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

by Jacqueline Carey

  Relieved, I curtsied again. “Thank you, your majesty. The honor is mine.”

  “But not the pleasure?” the Queen inquired. Her lovely face was perfectly composed, but there was a note of subtle malice in her voice.

  “Jehanne,” her husband murmured.

  She glanced sidelong at him. Whatever was between them, it was deeper and more complicated than it appeared on the surface. “She seeks to learn the ways of the Court. Shall we not do her the courtesy of hearing her reply?” Without waiting for his answer, she looked back at me with those sparkling eyes. “Well?”

  “Pleasure,” I echoed. “As to that, it is yet to be determined, your majesty.”

  Her laughter rang out again. “Well said!” The fluttering fan gestured. “Go forth and see if you might manage to enjoy yourself.” She inclined her head at Raphael, the edge returning to her voice. “I trust that’s your purview, my lord.”

  He smiled at her, showing his teeth. “I’ll do my best.”

  I was grateful to be dismissed. Raphael steered me to an unoccupied corner of the hall near a balcony window.

  “You acquitted yourself very well,” he said in a low voice. “Wait here. I’ll fetch you a glass of wine.”

  I leaned against the archway onto the balcony. Across the hall, I could see the Queen leaning forward to greet the next set of guests. She had been an adept in the Service of Naamah. Even if the good ladies hadn’t told me, I would have known it. Naamah’s gift lay over her like a glittering cloak. “Was it everything you’d hoped?”

  Raphael followed my gaze. “Yes.”

  I closed my eyes. “Good.”

  A few moments passed, not a long time. I let the cool wind from the balcony play over my skin. It felt good.

  “My lady… Moirin?” an unfamiliar voice said.

  I opened my eyes. A young man near my own age stood before me. He had dark, waving hair caught back in a ribbon and deep blue eyes. “Aye?”

  He grinned. “You look like you’d rather be well away from this crush. I’m told you’re distant kin. Would you care to see the Hall of Portraits? Meet your ancestors, as it were?”

  I looked for Raphael and spotted him some distance away. He had two goblets in his hands, but he’d been waylaid by Denis de Toluard and a couple other men, and was deep in animated conversation, gesticulating and spilling wine. “Is that permitted?”

  “It is if I say so.” The young man’s grin spread. “I’m Thierry. Thierry de la Courcel. And anyone who discomfits Jehanne, I’d like to know better.”

  The good ladies’ gossip came back to me. King Daniel had a son and heir born of his first marriage. “You’re the Dauphin.”

  Thierry bowed. “Guilty as charged.”

  I smiled at him. “I’d love to.”

  We slipped out of the great hall, followed only by the gazes of a hundred pairs of watching eyes, none of which were Raphael’s. Thierry escorted me up a flight of marble stairs and down a corridor. A lone guard attended the door to the Hall of Portraits. He bowed and admitted us without question. Slanting golden light illuminated the portraits that hung the length of the hall.

  “Here.” Thierry led me to the far end. He pointed. “That’s my father as a young man. And there, my mother.”

  “She has a kind face,” I offered.

  “She was a kind woman.” He touched the frame with lingering gentleness, then moved onward. “My grandmother, Josephine.” A striking, sorrow-stricken face. He pointed out portraits of two men alongside her. “This was my grandfather, Gautier. And my great-uncle, Jean-Philippe. The ones who vanished along with their entire fleet and crew.”

  “Vanished?” I repeated.

  He nodded. “Seeking the Master of the Straits’ secrets. You know the story of how he hid the pages of the Book of Raziel?”

  “I do.” It was said the missing pages held the secrets to controlling the very elements themselves.

  Thierry sighed. “They say he hid his secrets too well, or at least his accomplices did. Pity. I suspect my father’s fear of change and exploration comes from the effects of that ill-fated expedition. Mayhap the Book of Raziel was meant to stay hidden, but it doesn’t mean Terre d’Ange cannot explore the world.”

  I hazarded a guess. “Terra Nova?”

  “Would that we could at the least establish a base there…” He shook himself. “No mind. I don’t mean to burden you.”

  I moved down the hall, pausing before a portrait of a woman with merry eyes. “And her?”

