Crystal Warrior: Through All Eternity (Atlantean Crystal Saga Book 1) Page 12

  Long measured strides took the triumphant Rafid across the arena to the foot of the Temple steps where he was lost to the view of the watchers from above.

  ‘We’ll descend to the Sacred Pool,’ Archinus Ianthe commanded, and the two priestesses who attended her swung incense burners to sanctify the way.

  The chantresses now sang of the wondrous attributes and virility of Asar, and how Ist awaited his coming and their sacred nuptials with impatience. At the lowest step Ianthe sprinkled the Adonai with consecrated water from a jeweled golden goblet held by a white-gowned acolyte. Raising her arms she invoked the blessings of the Gods on the sacred ritual that was about to begin.

  Phryne was visibly trembling.

  ‘Give her more of the elixir. She must not faint,’ Ianthe said quietly and Meryan proffered the golden chalice.

  ‘I wanted it to be Prince Gotham. Now we don't even know whether he lives. There was so much blood,’ Phryne whispered, her head lowered.

  Ianthe fixed her with a stern glare and said sharply, ‘You are now Ist. What Phryne of Gadeirus thinks or feels is of naught until dawn on the morrow. It is Asar who awaits you at the Sacred Pool, whatever guise he wears. You see only Asar and as Ist you welcome him with joy.’

  The Archinus waited for Phryne’s acknowledgement before continuing.

  ‘You won't be offered the pleasure of arousal. That’s what the elixir is for. The Rafid will be lubricated to make it as easy as possible. That's Gynevra's role. Whatever happens, you must welcome him and show you appreciate his virility.’ Ianthe placed her hands on Phryne's shoulders then asked gently, ‘Are you ready to meet your sacred partner, Ist? Are you ready to be the Great Mother Goddess?’

  Looking deeply into the older woman's eyes and drawing on the power freely offered, Phryne nodded. Satisfied, the Archinus turned and led them through the hypostyle entry hall and out a side door to the peaceful serenity of the Temple gardens and the Sacred Pool.

  ‘Gotham will be safe in the Healing Temple, Phree,’ Gynevra murmured as they walked through a brilliant drift of prunus petals carpeting the pathway. ‘Chant the meditations and rituals. You're the Adonai and the Rafid is coming. Your womb is ripe for his fertile seed. You've undergone the crystal programming to make it so. He'll expect to find you thinking only of him, Asar, coming to you in the guise of the greatest warrior of all Atlantis.’

  ‘Sweet Ist!’ Phryne murmured, her gaze flying to the man approaching the far-side pool's edge with a white-robed priest a little behind and to either side of him.

  There had been a tremor of something close to fear in Phryne's voice. Gynevra remained silent for she knew her own would throb with an uncontrollable longing.

  Somewhere between the Plaza and the sacred pool King Cadal Isidor had been divested of horned helmet, leather war kirt, obsidian-studded belt and rawhide fighting boots. He now wore only the white robe and nine-knotted belt of an ennead Priest, his hair a rippling ebony cascade about his shoulders.

  Yet still was he more man than any man.

  Knowing eyes, the luminous black-green of moldavite, encompassed the Adonai and her attendants. Phryne captured his attention first. After all, Gynevra reminded herself, she was his prize and arguably the most beautiful of the three, with hair the color of corn-silk by moonlight and eyes the luminous sea-green of the shallow coral pools where it was said one might still encounter a Mer Maiden. But to Gynevra's shock and confusion, his glance swept over Phryne, then the golden-haired, blue-eyed Meryan, to settle on herself as if drawn there by some extra-physical force. The thought in his mind as their gazes met and held with the throbbing energy of a great fire crystal was explicit, rawly sexual, and never used in polite society. Yet it wasn't the word that shocked Gynevra to the soles of her feet. It was the clarity, the absolute connection one mind to another she'd never experienced with anyone other than her sisters without careful concentration and conscious mind-direction.

  Certainly never with anyone at first meeting.

  As the initial shock faded, heat flooded her cheeks. That word, she knew, even though she'd never used it, was a graphic description of what he'd shortly do to Phryne. But Gynevra also knew the moment his glance had fallen on her he'd wanted to do it to her, and only her.

  She’d have been his choice as he would've been hers.

