Naamah's Kiss
Page 19

"You take care of yourself, dear." Lydia patted my cheek. "Remember us!"
"I will," I promised.
As maddening as they'd been, I watched them toddle away with a certain sense of fondness. I turned to find Theo leaning against the stable doorway, watching me.
"You were right," I said. "They weren't so bad."
"They would have felt differently if they knew what you are," he said quietly. "Do you really have lodging arranged?"
I shrugged. "I've an address."
He hesitated. "I'd be pleased to escort you there."
"No," I said slowly. "I think not. You made your choice."
"Forgive me." Theo stepped forward and brushed his lips against my brow in an awkward kiss. He gave me a rueful smile. "Somehow, I suspect FU tell my grandchildren about this encounter one day, Moirin of the Maghuin Dhonn. Whatever it is you're bound for, I'm sorry I wasn't bold enough to play a greater role in the journey."
"So am I," I said.
Theo bowed, exacting and formal. "Blessed Elua hold and keep you, lady."
"And you." With that, I left.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I hadn't lied to the ladies; I truly did have a fancy to see the City. Or more rightly, I had a fancy to see the great oak tree in Elua's Square, scarce glimpsed from the window of the coach. It grew in the very heart of the City and was said to have been planted by Blessed Elua himself.
It was old.
Very old.
The thoughts of trees grow slower and more ponderous with age. This was the oldest I'd ever encountered. Even at a pace away, its thoughts were silent. I stood beneath the vast green canopy and laid my hand on its bark.
"Hello," I said softly.
It was a long time before I felt the tree respond. Slow, so slow! And yet it had a tremendous awareness, greater than any I'd ever encountered. The oak tree remembered centuries. It was only a blink of time ago that Prince Imriel had scrambled into its branches, digging out a hidden gemstone. It remembered when there was no City, only a tiny village in a lush river valley.
It remembered Elua.
It remembered how he had cupped an acorn in the palm of his hand and smiled, turning to one of his Companions. And the Companion had smiled in reply and taken Elua's hands in his and blown softly on the seed.
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 no 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."
CHAPTER 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 swiftly 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.