Thief of Light
Page 43
“Am I?” She took a restless turn around the room. “You’ve hated yourself all these years, locked yourself in a prison made of rules, a personal honor code so rigid you couldn’t let anyone close. You told me that yourself.”
“Honor? After what I did—”
“Godsdammit! Will you get past what you did?”
Dumbfounded, Erik shook his head.
“Think about it.” Prue’s voice softened as she drew him down to the couch. “The cost was Inga’s life, but the result was an air wizard with iron control, a man morally fit to be one Side of the Great Pentacle.” She gazed earnestly into his face. “You’re the most honorable man I know, Erik. You risked your life for mine.” Her lips trembled as she smiled. “It’s yours now. You might as well keep it.”
Gods, was he going to faint? Spots danced in his vision. “Does that mean you forgive me?”
Prue hesitated and his heart sank. After an age, she said, “It’s strange. I’ve little use for the gods, but there’s a piece of scripture I’ve always loved. The Bridal Gift of the Sister. It’s a prescribed text for the religious education of adolescent girls.” Pink rose in her cheeks. “I’m not always good with words, not like you. Will you listen?”
He nodded.
Prue took a deep breath. “Courage is the gift of the Brother,” she began, “but love is the gift of the Sister. On the night They were wed, the Sister knelt before Him—Brother, Husband, Lord. ‘True love is My gift to You, Beloved,’ the Sister said.”
Slowly, she reached out and grasped Erik’s hand.
“She touched Her starry eyes. She said, ‘True love sees what is—the good, the bad and all that is between. Because love loves.’ ”
Something was rising inside him, something spiky and painful, struggling to be free. Erik tightened his grip on her fingers.
“The Sister offered Her wrists and cruel ropes appeared, chafing Her silky skin. ‘True love can bear anything, endure anything. Love goes on hoping to the edge of forever. It never gives up. Because love loves.’ ”
Prue twisted to look into his face. Tears welled up in her beautiful eyes, spilling over her sooty lashes. Her nose was pink. “Do you see?” she whispered. “Love loves. Do you see?”
Wordlessly, he nodded. The spiky feeling had climbed as far as his throat.
Her husky voice was relentless, shoving the beautiful words at him. He was going to shatter, fly to pieces . . . He buried his fingers in the silken mass of her hair.
“The Sister touched Her sweet breast. She said, ‘True love is patient and kind. It seeks not to alter the beloved. Because love loves.’ ”
“Stop, Prue, stop. I can’t—I’m going to—”
“There’s not much more.” Her smile shone brilliantly through the tears. “Reaching out, She took His hand and placed it upon Her head. ‘Faith is mighty, Hope is great. But when all else is gone—sense and knowledge, and life itself—True Love alone remains.’ ”
Erik shook like a leaf in a gale. A grating cry forced itself out of his throat, hurting all the way. Then another, and another. His vision blurred.
“Let it go, love,” whispered Prue, wrapping her arms around him. “I’ve got you.”
Her voice resonated, clear and confident and very, very sure. “Rising, She clasped the Brother to Her breast and His tears dampened Her hair. ‘Because love loves.’ ”
Erik rested his head against her sweet breast and wept until there were no more tears left in him, deep, wracking sobs that shook his whole frame. Peripherally, he was aware of her fingers stroking his hair, her voice whispering endearments, her arms cradling him like a child.
The storm didn’t last long. Digging in the pocket of her robe, Prue found a handkerchief and handed it over. His practical Prue. It nearly set him off again. His eyes were gritty and he felt so light, so scoured out, he could have used his own Magick to float himself to the ceiling.
“Better?” asked Prue.
He cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“Then come to bed.” Taking his hand, she led him into the other room.
She’d known it would be a hellish night, and she was right. Prue lost count of the times she woke with a start, staring wildly into the dark, her heart drumming with formless horror. And then she’d remember.
Erik lay beside her, holding her tight, as if she were a talisman against the dark, his last and only refuge.
She’d stroke his hair, his arm, his back, and listen to the steady rhythm of his breath. Her heart ached—for Inga herself, for her family and the lover who’d lost her, for Erik’s mother and his brothers. So much havoc and grief, all wrought by the actions of a foolish, feckless boy given a burden too great for him to bear.
