Darker Jewels (44 page)

Rakoc
2
y shrugged. “Yes. It is. I’m barred from Catholic Mass.”

“And Yuri is to plead on your behalf? He is to show your good-will?” she guessed, looking eager.

“I should hope not,” said Rakoczy wryly. “Doubtless Yuri would describe me as one of the servants of Satan; Father Pogner would welcome that.”

Xenya crossed herself, as pale now as she had been rosy before. “One of the servants of Satan.”

This time Rakoczy laughed, the sound of it unspeakably sad. “Little wife, in time you will realize that when most men call another a servant of Satan, it means that the other disagrees with him or is disobliging.” His dark eyes grew distant. “And they call a man brave when they mean he is expendable; wise men praise that valor. They say a man is devout when they mean he is condemning, or honorable when he is avaricious, or faithful—” He broke off.

“When he is what?” she asked when he neither went on nor changed the subject.

He shook his head once. “It’s nothing, Xenya Evgeneivna.” He watched her, noticing how she had caught up a part of the skirt of her silken sarafan and was pleating and unpleating the soft red fabric as she stood, more like a recalcitrant child than a mistaken wife. He held out his hand to her. “Is that all your cousin Anastasi wanted to know? Why Yuri was sent to Father Pogner?”

She did not answer at once. “There was something else. He wanted me to tell him when I become pregnant. As soon as my courses stop, he wants to have word of it.”

“Did he indeed.” His hand remained offered to her. “And what did you tell him?”

“I said that I was not with child that I knew of,” she answered at once, pleased that she could offer him that much display of her loyalty to him.

Rakoczy knew better than to assume that was the end of it. “And what was his response?”

“He
said...”
This time her breath was more unsteady, as if she was about to cry. “He said that he . . . wants to protect me.

Because you will leave me here, with nothing. You will be ordered to return to Poland in disgrace and will be forced to refute our marriage.”

“I have received no such orders, Xenya Evgeneivna, and you could come with me if it is your desire.” He saw that she was not reassured. “If you would prefer to remain here, I have already given funds to Boris Feodorovich to care for you.” There were other protections as well, arranged through the English, in case Boris could not fulfill his agreed duties.

Xenya continued with less distress. “My cousin said he would try to provide for me when that time comes. He said you were making preparations. He said that if Yuri was your spy in Father Pogner’s—”

“Whoever spy Yuri is, he is not mine,” said Rakoczy softly.

Xenya stared at Rakoczy, dawning shock banishing her apprehension at last. “Yuri? Spied on you?”

“Yes.” Rakoczy smiled easily and again extended his hand. “He is not the first or the last.”

“So you sent him away? To priests?” She crossed herself.

“At least I know where he is,” said Rakoczy, finally lowering his hand. “He reads and writes.” He did not add that Yuri knew more than Russian.

Xenya shook her head in amazement. “But my cousin said . . .” She hesitated, then came nearer. “My cousin said that Yuri was to gather information for you, to be your eyes and ears in the Polish camp.”

“I have Father Krabbe for that,” he reminded Xenya, t
hi
nk
in
g that Anastasi’s inquiry revealed he knew more of Yuri than he had admitted to Xenya. “Neither he nor I make a secret of it, as I am still a member of the embassy, no matter what Father Pogner would like.” He watched the tiny, denying shake of her head. “Yuri was a spy in this household. I assume he is a spy in the Polish one. I do not know to whom he answers.”

“Yes.” Xenya nodded several times as she answered, her apprehension giving way to understanding. “Yes. There are those who might try such a ploy. Anastasi Sergeivich always claims that we are in a nest of spies. I see how that is possible.” She put her hand down on an improvised table where a confusion of leaves and bare roots lay; she withdrew it at once, sucking the side of her hand. “What is that?”

“Nothing that will harm you,” said Rakoczy, taking two steps toward her and hoping it would not trouble her that he did. “It is the roots I want, not the brambles. I’m sorry you—”

She took a step back and almost fell over a small pot of dragon’s-beard. She shrieked.

Rakoczy stopped at once. “1 am not going to hurt you, Xenya. I want to see how badly your hand is injured, in case it requires—”

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, making sure he was not between her and the door.

