Days of Air and Darkness - Katharine Kerr [109]
He started to speak, but Raena’s head flopped first back, then forward. She gurgled, drooling, spitting, her body wrenching in the chair, then twisting back. Tren leapt to his feet and grabbed the writhing woman just as the chair threatened to tip and dump her upon the ground. When her head flopped onto his shoulder, he felt warm drool seeping through his shirt. Was she choking to death? He had never felt more helpless.
He scooped her up and carried her to the bed, then laid her down face forward, grabbing blankets and wadding them up to stuff under her neck and chest. She lay so still that he risked putting his hand along the side of her face. Although she felt chilly, she was warm enough for life.
“Raena?” Tren whispered. “Your Holiness?”
He would have bellowed for servants, but he feared that she’d be mortified to be seen this way. He certainly would have been. All at once, she raised her head and stared at him.
“Water?” Her voice cracked, but it was her own voice.
Tren got up, glanced round, and found a clay pitcher and a wooden cup. He had to support her while she drank, both hands wrapped round the cup like a little child.
“The Goddess demands a great deal from her priestess, I see.”
She nodded and held out the cup for more water. He poured, then slipped his arm under her shoulders again to hold her up.
“My thanks.” Her voice rasped. “Be you mindful of the great honor she did pay you?”
“Very much so, Your Holiness. Shall I call your maidservants in?”
She shook her head no, handed him the empty cup, and sat up, sighing, pushing her mane of hair back from her face with both hands.
“See you there that long chest at the back of the tent?” she said. “Open it. The gift she did promise you be wrapped in red cloth.”
Tren did as he was told and found, wrapped in reddish-brown linen, an elven longbow and a quiver of arrows. He stood, measuring the long yew staff—just a few inches shorter than he was and with a good strong pull. Tucked in the quiver’s mouth were a pair of bow strings. Raena swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat looking at him.
“Do you ken the using of such a thing?”
“I do, Your Holiness. There’s more than a little blood of the Westfolk in my clan’s veins.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of that.” She smiled briefly. “But do you remember what she said? If you do take that bow, it will be needful for you to kill at my order.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I know not.” She tilted her head a little to one side. “Yet an omen did come to me, saying that you might stay your hand from the task I would put you.”
“Your Holiness, I assure you. I’m the Goddess’s man, heart and soul.”
She started to speak, shrugging, yawning, then flopping back onto the bed, stretching her arms out over her head with a long sigh.
“Er, Your Holiness seems tired. I should leave her.”
“Not just yet.” She smiled at him. “When the Goddess takes me over, she leaves me hungry. Come lie down.”
Her tunic, hiked up round her thighs, stuck to her fleshy body with sweat. He stood for a moment considering her and wishing she looked less like a farmwife, lying in the haystack after a hard day tending pigs. Yet it had been a long time since he’d had a woman, and besides, scorning this one could prove dangerous. He sat down beside her and kissed her on the mouth. She laughed and threw one leg round his waist. The sex had something of the farm about it, too, at least to Tren’s way of thinking, short, rough, and noisy. When they were done, she rolled away from him and yawned.
“You may go now. Take the gift of the Goddess, and call my servants.”
By the time that Tren had finished lacing his brigga, she’d fallen asleep, slack-mouthed and snoring. Although he tried to convince himself that he still found the Goddess awe-inspiring, he kept remembering Raena, drooling onto his shoulder.
“Rori! Rori, where are you?”
Garin’s voice drifted up faintly to the tower room. Rhodry went to the window and knelt on the ledge to lean out and see the envoy standing in the bright morning sun at the tower’s base. With him