Naamah's Kiss (59 page)

"I don't understand it," he announced out of nowhere. "You have a gift , Moirin. A gift no one else in the world possesses. Gods! You have the potential to do great things." He turned his frustrated gaze on me. "Why in the name of Blessed buggering Elua would you give it up to become Jehanne's lap-dog?"

The others kneed their mounts and jogged a discreet distance ahead of us.

"I didn't," I said softly. "Raphael, whatever gift I possess, it was never what you wanted it to be. It's not endless. I'm not endless. Using it as I was on your behalf was killing me slowly."

His nostrils flared. "And yet you're willing to use it on your father's behalf."

"Aye," I said. "Call me selfish if you will. I only just met him. I don't want to lose him."

"How nice for you to be given that choice," Raphael said bitterly.

I closed my eyes, remembering. The cold water, the uplifting arms, the ragged voice. "I'm sorry."

He lowered his voice. "One success in the Circle's endeavor could save a thousand fathers' lives."

"So you say." I felt weary.

"Oh, the prospects are real." Raphael rubbed his nose. "I've proof of it. The goddamned ants are coming out of hibernation."

I wanted to say that it was a trick, that the spirits they summoned were ancient and clever, and it was always going to be a trick. But in the back of my mind, I heard the black-maned lion Marbas' soundless roar, and the topaz gem he had placed in my thoughts winked. The charm to reveal hidden things, a gift unasked for. So I kept my thoughts to myself and said only, "I gave you my oath. I'll do as you wish."

"Good."

"Raphael" I wished there were some way I could reach him. "Why does it matter so much? Why do you want it so badly?"

He didn't answer for a moment. "If you have to ask, you'll never understand."

"I might if you told me," I said.

Raphael glanced at me, then looked away, his mouth hardening. "Practice your lap-dog skills elsewhere, Queen's confidante. I told you once before to stay out of my head. I'm telling you again."

"It might be good for you to speak of it," I murmured.

"Gods!" He raised his gaze skyward. "Why in Blessed Elua's name did destiny place you in my path if not for somewhat truly worthwhile? It makes no sense!"

My diadh-anam pulsed inside me, faint but insistent. "I'd like to know that myself."

"Well, you'll not find the answer in Jehanne's bed," he said in a cruel tone.

"Did you?" I asked pointedly. Raphael looked back at me, eyes darkening with anger. I held his gaze. I had as much right to be angry as he did.

In the end, he broke off his gaze. "This isn't conducive to healing. Better we not talk than quarrel, Moirin."

"All right."

The uncomfortable silence returned. We lodged at wayside inns. In the common rooms, the guards spoke quietly among themselves. Brother Ramiel told me tales of my father, trying to raise my spirits. Raphael was silent, attended by his manservant.

Two days later, under Brother Ramiel's guidance, we turned off the main road onto a narrow dirt track. It was near dusk when we reached the nameless hamlet. Folk turned out to gape at our fine attire and the guards in their livery of Courcel blue, pointing the way to the woodcutter's cabin.

It sat on the verge of the Senescine Forest, a humble building of expertly hewn logs. There was a chill in the air and smoke curled from the chimney. My heart thundered in my chest.

Before Brother Ramiel could knock, a woman opened the door. She was work-worn but lovely, tears in her eyes. "You're here! Elua be thanked!"

"He lives?" I forced the words out.

She hesitated. "His breath yet clouds a mirror."

Raphael was already in motion, dismounting and unlashing the bag that carried his medical supplies. He met my eyes and there was no hostility in his gaze, only a healer's intense concentration. "Come with me."

The cabin was small and cramped, warmed only by a cooking stove. The woodcutter bowed as we entered. A slender figure kneeling beside a cot on the far side of the stove rose, golden hair glowing in the dim light. A mirror flashed in her hand.

On the cot lay my father.

He looked like a newly dead corpse, frail and bloodless. His skin was translucent and the beautiful bones of his face were too prominent, the hollows of his eyes sunken. He was utterly motionless, not even his hest rising and falling. An involuntary keening sound burst from my throat.

"Moirin." Raphael caught my wrist. "Be strong."

I nodded.

Raphael borrowed the girl's mirror and knelt, holding it to my father's lips. After an eternity, it clouded faintly. "How long has he been this way?"

"Two days, messire." Her voice was low and steady despite the threat of tears in it. "I done give him all the medicaments and poultices that the physician the good Brother Ramiel sent gave us, but he only done worsened and worsened."

"You did very well," he said soothingly. "The infection in his lungs had taken too deep a grip."

