Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [90]
“Of course, my lord.” I met his gaze. “For my own good.”
He smiled with gentle regret. “I’m glad you understand.”
THIRTY-TWO
My punishment was a whipping, and the Patriarch administered it himself.
Of course.
It took place in a small inner courtyard I hadn’t even known existed. There, I was made to kneel on the slate, my chained wrists draped over a hook on a large post. With great delight, Luba took her shears to the back of my dress, cutting downward from the neckline and parting the flaps of fabric to lay my back bare.
Pyotr Rostov beat me with a knotted rope, administering twenty firm lashes, counting out each one in a solemn voice.
It hurt.
I’d only ever been struck thrice before in my life. Once, when I told Jehanne I was leaving. She had slapped me with surprising strength, and fallen weeping at my feet. That was one blow I didn’t begrudge her. The second time was in the Great Khan’s ger. To be fair, he hadn’t hit me hard. It had only been a warning.
The third time was Luba, and that, I did begrudge her.
This was much worse.
The rope was heavy, and the knots struck with bruising force. I managed not to cry out loud, but I flinched in anticipation of each blow. My breath grew ragged and helpless tears filled my eyes. There are those who find pleasure in pain and in Terre d’Ange, it is one of Naamah’s arts, but it was not one I had ever relished.
After ten blows, my back was a welter of pain. By fifteen, I was biting my lip and squeezing my eyes shut, willing it to end.
“… eighteen.”
Thud.
“… nineteen.”
Thud.
The Patriarch was beginning to breathe hard, too. Through the haze of pain, I sensed that there was more than exertion in it. Although he might deny it to himself, he took pleasure in administering this punishment to me, as surely as he did in forcing my unwilling confessions. The exercise of power aroused him.
“… twenty.”
Thud.
It was finished. He unhooked my chains from the post and helped me to my feet. I stood unsteadily, my back throbbing in agony. My violated dress hung low on my shoulders, baring the upper swell of my breasts. He looked away, but not before his gaze had skated oh so briefly over my exposed flesh. A dark flush suffused his face, further betraying him.
Valentina hurried to my side, a needle and thread in her hand, yanking my dress in place and beginning to stitch.
“Very good,” Rostov said brusquely. “Sister, see Moirin to her chamber. She is to fast for two days. Luba, Aleksei, come.”
Oh yes, the entire household had been required to bear witness to my punishment. I glanced at Aleksei, who was staring fixedly at his feet. He went with his aunt and uncle without a word, without ever looking in my direction.
“Why do you persist in defying him?” Valentina whispered behind me, stitching furiously.
I turned my head in her direction. “I didn’t mean to, not this time. I had a vision in the temple. It caught me unaware.”
Her voice was low. “And assaulting Luba?”
I rolled my shoulders, testing the depth of my pain. It was considerable. The Patriarch was a fairly strong fellow, and he had not held back. “Ah, no. That I meant to do. And it was almost worth it.”
A shocked sound escaped Valentina. It took me a moment to recognize it as a stifled laugh. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. “I have entertained similar thoughts on occasion. But, Moirin, you will get yourself killed if you continue this way.”
“I know.”
She lowered her hand from her lips and touched me lightly, ever so softly, her fingertips grazing the sore skin between my shoulder blades where my dress yet gaped. It made me shiver. There was something of a mother’s tenderness in it, and something else, too. It seemed a very, very long time since anyone had touched me with kindness. Despite everything, I yearned for it. “I would rather you didn’t die,” she murmured. “Still, I owe everything to my brother,