Read Online The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy) by Tara Janzen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tara Janzen
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were too light to hold; where a creature of unsurpassed comeliness beckoned to her with a gentle touch and the sweet, dark melody of his voice.
A sigh swelled in her chest. She would not have expected glittering black eyes from a faerie prince, yet his eyes were darker and brighter than a night full of the moon and stars, an onyx color to match the sleek, flowing length of hair that framed his face, streamed down his chest, and pooled on her breasts in a loose, silky confluence.
Ah, and his face. She lifted her hand and lightly traced the near perfect symmetry of his features. His was the kind of strange beauty no mortal man embodied and no mortal woman could resist. Truly, he was a magical being, for only magic could have created such an artful line from brow to chin—she caressed his cheek and let her fingers trail to the long, masculine curve of his jaw. Or create such a mouth as to make even a maid think of a kiss. Her fingertips brushed his lips.
He smiled, and she felt color suffuse her face. Amazing, that she could blush even in death. Clear as night, his eyes teased her, sparkling with an inner light like the stars sparkling around his head. Never had she seen such stars. The cosmic orbs danced both high and low in flaming shades of yellow, red, and blue, leaving trails of fire in their wakes. The sheer dazzle of him in his heavenly firmament left her breathless with awe.
“Sweet prince of the tylwyth teg ,” she whispered, thoroughly taken with him. Death had been the choice of wisdom, after all, and not the final act of a coward.
Dain’s smile turned wry. Silly chit, to mistake him for something even half so pure and noble as a prince of the faerie folk. Though had he been elfin, he was sure he could have found salvation in the adoration shining in her eyes, for the old stories said elves lived in hope of gaining a human’s love.
He had long since abandoned any such aspirations himself, but he knew he engendered lust with ease, and he saw that, too, in her eyes. Poor, untried virgin. He would do his best to return her untouched to her Mychael and spare her the more interesting pastimes available to those with adventurous natures.
“What’s thy name, chérie ?” he asked in his most mellifluous voice, honey sweetening his words to draw her out.
“Ceridwen,” she whispered. “Ceridwen ab Arawn. And yours?”
He hesitated for only a moment. “Dain.”
“Dain.” She repeated his name on a soulful sigh, and Dain couldn’t help himself; he grinned. Vivienne could take lessons from this one.
“Where is your Mychael, little one?”
“Strata Florida.”
His grin faded. Just his luck. He’d been given the keeping of a Welsh maid with the name of a white monk rather than a rich lord on her lips. Then again, hadn’t a prince of Powys, Rhys ap Gruffudd, granted the Cistercian monks large tracks of upland grazing all the way to Rhayader? Surely over the years even the most ascetic of orders had managed to accumulate some profit on such bounty.
But would they part with it for a woman?
He mulled over an answer to that for more than a minute and couldn’t quite turn it to his liking. Women and holy men didn’t mix nearly as well as they had before Gregory VII had cleansed the church of “fornicating priests.”
“Dain.” She spoke his name again in a dreamy voice, infusing it with a good deal of wonder, and wonder she might. What was he going to do with her?
“Is Mychael your uncle?” he asked, hoping for an abbot.
“Brother,” she answered.
Worse and worse. The brother of one as young as she could hardly have had time to advance in the church—and yet there was the chemise. Someone coddled the girl.
“Wherever did Ragnor find you, chérie ?” he asked, absently caressing her from her cheek to her ear and letting his fingers slide into the softness of her hair. He didn’t really expect an answer to his question, and he certainly didn’t expect the one she gave.
“On the Coit
A sigh swelled in her chest. She would not have expected glittering black eyes from a faerie prince, yet his eyes were darker and brighter than a night full of the moon and stars, an onyx color to match the sleek, flowing length of hair that framed his face, streamed down his chest, and pooled on her breasts in a loose, silky confluence.
Ah, and his face. She lifted her hand and lightly traced the near perfect symmetry of his features. His was the kind of strange beauty no mortal man embodied and no mortal woman could resist. Truly, he was a magical being, for only magic could have created such an artful line from brow to chin—she caressed his cheek and let her fingers trail to the long, masculine curve of his jaw. Or create such a mouth as to make even a maid think of a kiss. Her fingertips brushed his lips.
He smiled, and she felt color suffuse her face. Amazing, that she could blush even in death. Clear as night, his eyes teased her, sparkling with an inner light like the stars sparkling around his head. Never had she seen such stars. The cosmic orbs danced both high and low in flaming shades of yellow, red, and blue, leaving trails of fire in their wakes. The sheer dazzle of him in his heavenly firmament left her breathless with awe.
“Sweet prince of the tylwyth teg ,” she whispered, thoroughly taken with him. Death had been the choice of wisdom, after all, and not the final act of a coward.
Dain’s smile turned wry. Silly chit, to mistake him for something even half so pure and noble as a prince of the faerie folk. Though had he been elfin, he was sure he could have found salvation in the adoration shining in her eyes, for the old stories said elves lived in hope of gaining a human’s love.
He had long since abandoned any such aspirations himself, but he knew he engendered lust with ease, and he saw that, too, in her eyes. Poor, untried virgin. He would do his best to return her untouched to her Mychael and spare her the more interesting pastimes available to those with adventurous natures.
“What’s thy name, chérie ?” he asked in his most mellifluous voice, honey sweetening his words to draw her out.
“Ceridwen,” she whispered. “Ceridwen ab Arawn. And yours?”
He hesitated for only a moment. “Dain.”
“Dain.” She repeated his name on a soulful sigh, and Dain couldn’t help himself; he grinned. Vivienne could take lessons from this one.
“Where is your Mychael, little one?”
“Strata Florida.”
His grin faded. Just his luck. He’d been given the keeping of a Welsh maid with the name of a white monk rather than a rich lord on her lips. Then again, hadn’t a prince of Powys, Rhys ap Gruffudd, granted the Cistercian monks large tracks of upland grazing all the way to Rhayader? Surely over the years even the most ascetic of orders had managed to accumulate some profit on such bounty.
But would they part with it for a woman?
He mulled over an answer to that for more than a minute and couldn’t quite turn it to his liking. Women and holy men didn’t mix nearly as well as they had before Gregory VII had cleansed the church of “fornicating priests.”
“Dain.” She spoke his name again in a dreamy voice, infusing it with a good deal of wonder, and wonder she might. What was he going to do with her?
“Is Mychael your uncle?” he asked, hoping for an abbot.
“Brother,” she answered.
Worse and worse. The brother of one as young as she could hardly have had time to advance in the church—and yet there was the chemise. Someone coddled the girl.
“Wherever did Ragnor find you, chérie ?” he asked, absently caressing her from her cheek to her ear and letting his fingers slide into the softness of her hair. He didn’t really expect an answer to his question, and he certainly didn’t expect the one she gave.
“On the Coit
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