I waited in an agony of suspense while Raphael examined my father, taking his pulses and listening to his chest, rubbing his hands together and hovering them over his body. The woodcutter's daughter eyed me with wonder.

"You're his daughter," she said in awe. "The Queen's witch." Aye.

"I never seen anyone like you," she said simply. "He kept asking for his daughter. Seemed to give him comfort when I tended to him. Can't think how he'd mistake us."

I spared her a glance. She was truly a rustic beauty, golden-haired and blue-eyed, clad in a homespun gown. "You tended to him with a daughter's loving care. I daresay that was what he sensed, and I'm grateful for it."

She flushed. "I done my best."

"Moirin." Raphael lifted his tawny head, his expression grave. "There's no time to waste. Are you ready?"

Panic washed through me. I pushed it away and sank to my knees beside him. I forced myself to cycle through the Five Styles of Breathing, drawing energy from the earth below me, the memory of the ocean, the trees around us, the embers glowing in the stove, and the very air itself.

Raphael rubbed his hands together, his gift rising and calling to mine. He splayed his hands over my father's chest.

"Now!"

I placed my hands over his and summoned the twilight, breathing it out.

I poured my energy into Raphael.

More.

More.

More.

We were three entities and we were one, conjoined. The water-wheel of my spirit's energy turned. I spilled into Raphael; he spilled into my father. Pushing, pushing at the thick congestion that clogged his lungs. Coaxing at the spark of life that lingered. The wheel turned and turned. I emptied myself heedlessly, turn after turn of the wheel. Golden warmth spilled from Raphael's hands. In a distant part of myself, I wondered what would happen when the stream ran dry. The stone doorway beckoned.

My father woke and coughed.

Raphael pushed harder, his brow beaded with sweat, damp hair hanging in his eyes. I poured the last of myself I had to give into him.

My father coughed again, wet and rattling. He rolled onto one side and the woodcutter's daughter was there holding a bowl to his lips, catching the endless flow of thick, ropy greenish yellow sputum that he coughed from his lungs, dispelling the vile infection. On and on it went until at last there was no more. With an effort, he opened his eyes. " Moirin ?"

I smiled at him. "Aye."

And then I slid sideways into darkness.

I lived and so did my father, although we were some days recovering. The woodcutter and his wife and daughter were more gracious hosts than anyone could have asked for. They made up a second cot for me near the stove, all three of them retreating to make their bed in the cabin's loft. Later, I learned that the hamlet came together to give lodging to Raphael and his manservant, Brother Ramiel, and the members of the King's Guard who escorted us.

Mostly, I slept.

When I awoke, I was glad. My father was alive.

He was thin and pale, but he had no fever and his lungs were clear, only a dry, hoarse cough remaining. Raphael came twice a day to examine him.

"Eat and sleep," he advised. "Regain your strength." His gaze settled on me, rueful and compassionate. "Both of you."

Slowly, slowly, the dry streambed refilled to a trickle.

The first day I was able to take to my feet, Raphael came to bid us farewell. "Your father's healing well," he said. "There's nothing more I can do for him. I reckon he'll be strong enough to travel in a few days. Your guards have procured a carriage. Just see that he doesn't exert himself and he's kept warm."

"I will," I promised. "Thank you."

Raphael hesitated. "Will you come outside a moment?" I followed him. It felt good to breathe the damp, fertile air. "Moirin" He took my hand. "I'm sorry things went so badly awry between us."

"So am I," I said softly. "I never meant"

"I know. I know you didn't. As for your oath"

Hope flared inside me. "Aye?"

He squeezed my hand. "Take as much time as you need to recover. I won't press you and I'll say naught to the Circle until you're ready. I'll await your word. All right?"

And hope guttered and died. "All right," I said with regret. "I'll send word when I'm ready."

He gave a brisk nod. "My thanks." With that Raphael de Mereliot took his leave. I watched him swing himself astride his horse, weak sunlight picking out the strands of gold in his hair, his long limbs moving with easy grace. He gave me a parting wave, then kneed his mount.

I went back inside, where I found my father awake. "De Mereliot's gone?" he asked.

"Aye," I murmured.

He reached out to pat the adjacent cot. "Come, sit. You're not steady on your feet." His green eyes regarded me, large and vivid in his pale, gaunt face. "Moirin, unless I'm mistaken, I've heard you referred to as the Queen's companion in the last few days. Or are my wits more fever-addled than I know?"

I sighed. "Nooo"

My father raised his brows. "We are speaking of Jehanne and not some other member of House Courcel?" I nodded. He laughed, then stifled a cough. "Well, that explains the coolness on de Mereliot's part. How in Blessed Elua's name did that come about? When I left, you were fretting over having bedded the Dauphin."