  “Ah.” Thierry smiled. “My great-grandmother, Anielle. They call her reign the Years of Joy. Firstborn to the horde, as they called it, although there were only three of them.” He went a few paces farther. “Imriel and Sidonie’s children.”

  “The D’Angeline prince,” I murmured. “The one who slew the magician Berlik.”

  He didn’t shy away from the comment. “Yes.”

  They were together in the portrait—the Queen of Terre d’Ange and her Prince Consort. The artist had captured a genuine spark of intimacy between them.

  I looked at the next painting. “This must be Alais.”

  “Indeed.”

  In Alba, Alais de la Courcel was remembered for her wisdom and her role as an ollamh, a learned counselor who served as advisor to the Cruarch Talorcan and brokered peace among the folk of Alba. I never thought of my famous ancestor as a young woman, but she was, here—young and uncertain, her expression wary and tentative. Since I felt much the same way, it was oddly comforting to see. “Her line isn’t represented?”

  “No.” Thierry colored a bit. “Since it parted ways with House Courcel and went on to become wholly Alban, no. But here you can see your…” He counted on his fingers. “Great-great-great-grandparents, Drustan mab Necthana and Ysandre de la Courcel.”

  “Ah.” I contemplated the royal couple who had united our countries for the space of their lives and longer. The Cruarch Drustan was wholly of the Cullach Gorrym, black-haired and brown-skinned, with black eyes gazing out from the mask of woad warrior’s markings that had largely gone out of fashion by now. Queen Ysandre was D’Angeline through and through, fair-haired and fair-skinned. “They seem an unlikely pair.”

  “And yet historians agree that it was a love-match.” Thierry stole a glance at me. “No more unlikely than your own parents. Is it true?”

  “So it seems.” I smiled ruefully. “Though I cannot claim it was a love-match, since they didn’t even bother to exchange names.”

  “Does it trouble you?” he asked.

  “No.” I touched my breast-bone. “My mother says she felt the spark of her diadh-anam draw her to him. She would never lie about such a thing, so there must be some purpose in it. I want to know, that’s all. My lord Dauphin… how am I meant to address you?”

  He smiled. “Your highness is the proper form, but I’d take it as a kindness if you’d call me Thierry.”

  “Thierry, then,” I agreed. “Do you suppose her majesty Jehanne is sufficiently discomfited? I suspect we ought to return.”

  “I suppose.” Thierry leaned close to me, touching the bare skin of my back and inhaling. “You smell like… wind.”

  I blinked. “Wind?”

  “Wind from a faraway place,” he said. “Sunlight on green leaves. Is he your lover?”

  “Lord de Mereliot?” I frowned. “I’m not sure.”

  “No?” Thierry stroked my shoulder. “That’s a passing odd thing to be uncertain of, my lady.”

  “Is it?” I pulled away from him. “If you are asking if he has bedded me, the answer is yes, although there wasn’t exactly a bed involved and it was more my idea than his. If you are asking if his intentions toward me involve anything beyond discomfiting Jehanne de la Courcel, I am uncertain, just as I am of yours. Though I should hope that the reasons behind your motives differ.”

  He laughed and made a courtly bow. “To be sure! Your honesty is refreshing and my motives were mixed, but not impure. Allow me to return the favor, and discomfit Rapha
el de Mereliot with the sight of you on my arm.”

  “Not to mention the entire Court,” I added.

  “Oh, that’s already done.” Thierry flashed a wicked grin. “Now comes the part where they wonder what we’ve been up to. Watch the tongues wag when we enter.”

  That, they most assuredly did.

  There was a pause like a collective intake of breath as we entered the hall, Thierry sauntering, one hand laid possessively over my fingers where they rested on his arm. For a moment, there was only the sound of music playing in the background, some intricate and unfamiliar instrument. Then the whispers arose.

  I made a face. “Do they have nothing better to do than gossip?”

  “No,” Thierry said thoughtfully. “Not really.”

