Hounds of God (21 page)

How easily they had taken him in, though not, to be sure,
without suspicion. Even in his hunting he smiled to remember his first
encounter with Bianca: returning from the market that second day with Stefania
and finding the servant not only up but about, ancient, gnarled, tiny as old
Tithonus who in the extremity of immortal age shriveled into a grasshopper.

But she had the voice and the will of a giantess, and for
all her ears’ lack, her eyes were piercingly keen. She could see a handsome
young man well enough, and roar at him for a rake and a corrupter of maidens,
and purr when he smiled his best and whitest smile. Although she trusted
nothing that was both young and male, nor ever would, she had been heard to
admit that that particular specimen seemed less dangerous than most. Especially
under her watchful eye.

He stumbled. His power plummeted in a flurry of feathers;
battled for control; strained upward. A gust caught it, bore it up, and as it
settled once more into an easy glide, hurled it madly skyward.

Vast wings opened above him. A monstrous creature filled the
sky: an eagle, a roc, a dragon. Its talons were hooked lightning; its cry
shattered stars.

It could not see him. That was his single greatest gift, the
one that was his alone, to pass unperceived by any power. Next to the reading
of thoughts, it had been his first skill; he had never had to learn it, nor had
he ever been able to teach it. While he wielded it he was safe even from that
immeasurable might which loomed over him, its wings stretching from pole to
pole.

And yet he made himself as small as he might, small as a
merlin, as a sparrow, as a hummingbird. His body shuddered with terror; his
brain reeled. If he could only cling close, could follow, could—

An eye like the moon bent upon him. Widened and fixed; saw.

Impossible, impossible. He was invisible. No one could see
him unless he willed it.

The cruel beak opened. Laughter shrilled, high and cold and
cruel. The talons struck.

Full between them Nikki flew, seared by the heat of their
nearness, racked with the pain of it. But free and fleeing to sanctuary, the
high-walled refuge of his mind.

It was deathly quiet. The world was like an image in a
glass, clear and present yet remote, even the rain and the cold touching him only
distantly.

He floated through it with little care for where he went; he
could not make his thoughts come clear. When he tried, he found only the memory
of alien laughter.

oOo

Stefania was determined not to fret. She was a woman of both
wit and wisdom; she had every intention of becoming a philosopher, whatever the
world and the Church had to say. And a true philosopher should not care
whether, or when, a pretty lad chose to favor her with his presence.

Even when he had promised to come before dark, and the
hourglass had emptied once already since the last grey light failed. Even
though he had never before failed to appear precisely when he said he would.
What did she know of him, after all? Maybe he had found another and prettier
girl to call on.

Bianca had cursed him, exonerated him, and fretted over him.
Now at last she had vanished into the kitchen to raise a mighty clatter. Uncle
Gregorios was gone, called away on some urgent business. Stefania had only
herself, half a page of Pindar, and a blot on the vellum that she could only
stare at helplessly.

He was only a boy. A friend, maybe. Amusing; pleasant to
look at; useful for carrying packages and scraping parchment and arguing
theology. He listened wonderfully and never showed the least sign of shock at
anything she said, although she shocked herself sometimes with how much she
told him.

Even her dream, outrageous and lunatic as it was and
probably heretical, to have a house that was all her own with no man the lord
of it, and a company of women like herself, women who had a little learning and
wanted more. Like nuns, maybe, but neither cloistered nor under vows, brides
not of Christ but of philosophy, each prepared to teach the others what she
knew.

Nikephoros had not even smiled at that wild fancy. Of
course, he had said; it would be like any other school, except that both
masters and students were women. Nor had he been mocking her as far as she
could see. And that was rather far; he was marvelously easy to read.

She thrust book and copy aside and stood. He was not coming.
He was a guest in a monastery; he had companions who might have kept him with
them. His brother was ill, she seemed to remember; maybe there had been a
crisis.

He could have sent a message.

She shook herself. This was disgraceful. An hour’s
wait for a stranger she had known a scarce fortnight, and she was good for
nothing but to pace the floor.

Her cloak found its way about her shoulders. She snatched up
her hood and strode for the door.

