Read Online Strands of Starlight by Gael Baudino - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gael Baudino
Ads: Link
the man she had healed.
Huge, unwashed, his garments caked with dirt, he looked the proper ruffian. Only his hands did not conform to the role. He pulled himself up, touched his restored arm, and stared at her. “And who are you, my pretty maid?” he said.
Miriam was mildly surprised: his accent was that of the northern part of the country. But she felt uneasy, too. “A traveler,” she said. “I healed you just now.”
“Oh?” He laughed. “Did I have need of healing?”
“Your arm was torn off,” she said abruptly. “Next time, pick on a smaller bear.” She got up and turned to take up Esau's bridle.
She was seized roughly from behind. She tried to whirl around to beat him off, to grab for her knife, but she was tiny, untrained in fighting, and he was a large man, a match for a bear. One, two cuffs from his massive hands and her senses were reeling.
He was tearing at her clothes now, the clasp of her cloak giving way suddenly and her gown ripping free at the shoulder and down the side. Her anger erupted, as white-hot as her power. Even the Inquisition had not treated her so. Then men in Hypprux had been too frightened.
Not so this stranger. He smacked her again to loosen her thighs, and before she slid into unconsciousness, she felt the pain as she was forced.
Chapter Six
The pain drove Miriam to her senses in the late afternoon. She was lying faceup among the trees, and the leaves and spring flowers fluttered quietly and incongruously in the breeze. She focused on them, tried to ignore the fire in her groin, and managed to pull herself to her feet without crying aloud.
My name is Miriam. I have black hair.
She was alone save for Esau. Dark blood was streaking down her thighs, and she could sense that it was not going to stop on its own. She wished she could heal herself.
I have black eyes. . . .
She stumbled to her ripped garments and knotted them clumsily about herself. Esau's brown eyes stared into hers as though he understood her plight, and he crouched slightly as she pulled herself onto his back and collapsed across the saddle, one foot finding a purchase in a stirrup.
My name is Miriam. . . .
“The road, Esau,” she whispered, patting his rump.
He picked his way through the trees, and when he reached the road, she set him on a course toward the village she knew was ahead. She tried to stay conscious, but the vertigo made it difficult to judge whether or not she was succeeding.
The pain hammered through her body, and her face throbbed where it had been struck, but she would not weep. She would not cry anymore. The Church had persecuted her, her power had violated her, and now on top of those rapes was piled yet another, and the outrage fused with the pent-up anger of eight years of running, eight years of hiding.
She was going to find the man who had raped her. She could not touch the Church, she could not stifle her power or the persecutions it brought upon her, but she could deal with him . He was going to suffer and die. She held on to that thought, saving the rage, gathering the hate, storing them away for the future.
I have black hair. . . .
Although Esau plodded along steadily, the miles to the village seemed endless. The bleeding was weakening her, and the ground blurred and darkened. She was vaguely aware that the pony had rounded a bend when she heard shouts of surprise. Lifting her head, she made out a walled village. Two men were running toward her.
“Esau,” she whispered. “Stop.”
She loosened her foot in the stirrup. Some obscure element of pride made her want to stand on her own feet, but her legs betrayed her. When she slid off Esau's back, she collapsed in the dust of the road.
Commotion. Voices. She was nearly blind with pain and blood loss, but she felt herself lifted by strong, gentle arms. “Please,” she mumbled. “Please don't hurt me.” She was fainting again, dizziness spiraling up around her.
“I'll take her to the priest's house, David,”
Huge, unwashed, his garments caked with dirt, he looked the proper ruffian. Only his hands did not conform to the role. He pulled himself up, touched his restored arm, and stared at her. “And who are you, my pretty maid?” he said.
Miriam was mildly surprised: his accent was that of the northern part of the country. But she felt uneasy, too. “A traveler,” she said. “I healed you just now.”
“Oh?” He laughed. “Did I have need of healing?”
“Your arm was torn off,” she said abruptly. “Next time, pick on a smaller bear.” She got up and turned to take up Esau's bridle.
She was seized roughly from behind. She tried to whirl around to beat him off, to grab for her knife, but she was tiny, untrained in fighting, and he was a large man, a match for a bear. One, two cuffs from his massive hands and her senses were reeling.
He was tearing at her clothes now, the clasp of her cloak giving way suddenly and her gown ripping free at the shoulder and down the side. Her anger erupted, as white-hot as her power. Even the Inquisition had not treated her so. Then men in Hypprux had been too frightened.
Not so this stranger. He smacked her again to loosen her thighs, and before she slid into unconsciousness, she felt the pain as she was forced.
Chapter Six
The pain drove Miriam to her senses in the late afternoon. She was lying faceup among the trees, and the leaves and spring flowers fluttered quietly and incongruously in the breeze. She focused on them, tried to ignore the fire in her groin, and managed to pull herself to her feet without crying aloud.
My name is Miriam. I have black hair.
She was alone save for Esau. Dark blood was streaking down her thighs, and she could sense that it was not going to stop on its own. She wished she could heal herself.
I have black eyes. . . .
She stumbled to her ripped garments and knotted them clumsily about herself. Esau's brown eyes stared into hers as though he understood her plight, and he crouched slightly as she pulled herself onto his back and collapsed across the saddle, one foot finding a purchase in a stirrup.
My name is Miriam. . . .
“The road, Esau,” she whispered, patting his rump.
He picked his way through the trees, and when he reached the road, she set him on a course toward the village she knew was ahead. She tried to stay conscious, but the vertigo made it difficult to judge whether or not she was succeeding.
The pain hammered through her body, and her face throbbed where it had been struck, but she would not weep. She would not cry anymore. The Church had persecuted her, her power had violated her, and now on top of those rapes was piled yet another, and the outrage fused with the pent-up anger of eight years of running, eight years of hiding.
She was going to find the man who had raped her. She could not touch the Church, she could not stifle her power or the persecutions it brought upon her, but she could deal with him . He was going to suffer and die. She held on to that thought, saving the rage, gathering the hate, storing them away for the future.
I have black hair. . . .
Although Esau plodded along steadily, the miles to the village seemed endless. The bleeding was weakening her, and the ground blurred and darkened. She was vaguely aware that the pony had rounded a bend when she heard shouts of surprise. Lifting her head, she made out a walled village. Two men were running toward her.
“Esau,” she whispered. “Stop.”
She loosened her foot in the stirrup. Some obscure element of pride made her want to stand on her own feet, but her legs betrayed her. When she slid off Esau's back, she collapsed in the dust of the road.
Commotion. Voices. She was nearly blind with pain and blood loss, but she felt herself lifted by strong, gentle arms. “Please,” she mumbled. “Please don't hurt me.” She was fainting again, dizziness spiraling up around her.
“I'll take her to the priest's house, David,”
Similar Books
