Rhavas hadn't really regretted it, hadn't felt it chafe him, till he came to know Ingegerd. The lord with the great and good mind must have had a cruel streak in him, to leave the prelate alone with—in bed with!—a woman he wanted but could not have.
She didn't want him. She'd made that plain enough. Resentment bubbling up inside him burned hotter every moment. She'd been glad enough when he cursed the barbarians and saved her (and, not so incidentally, himself). Oh, yes. That had made her happy. But was she ready to give him the most sincere reward a woman could give a man? Not likely!
Your vows, he reminded himself. But, like everything else before Skopentzana fell—and before he found out he could get his own back by calling down curses on the heads of those who'd wronged him—his vows seemed something from another world, another time. They might have been calling him from a mile beyond the moon.
Doing his best not to disturb Ingegerd, he rolled over so that he faced her. She stirred and muttered something, but did not wake. If she had, he would have pretended to be asleep himself.
She trusts you. She wouldn't lie down with you, wouldn't go to sleep beside you, if she didn't. Rhavas waited for a blast of shame to scorch him. And the shame did come, but not nearly so much of it as he'd looked for. Maybe resentment curdled most of it. You fool! He wanted to wake her and shake her and shout at her. Chances are your precious Himerios is dead anyhow.
However true that was, it would not bring her into his arms. He still had enough sense left to understand that. If he told her she was likely a widow, she would only hate him for it. She wouldn't look to him for a widow's consolation. If, on the other hand, she learned from someone else . . .
Resentment flared again, sour as heartburn. And Rhavas' heart was burning. Wasn't he a better man than the garrison commander, anyhow? Wasn't he wiser and more clever than Himerios? And, with the power to call down curses on his enemies' heads, wasn't he a more deadly warrior than the Videssian officer, too? Of course I am. Answering his own questions was easy. To the ice with her if she can't see that for herself.
She started to roll away from him, as if the fierce violence of his thoughts repelled her. On that narrow bed, though, rolling away would have meant falling out. Still sleeping, she checked herself. Still sleeping, she laughed a little at what she'd almost done. And, still sleeping, she rolled back the other way—rolled straight up against him, her head nestled against his shoulder. One leg slid up and over his.
"Phos!" he whispered, calling on the god of light there in the darkness. But he felt no light in his own spirit—far from it. Lust rose up, a great choking, blinding cloud. When she and Himerios lay in the same bed, did they sleep like this? How could Himerios let her go on sleeping when she did something so provocative? If, she having roused him, he roused her in turn so he could do what he wanted, would she be angry? Would she let out another one of those sleepy laughs and let him have his way, hardly caring herself? Or would she kindle, too?
Rhavas knew what he hoped the answer was.
Carefully, not wanting to disturb her, he slid his arms around her. He didn't squeeze. He didn't need to squeeze; she was already pressed tight against him. And what could he do about that? Nothing. A maddening nothing. It seemed terribly unfair.
He feared he would spend all night awake. That would leave him a wreck when morning came. They couldn't stay here and let him rest during the day. They had to keep pushing south and west. Sooner or later, surely, they would come to country where the Khamorth had not yet penetrated.
The prelate flinched. Of all the words he could have found, that one had to come to mind now. Are you trying to drive yourself mad? he wondered. But he wasn't mad. He knew that perfectly well. He was only a man who wanted a woman.
But it is a sin for me to want a woman. He reminded himself—and needed to remind himself—of that. Pressed against him, Ingegerd's warmth did not feel sinful. It felt like something he should have been able to enjoy all the days of his life. What have we done to our priests by making them swear celibacy? The answer seemed painfully—in the most literal sense of the word—clear.
Slowly, the ache in his loins receded. He found himself yawning. No matter how aroused he was, he was also exhausted. Still holding Ingegerd, he yawned again . . . and did fall asleep.
When he woke, he didn't realize for a few heartbeats that he had been sleeping. He and Ingegerd still lay close together; her breath was warm on his cheek. But he could see her now, though dimly. The fire had gone out during the night, but morning twilight was leaking in through the windows and through rents in the roof.
He hoped sleep had cooled his ardor, but needed only a moment to discover how naïve that was. The fire might have gone out, but he still burned. He burned hotter than ever, in fact; for the moment, weariness didn't weigh down his spirit.
Ingegerd sighed in her sleep. Rhavas sighed, too. He didn't know why she exhaled louder than usual. His own sigh was all unrequited lust, though he thought of it as love.
Before long, she would wake. It wasn't that she wouldn't want anything to do with him then. That would have been easier, or at least more merciful. But she would treat him as one friend treated another, and as intimately as one friend treated another. Had they been two men on the road together, that would have been fine. As things were, he found it either too intimate or, more to the point, not intimate enough.
Just once, he thought, halfway between wistfulness and fury. Yes, just once would be enough. Just so I know what it's like.
He didn't know what anything was like. He'd lived his whole life cut off from what drove the people who listened to him when he prayed and preached. He'd lectured them about it. He'd threatened them with Skotos' eternal ice if they broke the rules the temples and the Empire had laid down. A soft, pained snort of laughter escaped him. He'd had his nerve, hadn't he? All the priests in the Empire of Videssos had their nerve, didn't they?
And even more amazing was that people listened to them. People obeyed them. Why didn't men and women laugh like loons and tell them exactly how much nerve they had? For the life of him, he couldn't imagine.
How much nerve do I have? There lay Ingegerd, her face not a palm's breadth from his. How much nerve do I have?
Rhavas' heart thuttered, not only from lust but also from fear. He did not want to break his vows. The ice threatened, the ice beckoned, if he did. But he did not want to go through all his days not knowing what it meant to be a man; he did not want to die alone, having lived alone his whole life long. If he held to the oath he'd sworn while a youth, wouldn't he do exactly that? So it seemed, with perfectly logical clarity.
Heart still pounding—pounding so loud, he marveled that she could not hear it—he leaned forward and brushed his lips lightly—so lightly!—across Ingegerd's. She smiled in her sleep . . . and then she opened her eyes.
Rhavas had pulled away by then, but it didn't matter. She knew what had happened. She wasn't so angry as she might have been, but she was far from pleased. "Very holy sir, this will not do," she said.
This when I have saved her half a dozen times lately. Rhavas was angry, whether Ingegerd was or not. This when she still lies in the circle of my arms.
Some of what he thought must have shown on his face, for Ingegerd said, "Our ways had better part after this. I will take my own chances from now on. With a horse under me and another to carry supplies, I will do well enough."
"No." Rhavas shook his head. "Your husband charged me to care for you, and care for you I shall."