Read Online The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy) by Tara Janzen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tara Janzen
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Wroneu.” She sighed and turned her face into his hand. “Running for my veriest life.”
His gaze narrowed, and his fingers stopped their aimless, sensual wanderings. “From whom?”
“Mine own cousin.” Her tone became distressed and angry. She lifted her face to him. “The Thief of Cardiff, Morgan ab Kynan. May God curse his knave’s soul for the hypocrisy of his sins.” Her voice broke with a sob, and she closed her eyes to hold back a fresh round of tears.
Anyone with a heart or a care would not have bothered her further. Dain had neither, not when she’d spoken Morgan’s name. Here was a story too rich to miss, of how a Welsh prince and thief of unsurpassed skill had lost this rare jewel, and even more intriguing, how much he’d be willing to pay to get her back.
“Aye, Morgan’s a sinner.” He commiserated with her, knowing his words were far from the truth. The only sin he could lay at his friend’s door was that he’d never told Dain of his precious cousin, not that their meeting would have been more opportune under different circumstances. Dain had forsaken good opportunity with highborn virgins when he’d put down his sword and taken up more esoteric apparatuses.
“With no heart,” she added, the tears running freely down her face.
“Aye, no heart, not a trace,” he agreed, then added in an offhand tone, “What do you believe to be his most heartless deed?”
Her lips trembled, so sweetly it took an act of will nor to lower his own to still their fluttering. “The deed that would leave me ground to dust between the Boar of Balor’s jaws.”
“Carado—”
Her eyes flashed open. “Shh,” she admonished him, pressing her fingertips to his lips. “Don’t speak his name. ’Tis said the sound alone is enough to call him forth.”
Dain refrained from laughing aloud, even though he remembered many a morn when yelling at the top of his lungs had not been enough to call Caradoc forth from a night of drink. If the maid believed such was possible, she had heard rumors he had missed.
“Sweet Ceridwen, why would the Lord of Balor want to hurt you?” He couldn’t bring himself to call his old friend “Boar.”
“No bride of the Boar of Balor will survive her wedding night,” she said in a hushed voice, her eyes growing even larger, if that were possible.
Dain felt his lips twitch with the makings of a grin. “Mayhaps ’tis the alliteration they cannot abide, chérie .”
“Mayhaps,” she agreed somberly.
Then it hit him, the significance of what she’d said.
“Morgan takes you to Balor as a bride?”
“Aye.”
Ragnor would be dead within the month and Morgan probably soon to follow, Dain thought, after Caradoc stripped the flesh from Ragnor’s bones and staked him out in the wilderness to die. One did not abuse the betrothed bride of a powerful lord without penance being paid. One did not lose a bride either—and for certes one did not go around plying rose oil between her legs.
The thought gave him pause, and he was taken with an urge to check her again, to make sure he’d done no damage.
“But no longer,” she said, her hand trailing down the front of his tunic. A beatific smile played about her mouth. “Now I have died and come unto you.”
Before he could assure her that she had not, he felt her fingers tangle in his hair and exert gentle pressure, pulling him down.
“A kiss of peace, sweet prince?” she asked. “To welcome me into paradise?”
She was not very strong, yet somehow was strong enough to have her way, drawing him ever closer. Her gold-tipped lashes drifted down, giving him a moment to reflect on the doubtful wisdom of his next action—but a moment wasn’t nearly long enough to stop him.
Their lips met, hers sweetly, innocently closed, expecting the blessing of a saint. He couldn’t have delivered that even if he were nobly pure of heart, for when his mouth touched hers, instinct usurped his reason.
Warmth was his first sensation,
His gaze narrowed, and his fingers stopped their aimless, sensual wanderings. “From whom?”
“Mine own cousin.” Her tone became distressed and angry. She lifted her face to him. “The Thief of Cardiff, Morgan ab Kynan. May God curse his knave’s soul for the hypocrisy of his sins.” Her voice broke with a sob, and she closed her eyes to hold back a fresh round of tears.
Anyone with a heart or a care would not have bothered her further. Dain had neither, not when she’d spoken Morgan’s name. Here was a story too rich to miss, of how a Welsh prince and thief of unsurpassed skill had lost this rare jewel, and even more intriguing, how much he’d be willing to pay to get her back.
“Aye, Morgan’s a sinner.” He commiserated with her, knowing his words were far from the truth. The only sin he could lay at his friend’s door was that he’d never told Dain of his precious cousin, not that their meeting would have been more opportune under different circumstances. Dain had forsaken good opportunity with highborn virgins when he’d put down his sword and taken up more esoteric apparatuses.
“With no heart,” she added, the tears running freely down her face.
“Aye, no heart, not a trace,” he agreed, then added in an offhand tone, “What do you believe to be his most heartless deed?”
Her lips trembled, so sweetly it took an act of will nor to lower his own to still their fluttering. “The deed that would leave me ground to dust between the Boar of Balor’s jaws.”
“Carado—”
Her eyes flashed open. “Shh,” she admonished him, pressing her fingertips to his lips. “Don’t speak his name. ’Tis said the sound alone is enough to call him forth.”
Dain refrained from laughing aloud, even though he remembered many a morn when yelling at the top of his lungs had not been enough to call Caradoc forth from a night of drink. If the maid believed such was possible, she had heard rumors he had missed.
“Sweet Ceridwen, why would the Lord of Balor want to hurt you?” He couldn’t bring himself to call his old friend “Boar.”
“No bride of the Boar of Balor will survive her wedding night,” she said in a hushed voice, her eyes growing even larger, if that were possible.
Dain felt his lips twitch with the makings of a grin. “Mayhaps ’tis the alliteration they cannot abide, chérie .”
“Mayhaps,” she agreed somberly.
Then it hit him, the significance of what she’d said.
“Morgan takes you to Balor as a bride?”
“Aye.”
Ragnor would be dead within the month and Morgan probably soon to follow, Dain thought, after Caradoc stripped the flesh from Ragnor’s bones and staked him out in the wilderness to die. One did not abuse the betrothed bride of a powerful lord without penance being paid. One did not lose a bride either—and for certes one did not go around plying rose oil between her legs.
The thought gave him pause, and he was taken with an urge to check her again, to make sure he’d done no damage.
“But no longer,” she said, her hand trailing down the front of his tunic. A beatific smile played about her mouth. “Now I have died and come unto you.”
Before he could assure her that she had not, he felt her fingers tangle in his hair and exert gentle pressure, pulling him down.
“A kiss of peace, sweet prince?” she asked. “To welcome me into paradise?”
She was not very strong, yet somehow was strong enough to have her way, drawing him ever closer. Her gold-tipped lashes drifted down, giving him a moment to reflect on the doubtful wisdom of his next action—but a moment wasn’t nearly long enough to stop him.
Their lips met, hers sweetly, innocently closed, expecting the blessing of a saint. He couldn’t have delivered that even if he were nobly pure of heart, for when his mouth touched hers, instinct usurped his reason.
Warmth was his first sensation,
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