Naamah's Kiss - Jacqueline Carey [61]
A vision of Cillian's dented skull flashed behind my eyes. I felt sick again, the cup shaking in my hands.
"Easy, child." He plucked the cup from my hands. "I'm going to examine you. All right?"
I nodded again.
His name surfaced in my memory: Raphael. It was familiar somehow.
Raphael rubbed his hands together as he'd done the day before. He felt delicately at a tender lump on the back of my skull. Warmth flowed from his touch. He cupped my face and turned my head gently from side to side, peering intently at me. "No bruising to the eye sockets nor blood in the ears." He gave me another smile. It was a very nice smile, brightening his storm-grey eyes. "That's a good sign, too, Moirin mac Fainche. It means you've not cracked your skull. You've a hard head, it seems."
"So I've been told," I murmured.
His hands skimmed my ribs. "Oh, indeed? Well, all's where it ought to be. May I listen to your lungs?"
"Why?" I asked.
"To determine if they're whole and uninjured." He whistled softly. "That's the sound we don't want to hear, my lady."
I shrugged. "Go on, then."
Raphael pressed his ear to my breast. "Breathe deep, as deep as you can."
I obeyed, acutely conscious of his nearness. He closed his eyes and listened intently. The sunlight picked out golden glints in his tawny hair. As confused and miserable as I felt, I yearned to run my fingers through it.
He sat upright and grinned. It made him look younger.
"No whistle?" I asked.
"No whistle," he confirmed. "I'll need to examine your urine. Do you think you might manage to use the chamberpot?"
"What? " I wondered if this was some unique breed of D'Angeline perversity.
"To make certain there's no blood in it," Raphael said in clarification. "A hard blow to the midsection such as you sustained may cause damage and bleeding to the organs, my lady. Since I cannot cut you open to see, an analysis of the vital humors is crucial."
I sighed. "All right, then."
"Do you need assistance?" he inquired.
I glowered at him. "No!"
He pulled a decorative chamberpot from beneath my bed and left me with a polite bow and a promise to return. I clambered out of bed with an effort, hiked up the skirt of my shift over my bare legs, and settled myself on the chamberpot.
There, I pissed.
For as much as the rest of me hurt, it felt good. I sighed with pleasure, relieved of a pressure I hadn't recognized. From my vantage point, I could see that while my purse was gone, my satchel rested near the bed, grimy and valuable due to the papers it held. And there, too, was my bow and quiver. All was not lost.
The stream of my piss rattled against the chamberpot. When I finished, I poured fresh water into the nearby basin and washed my hands and face, then I clambered back in bed.
"Moirin?" Raphael called.
"Aye?" I drew the sheets to my chin. I'd never been one for modesty, but I felt weak and vulnerable in this situation.
"Well done." He entered smiling, and to my everlasting chagrin, smelled at the pot, tilting it and studying my humors. "It looks good. Do you think you might be able to take some broth?"
I consulted my belly. The water seemed to have settled it. "I do."
He picked up a bell on a night-stand table and rang it. A manservant appeared in prompt response. When Raphael ordered him to empty the chamberpot and tell the cook to send up a bowl of simple broth, he bowed in assent.
"I don't want to trouble you, my lord," I murmured.
"It's no trouble." He sat back down on the footstool, studying me with those intent grey eyes. "But I must own, I'm curious. Surely, you've D'Angeline blood in you more recent than Alais de la Courcel's era."
"My father," I agreed.
"Truly?" Raphael raised his brows. "However would that come about?"
"Is it so hard to believe?" I asked, insulted.
"No, no." He raised his hands. "I didn't mean it thusly. It's only that I thought the Maghuin Dhonn were a… let us say a singularly private and solitary folk."
"Say what you mean, my lord," I said with resignation. "Savage and barbaric? Sly and uncanny?