Read Online Blood Rites by Elaine Bergstrom - Free Book Online Page B

come to the ceremony tonight,” Paul said as he took it.
    “We?”
    “Elizabeth and I.”
    “And Helen?”
    “She already asked you, didn’t she?”
    “And our monarch, what does he think?”
    “Stephen suggested I talk to you,” Paul answered.
    “So I did guess right, hmmm? No, I prefer to stay here. Helen will come to me. The Austras survive on their lovers, after all.”
    “You fool! You can’t be Stephen’s rival. You’d be better off if you were his friend.”
    “Would you be his friend if you had to share Elizabeth with him?”
    “Yes,” Paul answered with no hesitation and added, “someday I will share her with someone. My relationship with Elizabeth has lasted because I accept it. Don’t force Helen to choose between you and Stephen. If you do, you’ll lose her.”
    “Go home to your lover, Paul. I’ll stay here and wait for mine.”
    “She won’t come. Not tonight.”
    “I’ll wait and see.”
    Paul had set his glass on the kitchen table and turned to go when Philippe grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry, Paul,” he said and added, “Have you ever known me not to make a fool of myself over a beautiful woman?‘’
    “Never,” Paul said. He looked at Philippe hopefully. “Is that all this relationship is—you making a fool of yourself again?”
    “I wish,” Philippe replied. “But the truth is, for the first time in my life, I think, I’m in love, and as I always expected, I made the worst possible choice. And the fact is, now that I’ve finally attained this miserable state, I intend to wallow in it.”
    Philippe did. He waited that night with his doors and windows open, sitting in a chair, staring up at the fires on the mountaintop, hearing the faint music drifting down, a melody perfectly suited to the stars and the cold . . . a throbbing chant in celebration of the Long Night.
    As, still upright in his chair, he fell asleep, he thought he heard her voice, felt the brush of her mind in his. But it was only the beginning of a dream—erotic and almost satisfying.

    Helen had touched him, intending to call to him, to beg him to come. Sensing his stubborn resolve, she pulled quickly back. This was a family ritual, their highest celebration, and she would not be torn away from the family by her lover’s jealousy and need. With only a slight effort of her will, she pushed him from her mind and concentrated on the ceremony, sharing the cup as it passed around the circle, drinking the mingled blood of the family, reaching for the hands of those beside her, joining minds with all of them.
    Her last sharing had been one of initiation. Now, one of them, she shared the collective family memories, ancient and new, the building of the keep above the Varda Pass, the family exodus, the rising of cathedrals and palaces, the triumphs and the tragedies, her mind sharing each memory, becoming part of the whole. She stored it, every detail, to be recalled and slowly savored on some empty night.
    The voices! The faces! The magic of it filled her, until she could no longer contain it. She exploded like the others into a song, rising, falling, dancing with the flames, scarcely noticing when the physical bonds broke and their human loves and friends stepped forward and shared their past.
    Later, when the ritual had ended and the circle had broken into small groups, Helen went home. Her mind seemed universal now, a part of the family not quite her own. This was the moment she’d waited for. She pulled out Hillary’s painting for one final detached appraisal.
    And could find no flaws.

    The nude, “The Border of Woman,” had an almost universal effect on its viewers. It showed a girl who had seen too much, endured too much, and now tried to hold on to her tattered innocence while being thrust into adulthood by the biology of time. She faced the future as she had the horror of her past—with confidence and determination in her wide-spaced hazel eyes.
    Helen hid the painting from Hillary. She wisely knew