Who knew who had suffered the greatest pain? How did you measure?
Hot tears slipped out of the corners of her eyes and trickled into her hair.
True love can bear anything, endure anything. Soundlessly, she formed the words. Love goes on hoping to the edge of forever. It never gives up. Because love loves.
Prue gave a wry smile. It appeared she was no longer quite so skeptical about divinities. Perhaps one day, she’d meet Erik’s Dark Lady. She looked forward to it. Oh, how she’d love to give the goddess a piece of her mind!
In the final analysis, it was simple. Erik Thorensen was who he was, the totality of every experience in his life. The gods had formed his character in a crucible of suffering, honed him ruthlessly for a purpose she scarcely understood.
Faith is mighty, Hope is great. But when all else is gone—sense and knowledge, and life itself—True Love alone remains.
So be it.
Resolutely, Prue closed her eyes, and this time, she slept.
Grumbling under her breath, Prue patted the cold space beside her in the bed.
Reluctantly, she pried her eyes open. It was near dawn. The light had that special cool, gray quality. Rustling sounds and the occasional mumble came from her office and she relaxed, relief making her a little dizzy. He sounded somewhat preoccupied but no longer distressed. Thank the Sister. Rolling over, she buried her head under the pillow.
Tap, tappity, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
What the—?
Crossly, she belted on her shabby robe and padded out into the office.
Completely nude, big and golden, Erik sat in her office chair, scribbling on the back of an unpaid invoice. The Sister knew how she was going to explain to the merchant. With his other hand, he was tapping out a rhythm on the surface of the desk.
Disarmed, Prue took a moment to admire. “What are you doing?”
“Hmm?” Tap, tappity, tap.
“I said, what are doing?”
He looked up, the sea blue eyes vague and distracted. “Oh, it’s you. Good. Say it for me again.” He poised the brush over the paper, oblivious to the big drop about to fall from the tip.
Prue struggled through the mists of sleep. “Say what?”
“The Bridal Gift of the Sister.” His eyes shone. “I woke up with the perfect melody in my head. But I need the words.”
“You’re writing music?”
“Hmm.” He frowned down at the blot spreading across her invoice. “It’s coming, but only in bits. Driving me mad.” When he tugged at his hair, he left ink streaks behind, a smear on his cheekbone. “A boy treble and a tenor, I think. Though a soprano would be good too. Maybe a bass for the Brother. Shit.”
With an exasperated sigh, Erik closed his eyes and hummed a few bars of something that rose and fell in an aching minor key. Even to Prue’s untrained ear, he sounded completely different, tuneful, but . . . ordinary, the sort of voice you’d hear in any drawing room. In spite of it, her heart lifted. The Voice had gone, but the core of his music, the joyous, healing heart of it, was still there.
Tap, tap, tappity, tap.
“Erik?”
A grunt. Tap, tap, tap.
“Rose has a hymnal. Shall I swap her the cuffs you gave me for it?”
The blond head didn’t lift. “Hmm.”
“Godsdammit! Prue!”
Laughing, she turned to face the door.
IN CASE YOU MISSED THE FIRST
BOOK IN THE FOUR-SIDED PENTACLE
SERIES BY DENISE ROSSETTI,
HERE’S AN EXCERPT FROM . . .
THE FLAME AND THE SHADOW
AVAILABLE FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!
1
The flames had been singing to her, so loudly Cenda could almost catch the words. She tugged at the heavy fabric of her gown. Five-it, the small chamber was stifling! But Krysanthe had lit the fire with her own hands and closed the windows tight to keep out the night air. Outside, below the sill, lay the vegetable garden of the Wizards’ Enclave, the plants pushing slowly through the soil in the chilly dusk of early spring. She couldn’t stand having the healer cluck over her like an irritated hen. There’d been enough of that since—
Without taking her gaze from the flames, she shifted in the big, shabby armchair, tucking her long, narrow feet under her, unlacing the front of her gown. She could let the fire die so the room cooled, but she didn’t want to.
