grate.
"Of course you must stay with your husband and help care for him. There is terrible danger on the road for travellers. We will do all we can to aid you." The abbot's hand patted her shoulder in a commendable attempt to stem the threatening flood of hysterics. She used the opportunity to shake off the werewolf's paw. Her foot slid back, stabbing into Cunan's ankle.
The abbot got to his feet, filling the small space she had created behind her. "You and your husband are safe now."
She looked up, her eyes swimming with tears and, she hoped, quite luminous with gratitude. Gracious-ness in victory. Always.
"Saint Dwyn reward you for your kindness, Father."
Even Brand would have appreciated the apposite-ness of that
He was going to die.
It was so obvious that when the abbot came to administer extreme unction, no one protested.
Alina watched. It did not matter what she had done, neither her strategy, nor her vain attempts at healing. Some things could not be turned aside.
The infirmarian had tried everything, every wort and herb and simple. No one could have faulted his skill. Just as no one could doubt the faithful wife's devotion, or the watchful loyalty of companions, all of them, bristling with weapons. Cunan had had the sense to keep his mouth shut Duda, his command firmly established, was not in a mood to refer to reason.
She glanced at Cunan's furious face. She did not believe he would be harmed while Brand was alive. But afterwards, if he did something that… She could not think of afterwards.
When the sacrament was over, Duda threw everyone out of the chamber. Healing, he said, had proved useless. Prayers could be said in the chapel with the same effect. Wives could weep elsewhere.
"I do not weep," said Alina, "but I scream very well. The brothers will hear me."
She thought for one moment that the
seax
he was toying with would be stuck through her throat. But in the end Duda did not move.
She brushed past the naked edge of the blade and sat down at her accustomed place on the wall bench with the pitcher of water.
There was no point in going on, but she could not stop. Her arm reached out in the rhythm that had become eaten into her brain. She watched the muscles shake with fatigue. It was quite visible even under the coarse wool of her sleeve.
Soak the cloth with cool water, squeeze it out. Touch him. Smooth the wad of wet linen across the alien-familiar form of his body, the long, sleek, full-muscled shape of arm and leg, the wide chest: smoothly dense skin, dark gold hairs flattened by the water, by her touch. Burning. All burning.
The cloth under her hand heated before her touch could bring relief. Nothing she could do to stop all that brilliant, precisely constructed beauty, all that frightening, virile, masculine strength from being consumed before her eyes.
When she touched him with her hand, his fire burned through the aching wet coldness of her fingers.
Her hand dropped. Mostly because her arm was too heavy for her to move. Mostly because her heart was dead.
She slumped, buried her face in the damp-glittering mass of his hair. So close that her face fitted beside his like the other side of a coin. His heat enfolded her like a shield against the chills that chased over her exhausted body. If she just cast herself on those warm, strong planes, if she placed her arms around his body and held him, she would be safe. Nothing, besides him, had ever made her safe. The urge to do that, just to hold on to him for eternity, was overwhelming.
But she could not. The warmth of him was destructive. The breath that slid so softly across her skin was fought for. The wide, strong chest strained for every inward life-giving gasp of air, so that she was afraid to touch it.
She kept her hand at his head, where the life-force found its home, the force that burned too strongly. Her voice spoke, even before she knew what it would say.
"You must not die." The words whispered into the tangled, sweat-streaked
"Of course you must stay with your husband and help care for him. There is terrible danger on the road for travellers. We will do all we can to aid you." The abbot's hand patted her shoulder in a commendable attempt to stem the threatening flood of hysterics. She used the opportunity to shake off the werewolf's paw. Her foot slid back, stabbing into Cunan's ankle.
The abbot got to his feet, filling the small space she had created behind her. "You and your husband are safe now."
She looked up, her eyes swimming with tears and, she hoped, quite luminous with gratitude. Gracious-ness in victory. Always.
"Saint Dwyn reward you for your kindness, Father."
Even Brand would have appreciated the apposite-ness of that
He was going to die.
It was so obvious that when the abbot came to administer extreme unction, no one protested.
Alina watched. It did not matter what she had done, neither her strategy, nor her vain attempts at healing. Some things could not be turned aside.
The infirmarian had tried everything, every wort and herb and simple. No one could have faulted his skill. Just as no one could doubt the faithful wife's devotion, or the watchful loyalty of companions, all of them, bristling with weapons. Cunan had had the sense to keep his mouth shut Duda, his command firmly established, was not in a mood to refer to reason.
She glanced at Cunan's furious face. She did not believe he would be harmed while Brand was alive. But afterwards, if he did something that… She could not think of afterwards.
When the sacrament was over, Duda threw everyone out of the chamber. Healing, he said, had proved useless. Prayers could be said in the chapel with the same effect. Wives could weep elsewhere.
"I do not weep," said Alina, "but I scream very well. The brothers will hear me."
She thought for one moment that the
seax
he was toying with would be stuck through her throat. But in the end Duda did not move.
She brushed past the naked edge of the blade and sat down at her accustomed place on the wall bench with the pitcher of water.
There was no point in going on, but she could not stop. Her arm reached out in the rhythm that had become eaten into her brain. She watched the muscles shake with fatigue. It was quite visible even under the coarse wool of her sleeve.
Soak the cloth with cool water, squeeze it out. Touch him. Smooth the wad of wet linen across the alien-familiar form of his body, the long, sleek, full-muscled shape of arm and leg, the wide chest: smoothly dense skin, dark gold hairs flattened by the water, by her touch. Burning. All burning.
The cloth under her hand heated before her touch could bring relief. Nothing she could do to stop all that brilliant, precisely constructed beauty, all that frightening, virile, masculine strength from being consumed before her eyes.
When she touched him with her hand, his fire burned through the aching wet coldness of her fingers.
Her hand dropped. Mostly because her arm was too heavy for her to move. Mostly because her heart was dead.
She slumped, buried her face in the damp-glittering mass of his hair. So close that her face fitted beside his like the other side of a coin. His heat enfolded her like a shield against the chills that chased over her exhausted body. If she just cast herself on those warm, strong planes, if she placed her arms around his body and held him, she would be safe. Nothing, besides him, had ever made her safe. The urge to do that, just to hold on to him for eternity, was overwhelming.
But she could not. The warmth of him was destructive. The breath that slid so softly across her skin was fought for. The wide, strong chest strained for every inward life-giving gasp of air, so that she was afraid to touch it.
She kept her hand at his head, where the life-force found its home, the force that burned too strongly. Her voice spoke, even before she knew what it would say.
"You must not die." The words whispered into the tangled, sweat-streaked
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