Kushiel 03 - [Moirin 01] - Naamah's Kiss Read online

  Anael, the Good Steward.

  A little green tail had split the shell of the acorn and wriggled free. Together, Elua and Anael had planted it here.

  “So long ago?” I marveled.

  So long ago.

  I bent my brow against the rough bark. “You’ve seen so much.”

  The oak agreed.

  And someone stole my purse.

  “Oh, gods bedamned!” I felt the tug at my waist as my purse-strings were severed and raised my head in outrage. A wiry youth dashed across the square.

  I was angry enough at both myself and him to set out in pursuit. I summoned the twilight without thinking and set out after him at a quick trot, dodging D’Angelines strolling in the square. I might not have known the City, but I was a good tracker and I managed to keep the lad in sight. Sure enough, after turning down a couple of streets, he glanced over his shoulder and slowed down, seeing no one behind him. He smiled and tossed the purse in the air and caught it, clearly satisfied with himself.

  I meant to get it back. Although it was not so very much money and I had the letter of credit Caroline nó Bryony had given me, I’d no idea if it would be honored as promptly as my claim in Bryn Gorrydum, where Alais the Wise herself had established the fund. And I’d learned enough on my journey to know that the last thing one wanted to do was start out penniless in the City of Elua. I stole closer, concentrating on the lad. I drew nearer, only a block behind him. I didn’t intend to harm him, only to snatch the purse back. It would give him a scare that would serve him right.

  I was so intent on my task, I didn’t heed the carriage rounding the corner ahead of me.

  To be sure, its driver didn’t see me.

  Later, I would learn that it was travelling at a goodly pace, mayhap faster than it should have been in the City. And I would learn that the horses veered, sensing my unseen presence. The carriage struck me nonetheless, knocking me off my feet and onto a hitching post outside a wineshop. The impact jolted me backward and I fell, hitting my head on the street.

  Then, I had only the shocking sense of a series of mighty blows and the world whirling around me, going from twilit dimness to dizzying brightness, then darkness.

  There were voices in the darkness.

  “—came out of nowhere! Swear to Elua, my lord!”

  “No, no. Don’t move her, Denis.”

  The darkness retreated, pain surging in its wake. I was lying in the street. My chest was filled with searing pain and it was hard to breathe. A man knelt beside me. He was so beautiful I thought mayhap I was dead or dreaming.

  “Lie still.” His voice was deep and soothing. “I’m afraid my carriage struck you. Can you breathe?”

  Barely. I mouthed the word.

  He nodded. His eyes were grey like Cillian’s, and utterly unlike Cillian’s, intense and stormy. “Slow and shallow. Try to relax. I’m going to feel for injuries.”

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on easing a meager bit of air in and out of my lungs. He felt me all over, his touch deft and light and expert.

  “Can you move your head?” he asked.

  I tried. I could, but it set off new waves of agony throbbing at the back of my skull, which in turn made me feel sick. For a moment, I thought I might vomit and choke on my own bile.

  “Easy.” He placed his fingertips on my temples and peered into my eyes, tawny hair framing his face. “Name of Elua, what are you?” he murmured to himself. I couldn’t answer and didn’t try. “All right, listen. I fear you’ve dislocated a rib. I’m going to attempt to maneuver it back in place. Can you lie still without struggling?”

  I blinked in affirmation.

  “Good girl.” He turned to someone else. “Denis, come here.” He raised my left arm over my head. If I could have screamed, I would have. “I’m sorry,” he said in his soothing voice. “I know it hurts. But I promise you, I know what I’m doing. Denis, pull lightly on her arm. Lightly.”

  Oh, stone and sea, it hurt!

  “You’re very brave.” The tawny-haired man fished my signet ring on its thong from my gown. My eyes widened in alarm. “It’s all right, I’m just moving it out of the way. A family heirloom, is it? We’ll make sure it’s safe.” He glanced at it and went still. “Nevil.” His voice was tight. “She had a bag. Find it.”

  “Aye, my lord,” a third voice said.

  “Right.” He turned back to me, then closed his eyes and rubbed the palms of his hands together, murmuring a prayer. When he opened his eyes, they were more intent than ever. “Relax as best you can and keep still.”

