He could not see her nod, but he felt the motion. "That is surely the sensible thing to do, very holy sir. In the morning, we can go on."
"Yes." Never had Rhavas longed for Phos' light as he did now.
What he had was darkness. Ingegerd began to breathe slowly and regularly. He wondered how she could drop off like that. She never had taken her hand from his shoulder. It felt warm. It felt more than merely warm, in fact. It might have been on fire.
Rhavas knew that was only his inflamed imagination, his outraged conscience. Knowing didn't mean being able to do anything about it. He lay there, not wanting to move for fear of disturbing her. Another small aftershock rattled the planking over their heads. Ingegerd stirred and muttered, but did not wake. Rhavas wanted to sign himself as he prayed, but he couldn't; she lay too close to him. He hoped the good god would take the thought for the deed.
He must have dozed off, though he never remembered falling asleep once more. When he woke the next time, gray predawn light was leaking down through the riven roof. But that was the least of his worries. He and Ingegerd lay breast to breast, her head on his shoulder, their arms and legs entwined as if they clung from love rather than cold.
He had never held a woman so. He had never thought he wanted to hold a woman so, not till he came to know Ingegerd. And now he could not free himself from the temptation she represented, not without disturbing her—and that, he told himself, would be unforgivable after the day they'd endured. Yes, so he told himself.
After somewhere between a quarter and half an hour of that sweet torment, yet another aftershock rattled the barn. Ingegerd's eyes flew open. "Only an earthquake," Rhavas said, to remind her where she was and what had happened.
She managed a shaky laugh. "Only an earthquake," she echoed. "Someday, maybe, I will be able to say that and not feel my marrow freeze when I do. You are a brave man, very holy sir."
Brave enough to fight what you do to me? I wonder. By the good god, I truly do. But Rhavas held that in, as he held in so much. He said, "Our marrow did not freeze in the night, despite earthquakes and snow and everything else."
Ingegerd nodded. "That is so. The blanket warmed us, and we warmed each other."
She had warmed him, sure enough. If he had warmed her the same way, she gave no sign of it. She disentangled herself from him. He turned a sigh into a cough and plucked at his beard. "Have I got straw in it?" he asked.
"Not much," she answered. Her hands flew to her hair. "What of me?"
Greatly daring, Rhavas plucked out one or two pieces. Instead of scowling, she nodded her thanks. He said, "There may be more, but your hair is so fair that it is hard to see."
"A drawback of Haloga blood I had not thought of until now," she said, smiling. But the smile faded as she went on, "One of my folk living among Videssians is seldom left unaware of other drawbacks for long."
"I hope I have not been one to give offense," Rhavas said.
"Oh, no, very holy sir. You are a true friend," Ingegerd said. The prelate would have been glad to bask in that for an eon or two, but she continued again: "And Himerios, of course, is far more than friend. But many Videssians are not shy about thinking me a barbarian and saying what they think."
"No doubt," Rhavas said tonelessly. He tried to keep his mind on the matter at hand, not on the hopeless memory of her pressed against him. She hadn't even known she was doing that, and had withdrawn as soon as she woke up. "We should eat, and then we should put as much distance between us and Skopentzana as we can. Later today, we will need to find another place where we can pass the night."
"What you say makes good sense," Ingegerd said. "But then, what you say generally makes good sense. Shall I start the fire afresh, or do you fear smoke too much?"
"We got away with it once. I am not sure we could hope to do it twice," Rhavas said after a little thought.
Cold, cold sausage sat like a lump in his stomach. Cold, cold bread proved not much better. He wished he would have risked a small blaze. By Ingegerd's expression, so did she. But she did not reproach him for the choice. With his scant experience of women, he thought them all scolds till proved otherwise. Her forbearance raised his opinion of her even higher.
After eating, they started south again. Rhavas had feared they would run into hordes of Khamorth swarming toward the fallen, the shattered, Skopentzana, but they saw hardly any plainsmen all that day, and those only at a distance. Maybe the earthquake had disrupted the nomads even more than he'd suspected.
Aftershocks kept making the ground shake under their feet. Some were barely perceptible, others considerable quakes in their own right. Each time the earth trembled, Rhavas knew a fresh spasm of panic. How long would the shaking last? How bad would it be? Even when he was in the open, where nothing could possibly fall on him, the unthinking terror would darken his wits.
And not his alone—after one of the harder aftershocks, Ingegerd said, "This is one of the hardest things I have ever borne. Hard winters I know, and likewise war. But when the very ground beneath my feet betrays me . . ." She shook her head. "Such a thing should not be possible."
"They do happen." Rhavas tried not to admit his own fear even to himself. "They are more common in the south, but they can come anywhere."
Ingegerd looked at him with awe in her eyes. "And this one came at your command, very holy sir."
"I do not believe that. You too would do better not to believe it." Even more than aftershocks, the prelate feared that what she said might be true. If his curse had stricken Toxaras, if his curse had called up the quake and crushed the Khamorth, what had his curse done to him? What would it do to him?
"Very well. Let it be as you say. I will not believe the earthquake came at your command," Ingegerd answered obediently. But mischief sparked in her eyes. "Only because I do not believe it, that does not mean it is untrue."
"Heh." Past the chuckle that came from him involuntarily, Rhavas didn't dignify that with a reply. Ingegerd looked smug, as if she knew she had won the point. Maybe she did. And maybe she had, too.
They trudged on. Rhavas had only a vague notion of where the next town would be. He hadn't gone far from Skopentzana all through his tenure. He was a city man both by birth and by inclination. Even Skopentzana hadn't been city enough to satisfy him fully, not when he'd come from the imperial capital. But he'd never seen any reason to leave it for the semibarbarous countryside—not till now.
The sun slid across the sky. Days were still short, though noticeably longer than they had been right around the time of the solstice. "We had better look for shelter," Ingegerd said as afternoon drew on toward evening. "I would not care to sleep in the snow tonight."
"Nor I." Rhavas' shiver was not altogether artificial. "That would all too likely mean our deaths."
"Oh, no." The Haloga woman shook her head. She looked surprised. "A man with only a cloak can pass the night well enough. Do you not know how?"
"I fear not," the prelate answered.
"Well, it is so." Ingegerd spoke with an assurance that compelled belief. "And with the warmth of two of us and with all we have, it would be easy." If sleeping in the snow meant no choice but sleeping in each other's arms, Rhavas suddenly hoped all barns and farmhouses would disappear. If he had to do it to survive, it could not possibly be sinful for him . . . could it? Ingegerd went on, "But, easy or not, it would not be so comfortable as a farmhouse, or even a barn."
"No doubt you are right." Rhavas hoped he didn't sound too mournful. Evidently not, for Ingegerd just nodded briskly and walked on.