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

by Jacqueline Carey

  “I do?”

  He leaned over me, his hard chest brushing against my erect nipples. Kissed me—slowly. Languorously. His free hand traced the line of my inner thigh. “Yes.”

  Until that night, I thought myself well versed in the ways of desire. After all, it had come effortlessly to me. But the coach-driver Theo scarce counted and Cillian mac Tiernan was a green lad beside Raphael de Mereliot, who was the Queen’s lover. And she was an adept of the Night Court.

  He undid me.

  From top to bottom, stem to stern. Everywhere he touched me, I ached with pleasure. When he spread my thighs wide and lapped at the slick crease between them, my hips jerked clean off the bed, my fists knotting in his hair.

  Raphael lifted his head, eyes gleaming. “Slowly.”

  “Please!” I whimpered.

  He smiled. “In time.”

  Time… what was time? That night, it was measured in the broad, insistent strokes of his tongue, driving me to pinnacles I hadn’t known existed. I dissolved beneath it, melting with pleasure.

  The bright lady beamed. Oddly, she wore Jehanne’s face.

  Raphael slithered up the length of my body, bracing himself on his arms, mindful of my healing ribs. He kissed me, tasting of me. He guided my hand to his erect phallus. It throbbed in my fist, beating with a pulse of its own.

  I sighed with gratitude. “Now?”

  “Now,” he agreed. The moment he pushed into me, I came hard—then came hard again as he continued to thrust. In and out, filled and not-filled. It was so good, and yet. Stone and sea, I was tired! It was almost a relief when he shuddered and spent himself in me, his ballocks rising and his buttocks clenching beneath my clutching hands. Almost a relief to feel his softening phallus slipping out of me.

  “Ohh…” I whispered.

  And slept.

  I awoke to sunlight and Raphael’s absence. It was late morning. The rumpled bed linens glowed white in the bright sun. The room smelled of sex. There was a robe with the House Mereliot crest laid out for me. I rose and donned it, feeling suddenly famished and very much in need of a bath. With an unexpected pang, I found myself missing home. A plunge in the stream and a breakfast of fried trout would be a glorious thing.

  Instead, I rang the bell to summon one of Raphael’s servants. The maid who answered was a sly-faced creature named Celine, not one of my favorites. She had a habit of smirking at me out of the corner of her eye. This morning was no exception, and when I asked where Raphael was, her smirk widened.

  “Why, he’s gone to the Palace, my lady,” she said with an air of false innocence. “Gone to answer a summons from the Queen.”

  “I see,” I said slowly. I hadn’t expected him to refuse Jehanne. Still, it seemed something of an insult to rise from our shared pleasure bed and find him at her beck and call.

  “Your bath will be ready shortly.” Celine tossed her head. “Will you dine downstairs or shall I have a tray sent up?”

  I held her gaze without answering until she flushed and looked away. “A tray will be fine. Have it sent to the guest-chamber, please.”

  “As you wish,” she muttered.

  By the time I had bathed and dined, there was still no sign of Raphael. I looked around the sunlit guest-chamber. There was the borrowed robe. There was the clothes press with the gowns commissioned by Raphael. There on the bedside table was a jewelry box he’d given me, in which I’d carefully placed the gilded comb and the emerald eardrops. The only items in the room that were truly mine were the deerskin quiver and yew-wood bow propped unobtrusively in a corner and the disreputable canvas satchel that contained the papers Caroline nó Bryony had given me.

  That seemed a long, long time ago.

  I hauled the satchel onto the bed and went through its contents. Lodgings, letters of introduction, letters of authentication. From the moment I’d opened my eyes on that street to see Raphael de Mereliot gazing down at me, I’d let all of this fall by the wayside.

  “That,” I said aloud, “has to change.”

  “My lady?” A different maid poked her head in the door; Daphne—the shy one who I quite liked.

  “Nothing.” I smiled at her. “I was talking to myself. Since my lord de Mereliot is occupied elsewhere today, I think I may venture out on my own.”

  “As you wish.” Daphne returned my smile shyly, her deference as genuine as Celine’s was false. “But I came to tell you, that you have a visitor.”

  “I do?”

