Blood of the Fold (39 page)

“
I’m not busy. I was just having a bite before I went to bed. At least you could sit with me while I ate, and perhaps share a little of it with me? There’s more here than I can eat—it would just go to waste.”

She drew closer to him again, pressing against the table. “Well, it does look sumptuous … and if you aren’t going to eat it all … maybe just a nibble, then.”

Richard grinned. “What would you like? Stew, spiced eggs, rice, lamb?”

At the mention of lamb she let out a throaty murmur of pleasure. Richard threaded the gold-rimmed white plate across the tray. He hadn’t had any intention of eating the lamb himself; since the gift had awakened in him he wasn’t able to eat meat. Something to do with the magic at the time the gift manifested itself, or perhaps it was as the Sisters had told him: all magic must be in balance. Since he was a war wizard, maybe he couldn’t eat meat in order to balance the killing he sometimes had to do.

Richard offered her the knife and fork. Smiling again, she shook her head and with her fingers picked up the lamb chop. “Keltans have a saying that if it’s good, nothing should come between you and the experience.”

“
Then I hope it’s good,” Richard heard himself say. For the first time in days he didn’t feel lonely.

With her brown eyes fixed on his, she leaned forward on her elbows and took a dainty bite. Transfixed, Richard waited.

“
So … is it good?”

In answer, her eyes rolled back in her head and her lids slid closed while she hunched her shoulders and moaned in perfect rapture. Her gaze came down, restoring the torrid connection. Her mouth enveloped the meat, and her flawless white teeth tore off a succulent chunk. Her lips were slick with it. He didn’t think he had ever seen anyone chew so slowly.

Richard pulled the doughy center of the bread in two, giving her the one with the most butter. With the crust, he scooped rice out of the brown cream. His hand paused before his mouth as she took the butter off in one long lick.

She let out a throaty purr of approval. “I love how soft and slippery it feels against my tongue,” she explained in little more than a whisper. From her glistening, dangling fingers, she let the chunk of bread drop to the tray.

She watched his eyes as she dragged her teeth across the bone, gnawing along its ridge. With sucking nibbles, she scoured the length clean. The piece of bread waited before Richard’s mouth.

Her tongue stroked across her lips. “Best I’ve ever had.”

Richard realized that his fingers were empty. He thought that he must have eaten the scoop of rice until he saw the white splat on the tray under him.

She plucked an egg from the bowl, pressed her red lips around it, and bit it in half. “Umm. Luscious.” She placed the round end of the other half to his lips. “Here, try it.”

Its silken surface had a mildly spicy tang against his tongue and a flexible, resilient feel. She pushed it all the way in with one finger. It was chew or choke. He chewed.

Her gaze left his to roam the tray. “What have we here? Oh, Richard, don’t tell me it’s …” She swirled her first and second fingers around the bowl with the pears. She sucked the thick white sauce off her first finger. Some of the coating on the other dribbled down her hand to her wrist. “Oh, yes. Oh, Richard, this is fabulous. Here.”

She put her second finger up to his lips. Before he realized it, she had the whole length in his mouth. “Suck it clean,” she insisted. “Isn’t that the best you’ve ever had?” Richard nodded, trying to catch his breath after she drew her finger out. She tilted her wrist. “Oh, please, lick it off before it gets on my dress.” He took her hand up in his and put it to his mouth. The taste of her galvanized him. His lips on her flesh made his heart pound painfully.

She let out a throaty laugh. “That tickles. Your tongue is rough.”

He let her hand go, rousing from the intimate connection. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“
Don’t be silly. I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” Her eyes found his. Lamplight glowed softly on one side of her face, firelight on the other. He envisioned raking his fingers through her hair. Her breaths were the mate of his. “I did like it, Richard.”

So did he. The room seemed to be spinning. The sound of his name on her lips sent waves of euphoria coursing through him. With the greatest of effort, he forced himself to stand.

“
Cathryn, it’s late, and I’m really tired.”

She rose willingly, eagerly, a graceful movement that betrayed her shape through the silken dress. His control threatened to unravel completely as she slipped her arm around his, pressing close. “Show me which room is yours?”

He could feel her firm breast crushed against his arm as he led her out into the hall. Ulic and Egan stood not far away with their arms folded. Farther off, at each end of the hall, Cara and Raina came to their feet. None of the four showed any reaction to his having Cathryn on his arm. Richard said nothing to them as he headed for the guest rooms.

With urgent insistence, Cathryn’s free hand stroked his shoulder. The heat of her flesh against him warmed him to his bones. He didn’t know if his legs would make the journey.

When he found the wing with the guest rooms, he gestured Ulic and Egan close. “Take shifts. I want one of you on watch at all times. I don’t want anyone, or anything, coming into this hall tonight.” He glanced to the two Mord-Sith waiting at the far end. “That includes them.” They asked no questions and vowed it would be so before they planted themselves.

Richard took Cathryn halfway down the hall. She was still caressing his arm. Her breast was still pressed against it.

“
I trust this room will do.”

Her lips parted as her chest heaved. Her delicate fingers clutched at his shirt. “Yes,” she whispered in a pant, “this room.”

Richard summoned every ounce of strength. “I’ll take the one right next to it. You’ll be safe here.”

“
What?” The blood drained from her face. “Oh, please, Richard …”

“
Sleep well, Cathryn.”

She tightened her grip on is arm. “But … but, you have to come in. Oh, please, Richard. I’ll be afraid.”

He squeezed her hand as he took it from his arm. “Your room is safe, Cathryn, don’t be concerned.”

