Authors: Denise Rossetti

Thief of Light (62 page)

BOOK: Thief of Light

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“What?” he said.

“And people look so shocked when I say I don’t believe! Hah!”

Erik’s heart flip-flopped in his chest. “Prue,” he said, “what the hell are you talking about?”

“Them! The bloody gods! Has it never occurred to you how unfair it was to place such a burden on a boy, a mere child?”

He stared. “But Prue, what I did—”

She gripped his arm. “Was wrong, wicked. Hideous. I don’t condone it, not for a second. You did it of your own free will, but don’t you see? They
used
you and poor Inga, your precious Lord and Lady.” She snorted. “I know grown men who’d go mad with a tenth of the power They gave you at seventeen.”

“Prue, you’re crazy.”

“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.”

Prue strolled into the bedchamber and found her hairbrush. With a secret smile, she met her own serene gaze in the mirror. Any second . . . One, two—

“Godsdammit!
Prue!
”

Laughing, she turned to face the door.