in a foreign tongue he doesn’t know nor does he care to learn. And no one in that tavern would tell any of his men. No one there cares about coin or allegiance to their masters.”

There was a stinging behind my eyes. “I did,” I admitted, shame engulfing me. “I told my master.” The tears slipped free now. “I told you without any hesitation.”

“Oh, Malina.” He cupped my face now, wiping the wet trail from my face. “I won’t ever betray them.” His thumb stroked the crest of my cheek. “Or you.”

I wanted to laugh, because his declaration was so absurd. “You own me. That in itself is a betrayal. We are not equal . Not in the eyes of Rome.” I stepped back and pushed his hands away, the heat of anger and shame climbing into my cheeks, because I longed for his hands on me. I wanted them back the second I shoved them away. “I thank you for not betraying them”—I pointed down the road where we’d come—“but there is no bond or trust between you and me that can be broken. ”

Trembling with anger—at myself more than him—I stormed toward home. No, not my home. His home. My prison. I had to keep that in mind and stop imagining some connection between us. Even if there was, what did that mean? That I would live a quiet life at his heels, at his beck and call, and be happy with that?

The words of the tavern singer wafted around me as I marched up the hill. It was nonsense. A dream she conjured so they didn’t wallow in the despair of their circumstances.

Julian was right, which only incensed me more. If they had no hope at all, they’d simply wither and die like a flower.

Flowers. Kizzy.

A sob wracked my entire body, a tangible grief for all I’d lost hitting me hard. My clan, my parents, my sisters, Enid. I stumbled and fell onto my hands and knees, relishing the pain in one palm where I hit a rock too hard.

Strong arms were around me, lifting me. I struggled, knowing that familiar drugging scent, yearning for it. For him.

“No!” I kicked uselessly. “Don’t. Not you .” I cried harder.

“Ivo,” he snapped, then he was handing me over.

I stopped struggling as I was cradled in Ivo’s arms, burying my face and my grief-addled shame into his chest.

“Be sure Kara sees to her,” he ordered.

Ivo grunted and strode on. Then I felt the air crackle, and the distinct sound of bones cracking pulled me out of my stupor. I knew that sound.

“ Stop, Ivo,” I hissed. “Turn around.”

Ivo turned just in time for me to see a giant red dragon lift off into the air, beating his black-tipped wings, his regal horned head tilted toward the afternoon sky. His powerful frame knocked the breath out of me, even as he flew farther away.

“Gods,” I whispered, staring as he rose higher and higher, my entire soul going with him .

Ivo turned and continued on toward home, but my gaze was fixed over his shoulder on the dragon growing smaller in the sky. I suddenly felt bereft, realizing that perhaps he was going on his campaign without me. That I’d pushed him away.

Maybe it’s for the better, I told myself, wishing I believed it.