  If either of them had a choice.

  Great and Ancient Cronos!

  Desperate to cut the connection, Gynevra dropped her eyes to the golden phial of sacred oil she held. It was her duty to anoint the man's seeding rod to ease his entry into Phryne's body. For the first time ever she came close to hating her sister in reality. Shocked and confused by the tide of passions raging through her, she clung to the golden phallus as if it could balance her, reluctant even to relinquish it to a priestess when they descended to the pool.

  As Ianthe and Priestess Githa began removing Meryan and Phryne's soft white linen gowns, Gynevra felt the cool hands of Priestess Allida performing that service for herself. Simultaneously two of the attendant priests on the opposite step dropped their robes to the paving and stepped forward to divest Taur of his.

  Gynevra forgot to breathe, forgot where she was or the purpose of her presence. Insensible to her own nudity, she could but stare at the noble proportions and absolute physical perfection of the Supreme Warrior of Atlantis. Broad shoulders with every muscle straining against copper skin defined and glistening with oil; rippling stomach tapering into taut, lean hips; warrior legs with solid, sinewy thighs and bulging calf muscles; and that part of him that made him a man proudly ready to claim the Goddess. He was now adorned only by the crystal-lasered tattoo of a fire-breathing Dragon Rampant above the right side of his muscular chest and a single tear-drop of black obsidian, his signature stone, suspended from a silken cord round his neck.

  With arms folded, eyes smoldering green and watchful beneath fiendishly arched black brows, and feet planted boldly apart on the white marble step, Gynevra thought it possible he'd cause one of the female party to swoon from just looking at him. Most likely herself!

  Phryne's cold fingers entwining with hers snapped her brain back to conscious awareness and a moment of stark mind-connection.

  ‘He's beautiful!’

  ‘He's so big!’

  ‘Oh Phree! He steals my breath.’

  ‘You! It's me who has to—’

  ‘Don't complain! I’d kill for the privilege!’

  ‘Gyn'a!’

  ‘Relax, Phree! I love you enough—just—to spare you.’ Gynevra flashed a strained smile at her sister. ‘Come, Adonai, your bath awaits.’

  Ianthe's voice lifted in the chant of the Purifying Invocation. The Adonai and her handmaidens stepped into the Sacred Pool as the three men entered from the opposite terrace. Deliberately taking the middle-pool side of Phryne, Gynevra kept her back to the Rafid's party and concentrated on the ritual cleansing and purifying of the Adonai. The melodic invocations of the priestesses floated across the water syncopated by the rhythm of sacred drums.

  The air was filled with sound. Even so, her body recognized and responded to every vibration of him in the atmosphere and in the water about her. Never had she been so aware of another human being—and now too, her own body. Praise Ist for the cooling action of the water on her blood! If she was to survive the rest of the day without disgracing herself in a public and humiliating fashion, she'd best keep her eyes averted from the naked splendor of Cadal Isidor.

  At the conclusion of the purifying chant all six mounted the southern terrace. While the attendants were re-clothed in their linen gowns with gold belts, Adonai and Rafid were clad in sheer gold-net God-gowns and ancient amethyst-studded, gold headbands. The rest of the sanctifying ritual performed within the Inner Sanctum of the Temple was a blur for Gynevra. Try as she might to concentrate on her role as handmaiden to the Adonai, there was an importunate, burning, vital part of her which could focus only on the moment her fingers would touch that part of Taur that made him so wholly male. />
  A moment drawing nearer with every breath she drew.

  Chapter 7

  The Plaza was swept clean and shadows were reaching greedy fingers across the mosaics when Adonai and Rafid returned to the Sacred Arena. They were carried in a golden litter high on the shoulders of the King's bearers. Gynevra wished their attendants had been accorded the same privilege. Her heart drummed with a deafening beat and her limbs dragged as if she were wading against the current in the river. Yet somehow she reached the Banquet Table of the Gods under the silk pavilion erected at the south end of the Plaza.

  Plucking a grape from a bunch on a beaten gold platter she put it in her mouth, savoring the explosion of acid sweetness on her tongue. But her stomach was churning too much to allow her to enjoy anything else. How could she banish all thought of Taur’s physical being from her mind, perceive him as the embodiment of Asar, respond to him with the reverence due to the Godly Presence when her body trembled with the anticipation of anointing his maleness?

