Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [78]
With his charming manner and good looks, Lleu would have been the answer to her prayers, except that Camille never prayed. She had heard of the gods—some vague mention that they’d returned after a long absence—but that was about it. Remote and far away, the gods had nothing to do with her.
He was the answer to her problems, though. Camille did not love Lleu. She was determined to marry him, however. He would support her and her children, and in return, she would be a good wife to him. The notion that he might be playing her false had never entered her mind. Though she’d known him only a couple of days, he had seemed to dote on her and her children. When she heard from the monk that Lleu had booked passage on a ship, Camille felt the blow in the pit of her stomach and found it easy to convince herself the monk had been lying.
She fed her children the meager amount of food that there was in the house, going without a meal herself. She put the baby to bed, then spent some time talking to her little son, a child of four, promising him he would soon have a new daddy, who would love him dearly, and that there would be lots to eat and warm clothes to wear and a fine new house where they would all live together.
The little boy fell asleep in her arms, and she carried him to the straw pallet in the corner of the one room dwelling and laid him down. She tucked a blanket around him, then did what she could to make herself pretty. She sat in the lone rickety chair to wait for Lleu.
He arrived later than she’d expected. He reeked of dwarf spirits but did not appear to be drunk. He greeted her with his usual charming smile and kissed her on the cheek. She shut the door behind him and bolted it.
Lleu stood in the center of the room with his arms held out. “Come to me, my sweet,” he said gaily.
She gave herself to his embrace. His kisses were ardent and impassioned. When his hot hands began to explore her body, however, Camille drew away from him.
“Lleu, we need to talk. You promised to marry me. I love you so, I don’t want to wait. Promise me you will marry me tomorrow.”
“I will marry you, but you must promise me something in return,” Lleu said, laughing.
“You will marry me?” Camille cried, ecstatic. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, the day after, whenever,” Lleu said carelessly.
“What is it you want of me?” Camille asked, drawing near to him.
She thought she knew the answer and was prepared to give her body to the man who was going to be her husband. Lleu’s reply caught her by surprise.
“I am a follower of Chemosh,” he said. “I want you to join me in his worship. That is all I ask. Do that, and you will be my wife.”
“Chemosh?” Camille repeated. She drew back, startled and uneasy. “You never said anything before about a god called Chemosh. Who is he?”
“The Lord of Life Unending,” Lleu replied. “You have but to swear to him that you will serve him, and in return, he will grant you endless youth, endless beauty, endless life.”
His words sounded glib, a speech he had memorized and was speaking by rote, like a bad actor in a bad play. The monk’s warning came back to Camille.
“Come now, Lleu. Intelligent people don’t believe in the gods,” she said, forcing a laugh. “Worshipping gods is for the weak-minded, the superstitious.”
“My wife must believe in my god, Camille,” said Lleu and his charming smile was gone. “If I am to marry you, you must swear to follow Chemosh. He will reward you with endless youth, endless—”
“Yes, you said all that,” Camille snapped. She temporized. “After I am your wife, I will gladly learn about Chemosh. You will teach me.”
“I will teach you now,” said Lleu, and he bent over her and nuzzled her neck, kissing her.
His kisses were sweet, and he had promised to marry her. What would it hurt to give in to his silly demand? Swear to Chemosh. She was saying only words anyway. She slid her hands inside his open collar and saw, beneath her fingers, the mark of a woman’s lips burned into his flesh.
Camille pushed