The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars 3)
He gasped. Down the center of each palm an ugly scar, still suppurating on her left hand, scored the flesh. Her skin was like a delicate parchment, thin and almost translucent but for those horrible gashes.
He touched them gently with the damp cloth, letting the water soak in to soften the scabbing and the hard runnels of pus. “These must be tended, Tallia! How did you come by these?”
He looked up to see a faint blush stir on her pallid cheeks. Her lips parted; her eyes were very wide. He shut his eyes and swayed into her, caught the scent of her, the dry powder of wheat just before harvest and a trace of incense so fleeting that it was as if it retreated before him. Their lips did not touch.
She whimpered, and he opened his eyes to discover that she had recoiled from him and now, with a hand caught in his grasp, had begun to cry.
“God’s mercy! I beg you! Forgive me!” He was a monster to force himself on her in this way. But he could not bear simply to let go of her. Without looking her again in the face, he tended her hands, patiently wetting the scars and gently swabbing the pus from them. When he finished, he dropped the now-dirty cloth into the basin.
She was still crying.
“It hurts you. I’m sorry.” He could only stammer it. He could not bear to see her in pain.
“Nay, nay,” she whispered as he imagined a woman might who, having been violated, is compelled to grant forgiveness to the one who assaulted her. “The pain is nothing. It is not for us to tend the wounds given to us by God’s mercy.”
“What do you mean?”
The blush still bled color into her cheeks. “I cannot speak of it. It would be prideful if people were to think that God had favored me, for I am no more worthy than any other vessel.”
“Do you think this a sign from God—?” He broke off as understanding flooded him. “This is the mark of flaying, is it not?”
“Do you know of the blessed Daisan’s sacrifice and redemption?” she asked eagerly, leaning toward him. “But of course you must! You were privileged to walk beside Frater Agius, he who revealed the truth to me!” She was very close to him, her breath a sweet mist on his cheek. “Do you believe in the Redemption?”
He scarcely trusted himself to breathe. Her gaze on him was impassioned, her pulse under his fingers drumming like a racing stag, and he knew in his gut that she had unknowingly revealed to him the means to soften her heart.
But it would be a lie.
“Nay,” he said softly. “Frater Agius was a good man, but misguided. I don’t believe in the sacrifice and redemption. I can’t lie to you, Tallia.” Not even if it meant the chance she would open fully to him.
She pulled her hands away from him and clasped them before her, resuming an attitude of prayer. “I beg you, Lord Alain,” she said into her hands, her voice falling away until the mice scrabbling in the walls made a greater sound. “I beg you, I have sworn myself to God’s service as a pure vessel, a bride to the blessed Daisan, the Redeemer, who sits enthroned in Heaven beside his mother, She who is God and Mercy and Judgment, She who gave breath to the Holy Word. I beg you, do not pollute me here on earth for mere earthly gain.”
“But I love you, Tallia!” To have her so close! Her hands pressed against an embroidered golden stag, covering its antlers and head. A pair of slender hind legs, a gold rump and little tuft of a tail peeked out from under her right wrist. “God made us to be husband and wife together, and to bring children into the world!”
The sigh shuddered her whole body. She climbed onto the bed and lay on her back, utterly still, arms limp at her side. “Then do what you must,” she murmured in the tone of a woman who has reached the station of her martyrdom.
It was too much. He buried his face in his hands.
After a long time, still hearing her ragged breathing in anticipation of the brute act she expected, he lifted his head. “I won’t touch you.” He was barely able to force the words out. “Not until you get used to the idea of— But I beg you, Tallia, try to think of me as your husband. For—we must in time—the county needs its heir, and it is our duty—Ai, God, I—I—” His voice failed. He wanted her so badly.
o;I beg you, my lady,” he said as softly as if he were coaxing a mouse out from its hiding place beneath St. Lavrentius’ altar in the old church at Lavas Holding, “give me leave to wash your face and hands.”
She did not respond at first. She still seemed to be praying. But at last she turned those pale eyes on him as a prisoner pleads wordlessly for a stay of execution. Slowly, she uncurled her hands and held them out to him.
He gasped. Down the center of each palm an ugly scar, still suppurating on her left hand, scored the flesh. Her skin was like a delicate parchment, thin and almost translucent but for those horrible gashes.
He touched them gently with the damp cloth, letting the water soak in to soften the scabbing and the hard runnels of pus. “These must be tended, Tallia! How did you come by these?”
He looked up to see a faint blush stir on her pallid cheeks. Her lips parted; her eyes were very wide. He shut his eyes and swayed into her, caught the scent of her, the dry powder of wheat just before harvest and a trace of incense so fleeting that it was as if it retreated before him. Their lips did not touch.
She whimpered, and he opened his eyes to discover that she had recoiled from him and now, with a hand caught in his grasp, had begun to cry.
“God’s mercy! I beg you! Forgive me!” He was a monster to force himself on her in this way. But he could not bear simply to let go of her. Without looking her again in the face, he tended her hands, patiently wetting the scars and gently swabbing the pus from them. When he finished, he dropped the now-dirty cloth into the basin.
She was still crying.
“It hurts you. I’m sorry.” He could only stammer it. He could not bear to see her in pain.
“Nay, nay,” she whispered as he imagined a woman might who, having been violated, is compelled to grant forgiveness to the one who assaulted her. “The pain is nothing. It is not for us to tend the wounds given to us by God’s mercy.”