The Burning Stone

Terror grunted in sleep. Rage barked and set his paws on the sill, and like the claws of the Enemy’s minions sorting through a troubled heart for weakness, a shudder ran through Alain, a sudden cold chill.



Something rustled in the bush outside the window.



He leaped up and bolted to the window, leaning out. Sorrow roused and followed him over. None of the hounds barked. Terror and Steadfast slept on. Lavastine stirred, snorted, and turned over.



It was only a bird, a spotted thrush that scolded Alain for disturbing it before it flew away with a berry in its beak. But he cold not stop shaking.



What was the curse of the nestbrother? Fifth Son had spoken of it in his dream, and the priest had sung of turning it onto another— “Let this curse fall on the one whose hand commands the blade that pierced his heart.” Liath’s arrow had killed Bloodheart. But Lavastine had led the army among whose number she rode.



Alain knelt beside the open window, head bent until it rested on his clasped hands. Terror snored peacefully on the flagstones and Lavastine on the bed. Steadfast and Fear had settled down by the door, heads on paws, eyes closed. Rage and Sorrow kept him company as he prayed.



A wind stirred the leaves in the bushes outside. A woman laughed. The hammer of a blacksmith rang distantly and, farther away yet, a horn shrilled. Against his chest, the Lady’s rose throbbed like the echo of the blacksmith’s hammer, the striking of his own heart.



It was only a heathen curse, after all. God were stronger than Eika magic, weren’t they? If he prayed with a pure heart, then surely God would protect his father.



5



ALAIN woke suddenly, startled by the wood thrush, who had come back for another berry. His neck ached, and he realized that he had fallen asleep where he knelt with his hands and head resting against the window ledge.



He stood, stretching. Sorrow watched him. Rage had padded over to the door and looked up expectantly. Lavastine still slept, and he didn’t want to disturb him.



He opened the latch quietly—thankfully the good abbess’ servants kept the mechanism well oiled—and stepped outside with Sorrow and Rage at his heels. When he eased into his own chamber, he saw, for a miracle, that Tallia had come back. She had fallen asleep draped over the bed, her hands curled into fists, head resting on her knuckles. Like him, she had been caught by sleep in the act of prayer.



Tenderly, he lifted her onto the bed and arranged her limbs so she could rest comfortably. She did not wake, only murmured in her sleep, shifted, and sighed. He lay on the bed beside her, head propped on a hand, elbow bent beneath, and studied her. Because he had dozed off, because he had been up half the night searching for Bliss, he was now too tired to remain awake but too wakeful to go to sleep. She was so pale, like finest linen. Her lips had the faintest pink tincture, as delicate as rosebuds. A wooden cup had touched those lips. Was he to be less blessed than the humble cup? Surely he had as much right—the right of mutual obligation, the oath made by a wedded couple to be fruitful.



He leaned over her, felt her breath as a light brush on his cheek. Surely she must feel a stirring of desire. He need only coax it from her. She, like every other human soul on this earth, was not formed out of stone. There had to be answering fire within her.



He brushed his mouth over hers. She stirred slightly, as at the kiss of a butterfly, and that tiny movement brought her hip up against him. That touch alone, the feel of her body through the heavy cloth of her long tunic, the tilt of the bed under their weight that seemed to draw them together, all of this blinded him. He couldn’t see, he could only feel. All the hours and days he had waited, the night’s search for the missing hound, the utter obliteration of every sensation but that of desire, all of this consumed him.



He pressed against her, stroked her chin, bent to kiss her again, just to feel that touch, the pliant curve of her mouth.



Her eyes opened, and she whimpered in fear.



He jerked back.



“All night I prayed for a sign,” she whispered, “so that God through my agency could reveal the truth of the Redemption to the abbess. And God answered me. Do you mean now to defile what has been made holy by God’s touch?”



She opened her hands. The skin of her palms had begun weeping blood again.



He bolted. He no longer knew what he was doing, but he ran with Sorrow and Rage at his heels and confusion buzzing in his head like so many gnats. He reached the wood and still ran, floundering through clumps of undergrowth, running to no place, without reason.



He simply could not bear it any longer. He could not be patient. Was the flaw his, or hers? Did it even matter? He could not think of her, even with her wounded hands, without feeling the full flush of arousal. He would never escape it, and why should he? Didn’t women and men partake of God’s holy act of creation by making children in their turn?