She had not so far to go after all. Arlecchina cried on the
stair above the street, her coat dappled with the flicker of the wineshop’s
torches. Something dark moved beyond her, swaying, turning.

Stefania tensed. A drunkard or a footpad, and she unarmed
and the door open behind her.

The shadow flung out a hand. In the near-dark she knew it as
much by its movement as its shape. Nikki’s face followed it, his hood and
hat fallen back, his eyes enormous. His weight bore her backward.

Somehow she got both of them up the steps and through the
door. He was conscious, breathing loud and harsh, stumbling drunkenly. Yet she
caught no reek of wine.

Warmth and lamplight seemed to revive him a little. He
pulled free and half sat, half fell into Uncle Gregorios’ chair. He was
wet through, shivering in spasms, his face green-pallid.

Stefania wrestled with the clasp of his mantle. He did
nothing to help her. His hands were slack; his eyes stared blankly, drained of
intelligence.

The clasp sprang free. The cloak dropped. She coaxed and
pulled him out of his gown, his sodden boots, and after three breaths’
hesitation, his shirt. He was well made, she could not help but notice, with
the merest pleasant hint of boyish awkwardness.

Quickly she wrapped her own mantle about him and heaped
coals on the brazier, reckless with fear for him. There was no mark on him, she
had seen more than enough to be sure; he had not been attacked or beaten, not
by any of Rome’s bravos.

He was sick, then. He had taken a fever. Except…

“What is this?” shrilled Bianca. “What is
this? Where’s the boy been? Sweeping up the plague, I can see with my own
eyes. Don’t cry on him, child, he’s wet enough without. You make
sure he’s dry; I’ll make him a posset. Fools of pilgrims, they
should know the air’s got demons in it, thick as flies around the Curia.”

Stefania was not crying. Not that she was far from it.
Bianca renewed her clatter in the kitchen, to good purpose now and with
suspicious relish. “Old ghoul,” muttered Stefania.

Nikki huddled in her cloak. His trembling had stopped.

“Nikephoros,” she said, “you should never
have come here with a fever.”

He did not respond.

She frowned. “I know. You thought it was nothing. Just
a touch of the winter chill. So you came out and you went all light-headed and
maybe you got lost. It’s God’s good fortune you wandered in the
right direction.”

She touched his hair, which had begun to dry. He started
violently to his feet, nearly oversetting her. His eyes were wide and wild, and
they knew her; he reached almost blindly.

She must have done the same. Hand met hand and gripped hard.
His fingers were warm but not fever-warm.

The green tinge had faded from his face. He looked almost
like his proper self; he even tried to smile. He had let the cloak fall. She
looked; she was no saint to resist such a temptation. Yes, he was comely all
over, slim and olive-smooth, his only blemish a red-brown stain on the point of
his shoulder. It looked like a star, or like a small splayed hand.

It begged her to set her lips to it. His skin was silken,
but firm beneath, with nothing in it of the woman or the child. She rested her
cheek against it. “You frightened me,” she said. “In a little
while I think I’ll be angry. If you don’t fall down in a fit first.”

She stepped back a little too quickly. He did not try to
stop her. She reached for the cloak, shook her head, took Uncle Gregorios’
housegown from its peg. It was warm and soft and only a little too short.

She did not know whether she was glad or sorry to see him
covered, seated again and submitting meekly to Bianca’s fussing, even
forbearing to grimace at the taste of the posset. His hair, drying, was a riot
of curls; she wanted to stroke them.

Bianca babbled interminably, hobbling about, bringing food
and drink, poking at the coals. Nikki ate willingly enough, even hungrily, to
the old woman’s open satisfaction. “There now, nothing wrong with
you but rain and cold and monastery food—Pah! Food they call it, no
better than offal, fit to starve any healthy young lad. No wonder you fainted
on our doorstep.”

Stefania swallowed a thoroughly unphilosophical giggle. It
was that or scream. A fortnight’s acquaintance and a night’s
anxiety, and it seemed that she was lost. Just like the wise Heloise away in
Francia, all her learning set at naught by a fine black eye.

