Read Online The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy) by Tara Janzen - Free Book Online
Authors: Tara Janzen
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the cross and follow Richard the Lionheart into hell. For they had been boys on the Crusade, he and Caradoc and Morgan, and not the men they had thought themselves to be, a fact proven on the bloody sands of Palestine; and proven for Dain again as a captive in the tents of the Saracen trader Jalal al-Kamam.
Some, though, need not go so far from home to find their virtue hanging in the balance. Dain lifted a handful of the maid’s pale hair and remembered the startling light blue of her eyes. She stirred, releasing a breathy groan, and he let the white-gold strands fall back to her side.
She was pretty.
~ ~ ~
Hours later, Dain washed the last of the girl’s blood from his hands. A dozen candles blazed on the floor surrounding the pallet and in the torchères he’d set at his side for more light. Never had he taken so many stitches in so small a space, both on her face and her shoulder. He’d given her a portion of the sleeping draught before he’d put the needle to her flesh, knowing he was in no mood for screaming and crying.
Now a sound or two, or a tear, would be welcome. She was too quiet, and becoming more intriguing all the time. He’d found a book in the folds of her ragged cloak, bound in red leather and marked on the cover with gold, a rare thing to be carting around the wilderness.
He finished dressing her wound with his concoction of pudre ruge and sealed the whole with albumen. Ragnor had cut her deliberately; the wound followed her hairline too closely for it to have been an accident. With time, the scar would barely be noticeable, but he wouldn’t be complimenting the knight on the accuracy of his torture. Damascene steel was required for truly subtle blade work. Compared to what Dain could inflict, Ragnor’s neat slice looked like butchery. Mayhaps one day he would give the red beast a personal lesson with his Syrian dagger.
He returned to the foot of the pallet and removed the cold compress from her ankle. The swelling was finally down. He felt carefully along the bone, probing with his fingertips to determine which way the break lay. When he knew as much as he would, he braced himself and, taking her foot in his hands, pulled.
Her pained cry brought the flicker of a smile to his lips. He had never yet killed anyone with henbane, an omission on his list of sins he had hoped not to remedy with the maid.
After splinting and wrapping her ankle, and listening to her cry and sniffle through the whole procedure, he moved to her side. He could do nothing more for her, except wipe her tears.
He leaned across her for a cloth, and the sniffling stopped with a soft inhalation. The contact he’d made was chest to breast, a position already proven to be rare in her life.
Without moving away, he looked to her face and found her eyes open, huge and glazed from the poppy, her irises milky-blue rims of luminosity around the dark abysses of her pupils. Her lashes were long and wet and tipped in gold.
He held her gaze, curious about this woman he had labored over so mightily. To his surprise, she stared at him with equal intensity.
“ Chérie ,” he murmured. The Norman term of endearment was not one he used often, but it came easily when looking at his mystery maiden.
He used his palm to smooth the hair back off her brow. She was warm, but not fevered. Her skin was soft, like a child’s, but she was no child.
“Are you awake, lady?” he asked.
Awake? Ceridwen thought hazily. How did one awaken into death? And who would choose not to be awake when Death’s messenger was so achingly beautiful?
She gazed up at him, taking him in piece by exquisite piece and putting him together into a dreamlike whole. She faintly remembered that she had stolen a green charm cursed with a faerie’s death-sleep, stolen it from an ominous, black-cowled demon flanked by spectral hounds.
Or maybe not a demon. His charm had brought her to this new land of death, where her limbs felt heavy, but her thoughts and her heart
Some, though, need not go so far from home to find their virtue hanging in the balance. Dain lifted a handful of the maid’s pale hair and remembered the startling light blue of her eyes. She stirred, releasing a breathy groan, and he let the white-gold strands fall back to her side.
She was pretty.
~ ~ ~
Hours later, Dain washed the last of the girl’s blood from his hands. A dozen candles blazed on the floor surrounding the pallet and in the torchères he’d set at his side for more light. Never had he taken so many stitches in so small a space, both on her face and her shoulder. He’d given her a portion of the sleeping draught before he’d put the needle to her flesh, knowing he was in no mood for screaming and crying.
Now a sound or two, or a tear, would be welcome. She was too quiet, and becoming more intriguing all the time. He’d found a book in the folds of her ragged cloak, bound in red leather and marked on the cover with gold, a rare thing to be carting around the wilderness.
He finished dressing her wound with his concoction of pudre ruge and sealed the whole with albumen. Ragnor had cut her deliberately; the wound followed her hairline too closely for it to have been an accident. With time, the scar would barely be noticeable, but he wouldn’t be complimenting the knight on the accuracy of his torture. Damascene steel was required for truly subtle blade work. Compared to what Dain could inflict, Ragnor’s neat slice looked like butchery. Mayhaps one day he would give the red beast a personal lesson with his Syrian dagger.
He returned to the foot of the pallet and removed the cold compress from her ankle. The swelling was finally down. He felt carefully along the bone, probing with his fingertips to determine which way the break lay. When he knew as much as he would, he braced himself and, taking her foot in his hands, pulled.
Her pained cry brought the flicker of a smile to his lips. He had never yet killed anyone with henbane, an omission on his list of sins he had hoped not to remedy with the maid.
After splinting and wrapping her ankle, and listening to her cry and sniffle through the whole procedure, he moved to her side. He could do nothing more for her, except wipe her tears.
He leaned across her for a cloth, and the sniffling stopped with a soft inhalation. The contact he’d made was chest to breast, a position already proven to be rare in her life.
Without moving away, he looked to her face and found her eyes open, huge and glazed from the poppy, her irises milky-blue rims of luminosity around the dark abysses of her pupils. Her lashes were long and wet and tipped in gold.
He held her gaze, curious about this woman he had labored over so mightily. To his surprise, she stared at him with equal intensity.
“ Chérie ,” he murmured. The Norman term of endearment was not one he used often, but it came easily when looking at his mystery maiden.
He used his palm to smooth the hair back off her brow. She was warm, but not fevered. Her skin was soft, like a child’s, but she was no child.
“Are you awake, lady?” he asked.
Awake? Ceridwen thought hazily. How did one awaken into death? And who would choose not to be awake when Death’s messenger was so achingly beautiful?
She gazed up at him, taking him in piece by exquisite piece and putting him together into a dreamlike whole. She faintly remembered that she had stolen a green charm cursed with a faerie’s death-sleep, stolen it from an ominous, black-cowled demon flanked by spectral hounds.
Or maybe not a demon. His charm had brought her to this new land of death, where her limbs felt heavy, but her thoughts and her heart
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