  “Moirin!” Raphael parted the throng and strode toward me, looking genuinely concerned. He saw the Dauphin, checked himself, and bowed. “Your highness, forgive me. I was worried about her.”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Why shouldn’t she be?” Thierry patted my hand. “Since I found her quite alone and unattended, I escorted Lady Moirin to the Hall of Portraits that she might behold her ancestors. My lord de Mereliot, I must thank you for introducing such a fascinating offshoot of the tree of House Courcel into our lives.”

  Raphael gave him a thunderous look, then turned his stormy gaze on me, setting the blood to pounding in my veins. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes!” I said irritably. “You were busy elsewhere.”

  A woman screamed.

  There was a moment of milling confusion. Raphael’s head went up like a hound on point, then whipped around, seeking the source of the scream. In the center of the hall, the gentleman of the elderly couple who had preceded us had sunk to his knees, one hand clutching at his doublet. It was his wife who had screamed.

  “Your pardon!” Raphael shouted over his shoulder, pushing his way through the crowd.

  I shook off Thierry and went after him.

  Everyone had gathered to watch in appalled fascination. By the time I squeezed and elbowed my way through, Raphael was kneeling on the floor beside the old gentleman. He’d unbuttoned his doublet and was massaging the man’s chest.

  He looked up and saw me. “My physician’s bag. It’s in the carriage. Send Jean-Michel.”

  I nodded.

  The curious onlookers didn’t want to let me through. I swore at them, shoving blindly. And then there was an opening, and a pair of slender hands caught my upper arms with unexpected strength.

  “What does he need?” Jehanne de la Courcel asked me in a steady tone.

  “His bag,” I stammered. “In the carriage.”

  She gave a brusque nod and released me, issuing a string of orders. Guards moved to obey. Forced backward, the crowd thinned. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jean-Michel pelting out of the hall.

  “Moirin!” Raphael’s voice rose in a roar.

  “Aye!” I flung myself to my knees beside him, bruising myself against the marble floor.

  “Help me,” he said simply. “His heart is stricken. If it stops, he’ll die. Lend me your energy.”

  The old man gasped for air, his face bluish.

  “I don’t—” I began.

  Raphael’s hand closed around my wrist. “Put your hands on mine. Do what you did for the plum tree.”

  “I’ll try,” I whispered.

  The world shrank to a small circle. There was me, Raphael, and the old man. Raphael rubbed his hands together and said a prayer to Eisheth under his breath. He laid his hands on the old man’s slack, pale chest, bowing his head and arranging his hands just so.

  I put my hands on his.

  I couldn’t feel it, not the way I could feel plants. The thing that was wrong, the thing that needed to be fixed or coaxed and cozened. But Raphael could. I breathed in slow and deep. I couldn’t summon the twilight and vanish from sight—not here and now with so many eyes watching. But I could still take that half-step into the next world and evoke its charms. That I could lend to Raphael.

  I breathed out.

  A rill of energy surged from me, leaving me drained—more drained than I’d ever been. Raphael closed his eyes, warmth pulsing from his hands.

  The old man took a ragged gulp of air and sat bolt upright. “Elua!”

  The crowd cheered.

  Jean-Michel appeared with a satchel. Raphael grabbed it from him and rummaged for a small flask labeled in neat handwriting. “Keep still, Lord Luchese,” he said briefly. “Moirin, support him from behind.” I moved to obey. He uncorked the flask and set it to the man’s lips. “It’s a distillation of willow bark. It’s going to be bitter.”

  The elderly Lord Luchese drank, grimacing at the taste. I peered over his shoulder, watching healthy color return to his face.

  “Is he going to be all right?” his wife asked, her voice quavering.

  “Yes.” Raphael lowered the flask. “He is.”

  Lord Luchese summoned a tremulous smile. “I thought for sure my time had come. You’re a goddamned miracle worker, de Mereliot.”

  “No.” Raphael lifted his head and gazed intently at me. The crowd murmured around us. “I’m afraid that credit lies elsewhere.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The balance of the evening at the Palace was a brief blur.

  Overwhelmed and exhausted, I let it wash over me. A litter arrived for Lord Luchese. I leaned against a column, vaguely aware of Raphael issuing further instructions to Luchese’s wife, something to do with bed-rest and a tincture of foxglove.

  “What just passed here?” Thierry whispered in my ear. “What did you do?”