She glanced at him, pretending to sip Bianca’s
fragrant spiced wine. He was a little drawn still, a little grim as he gazed
into his own cup. Concern touched her. “Tell me what’s wrong,”
she said.

He was not listening. She reined in her temper, reached for
the jar, filled his cup. He looked up then. “Tell me,” she said
again.

She watched the spasm cross his face. Pain; frustration; a
sudden and rending despair. He shook his head hard, harder, and pulled himself
up. His lips moved clumsily, without sound. “I—I must—”

“You’ll wait till your clothes dry. All night if
need be.”

He shook his head again. His shirt was in his hand, the
borrowed gown cast off. He dressed swiftly, fumbling with haste, but he did not
precisely run away.

In the moment before he left, he paused. He regarded
Stefania; he bent, taking her hands. In each trembling palm he set a kiss.
Promising nothing. Promising everything.

Fools, they were. Both of them.

In the depths of Broceliande even the sunlight was strange,
enchanted, more mist than light. It lay soft on Alf’s bare skin, with but
a shadow of its true and searing power; warmth but no heat, sinking deep into
his winter-wearied bones. He stretched like a cat, long and lazy and sinuous,
inhaling the crushed sweetness of grass and fern.

A light hand ran down his body. He turned to meet Thea’s
laughing eyes.

His joy leaped sun-high; fear crippled it. His hand shook as
he touched her.

She was real, solid. His fingers remembered every supple
line of her; his lips traced the swoop of cheek and neck and shoulder, lingered
on the rich curve of her breasts, savored their brimming sweetness. Slowly,
tenderly, he left them, seeking out the arch of her ribs, the subtle curve of her
hips, the hills and hollows of her belly, coming to rest at last in the meeting
of her thighs.

He raised his head, drunk with fire and sweetness. She slid
down to match her body to his. Her fingers roved over the webwork of scars that
was his back, traced the patterns time and love had found there, waked the
shiver of pleasure that dwelt along his spine. His every nerve and sinew sang.

Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse;
thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes,
with one chain of thy neck.

How fair is my love, my sister, my spouse! how much
better is thy love than wine! and the smell of thine ointments than all spices!

Musk and silk, sun and salt and the sweet sharpness of fern.
Her eyes were burning gold yet soft, as always—and only—for his
loving. Heart and body opened to enfold him.

Love and light shattered together. He lay in darkness,
shuddering with the last spasms of his passion. No sun shone down; no leaves
whispered; no warm woman-shape filled his arms. There was only dark and stone
and a memory of incense.

San Girolamo. The name brought back all the rest, with a
remnant of sight, enough to see the shape of the room and the huddle of shadow
that was Nikki on his pallet. The ample warmth at his back was Jehan, deep
asleep and snoring gently.

Alf sat up. He had fouled himself like any callow boy
dreaming fruitlessly of desire.

He rose, sick and sickened, powerless to stop his shaking.
Never in his life—never—

First there had been his vows, and his body never yet
wakened to passion. Then there had been Thea. First innocence, then sweet and
constant knowledge. Never this crawling shame. Mingled most horribly with grief
for her loss, and anger at his weakness, and the languor that came always after
love.

Thea would have braced him with mockery. The words of the
great Song lilted incongruously in his brain:
Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.

“Solomon,” he said, “Solomon, if you could
have known what manner of creature your words would drive mad…”

His voice rang loud in the gloom. Neither of his companions
stirred. Jehan, alone in the bed, had sprawled across the whole of it. A
splendid figure of a man, maned and pelted like a lion; his dreams were like a
child’s, blameless, sunlit.

Alf backed away from them. With water from the basin he
washed himself, scouring brutally as if that small pain could punish his body’s
betrayal.

Now indeed he could see why so many saints had mortified
their flesh. Hated it; beaten and starved it until its bestial instincts should
be slain.

He had been a bit of an ascetic. Was still, for the matter
of that. But not for any great sanctity; it was only carelessness and a body
that bore easily the burdens of fasting and sleeplessness, cold and rough
garments and long enforced silences. He had never had to wage true war with it,
nor ever yet let it fall into proper saintly squalor.