Empire of Women & One of our Cities is Missing (Armchair Fiction Double Novels Book 25) Read Online Free PDF

survived.  
    After
their going, the temple lay empty and waiting.   There were present only the young acolytes, a few of the superior
priestesses, and Celys, the present high priestess, to await the advent of the
conqueror and to render him homage.
     
    THE
ACOLYTES of Myrmi-Atla were gathered in the great main chamber of worship,
before a heroic stone figure of the All-Mother, where Celys led them in singing
hymns.   They were awaiting their fate,
and the furtive glances the young girls threw at the wide doorways for the
first glimpse of the inrush of the male conquerors were of two kinds.   For their contacts with men of any kind had
been nonexistent, and though they had been taught to fear all men of teachings
other than Myrmi-Atla’s, still nature herself made
their young hearts beat not only with fear but also with anticipation.   In the case of Celys, however, the occasional
glance she allowed herself would have betrayed her very real emotions to no
one.  
    The
expected rape of the temple seemed to have been delayed.   The hymns went on and on, and when at last
they heard the booted feet ringing upon the sacred paves of the dedicated
halls, and raised their voices in even more fervent appeals to the All-Mother,
the tramping feet came to a stamping halt some distance from the main
doorway.  
    A single
pair of feet moved close now, after a ringing command, and paused quite
reverently at the very center of the arched opening.   Just as all men of Phira who are devout must
remain without any chamber which contains an image of
the All-Mother enshrined, the booted conqueror remained.  
    Celys, her
face puzzled at this courteous behavior from the enemy, waved a hand to Eloi,
who took her place at the altar.   Then
Celys moved on silent, graceful feet to meet her fate.  
    There was
a lone man waiting at the door.   He was
big, scarred, hard, muscular .   He was handsome enough, she noted, his mane
of hair like curled golden wires in the lamp light.   His face was lined with creases of laughter
about the mouth, deep crinkles about the corners of the eyes, fierce lines of
anger and effort now relaxed.   The
observing eye of Celys caught them all.   His wide cheeks and heavy jaw were bronzed deeply, and his costume, she
thought, was far too swashbuckling an assembly of colors and metals to be
seemly for any but a blood-dyed pirate.   On each thigh swung a hand weapon of a design Celys did not recognize.   Had she known what those weapons had done and
could do, it is possible she would have dropped in a faint before him.  
    Celys put
him down as a man impatient of all restraint, a ruthless, domineering rogue
who used his looks and laughter only to disarm unsuspecting womankind.   She was sure the straight-seeming honesty of
his eyes was only a guise to outwit other rogues less clever than he.  
    Celys
stood just inside the white line that marked the border where no male foot
might treat without eternal damnation from the All-Mother, eyeing this monster
out of space with all the chill she could muster
against his smiling nonchalance.   Gan
waited, and she waited, each for the other to speak first.   Celys lost the struggle.  
    She shook
her head impatiently, stamped her slim, sandaled foot.   “What do you want?   Who are you?   Why are you here?”
    Gan did
not answer at once, but stood eyeing her and allowing an expression of
astonishment to spread slowly across his features.   At last he said, with exaggerated respect:   “I had
expected a much older woman, Mother Celys!   How old are you, anyway?   Not a day over twenty-five, by appearance.”  

 
    A FLUSH of
embarrassment and anger swept upward from Celys’ white neck, and her tongue
seemed to stumble as she snapped:   “My
age is my business.   It is also my
business to know what you are doing in the temple at this hour of the evening?   No male
visitors are allowed except between the hours of three and four in the
afternoon.”