  “I don’t know.” I closed my eyes. “Ask Raphael.”

  “The air around you…” he breathed. “There was a brightness.”

  I shrugged. “Oh?”

  “Prince Thierry!” A light voice, sweetness made sharp. I opened my eyes to see Jehanne de la Courcel. She touched my face, a touch as light as gossamer. I had the strangest urge to lean in to it and rest my cheek against her hand. “Let her be.”

  “Certainly, Mother.” Thierry’s tone dripped with sarcasm.

  Jehanne regarded me. At close range, I could feel Naamah’s gifts coiling between us with an unexpected intensity I didn’t want to acknowledge. “Are you quite well?”

  “No,” I said honestly. “I’m very, very tired.”

  Her lips pursed. “Raphael!”

  He was there, bowing. “Your majesty?”

  “You’ve had your fun.” Her hand fell away from my cheek. “Now take your young witchling home; she looks near to collapsing. I’ll make your apologies to Daniel.”

  Raphael bowed a second time. “Of course.”

  As he escorted me toward the door, her voice halted him. “Raphael!” We both turned. Jehanne’s face was unreadable. “I’ll send for you on the morrow.”

  He bowed a third time and didn’t reply.

  In the carriage, he was solicitous, giving me a flask of brandy to sip and chafing my hands between his. Bit by bit, I felt a measure of my strength return.

  “Well,” I said at length. “That was interesting.”

  “Interesting!” Raphael gave a short, wondering laugh. “Moirin, that was the singular most astonishing thing I’ve ever experienced. Did you not feel it?” He lifted his hands before his face and contemplated them, turning them this way and that. “We saved a man from certain death.”

  “You did.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I meant what I said. I’m a skilled physician, but I can’t work miracles. You can. You did. I felt your energy flowing through me. It felt…” He fell silent a moment, searching for the right word. “God-like.”

  “God-like,” I murmured.

  “Yes.” Raphael’s hands slid beneath my arms. “Come here.”

  I let him pull me onto his lap, too tired to protest. Now he kissed me with all the ardor I could have wanted—and I didn’t want to respond, but I couldn’t help it. Even exhausted, I wanted him s
o bedamned badly. My body roused to his touch.

  “Witchling,” Raphael breathed in my ear. His hands slid over my breasts. “I am taking you to bed tonight.”

  “All right,” I said helplessly.

  He laughed and kissed me some more.

  By the time we reached his townhouse, I was dazed with an odd blend of lassitude and desire. In the courtyard, Raphael scooped me off my feet and into his arms. I let him—let him carry me inside and past the whispering servants, up the marble stairs, burying my face against his neck. In his bedchamber, he set me on my feet.

  “Moirin.” His hands glided over my body, leaving glorious trails of warmth. I shivered. He cupped my face and kissed me deeply. “My terms, remember?”

  I nodded.

  Raphael’s terms were sensuous and deliberate. He undressed me piece by piece, his lips lingering on the nape of my neck as he un-clasped my gown’s collar and unlaced the delicate stays. When I turned in his arms and reached for his doublet to unbutton it, he shook his head at me.

  His terms.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured when I stood naked before him. He reached out and plucked the gilded comb from my hair. My hair fell over my shoulders in a slithering cascade. He laughed softly. “Like a waterfall.”

  “Raphael…” I whispered.

  He pressed one finger against my lips, then pointed. “On the bed.”

  I lay down.

  For a long moment, he merely stood and gazed at me, eyes dark with desire. Then, slowly, he undressed. It was absurdly tantalizing. I watched his bare torso emerge as he shed his doublet and shirt. His shoulders were broad. I gazed at the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse beat visibly and understood what Benoit Vallon from Atelier Favrielle meant about subtle beauties. Raphael shed his breeches and undergarments. The muscles in his flanks flexed, shadowy in the dim lamplight. His phallus was hard and erect, curving toward his flat belly.

  Stone and sea, I wanted him.

  He untied a thong holding back his tawny hair and shook it loose, smiling sidelong at me. When he joined me on the bed, I reached for him.

  “No.” Raphael caught my wrists gently, pinning them above my head with one hand. “Slowly. You have a lot to learn, Moirin.”