Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [225]
"Perhaps his advice was not so poorly chosen," the priest said mildly.
His words brought me back to myself. "Forgive me," I muttered, shoving the broken medallion into the purse at my belt. "You're right, my lord priest. I did not mean to disturb your peace."
He gazed at me for a long moment, then sighed. "D'Angeline, I seldom offer counsel to those who do not ask it, for their ears are unwilling to hear. But this is a place of healing. Will you not seek it?"
"What do you mean?"
He reached out with one long finger, touching the center of my chest. "Not all wounds are of the flesh. You bear a wound deep inside you, and it festers. Will you hear my counsel? Stay. Pass this night in the temple, and let Asclepius guide you in your dreams. This is the favor I ask of you."
"Do you know who I am?" I asked him.
"Does it matter?" His eyes were as deep as wells, dark and fathomless.
"No." I thought about it. "I suppose not."
He nodded. "Then you will stay."
So it came to pass that I spent the night on the isle of Asclepius and slept in the temple, after arranging with one of the attendants to escort Anna home. In the wake of the rioting, they were understanding.
It was a strange experience. As darkness began to fall over the isle, the priest led me to a chamber within the temple. Although it was roofed, it was open on three sides. A warm summer breeze soughed through the painted columns. In the center, there was a stone bier that served as a bed. Unbuckling my sword-belt, I lay down upon it. On the ceiling, a faded fresco of Asclepius looked down upon me. The stone was hard and unyielding, and I felt certain I would be unable to sleep.
The priest closed my eyelids with a touch, light and sure. "Sleep."
There, he left me.
I opened my eyes, gazing at Asclepius on the ceiling until darkness swallowed his image. I felt odd, like a corpse laid out to await the funeral pyre. Asclepius, I remembered, was born of death; Apollo's son, torn from his dead mother's mortal womb. A strange way to beget a healer.
The bier was uncomfortable. I shifted, trying to find a position that didn't make my bones ache. Why on earth would the priest think one could sleep in such a manner? Beyond the columns, the night was full of noises. Small sounds; the sounds of the isle. Birds and animals, whirring insects. A chorus of cicadas. Night's predators and scavengers, stalking and scurrying. In Montrève, I wouldn't have noticed, but I'd been living in the city for a long time.
After a while, I gave up, sitting and swinging my legs over the edge of the bier. I walked to the edge of the chamber and leaned against one of the columns, peering out at the benighted isle. The moon was dark, but there were stars. If I craned my head, I could see them, high and distant behind scudding clouds.
"You are restless."
I startled at the sound of the priest's voice, reaching for the hilt of my sword. My fingers found only fabric, and I remembered I had disarmed. "Forgive me, my lord priest." I bowed. "I didn't hear you return. I tried to sleep. Is it forbidden to rise? I have not left the chamber."
He smiled into his beard. "Nothing is forbidden here."
"Good." I perched on the bier, squinting at him through the darkness. It was hard to make him out. "I don't wish to offend."
"Why are you restless?" he asked.
"You said I had a wound." I smiled wryly. "Lord priest, I have seen things, terrible things. I do not know how to unsee them. I am trying, very hard, to be good. And the harder I try, the more cruel I become." I shrugged. "Such is my birthright. Should I deny it? It seems it finds me no matter what I do."
The priest pointed at the fresco on the ceiling, lost in darkness. "From death comes life, and there is healing