PROLOGUE
“Gar.” The young man on the straw pallet shifted, his forehead furrowing at the sound of his name. The night was oppressive and warm, and her mortal was wearing naught but his smallclothes. Aristhre let her eyes roam his torso, her blood already heating like the air. “Gar, awaken. We haven't much time,” The man’s eyes finally cracked open. He raised a hand to push back the hair that had fallen across his face. It was almost shoulder-length, a longer and lighter brown than she remembered, and accompanied by a deeper tan than his skin had once borne. The sun had laid a kiss upon Gar during his long journey. She wanted to add her own kisses. “Aris?” His voice was slightly raspy. “Yes.” she stepped out from the shadows, close enough for the distant watch fire to pick out the gold in her hair. She was keeping her divine aura in check to avoid raising an alarm. “You look…different.” “The season has turned.” Her voice was breathy. She could feel the beat of her pulse in her throat. “My aspect has…ripened.” Aristhre ran a hand up along her stomach and cupped one breast. She gently squeezed it, noting with pleasure that Gar was fully awake now—in more ways than one. “Come here, my sweet.” He scrambled off his sleep pallet and she moved to meet him, pressing her palms against his chest as he wrapped his arms about her. She yearned to tell him that she'd missed him, but mortals weren’t the only creatures to suffer from an excess of pride. So she let her delighted gasp speak for her as his tongue brushed the hollow at the base of her neck. “I've longed to see you,” he murmured against her skin. His admission, given so freely, made her chest pulse with a new emotion she was afraid to name. So she gently pushed away and fixed him with a wicked smile. “I've been thinking, Gar. Thinking about how I might finally get you to pray to me.” Aristhre’s smile grew more wanton. Gar watched, eyes wide and hazed, as she slowly sank to her knees. But something was strange. The dirt beneath her yielded like a plush cushion. “Waait…” Gar’s voice dripped from above like melting wax. Around them the dry dust was fading and blowing away. “Whaat are those…chiiimess…” The campfire snuffed like a spent match, and all went dark. Aristhre’s eyes snapped open. The sound of delicate musical chimes filled the air. Above her lay the ornate vaulted ceiling of her bed chamber. Beneath her was bedding so sumptuous it was almost impossible to feel—had her skin not been so flushed and sensitive from that embarrassing dream. She was still in the First and Last Keep. Still in her rooms. Aristhre sat up. “I must stop sleeping,” she murmured. It was becoming a bad habit. The chimes showed no sign of slowing. Suppressing a huff of irritation, the goddess got out of bed and hastily waved a hand to call over a long silk wrap. She paused to let the floating material loop around her legs and torso, covering her nakedness with perfect drapery. Smoothing her long blond hair with another gesture, she headed for the entrance to her chambers. The man in the hall immediately stopped running his fingers through the circle of small metal chimes next to her door, and bowed. He wore a young handsome face, the sort that smiled like it was holding back a secret. Aristhre didn't recognize him, but she knew his rich umber robes at once. Her mortification deepened, and she fought to keep her expression remote. “Fethir,” she said. “Is aught amiss?” “You’ve been sleeping again, Lady of the Seasons.” She looked away. “Must we now seek your permission for simple rest?” His chuckle was deeper than expected, and she turned back to regard a much older face, perhaps that of a friendly innkeeper. “You know I welcome visits from all who sit at the Table of Ages,” answered the god whose domain was sleep and dreams, “but using my realm to commune with mortals is a tad brazen, my lady.” Aristhre stared at him. Inside she was a furnace of turmoil. Infinite unknown…that was Gar. The real Gar. We…our minds touched without my seeking it. “You know I readily grant such requests,” Fethir continued easily, “but decorum requires that you ask.” She swallowed. Then, lest a pause give away the unrest inside her, she nodded. “Of course you are right, my lord. I overstepped. I am sorry.” He nodded, now a ruddy-faced man with waist-length hair. “Apology accepted. Nothing more—” “Well. How interesting.” A voice like honey flowed down the corridor. Fethir turned to regard the new arrival while Aristhre struggled not to close her eyes in sheer vexation. The approaching women was the epitome of beauty. Even the sconces seemed to brighten as she passed them, as if eager to illuminate her dusky skin for the benefit of all. “I never see you two together. Is this a tryst?” Fethir was unperturbed. The goddess of love, beauty, and lust was well-known for saying such things. “We were discussing Aristhre’s latest visit to my realm, nothing more. Ladies.” He gave his final bow as a tall man with gleaming black hair, and walked away. Desora, of course, lingered. “Latest visit?” Desora’s eyes lit with curiosity. This time Aristhre couldn’t stop her teeth from clenching. “You’ve been sleeping?” “It has suited me to do so,” she returned evenly, forbearing to point out how laughable it was for Desora to feign coming across their conversation by chance. Any god here could transfer their essence to an intended destination with the simplest thought, and this goddess did not tread the halls of the First and Last Keep for the joy of walking. Desora was scrutinizing her. Even in contemplation her body held a promise of sensual motion. “How fascinating. Do you know, Aris, I think I will visit Caliah this season. You did invite me once upon a time, did you not? I’ve heard so many wonderful things about the night feast, dear sister.” Aristhre remained silent. To try to dissuade Desora would only make her more likely to attend. Nor would she mention that she didn’t like anyone shortening her name—save for one presumptuous mortal. Desora’s eyes searched her face intently. “Who knows what lovely…treats…I may happen across?” she said quietly. “As you will.” Aristhre gave a cold nod. Desora made a faint moue at being denied a show of emotion, but Aristhre suspected her sister would far prefer this chilled reception over the blazing furnace the goddess of beauty had stoked.