  She should avert her glance but was constantly drawn to the perfection of his form, the fierce dark beauty of his warrior's visage and the luminous emerald knowing of his eyes. She'd never been so close to such male perfection. Only Phryne sat between them. Soon she would be even closer—

  He showed no hint of nervousness. But then it wasn't the first time he'd performed in sacred ritual. Though surely the very public nature of it must give him pause. As soon as the thought formed in her mind she looked up to find him leaning back in the great God-Chair watching her from orbs now as dark and unfathomable as the ocean.

  ‘I would forget King, people, all the Gods in creation were you laid on the altar before me.’

  Helpless to break the contact or stem the flood of heat to her cheeks, Gynevra hoped the priestess who'd come to speak to Phryne would linger. Fire flared in the dark green eyes of the warrior, fanning the flames of desire scorching through her veins to the deepest place in her woman's soul. With a similar searing clarity, his mind connected with hers.

  ‘You’re so beautiful. I have a great desire for you.’

  ‘I'm not as beautiful as Phryne—or Meryan.’

  ‘Perhaps—but you touch something within me. Your skin has the bloom of ripe apricots, your hair gleams like burnished bronze, and your eyes burn with the golden feral knowing of the wolves of my home mountains. My flesh aches to know yours—as does yours to know mine.’

  Threatening to dissolve into the power of his words, she clung, barely, to a shred of sanity. Finding refuge in her inherent DragonBlood pride, Gynevra forced her mouth to curve upwards in what she hoped was a mocking smile.

  ‘Such flattery is delightful, but untimely methinks!’

  ‘Desire is often untimely, Princess. The sun sinks.’

  ‘Then you’d do well to concentrate on the one whose body will receive your seed.’

  ‘Yet my thoughts remain with she who must anoint the sacred fertilizing rod of Asar.’

  In desperation Gynevra dragged her eyes from the raw challenge of his gaze. It made no difference.

  ‘The sun sinks, Golden One. I crave your touch.’

  Cloaba! It was talked of among the priestesses, this nirvana of the senses a DragonBlood sire could induce with a look, a word. They didn't warn us seriously enough, she thought desperately, commanding her limbs to stillness. She was snared by potent, mind-numbing energy.

  Urgently scanning the table for a distraction to block the wine-dark words from her mind, she reached for a bowl of small white peaches and offered it to Phryne.

  ‘Won't you try one, Phree? They look delicious.’

  ‘I doubt I can swallow. In fact I'm scared to eat anything in case I throw up!’

  With a sigh, Gynevra replaced the bowl. She was about to comment to Phryne on the abundance of the rare fruits laid before them when drums began pounding and the voices of the chantresses rose to invoke the blessing of the Gods on the sacred rite. As one, people rose from their seats around the vast courtyard, added the volume of their voices to the chant and flowed into the helical form of the serpent dance. The shift in energy was instantaneous and potent.

  Gynevra tensed. Her blood beat in deafening syncopation with the drums and the pounding of feet against smooth stone. Gradually the chanting faded to a distant hum, the beating of drums and feet to a faint, throbbing rhythm. Yet the softer, more controlled the beat became, the stronger, more forceful grew the energy. Ianthe motioned Rafid and Adonai and their attendants to the head of the serpent as it undulated towards them round the Plaza.

  The sinuous rhythm took over Gynevra’s mind, her body, her very heartbeat. None could dance the serpent dance and not be filled with the fire and passion of the ritual, not be stirred with desire. The yearning deep in her loins became an unbearable ache as her eyes fastened on the play of light across the rippling muscular body of the warrior-sculpted Rafid. Leading the serpent, clad only in the transparent gold net God-gown, he was more temptation than she'd ever known. Gynevra could only hope that by the morrow she'd no longer feel this burning desire for a handsome meilad cloaked in the golden energy of Asar.

  Spiraling to the top of the Hill of the Twelfth Needles, the serpent wreathed in and out of the golden pillars until the last spark of sunlight vanished behind the mountains. Coming to a halt, arms up-lifted to the west, the people raised their voices in the farewell hymn to Ra, invoking His blessing on the Joining of Ist and Asar. Finally they fell back beyond the pillars while the Adonai, the Rafid, their attendants and the priests approached the raised dais before the Sacred Altar.