  He put his hands on me.

  Warmth radiated from them. It felt like golden sunlight spilling over my skin. Even through the pain, I could feel pleasure in it. He felt along my ribcage, pressing first with his fingertips, then with the heel of one hand, slow and steady.

  Something inside me moved.

  Of a sudden, the pain in my chest diminished and I could breathe. I took a deep, relieved gasp, then another and another. Air had never tasted so sweet.

  The tawny-haired man smiled. “Better?”

  I nodded, which was a bad idea. My stomach lurched and a scalding tide of sickness rose in my throat. I turned my head and retched.

  “Oh, hells!” the man Denis swore. “You owe me a new pair of breeches, Raphael.”

  “My lord?” The coach-driver’s voice, high and strained. “I found her bag. You’re going to want to see this, my lord.”

  “Stay with her, Denis,” the tawny-haired man advised. “If you’re inclined to chivalry, I’d suggest you put your doublet beneath her head, and I’ll stand you the cost of a whole new outfit.”

  “You’re being almighty solicitous of some half-breed street urchin,” Denis grumbled, although he obeyed.

  The doublet was soft beneath my aching head. I closed my eyes and focused on breathing, fearful I’d vomit a second time. I heard the tawny-haired man—Raphael, the other had called him—utter a startled oath, then confer with his driver in hushed tones. The world went in and out around me. When I opened my eyes, he was leaning over me.

  “Moirin?” he asked.

  I gave a faint nod.

  “Moirin mac Fainche of the Maghuin Dhonn?” His voice was low and steady. “Descended from Alais de la Courcel and Conor mac Grainne?”

  “Aye,” I whispered.

  “Blessed Elua bugger me!” Denis exclaimed. “Are you jesting?”

  The man Raphael ignored him. He laid a gentle hand against my cheek, that wonderful warmth still radiating from it. “You’ve taken a hard blow to the head, my lady, and I’m worried that rib could have punctured a lung. As you’ve seen, I’m a physician trained in the healing arts. With your permission, I’d like to take you to my home to recuperate. I promise, you’ll be treated with the utmost of solicitousness. Is that suitable to you?”

  All I wanted was to clutch his hand against me and sleep. “Aye.”

  He took his hand away. “Good girl.”

  TWENTY

  I woke to sunlight.

  I was lying in a strange bed. My head and my ribcage hurt and my memory was hazy. I fought down a surge of panic and made myself breathe slowly. When I’d regained a measure of calm, I levered myself upright.

  There was a balcony opposite me, the doors open onto daylight and fresh air. Good. That meant I wasn’t trapped. I looked down at myself. I was clad in a long-sleeved shift of the softest white linen I’d ever felt, trimmed in lace as delicate as foam.

  My purse.

  It was the first memory to surface—the tug at my belt and the fleeing thief. I glanced around in alarm. My head spun and my stomach rebelled. For a mercy, there wasn’t much in the latter. I gagged and coughed, but managed not to vomit.

  The door opened. “Moirin?”

  It was him—the tawny-haired man. Bits and pieces of memory came back to me. The street, the carriage. The marvelous warmth of his hands. He’d taken me home, he and his companion.

  “Do you need the pail?” He moved swi
ftly across the room and picked up a shiny silver pail, holding it under my chin. “Go ahead if you need to be sick; there’s no shame in it.”

  I swallowed. “I’m all right.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I nodded and licked my lips. They were very dry. “Thirsty.”

  “Ah.” He smiled and set down the pail. “That’s a good sign. Here.” He poured water from a porcelain ewer into a matching cup and handed it to me. “Sip it slowly.” I did. It was almost as good as the water I’d drunk after I’d seen the Maghuin Dhonn Herself. The tawny-haired man pulled up a stool with a cushioned seat and sat beside my bed, watching me. “How do you feel?”

  A vision of Cillian’s dented skull flashed behind my eyes. I felt sick again, the cup shaking in my hands.

  “Easy, child.” He plucked the cup from my hands. “I’m going to examine you. All right?”

  I nodded again.

  His name surfaced in my memory: Raphael. It was familiar somehow.