No, no, keep the fire. Cenda ripped the gown off over her head. Absently, she tossed it aside. Beneath, her lanky body was clad in nothing more than a shift, worn thin and soft with frequent washings. Ah, that was better.
Resting an elbow on the broad arm of the chair, she propped her chin in her palm and returned to the contemplation of the cheery blaze. Yellow and orange ribbons leaped and writhed, dancing for her, crackling, hissing. Was that Elke’s high thread of a baby voice, singing a nonsense song? The one about the fishie in the lake. Are you lost, little fishie, are you lost? Where’s your mama, little fishie, where’s your mama?
They’d both liked that one, though not even a mother’s love could persuade Cenda her daughter had had anything but a tin ear.
Are you lost, little one? Where’d you go without your mama?
Cenda blinked, the tears sizzling on her cheeks. A log shifted and sparks leaped. She seemed to see Elke’s sturdy little body running away from her, down that long, shimmering tunnel, the curls bobbing, Booboo the furrybear toy clutched tight in one chubby hand.
Faithful Booboo. She didn’t need to turn her head even a fraction to locate him, because he sat on her pillow, keeping her company through the interminable nights.
In fact . . . Cenda uncurled her legs, wincing at her stiffness. How long had she been sitting before the fire? Shadows had pooled in the corners of the room. She rose and took two steps to the bed, almost upsetting the unlit lantern on the small side table in the process. Absently, she steadied it with one hand as she smoothed a palm over Booboo’s well-chewed ears. “Look, sweetie,” she whispered, picking him up and hugging him to her chest. She sank back into the sagging embrace of the chair. “There she almost is, my darling. Do you think I’m mad?”
Booboo refused to be drawn, so Cenda set him on her lap and leaned back, losing herself in the flames again. Yes, there was the curve of Elke’s cheek, the twist of a curl, fat little hands, fingers spread like a starryfish. In a strange way, the pain was welcome, the piercing agony of regret better than the odd numbness that had afflicted her for months, so that life went on around her, separated by a gray veil behind which people moved and spoke and existed. And touched her not at all.
A bright eye winked from the other side of a burning log. Cenda watched with complete attention, holding her breath. If she concentrated, she might see Elke’s face. A flame flickered like a tail, like an animal darting into the undergrowth. Cenda blinked. A tiny lizard lay on the log, its body sculpted of moving flame, minuscule claws gripping the charred wood.
“Oh,” she breathed, no more than the smallest exhalation.
The little creature tilted its head to one side, watching her carefully. Its eyes were the same shade of blue as the heart of flame.
Great Lady, what a sweet dream!
The seconds tiptoed past. From deep in the Enclave, Cenda heard the Moonsrise chant, the strange five-beat rhythm familiar, haunting. Her fellow wizards, the Pures, would be filing out into the twilight to raise the Dancers, to pay homage.
She hummed along under her breath. She could hold a tune, but only just. Choir Master used to insist she mime the more complex passages, but the flame beast didn’t seem to mind her vocal deficiencies. Its head bobbed, and it crept closer along the burning log. “Pretty thing,” crooned Cenda, abandoning the chant. “Sweet, pretty thing.”
A second lizard crawled from between two glowing coals, and Cenda’s smile widened, her fingers buried in Booboo’s fur. She was undoubtedly mad, but what did it matter? Singing softly, completely off-key, she gazed dreamily at her strange audience, her long body relaxed in the chair, one foot tapping time.
Now she had three, sitting on the tiles of the fireplace, each a jewel of flame no longer than her middle finger. Steadily, they advanced until one reached the threadbare rug. At the first touch of a tiny claw, the rug began to smolder, and Cenda laughed, the rusty sound so loud in the quiet room it startled her. “Watch the furnishings, little one.”
The fire lizard quivered, but held its ground. Then it made a dash for Cenda’s bare toes. She yelped and jerked her foot away, but she couldn’t move fast enough. A leap, a scramble, and the little creature was sitting on her foot, hanging on with its talons, tail extended for balance.
Cenda froze. It didn’t burn. Sweet Lady, it didn’t burn!