  “Aye.” Her eyes widened. “Lianne Tremaine. The King’s Poet,” she added at my blank look. “She wishes to call on you, if you’re receiving.”

  “Oh.” I blinked. “Is there any reason why I wouldn’t be?”

  “No.” She smiled again, ducking her head and dimpling. “That is entirely up to you, my lady. But if you wish to receive her, I’ll tell the kitchen to prepare tea and pastries, shall I?”

  “Thank you.” I nodded, grateful for her discreet guidance, and began stowing away my papers. “I’ll be down directly.”

  It felt passing strange to be entertaining a guest in Raphael’s household as though it were my own. It felt passing strange to be entertaining a guest in any household when it came to it. To be sure, it was a far cry from sharing the goods Cillian had brought on the hearth of our cave or showing him how to catch trout or blanch acorn meal. Still, I’d grown mindful of the importance of appearances in Terre d’Ange and glided into the salon where the King’s Poet waited as though I were the mistress of the household.

  The woman awaiting me rose. She was younger than I would have expected someone appointed to the post, with light brown hair and keen golden-brown eyes. Something about the cast of her sharp, pretty features put me in mind of a fox.

  “Lianne Tremaine?” I inquired. “The King’s Poet?”

  “Indeed.” A quick smile darted across her face. “Well met, Lady Moirin. I was sorry to miss a chance to speak with you at his majesty’s fête.”

  “Oh?” I said politely, at a loss for anything clever to say.

  “Oh, indeed.” Her tone had a mocking edge, but I didn’t sense any malice in it. “These are good times to be alive, but dull times to be a royal poet. Your arrival and last night’s dramatic performance are the most interesting thing to happen in years. I’ll own, I’m curious. Was it staged?”

  I was bewildered. “Was what staged?”

  “The scene with Lord Luchese,” Lianne said impatiently.

  I stared at her. “Do you jest? No!”

  She gave a delicate shrug. “One never knows. I wouldn’t put it past Raphael de Mereliot. He and the Queen have been known to get… intricate… in their quarrels. Jehanne de la Courcel can compete with almost anything, but a young woman with the ability to bring a man back from death’s doorstep… ah, that’s another matter altogether. He might have staged the entire thing just to unnerve her.” She studied my expression and laughed. “The possibility never occurred to you, did it?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Such delightful naivete!” Lianne Tremaine sat uninvited. “Well. Now that it has, do you suppose he did?”

  “No.” I sat opposite her. Quite apart from my own experience, I had the memory of Raphael in the carriage, the wonder in his voice. “I truly don’t.”

  “So it was real.” She steepled her fingers. “What did you do and how did you do it?” Put off by her peremptory manner, I didn’t answer. Lianne sighed. “I’m being nosy and hectoring, aren’t I?”

  “Nosy, aye,” I agreed. “Hectoring isn’t a word I know.”

  “Bullying.”

  “Ah.” I saw Daphne with a tray of tea and pastries and beckoned for her to set it on the table. “Yes, rather.”

  “Sorry.” This time the King’s Poet’s smile was wry and charming. “I have an overly inquisitive mind and I can be rude and impatient in the pursuit of knowledge. Let me start over.” She lifted the teapot. “May I make amends by pouring?”

  “You may,” I said.

  She
poured for both of us, then sipped her tea. “Nice. Raphael always has the best tea, thanks to his connections to that Ch’in philosopher at the Academy.”

  “Master Lo Feng?” I sniffed my tea. It had a delicate floral aroma. “I thought he was a physician.”

  “Physician, philosopher, poet, botanist.” Lianne shrugged. “It seems the famous Lo Feng is many things. Have you met him?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “Imposing fellow.” She put down her teacup and regarded me. “All right, I’m starting over. Lady Moirin mac Fainche, pray let me introduce myself. I am Lianne Tremaine, the King’s Poet and the youngest ever to hold that post. I’m quite brilliant and a bit prickly. I make a dreadful enemy, but a loyal friend. And unless I miss my guess, you could use one of the latter. You’ve managed to drop out of nowhere into a rather complicated situation.”

  “That much is obvious,” I said dryly. “Even to me.”

