Solace Arisen (16 page)

Degarius took her hand from where it rested on his chest over his heart and kissed her fingers, one by one. Did she know how beautiful she was and what it did to him? Though he’d dreamed of this night after night, his imagination was a damned inferior thing. It never really knew the intoxicating smell of her. How indescribably soft her skin was. The sensation ignited by her finger skimming down his chest. He reached around and undid the buttons she hadn’t been able to reach. Her back arched at his touch. He edged the dress from one of her shoulders. Her hand didn’t rush to return it to place. Instead, she flexed her shoulders together and allowed him to pull one sleeve, then the next from her arms. The dress fell in a pool about her knees.

He spread his jacket behind her, wadded his shirt into a pillow, then laid a hand to her shoulder and guided her backward until she lay on the floor atop the bed he’d made. Her hair fanned in glorious dark auburn waves over the white of his shirt. She titled up her hips and he eased the dress from her. The filmy, white chemise she wore underneath the dress reached midthigh. Her back arched when he lightly stroked from her knee to her breast. There was a Maker and a paradise, but they sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with being dead. Then, as he’d thought of doing a thousand times, he knelt straddling her thighs and started to push the chemise up when she held up a hand, palm out, as if she was going to say no. But she laid her hand on his stomach and traced down the fine line of hair to his breeches.

“I want to know,” she said.

“I do, too,” he replied and kissed her.

D
egarius woke to warmth, to the softness of her body curled into his, and went hard with desire. He wanted to love her again and again. Would there be any greater sweetness than to wake to this every morning of his life? He eased to his elbow. In the faint morning light, her hair was a dark tangle upon the pillow. Should he wake her? He reached to brush her hair from her neck to kiss it but then saw the chain around her neck and remembered where he was and why. She hadn’t forgotten. She’d been up during the night and put on the damned thing.

What the hell kind of man was he, taking her to the Forbidden Fortress to battle not just a draeden, but The Scyon? After his battle with the immature poison draeden, by some miracle, an old healer at the Outpost had saved his feet. He had nearly lost them, and when he first had to stand upon them, the pain was so excruciating that he almost wished he had. What would the fire draeden do to her? It was unbearable to imagine. What if she carried the beginning of their child? She wasn’t with moon blood, so it was possible.

He rolled to his back and the heat of her body dissipated from his. Why the hell couldn’t they just leave this mission to someone else? Hundreds of thousands depended upon them, but why and how had they become their responsibility? Why must they sacrifice their own happiness for others they didn’t love, or even know? Because fate had put the damn relics in their hands before they met. Perhaps if they just walked away from
this
, they would be happy together for a time, but blackness would eat their consciences and love once the draeden set upon the world. Damn it, why was he even thinking about this. What did she say last night? She wanted to know, know
before
...damn the Maker. She had never lain with a man. When she woke, would she regret it? Of course, she would. She was good. Though she gave up her novice’s ring, she never broke her vows until last night. She couldn’t even accept the necklace. How could she accept making love to a man who hadn’t promised to be her husband, had used her only for his pleasure?
Damn it, that’s not true.
Still, he hoped she regretted it, hoped she despised him, because he couldn’t bear a look of tenderness when he had to hand her into the coach this morning for the last time.

He eased out of bed. It was freezing. He found his breeches, pulled them on, then dropped to the floor to do his morning push-ups, but his coat was there and the memory of her lying upon it. He put on his blouse and the coat and then gathered her dress and chemise. Before laying them on the foot of the bed, he held them to his face to smell her body one more time. Then, as quietly as he could, he made a fire.

What time was it? He went to the window and widened the narrow slit in the drapery. It was snowing. Damn it all to hell. Snow. “We need to get going.”

The voice floated into Arvana’s half-awake mind. She thought she’d not slept at all, but here she was opening her eyes. The covers were thrown back from Nan’s side of the bed. Watery-gray morning light lit the room. As she rolled over, a cold spot in the sheets glided over her breasts, a sudden reminder that she was naked except for the Blue Eye. After Nan fell asleep, she’d gingerly moved his heavy arm from her chest and crept around the bed to retrieve the relic. If a thief stole in, she’d never forgive herself for what some would already say the Maker held as an unforgivable act.

Dressed, Nan was looking out the window. He’d made a fire and laid her clothes over the foot of the bed. He must have been awake for some time, perhaps already finishing the countless push-ups she’d seen him do every morning in Cumberland.

He hadn’t stayed in bed with her.

“It’s snowing,” he said without turning to her.

Snow? She hadn’t seen snow since leaving Sylvania. “Is there much on the ground?”

“Not yet, but I’d like to leave as soon as we can.”

Sitting up, Arvana held the blanket to her chest. It seemed ridiculous asking him to leave the room while she dressed, considering what happened last night. Still, she’d feel foolish climbing out of bed, naked and shivering. He was standing there, hands clasped behind his back, as if nothing had happened—or, as if everything had happened and staring out the window was all he could do. She couldn’t tell.

She grabbed the chemise, pulled it over her head, and unfurled it to her waist. She shimmied it over her hips. There, she could get up. She peeled the covers back and swept her feet to the floor. Brown dry blood streaked the inside of her thighs and bottom sheet. After the fire had dimmed, he'd lifted her to the bed and loved her again beneath the warm covers. She had ruined the sheets and her body was dirty. The ugliness of both stains embarrassed her. The lining of his coat, too, must be stained. It wasn’t moon blood; it wasn’t that time. It was the part of her body she’d once sworn to keep intact as a sign she’d not be distracted by lust from the purer love of the Maker. She smoothed the chemise down and yanked the covers over the bed stains.