  Raphael rubbed his hands together as he’d done the day before. He felt delicately at a tender lump on the back of my skull. Warmth flowed from his touch. He cupped my face and turned my head gently from side to side, peering intently at me. “No bruising to the eye sockets nor blood in the ears.” He gave me another smile. It was a very nice smile, brightening his storm-grey eyes. “That’s a good sign, too, Moirin mac Fainche. It means you’ve not cracked your skull. You’ve a hard head, it seems.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I murmured.

  His hands skimmed my ribs. “Oh, indeed? Well, all’s where it ought to be. May I listen to your lungs?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “To determine if they’re whole and uninjured.” He whistled softly. “That’s the sound we don’t want to hear, my lady.”

  I shrugged. “Go on, then.”

  Raphael pressed his ear to my breast. “Breathe deep, as deep as you can.”

  I obeyed, acutely conscious of his nearness. He closed his eyes and listened intently. The sunlight picked out golden glints in his tawny hair. As confused and miserable as I felt, I yearned to run my fingers through it.

  He sat upright and grinned. It made him look younger.

  “No whistle?” I asked.

  “No whistle,” he confirmed. “I’ll need to examine your urine. Do you think you might manage to use the chamberpot?”

  “What?” I wondered if this was some unique breed of D’Angeline perversity.

  “To make certain there’s no blood in it,” Raphael said in clarification. “A hard blow to the midsection such as you sustained may cause damage and bleeding to the organs, my lady. Since I cannot cut you open to see, an analysis of the vital humors is crucial.”

  I sighed. “All right, then.”

  “Do you need assistance?” he inquired.

  I glowered at him. “No!”

  He pulled a decorative chamberpot from beneath my bed and left me with a polite bow and a promise to return. I clambered out of bed with an effort, hiked up the skirt of my shift over my bare legs, and settled myself on the chamberpot.

  There, I pissed.

  For as much as the rest of me hurt, it felt good. I sighed with pleasure, relieved of a pressure I hadn’t recognized. From my vantage point, I could see that while my purse was gone, my satchel rested near the bed, grimy and valuable due to the papers it held. And there, too, was my bow and quiver. All was not lost.

  The stream of my piss rattled against the chamberpot. When I finished, I poured fresh water into the nearby basin and washed my hands and face, then I clambered back in bed.

  “Moirin?” Raphael called.

  “Aye?” I drew the sheets to my chin. I’d never been one for modesty, but I felt weak and vulnerable in this situation.

  “Well done.” He entered smiling, and to my everlasting chagrin, smelled at the pot, tilting it and studying my humors. “It looks good. Do you think you might be able to take some broth?”

  I consulted my belly. The water seemed to have settled it. “I do.”

  He picked up a bell on a night-stand table and rang it. A man-servant appeared in prompt response. When Raphael ordered him to empty the chamberpot and tell the cook to send up a bowl of simple broth, he bowed in assent.

  “I don’t want to trouble you, my lord,” I murmured.

  “It’s no trouble.” He sat back down on the footstool, studying me with those intent grey eyes. “But I must own, I’m curious. Surely, you’ve D’Angeline blood in you more recent than Alais de la Courcel’s era.”

  “My father,” I agreed.

  “Truly?” Raphael raised his brows. “However would that come about?”

  “Is it so hard to believe?” I asked, insulted.

  “No, no.” He raised his hands. “I didn’t mean it thusly. It’s only that I thought the Maghuin Dhonn were a… let us say a singularly private and solitary folk.”

  “Say what you mean, my lord,” I said with resignation. “Savage and barbaric? Sly and uncanny? Mysterious and dire?”

  He touched my cheek. “Mysterious and uncanny, yes. At the moment, you don’t appear particularly dire.”

  It drew a reluctant smile from me. “No?” I prodded the lump on the back of my skull. My hair was matted with dried blood. “To be sure, I’m feeling rather dire.”

  He laughed.

  A maidservant arrived with a tray. She peered around Raphael with wide eyes when he went to take it from her. Despite my protests, he insisted on feeding me himself as though I were a babe too weak to hold a spoon. After the first few bites, my appetite returned and I finished almost the entire bowl. When I was done, I found myself sleepy and yawning. When I apologized to Raphael, he shook his head.