  Her lips twitched. “So you’re not dim-witted, just naïve. Are you in love with him? Raphael?”

  My heart rolled over in my chest at the mere question. “I don’t know,” I said slowly. I didn’t know whether or not I could wholly trust her, but it was such a relief to speak to someone about Raphael that I answered honestly. “I’ve feelings I’ve never felt before. And I’m drawn to him. Here, in my diadh-anam.” I tapped my breast. “The spark of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself I carry inside me. There’s no word for it in D’Angeline.”

  “God-soul.” Lianne tilted her head, slanting sunlight turning her eyes topaz. “That’s how Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève translated it.”

  “Well enough.” I nodded. “I don’t understand it and I can’t explain it. Not yet. Believe me, my lady, I would very much prefer that the man for whom I feel this were not the Queen’s lover and favorite courtier.”

  “No doubt,” she agreed. “Are you willing to talk to me about magic?”

  I sighed. “I’d rather not until I understand it better myself. I have a gift or two, small things as they would be reckoned in the long history of my people. What happened last night…” I let the words go. “You mentioned an offer of friendship?”

  Lianne grinned. “I said I was a loyal friend. I never claimed to be a tactful one. Very well.” She hoisted her teacup. “You’re in need of a friend. What would you care to talk about?”

  “Hmm.” I thought about it. “Mayhap whether or not I should seek to make a graceful exit from Raphael’s household.”

  “Do you want to leave?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure.” I picked at a pastry, flaking off bits of golden crust. “Raphael keeps saying he wants me to stay. But I’m not sure it’s me he wants or the fact of what I am. Last night… I think it aroused him more than I could on my own. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.” I made a face. “Particularly since he informed me that I have a great deal to learn in bed.”

  The King’s Poet sputtered out a mouthful of tea. “He didn’t!”

  “He did.” I sighed again. “Which, while it may be true, in the light of day strikes me as a rather unkind thing to say at the time.”

  “Rather.” Lianne regarded me. “Well then, I suggest you take him at his word.”

  “How so?”

  She flashed her quick, foxy grin. “Name of Elua, girl! Don’t let Raphael de Mereliot control your life. You’re in Terre d’Ange. You’re in the City of Elua. There are hundreds of men and women here sworn to Naamah’s Service, any number of whom would be delighted to teach you the full extent of her arts—which is, after all, your rightful heritage. Go to the Night Court and arrange for an assignation and a private Showing.”

  I blinked. “I can do that?”

  “Can and should.” Lianne Tremaine rose with alacrity. “Come.” She put out her hand. “Let’s go right now. We’ll take my carriage.”

  “I meant to go to the banking house today,” I temporized. “To draw on my letter of credit. I’ve no funds of my own until I do.”

  “We’ll stop on the way.” She beckoned. “You don’t have to schedule the assignation today, but we can still make the appointment. Oh, come on! This will be fun.”

  It struck me that it would be the first act of my own volition that I’d committed since I chased after the thief who’d stolen my purse. That was the thought that drove me to my feet. “All right,” I said recklessly. “Let’s do it.”

  “Excellent!” Lianne squeezed my hand. “Are you familiar with the Houses of the Night Court? Do you know which one you’d choose?”

  “Where did the Queen serve?” I asked her.

  That got me an amused sidelong glance. “Naïve, but a quick study, eh? Her majesty was an adept of Cereus House, First among the Thirteen. They celebrate the ephemeral nature of beauty.”

  Jehanne’s face and orchid blossoms mingled in my memory. “That’s the one.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Cereus House was lovely.

  The Dowayne, which was the title given to the head of each House of the Night Court, received us in an inner courtyard garden. Autumn flowers of marigold, amaryllis, and chrysanthemum bloomed in profusion, vibrant, healthy, and well tended. I breathed in the air with pleasure, tasting their tang.

  “Do you like it?” The Dowayne, Neriel nó Cereus, smiled at me. I gauged her to be in her late sixties, tall and slender, with hair gone pure silver. “I heard you had a fondness for the outdoors.”

  I was startled. “You did?”

  Lianne Tremaine sipped a glass of wine. “Lesson the first, Lady Moirin. Gossip travels faster than a thunderclap in the City, and nowhere faster than to the Night Court.”