Rakoczy saw her concern and moved back another step, very slow and deliberate in his actions. He watched her while her panic faded. “Xenya Eveneivna, may I ask you a question.”

She watched him warily. “Of course. You are my husband.” “No, no, not as your husband, litde wife, as your .. . friend. Will you answer a question for me?” He stood, waiting for her answer, no suggestion of impatience about him.

Finally she nodded as she licked the side of her hand once more. “All right. What is it?”

Rakoczy’s steady, compelling gaze rested on her. “Since we were married I have come to you three times, twice to your bed, once in your bath; three separate times.”

“Yes?” she asked, tension back in her voice and her face slighdy averted.

He made his voice light and precise. “Each time, where have I been, in relation to you? Where were you? Where was I?” “Where?” She glared at him. “You were with me—in your manner.” She laid her hand on her neck; the fine punctures on the side of her palm left a faint smear of blood behind as she dropped her hand.

“No; where was I—in front of you or behind you?” His smile was little more than a curve at the comers of his mouth, but it gave her the determination to reply.

“You were behind me,” she said. “Is that what you mean?” He waited for two slow heartbeats. “Why do you think I did that?”

She answered very carefully, as if she suspected a trap. “So that I would not see . . . your impotence.”

Rakoczy chuckled, and shaking his head in amusement offered, “Look for yourself.” He unfastened his belt and opened the front of his dolman; he paid no heed to the sound of his sheathed poignard dropping to the floor. The camisa beneath, of fine Italian linen, was untied at neck and waist and opened as well. His codpiece, nothing more than what a prudent man would wear for a day in the saddle, followed the rest, and the underbelt holding his leggings was loosened. “There.”

Xenya had never seen scars like the ones that made a ridged white swath across the front of his body from just below the joining of his ribs to just above his penis. She crossed herself twice. “God in mercy!” she whispered.

“I have remained behind you,” said Rakoczy in the same steady, easy voice, “so that you could escape me, if you wished. I have never pinioned you with my arms. I have always made it possible for you to break free of me, if you wished. If I had not done so, you would have been filled with terror no matter how compliant you wanted to be, which benefits neither of us. There is nothing you can do to gratify my senses if you are not gratified; you cannot counterfeit fulfillment. I have said from the first that I want to do what will bring you the most pleasure.” He secured his underbelt and then his codpiece, but he pulled the dolman off and dropped it into an empty tub. His camisa remained open.

“Ferenc Nemovich,” she said, her anxiety increasing with each breath she drew. “It. . . isn’t right.”

“Would you rather face me, now that you understand my reasons?” he asked as if he were inquiring about a length of cloth or her preference in gloves. “You know what you would see— which is more than most of those I have loved ever knew.” “And there have been many?” She stood straighter, her hands tightening at her side.

“Yes,” he answered quietly.

“And were they all whores, that you have not married until now?” Her audacity astonished her and she was about to apologize for it, and the quick stab of jealousy she had not thought it possible for her to have, but he answered her candidly, without indignation.

“Almost none were whores. They were women who”—their faces, their voices filled his mind—“who could not love as they wished and accepted me instead.” There was no regret in him, and no rancor: certainly no self-pity. Strongest in his thoughts was Demetrice, who gave herself the true death less than a century before; she had not been able to live as those of his blood must. “I loved them. Love them.” He regarded her steadily. “There is a bond, little wife; with the blood there is a bond; it cannot be broken.”

“Bonds are always broken,” she whispered.

“Not this one,” Rakoczy said quietly and with such certainty that she stared at him.

“And you have this bond with me?” She held her breath for his answer.

“I’ve already said so.” He observed her closely, his dark eyes tranquil, his body still while she considered what he had told her.

“It would be fitting, to have such a bond, if it were possible,” she said somberly. What followed was more difficult to voice. “You should have the . .. You have shown me . . . those.” She indicated the scars. Her next question was out before she could stop it. “The scars . . . are they the reason for your impotence?” And though she clapped her hands over her mouth, it was too late.

“They’re not unrelated,” he said with great composure.