  “Sleep’s the best healer.” He laid one hand on my brow and felt at the pulse in my wrist with the other. “You’re young and strong and like to recover. Sleep, and I’ll look in on you in a few hours. If you’ve need of aught, ring the bell and someone will come.”

  “All right.” I settled my aching head against the pillows. As he made to draw away, I caught one of his hands and stroked it. Somewhere beneath the pain and weariness, desire waited, coiled inside me. I saw it reflected in his surprised gaze and smiled. “My lord, for all your kindness, you’ve not given me your name.”

  “Raphael,” he said softly. “Raphael de Mereliot.”

  “Stone and sea!” I blinked. “You’re the Queen’s favorite courtier. The one who thinks the Academy ought to explore more than the philosophy of magic.”

  He stared. “How in Blessed Elua’s name did you know that?”

  “Oh, I had a long stagecoach ride.” I yawned. “And you’re quite the preferred topic of gossip, my lord—you and her majesty.”

  “Are we, now?” Raphael de Mereliot’s tone was dry. He stood and gazed at me, his expression unreadable. “Wait until they get wind of you, Moirin mac Fainche.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  I slept for most of my first full day in Raphael de Mereliot’s home. By the second day, I felt much better. My ribs ached and the lump on my skull was tender, but the dizziness and nausea had passed and I felt stronger. By midday, Raphael agreed that I might eat solid food and have a bath afterward.

  “No vigorous scrubbing!” he warned me. He laid his hands on my ribcage. “You’ve got to keep still to let the tissues heal and hold the bone in its proper place.”

  “Aye, my lord,” I said innocently. “Would you prefer to scrub me yourself?”

  His grey eyes darkened, but he merely shook a finger at me. “Be a good girl and heed your physician’s orders.”

  Stone and sea, that bath was a glorious thing! The tub was a vast marble affair with gilded feet in the shape of leaping fishes. I couldn’t begin to imagine how many buckets of water it took to fill it, nor how much wood to heat the water. At the moment, I didn’t much care. I only knew it was bliss to sink my aching body into its warmth.

  A maidservant too shy to meet my gaze gave me a ball of soap and a soft cloth. The soap
smelled of lavender and had the image of a flower impressed on it. It lathered beautifully. I washed myself all over, careful not to make any abrupt movements. When I was done, I soaked the matted blood from my hair and washed that, too. Afterward, the maidservant gave me a robe of thick satin to wear—vivid sea-blue worked with gold in a repeating pattern of two fishes, nose to tail in a circle.

  “Better?” Raphael found me back in his guest-chamber, sitting on the footstool and running a comb through my wet hair.

  “Oh, aye.” I maneuvered the comb around the sore place. “Much. Do you know where my clothes have gone to? My own clothes? They weren’t in my satchel.”

  He perched on the edge of the bed. “You don’t care for the robe?”

  I glanced down at it. “I do. But—”

  “It’s the crest of House Mereliot,” Raphael informed me. “We’re a very old house descended from Eisheth’s line.”

  “Eisheth.” I put down the comb. “She brought the healing arts, and… music to the folk of Terre d’Ange, aye?”

  “Aye,” he agreed, mimicking me.

  “I know, I know!” I sighed. “Only vulgar common folk say aye. My clothes?”

  Raphael laughed. “Your clothes, such as they are, have been laundered and are drying. You’ll have them back soon. Are you in such a hurry to leave?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I’d like to feel I could, that’s all.”

  He sobered. “Of course you do. I’ll have them sent up straightaway. But, Moirin…” He hesitated. “You’re a descendant of House Courcel. You can’t run about the City clad in threadbare rags.”

  “Yes, my lord,” I said dryly. “That, too, has been made abundantly clear to me.”

  Raphael ignored my tone. “Forgive me for prying, but I noted you’d a letter of commendation for a couturier at Atelier Favrielle in your things. With your permission, I’d be pleased to contact them on your behalf.”

  “You don’t think they would refuse me?” I asked.

  “No.” His mouth quirked. “I don’t.”

  I cocked my head at him. “Would it please you?”