“
There could be something inside, waiting. Please, Richard, come in with me?”

Richard smiled reassuringly. “There’s nothing inside. I could sense it if there were danger anywhere near. I’m a wizard, remember? You’re perfectly safe, and I’ll be only a few steps away. Nothing will disturb your rest, I swear it.”

He opened the door, handed her a lamp off a bracket beside the door, and put a hand to the small of her back, urging her in.

She turned and ran a finger down the center of his chest. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He took her hand from his chest and kissed it in as courtly a fashion as he could muster. “Count on it. We have a lot of work to do first thing tomorrow.”

He pulled her door closed and then went to the next. The two Mord-Sith’s eyes never left him. He watched as they slid their backs down the wall to sit on the floor. Each folded her legs, as if to say they intended to be there all night, and each gripped her Agiel in both hands.

Richard glanced at the door to Cathryn’s room, his gaze lingering a long moment. The little voice in the back of his head was screaming frantically. He wrested open the door to his room. Inside, he laid his face against the closed door as he caught his breath. He compelled himself to throw the bolt.

He sank down on the edge of the bed, putting his face in his hands. What was the matter with him? His shirt was soaked with sweat. Why should he be having such thoughts about this woman? But he was. Dear spirits, he was. He remembered that the Sisters of the Light thought men suffered from uncontrollable urges.

With dazed effort, he drew the Sword of Truth from its scabbard, sending its soft, clear ring around the dark room. Richard planted the point on the floor and with both hands held the hilt to his forehead, letting the wrath inundate him. He felt its fury storm through his soul, and hoped it would be enough.

From a dim corner of his mind, Richard knew he was in a dance with death, and this time his sword couldn’t save him. He also knew he had no choice.

Sister Philippa made the most of her already ample height as she stiffened her back while managing to look down her thin, straight nose without making it seem as if she were really looking down her nose. But she was.

“
Surely, Prelate, you have not considered this matter thoroughly enough. Perhaps if you were to reflect on it a bit more you would realize that three thousand years of results attests to the need.”

With her elbow on the table, Verna rested her chin in the heel of her loose fist while scanning through a report, making it impossible to look at her without seeing the gold sunburst-patterned ring of office. She glanced up just to make sure Sister Philippa was, in fact, looking at her.

“
Thank you, Sister, for your wise advice, but I have already considered the matter at length. There is no need to put any more digging into a dry well; it just makes you thirstier, which raises your hopes, but not any water.”

Sister Philippa’s dark eyes and exotic features rarely showed emotion, but Verna detected a tightening in the muscles in her narrow jaw.

“
But, Prelate … we won’t be able to ascertain if a young man is progressing properly, or has learned enough to be released from his Rada’Han. It’s the only way.”

Verna grimaced at the report she was reading. She set it aside for later action and gave her full attention to her advisor. “How old are you, Sister?”

Sister Philippa’s dark gaze didn’t waver. “Four hundred seventy-nine, Prelate.”

Verna had to admit to herself that she felt a bit of envy. The woman looked hardly older than she, yet she was in fact on the order of three hundred years older. The twenty-odd years away from the palace’s spell had cost Verna time she could never recover. She would never have the life span to learn what this woman would.

“
How many of those years at the Palace of the Prophets?”

“
Four hundred seventy, Prelate.” The inflection on the title was hard to detect, unless one had been listening for it. Verna had been listening.

“
So, you are saying, then, that the Creator has granted you a span of four hundred and seventy years to learn his work, to work with and teach young men to control their gift and become wizards, and in all that time, you have failed to be able to come to a determination of the nature of your students?”

“
Well, no, Prelate, that’s not exactly what—”

“
Are you trying to tell me, Sister, that a whole palace full of Sisters of the Light are not smart enough to determine if a young man, who has been under our charge and tutelage for near to two hundred years, is ready for advancement, without subjecting him to a brutal test of pain? Do you have so little faith in the Sisters? In the Creator’s wisdom in choosing us to do this work? Are you trying to tell me that the Creator chose us, gave us, collectively, thousands of years of experience, and we are still too stupid to do the work?”

“
I think that perhaps the Prelate is—”

“
Permission denied. It’s an obscene use of the Rada’Han, giving that kind of pain. It can tear the fabric of a person’s mind. Why, young men have even died in the test.

“
You go tell those Sisters that I expect them to come up with a strategy for accomplishing the task without blood, vomit, or screaming. You might even suggest they try something revolutionary, like … oh, I don’t know, maybe talking to the young men? Unless the Sisters think they would be outwitted, in which case I would like them to admit as much to me in a report, for the record.”

Sister Philippa stood silent a moment, probably considering the worth of further arguing. Reluctantly, she at last bowed. “Very wise, Prelate. Thank you for enlightening me.”

She turned to leave, but Verna called her back. “Sister, I know how you feel. I was taught the same as you, and believed as you. A young man of a mere twenty-odd years taught me how wrong I had been. Sometimes the Creator chooses to bring His light to us in ways we don’t expect, but He does expect us to be ready to receive His wisdom when it’s presented to us.”

“
You speak of young Richard?”

Verna picked with a thumbnail at the disorderly edges in the stack of reports awaiting her attention. “Yes.” She abandoned her official tone. “What I learned, Philippa, is that these young men, these wizards, are going to be sent out into a world that will test them. The Creator wants us to determine if we have taught them to endure with integrity the pain they will see, and feel.” She tapped her chest. “In here. We must determine if they can make the painful choices the Creator’s light sometimes requires. That is the meaning of the test of pain. Their ability to endure torture tells us nothing of their heart, their courage, or their compassion.