Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [36]
"Be free of it," a voice murmured. I heard the sound of a dipper plunging, and then searing agony as saltwater was poured tenderly over my weals. Once more my body jerked and I flung back my head, seeing Kushiel's unaltered countenance through tear-streaked eyes.
It was done. I sank back onto my heels, lassitude infusing my limbs as the priests untied my wrists. With impersonal care, they helped me dress. The touch of my undergarments set off waves of pain.
To my surprise, one of the priests dismissed the others with a wordless gesture. When they had gone, he reached up and drew back the hood of his robe, removing his bronze mask. A mortal face, strong and stern, framed with iron-grey hair, regarded me.
"Phèdre nó Delaunay, Comtesse de Montrève." Unmuffled by the mask, his voice was deep and resonant. "I am Michel Nevers, foremost among Kushiel's priesthood in the City of Elua. I would speak with you."
"My lord priest." I curtsied, swallowing against the discomfort. "As you please."
The chamber to which Michel Nevers escorted me was dimly luxuriant, lit with too few lamps and hung about with tapestries. There were bookshelves on the walls, laden with well-tended volumes, the bindings cracked and much repaired. I saw a copy of Sarea's illustrated History of Namarre, that contains the story of Naamah's daughter Mara, Kushiel's handmaiden and, some say, the first-ever anguissette.
"Drink." The priest Michel poured me a glass of strong red wine. "It strengthens the blood. And you have need of strength."
Obedient, I sipped, and then drank deeper, tasting in the wine the bursting life of the grape, nourished by sun and rain, fed by dark earth enriched with death's decay; the soil of Terre d'Ange, moistened by Blessed Elua's own blood. Earth the womb that begot him, blood and tears the seed that quickened him. These things I tasted, and the violent death of the grape, the lusty joy of the commonfolk that crushed it, the vintner's careful lore, time and the slow wisdom of age transmuting it into wine, the oaken cask that warded it whispering of a tree's immense lifetime and the bite of the axe that made an end to it.
"You see." He poured a second glass and held it aloft, regarding it. "So much does it take to make a glass of wine."
"My lord." I set down my glass, wincing as my gown drew taut across my shoulders. "Do you seek to lesson me?"
"No." Michel Nevers smiled, unexpected and kind. "Only to remindyou that, like the grape, we do not know to what end our brief lives will be transformed. You no longer wish to be an anguissette!"
"I am afraid." I folded my hands in my lap and met his gaze squarely. "My path lies in darkness, and Kushiel's Dart pricks me to unwanted desires. I wound my beloved with every choice I make, every breath I draw. Yes, my lord priest; I wish Kushiel would choose another. Have I not served him well? I have sworn this quest on my own honor, to free one who was a friend to me. Is it not enough? Must I be goaded every step of the way?"
He bowed his head, iron-grey hair falling over his brow. "You speak of Melisande Shahrizai."
"Yes."
"Phèdre." The priest raised his hand. "Forgive me. I did not mean to imply that such was your lot. Why you?" He shook his head. "I cannot say. We may spend many lifetimes upon the wheel of life before Blessed Elua admits us through the gates into the true Terre d'Ange-that-lies-beyond. Mayhap Kushiel in his infinite mercy allows you to atone for some crime that cannot be spoken. I do not know. I know only that he has chosen wisely, and if his touch lingers, his work is not yet done." Stooping, he kissed my brow with lips surprisingly gentle. "Kushiel's Chosen, Naamah's Servant. You bear the marks of both, and both you have served truly and well. Do not forget, they are merely the Companions of Blessed Elua, in whose bright shadow all of us follow—even Cassiel.”
"It is hard, my lord," I whispered.
"Yes." Michel Nevers nodded, and I saw in his gaze something resembling infinite compassion. "It is."
Thus, then,