  Gynevra’s limbs trembled so much it must be obvious to anyone watching. She tried to draw in slow, steadying breaths as she sensed Phryne doing at her side but her lungs were so full of panic there was no room for air.

  One of the priests carrying a large golden canister moved beyond the altar and poured oil into a stone basin set on a marble plinth. The Rafid stepped into the open space between altar and light-basin. The air stilled. For this moment alone must every Rafid have the training of a High Priest. His status and popularity depended as much on his ability to light the sacred flame with his bare hands, as it did on anything else he did this night. Every man who'd ever tried knew that to create the energy to ignite the oil, one must be as cool and calm as if one hadn't danced up a steep hillside or drunk deeply of huoda, a potent potion commonly called the Toast of the Gods. Nor could one permit anticipation to heat the blood. That must come later with the after-burn that seared the palms of the hands. Then could the Rafid shout in triumph, demand his homage from the people and his right to join Rafid-virility with Adonai-fertility, God to Goddess.

  Gynevra tried to focus on all the lessons, all the ordinary, banal words High Priestess Eleni had used to describe this part of the ritual. The silence of the moment was law, absolute. Dimly outlined in the shimmering golden God-gown, Asar took his stance facing holy Mount Atl, the palms of his hands pressed tightly together. The lighting of the sacred flame was a nightly occurrence in the Temple. Gynevra had learned to create the fireball energy herself. But to many of the watchers it was an act of pure magic, a wondrous moment when a flesh and blood mortal truly glowed with the aura of a God. Despite her understanding, on this night the magic touched her also.

  As the bolt of energy arced across to ignite the oil a collective exhalation of breath flowed around the hilltop followed by a soft hiss of awe as the naked beauty of Asar stood limned with gold in the flare of the great light. She might never breathe again.

  Gynevra began praying. Please Ist, I must not faint!

  ‘By the light of the sacred candle, Asar comes to Ist!’ Taur shouted. Shedding the net gown, he strode to the altar. God-like, he was ready.

  Meryan's harsh whisper recalled Gynevra to her duties. With shaking hands she helped divest Phryne of her golden gown. Then with arms upraised, joined her voice to the invocation of the final blessings on the sacred union.

  Taur's energy haunted the edges of her mind again. Gyne
vra focused on the words of the ancient orisons to thwart his communication. But as soon as the words were said she must anoint the sacred fertilizing rod of Asar and how would she stop him then? Ianthe, forbidding and unapproachable in her Archinus regalia, gave her the signal. Failure at this juncture would never be forgiven.

  ‘It's time, Gyn’a,’ Meryan whispered at her side. ‘You're strong. You can do it.’

  Sweet, knowing Mery! Gynevra looked into her sister's soft blue eyes for a moment. Gentle Meryan was as strong as any one of them and Gynevra drank desperately of that strength. Removing the stopper from the golden phallus she poured the precious lubricant into the palm of her hand.

  ‘Your hand trembles, your flesh burns to know mine. I know your touch will be as smooth as an apricot. I know if I were to taste your skin it would have the flavor of that rare and delectable fruit.’

  ‘I'm not listening to you.’

  ‘You hear me nevertheless! Know this, Golden One, when I enter the Goddess, in my mind it will be you I take. Every time I join with the Goddess this night it'll be because my body desires you.—Why do you hesitate? Anoint me, my beautiful Golden Apricot.’

  ‘Qaiz!—Or I'll never get this done!’

  Unable to resist a direct glance, she met a devilish smile in eyes green-black and fathomless as the night.

  ‘As you wish, for I become impatient and if you don't attend me quickly, I'll be beyond denying the impulse to make YOU my Goddess.’

  The outcome of such an event was unimaginably awful. Heart pounding in her chest, Gynevra reached for his jutting rod to smear it with the precious oil. But the instant her hand closed around him, she was lost.

  ‘Sweet Ist!’

  ‘Sweet indeed! Gently, Golden One. That's delicate flesh you handle. Now have done or we are lost!’

  Moving jerkily away from her, he stood to the side of the altar, eyes fixed on Phryne who awaited him on the other. Even so, Gynevra felt him usurping her thoughts.