Naamah's Kiss - Jacqueline Carey [132]
We were enclosed in a man-made stone place. I wished we weren't. I closed my eyes and breathed, cycling through the Five Styles of Breathing, drawing energy from every element into every part of me.
His voice cracked. "Moirin, now!"
I wasn't ready.
It didn't matter; there was no time left. Raphael laid his hands over Sister Marianne's heart. I laid my hands over his and summoned the twilight, breathing it out.
Energy flowed out of me and into him.
Out of him and into her.
This time I felt it more keenly. It wasn't only one thing like a broken bone or a tear in the wall of a womb. The poison was everywhere. It was in her blood, seeking to stop her heart. He pushed it back and back and back. It pushed back at him, parting like a stream to slither past his touch.
"More," he whispered.
I gave him more.
The elderly priestess groaned. It was a painful sound, but a good sound. An alive sound.
The red streaks retreated an inch.
Two inches.
"More!"
Was this destiny? I didn't know. I'd passed through the stone doorway. I'd seen the Maghuin Dhonn Herself and the sorrow in Her eyes. It was bright and dark all at once there. The world sparkled before my eyes. I'd seen an ocean. I'd crossed an ocean. I breathed in and out, trying to hold on to a piece of myself. Somewhere, I could hear Gemma weeping; somewhere, I could hear prayers murmured in awestruck voices.
The red streaks receded. Down her arm, past her elbow.
Raphael's voice was exultant. "More!"
More.
The swelling abated. The fever broke. The wound in Sister Marianne's hand burst open and a flood of foul pus drained from it.
Gone.
All gone.
"Gone," I whispered—and fainted.
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Sister Marianne lived, and so did I. There was no more talk that day or the next of my leaving Raphael's household. He took me home and tended me himself. I knew he was grateful.
I was glad we'd saved the priestess' life—and yet. How many such efforts did I have left in me?
Would there come a time when the toll was too high?
I didn't know, and it troubled me.
On the third day, a gift arrived from Prince Thierry—an ebony hair-comb inlaid with three emeralds. The accompanying note said he looked forward to seeing me wear it at the ball that evening.
"Surely you're not still going," Raphael said.
"Why not?" I reclined against the pillows, admiring the comb. "So I'll be good and rested for the next emergency that comes along?"
His eyes darkened. "I'm speaking as a physician."
I put the comb down. "You know, if you were speaking as my lover, I might actually listen. Are you escorting Jehanne tonight or is she attending the King?"
Raphael looked away. "His majesty isn't fond of balls."
"Well, I've never been to one," I said. "And I mean to attend this one."
So I did.
The maid Daphne helped me dress for it, chattering all the while. I wore a gown that Benoit Vallon had designed for me, a slender sheath of forest-green satin that left my shoulders bare. She coiled my hair atop my head, pinning it and securing the comb. I applied a touch of kohl to my eyes and carmine to my lips.
The face that gazed back at me in the mirror looked tired. Beautiful, but tired. My father was right. I looked like I'd been ill.
Mayhap I had been.
Mayhap I still was.
A coach bearing the silver swan insignia of House Courcel came for me shortly after nightfall. A solicitous footservant in Courcel livery helped me into the coach. I rested my head against the cushions thinking, I should be happy. And I wasn't.
At the Palace, I made an effort for Thierry's sake. He hurried over the instant the herald announced me. His lips brushed mine. "I'm so glad you came," he said. "And so glad you decided to forgive me."
I took his arm. "So am I."
And I made an effort for my sake. Everything was so very lovely. The hall glowed with warm light. It glinted on the gilded chandeliers; it gleamed on the polished marble floor. It illuminated