Facing away from him, she stepped into the dress. As soon as she’d arranged the skirt, she heard him walking toward her. He’d been listening, waiting for her dress to be ready for buttoning. His fingers touched the bottom button, and she began to tremble. What if he wanted to love her again? He would see the stains. She held her body rigid, but she had to fight to keep her breathing calm. Any moment, he’d kiss her neck. He wouldn’t mind the stains. They were from his body, too. Her spine tingled in mixed dread and expectation.

His fingers just went from button to button. Perhaps when he reached the top he’d linger on her skin. But his fingers lifted, and she heard him step away. The tingling changed to a chill.

“One more thing.” She bent, picked up the necklace, and held it to him. A small hope glimmered that he’d close the clasp, and his arms, around her.

Without ceremony, he fastened it and walked away.

She crossed her arms tight across her chest. She’d been wrong at not taking him for his word that he gave her the jewels to atone for the burden Lina’s past put on her. Without turning to look at him, she said, “I need to wash. It won’t take long.”

“I’m going to order the coach. I’ll see if there’s any coffee,” he said and left.

From the trunk, she removed her toothbrush and the breeches and boots she was to wear under her dress—in case they needed to ride from the Forbidden Fortress on horseback. She sat the breeches on the bed.

At the washstand, she brushed her teeth. A cloth wetted, she lifted her skirt and dabbed at the stains from his body and hers. How had she come to this? To standing alone in a cold room in Gheria, wiping away remnants of a forbidden deed? How could she have felt so full and complete last night, but empty and alone this morning? Everything she’d learned in Solace had warned her against the destructive, soul-gnawing power of lust. She’d recalled the lesson just moments ago, but promptly forgot it again at his touch. She didn’t blame Degarius. She’d said she wanted to know what it was to be with a man, and he’d obliged, twice. There
was
truth in it, but who was she fooling? She did want to know, but not about what it would be like to lay with
any
man. Just him. Once, she had wanted so fervently to be a shacra, and now she was scrubbing the last bit of brown from her legs. Visions of Hell hadn’t stopped her. There, her thighs were clean, but were a raw red from rubbing. She folded the stains to the inside of the washcloth, laid it over the bowl’s rim, and took the comb she’d set out. Though the washstand had a small mirror, out of habit, she combed her hair without looking until the teeth caught in a snarl of tangled ends. As she leaned to the mirror to pick apart the knot of hair, she recalled how proud she’d been of her hair, how she thought Payter admired her for it. She’d gone on the sleigh without a hat just so the beauty of her hair would snare him. The teeth of the comb caught and snapped several hairs, but the tangle remained. By the Maker, it was a stubborn knot. She’d gone on the sleigh ride without a hat to show off her beauty. It had been nothing but trouble and vanity, this hair. It was what the superior should have taken from her. But she’d have looked like a prostitute with her hair shorn. They cropped their hair as a sign of cleanliness, not of sin. She wasn’t clean. The washcloth and bed sheets were stained. But if she cut her hair, severed the knot, she would be clean, free from the vanity that feeds lust.

The trunk still open, she found his shaving kit and took the razor. The blade was folded into ivory scales. Like everything he owned, it was simple but lovely and of high quality. Yet, he wasn’t owned by his things. He hardly seemed to note them. He was more a monk than she ever was a Solacian. His duty came before everything, even the home to which he did seem attached. She recalled the beauty of Ferne Clyffe, the pleasing way he’d situated the barns and the pretty bridge he’d had built after Lina passed. It was no sin to build a place that elevated one’s spirit here on this earth. What else was Solace? At the remembrance of the place, and how the draeden burned it, the reason why she was in the Gherian inn wormed its way back to the fore of her mind. She had to be quick about what she wanted to do; he would be waiting to leave for the Forbidden Fortress. After unfolding the razor blade from its ivory scales, she parted out a section of hair, held it out from her skull, and brought the razor to it. Finally, she’d have forsaken everything. Though she wore a fine dress and jewels, they didn’t belong to her and she didn’t desire them. Certainly, she didn’t desire the Blue Eye. She touched the band of his ring. No, she didn’t want that, either. Then, it struck her it was the only thing she hadn’t removed last night. Grief swelled behind her eyes, making her head feel ten times heavier than she’d imagined it was by being burdened with hair. She placed her thumb upon the top of the blade to refold it when the door opened behind her.

Rapid footsteps approached.

She lowered the still-open razor to the table as she fluttered between the joy of him returning and embarrassment about the razor. What was she to say on either account?
Oh Ari, what does it matter.
He was back. She turned around.

The one-eyed Gherian captain was a blur of motion before her. He pressed his hand over her mouth, then pushed her into the table and bent her spine.

She felt for the razor, grasped it, and brought it to the small of her back.

“Don’t yell,” he whispered in Gherian, his breath bitter with coffee.

As she nodded, she brought the razor around, aiming to get in at his neck from beneath where he’d raised his arm to hold her mouth shut.

He lowered his elbow, knocking the razor off course. With his free hand, he grabbed hers and squeezing hard, wrenched her wrist to point the blade’s edge toward her face. She had to stop fighting. If her strength failed, the blade would gouge her. He guided it almost effortlessly to her eye. The blade was so close it was a blur. “Scream and I cut your tongue out. I have cut out the tongues of fifty men. I know how to do it.”

The socket of his missing eye puckered as he narrowed his good eye at her. “I hate cabinetmen and heathens. A heathen girl took my eye. A fine Gherian blue eye.” He kept talking, but the words began to come too fast for her to understand.

To gain a space from the blade, she arched back even more over the table. He moved the blade from between her eyes, to her lips, then back to her eyes. His single eye danced its gaze between her eyes and lips. His mouth twisted with wicked indecision. He was trying to decide whether to put out her eyes or cut out her tongue first.