  “To, yes,” the Dowayne agreed. “From is another matter. Shall we speak of your desires, my lady?”

  I shrugged. “I wish to learn.”

  She studied me. “Do you think to enter Naamah’s Service yourself?” She reached out and touched my arm. “Mixed though your heritage may be, I suspect her gifts are strong in you. They are in your father, you know, and I see a good deal of Phanuel in you.”

  “You do?” The idea pleased me. “You know him?”

  “Oh, yes.” The Dowayne smiled again. “Of course. His family has a long history in Naamah’s Order.” She paused. “But it’s too soon for such questions, isn’t it? Forgive me. You’re not ready to decide; you’ve only set out on your journey. It would be the privilege of Cereus House to teach you what we may.”

  I smiled back at her. “I’d like that.”

  After some discussion, we set a date for two days hence. I signed a contract that spelled out the terms of the assignation and parted with a goodly sum of money. I left lighter of purse, but lighter-hearted. After all, I once again had a purse of my own. I was no longer dependent on Raphael de Mereliot for funds or pleasure.

  “See?” In the carriage, Lianne regarded me with pleased amusement. “I told you this was a good idea.”

  “You did,” I agreed. “Thank you.”

  At the townhouse, Raphael was less sanguine.

  “Moirin!” he barked at me upon my return, pacing in the foyer. “Where in the seven hells were you?”

  “Out,” I said briefly.

  “Out.” He glowered at me. “I had plans for us this afternoon.”

  “Oh?” I inquired. “You might have bothered to inform me.”

  Raphael gave me a stormy look, then checked himself. “You’re right,” he said softly, circling my waist with his arms. “I’m sorry. I was caught up in my own affairs. There’s a lad I’d like you to see with me, a young lad.” He kissed my neck. “A patient of mine.”

  I hated the way my knees went weak. “Aye?”

  “Aye.” His lips curved as though the word were a private jest between us—and mayhap it was. Then he pulled back, his look serious. “It’s young Marc de Thibideau. The Comte’s youngest and a companion of Prince Thierry. He broke his leg in a hunting accident some weeks ago. His femur. That’s the thigh bone. It’s set properly, but it’s not healing well. I suspect the new
bone matter isn’t growing as fast as it ought. I thought…” He freed one hand and raked it through his tawny locks, disheveling them. “I thought we might try, you and I.”

  “To coax it?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Will you?”

  I sighed. “And how is her majesty?”

  Raphael touched my cheek. “I’ve made you no false promises, Moirin. Will you come with me tomorrow morning to see the lad?”

  “Of course,” I murmured.

  “Good.” He kissed me, then released me. “I’ll send word to the Academy. Master Lo Feng has a concoction he says will help, and I’m eager for him to meet you.” He paused. “Out is a passing vague term. Where did you go? Daphne said you left with the King’s Poet.”

  “To the banking house.” I jingled the purse at my waist. “And then to Cereus House. I have an appointment there the day after tomorrow.”

  It was worth every penny I’d spent to see the look of pure astonishment on Raphael de Mereliot’s face. “You do?”

  “Oh, yes.” I reveled in his disbelief. “The Dowayne was very kind. She’s arranging a private Showing with two of their finest adepts that I might witness the full range of Naamah’s arts, and then I may take my leisure with either or both as I choose.” I raised my brows. “You did say I had a lot to learn.”

  “Blessed Elua bugger me,” he muttered. “So I did.”

  “The Dowayne asked if I thought I might enter Naamah’s Service,” I added with a certain malice. “She thought I might have the gift for it.”

  “Moirin.” Raphael caught my hands. “Don’t rush into anything. Elua knows, I’m the last man to disparage Naamah’s Service, but it’s not an uncommon calling. What you can do…” His thumbs rubbed my inner wrists. “It’s unique and unprecedented, and we’ve just begun to explore it. Promise me that you’ll give it a chance?”

  Now I felt petty. “I will. It’s just—”

  “I took you for granted.” He raised my hands, planting a kiss in each palm. “I shouldn’t have done that and I’m sorry for it. Do you accept my apology?”