She heard this out, concentrating, listening to more than the words. “Then I suppose I ought to try. To face you.”

“As a painful duty?” Rakoczy asked, aware of the effort this required, and added, softening his tone, “No, Xenya. It will be as you wish, if you wish it.” He waited as she made herself walk toward him.

How much she prayed that her fears were groundless! She was a grown woman, not a cowering child. This inward chastisement increased the nearer she came to him. He was a good man, foreigner or no. He would not harm her: he had given her his word he would not. Her feet felt weighted with lead. The eight steps it took to reach him were like climbing a mountain of ice, and every instant she dreaded falling back. When she was close enough to reach out and touch the scars she could see above his underbelt, she stopped, unable to bring herself to look any higher than his chin, level with her eyes. “I am here.”

“Not quite,” he admonished kindly.

She lowered her eyes and nodded. “Well. .. you can . . . put your arms a-around ... around me.” Her heart beat faster as she spoke.

“Yes, I can. But I will not.” Instead he leaned back, his shoulders supported by a rough-hewn pillar that had once anchored two stall walls. “I meant what I told you, Xenya Evgenievna: I want only your pleasure, for without it I have none of my own.” “But you can embrace me,” she said, feeling suddenly petulant.

“And you would loathe it,” said Rakoczy. “I would disgust you and myself. What is the sense in that?” Without abandoning his relaxed posture he turned his suddenly intent dark eyes on her, and she was reminded of the black sapphire in his pectoral. “I seek your desire, Xenya. I seek your joy. You may be willing to accept mere acquiesence and security, but I am not; there is no fulfillment for either of us in such fare. For you and for me I seek your release. If you wish this, I will have nothing less.”

She was precariously close to fleeing, but now her pride had been stung, and though principle could not keep her where she was, umbrage could. Her determination increased; she fixed her stance and directed her gaze at him. “Why?” she demanded. “Because it is my life,” he said simply.

“And the blood?” she persisted.

“The blood is you.” He waited, expecting her to challenge him again. When she did not, he went on. “It is the very core of you, your life, your blood; it is all your passion.”

Very slowly she reached out her hand and laid it against the center of his chest, just above the highest scar; his camisa brushed her hand as he drew a long breath. Her fingers were cold and not quite steady, but she would not move away. “How did it happen?”

He shook his head, about to refuse, then considered all she had been through and said, “You know what ferocity there is in men. My father’s enemies had already killed him sometime before, and now they were supposed to kill his son, who had won a battle.” He indicated himself with one hand, which he laid over Xenya’s on his chest. “They began by flaying me here, starting at the base of my abdomen, intending to pull out . . . everything.” Which, he added to himself, they had. “Those of my blood are not killed easily; we must be . . . destroyed—burned or broken or beheaded—before we are truly dead. But they did not know this and did not finish their task correc—”

“Did you avenge your wounds?” she asked, not wanting to imagine his suffering.

“Oh, yes,” he said distantly, and for that one flicker of time he was glad she was not looking at him and could not see what was in his eyes. The echo of that distant rage appalled him now, and he sought the anodyne of her presence.

She gave a single, small nod. “Good.” Tentatively she laid her other hand on his chest. “Would it hurt if I touch the scars?”

“No,” he assured her.

They did not seem like skin at all; hard and white and stretched, falsely taut with faint striations through the tissue like fine silk. There was not much give to them, and Xenya thought they were colder than the rest of him. Slowly she ran her hands down to his abdomen. She trembled and stepped back to the length of her arm. “They left .. . you weren’t castrated.”

“I am a King’s son,” he said, “and our conquerors feared our god.”

Immediately she crossed herself. “For Christ will come in victory over all who oppose Him,” she said with fervor.

Rakoczy did not tell her that his god had died in batde two thousand years before her Christ was bom. He released her hand. “Tell me when you decide what you would like me to do.”

“I don’t know what I would like,” she said. “How can I?”

He did not attempt to answer her question. “Imagine what would please you the most. Tell me, and I will try to do that thing. If it turns out not to be to your liking, then think of something else, and we will do that, until we discover what you treasure.”