That was—That was—She swallowed.
Pinpricks dug into her flesh, but the fire lizard’s body felt hot and smooth, like sun-warmed stone. Its little sides heaved, and she could swear she felt its heartbeat flutter against the top of her foot. “Sshh,” she soothed. “Sshh. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
Very slowly, she leaned down and extended her hand, the way she would to one of the Enclave’s cats. An excruciating pause and the creature stepped onto her longest finger, as delicately as a maiden lady. It paced across her palm, advancing until it reached her thundering pulse. There it lowered its head, nosed her skin. Apparently satisfied, it curled up in her palm and appeared to fall asleep.
“Goodness,” said Cenda, lowering her hand gingerly to her lap, next to Booboo. “Goodness.” How Elke would have loved them!
Sharp as a blade in the guts, it all came crashing back. My darling, oh, my darling. My baby. A vise made of bitter regret closed around her chest. She couldn’t catch her breath.
Something tickled up the back of her calf. “Hey!”
The second lizard skittered over her knee and made a dash across her thigh, leaving a pitter-patter of scorched tracks on her shift. The third followed, right behind. Together, they made a leap for her forearm and curled around it, an improbable pair of exquisite bracelets.
Completely bemused, Cenda watched their heads lift, the sapphire eyes glowing as they stared deep into her soul.
At her back, the latch clicked. A brisk voice said, “Five-it, Cenda, what do you think you’re doing? It’s freezing and you’re sitting in your—Aaaargh!”
Grayson of Concordia, known in a hundred dives on a hundred worlds as the Duke of Ombra, lay naked in the velvet dark, long fingers wrapped around his aching erection. Temptation besieged him.
It was never as good as when Shad did it.
He’d held out against Shad’s cool touch for almost a year this time, since long before he’d arrived on the small, crowded world of Sybaris.
Which was why he’d closed the rickety shutters and drawn the dusty curtains right across. No shadow could exist in darkness this total—Shad couldn’t exist.
He wouldn’t have to look at him, a man-shaped slice of midnight stretching over the floor and up the wall of the cheap inn room. He wouldn’t have to feel the shadow Magick smear his soul, remember the horror in his mother’s eyes that sunny winter’s day on the way home from Devotions, th
e first time she’d seen his shadow move.
All by itself.
The flick of her fingers in a warding gesture, her choked whisper. “Abomination!”
But his body didn’t care. It was never as good as when Shad did it.
Infinitely preferable to take care of his own needs. He slid his fingers up and down, dragging the satiny skin over the blood-engorged hardness beneath, his balls drawing up in anticipation.
Noises filtered up from the street below. Stumbling footsteps, a wandering, reedy tenor, clearly affected by alcohol. A woman spoke sharply; the singer grunted as if in pain or shock; a door banged. Gods, what a place!
Likely she’d been right, his mother.
Looking back, he’d done so many murky things to stay alive—starting with the price he’d paid to stow away at fourteen. His mouth twisted. His coltish, rawboned beauty had proved a useful commodity, but Judger God, it had hurt! And it had soiled his soul, all the way to the bedrock of his masculinity. Perhaps it was fortunate he hadn’t got his full growth ’til later, or he would have killed the first mate. He didn’t know anymore.
And now—He gripped the threadbare covers. His breath came a little faster. The inn was perfect for his purposes—for all that it was so shabby—only a short walk from the Wizards’ Enclave. She would be there now. Sleeping, unaware. His commission on the pleasure planet had begun.
Gray’s lip curled. Pleasure planet! He knew he was fastidious, but he’d never seen such a slattern of a world. Whores for every taste, every purpose. All sexes, all colors, all ages. A tawdry smorgasbord of misery and sleaze.
The Technomage Primus of Sybaris had a commission for him, and she wasn’t renowned for her patience. A kidnap. The target was reputed to be a fire witch, though he’d never heard of such a thing. Ah shit, why did it have to be a woman? But conscience was a luxury he couldn’t afford, not if he wanted his dream, his life whole and clean.
A double game, a game of dodge and deceit and shadow. Ah, but he walked a razor’s edge of risk!