"There are some, my lord." I felt like a child next to him; my head came no higher than the pit of his arm. "Didimus Pontus at the University of Tiberium translated Skaldic phonetically into the Caerdicci alphabet some forty years ago," I added.
I felt his gaze from above. "Truly?" he asked, startled. "I’ll have to find those. Gunter did not say you were a scholar, Fay-dra. A witch, perhaps. It is beyond them to understand more."
"I am a slave, my lord," I murmured. "Nothing more."
"You are a very well-trained slave." I thought he might say somewhat more, but his pointing finger moved over the books, "Have you read this? It is a D’Angeline book."
It was a Caerdicci translation of the Trois Milles Joies; I might have wept. I had read it under Cecilie’s tutelage, of course. It is one of the great erotic texts, and required reading for every adept of the Night Court. "Yes, my lord," I said. "I have studied this book."
"Ahhh." He shuddered with the force of his sigh, plucking the book out from the shelf and smoothing the cover. "I learned Caerdicci from this book," he said, eyes bright with amusement and desire. "My tutor was a grizzled old Tiberian mercenary who had a fancy to see the northlands. I bribed him to stay here and teach me, when I was nineteen years old. It was the only book he had. He said it kept him company on cold nights." His long fingers stroked the cover. "I paid dear to keep it. But I have never found a woman who knew of such things." He set the book down and tipped my face upward. "You do."
"Yes, my lord," I whispered, helpless under his touch and hating him. Still he did not act, but searched my face with his gaze.
"Gunter says you are gifted by your gods so that any man must please you," he said. "That it is marked upon your eyes. Is this so?"
I could have lied to him, but some spark of defiance made me answer the truth. "I am marked by the gods to be pleased by suffering," I said softly. "That, and no more."
He touched my face with surprising delicacy, running the tip of one finger over my lower lip, watching intently as I drew in my breath sharply and my pulse grew faster, the inevitable tide of desire rising. "But I am causing you no suffering," he said gently. "And I see you are pleased."
"Does my lord say so?" I closed my eyes, willing my voice to be steady. "I am a free D’Angeline enslaved. Do not speak to me of suffering."
"I will speak to you as I please." He said it matter-of-factly, not intending to hurt. It was a simple truth. Releasing me, he tapped the book he had set upon his desk. I opened my eyes to look at him. "I would know what it is to be served by one trained to please Kings in this manner. You will begin on page one."
Bowing my head, I knelt in obeisance.
That is how one begins.
In the morning, Waldemar Selig had a sleek, satisfied look about him. There were the inevitable murmurs and jests, which I ignored. Joscelin took one look at my shadowed eyes and asked no questions, for which I was grateful.
I had pleased him, at least; that much was sure. Unlike Gunter, his ardors were not untutored, at least in his mind. Waldemar Selig had had a dozen years or more to pore over the finer points of D’Angeline love-making. He hungered for sophistication that Gunter never dreamed existed.
Selig had been married once; I didn’t know it then, but learned it later. From what I gathered, she’d been nigh a match for him too, a quicktempered and passionate Suevi chieftain’s daughter. He used to read some of the Trots Milles Joies aloud to her, and they would experiment together, laughing and falling over one another in his great bed. But she got quickly with child, and it was a breech birth; the child lived only a day, and she took septic and died.
Perhaps he would not have been driven to conquest, had she lived. Who can know such things? It is my observation, though, that happiness limits the amount of suffering one is willing to inflict upon others. I like to think it might have been so.
Despite the pervasive aftermath of too much mead, the Skaldi encampments were beginning to break up that day. Waldemar Selig rode hither and thither, speaking to one and all. He cut a splendid figure atop a tall dark-bay horse, gold gleaming on the fillet that bound his hair and the tips of his forked beard. I don’t deny him that. Clear-eyed from having abstained from overindulgence, he went efficiently about his business, arranging for the swiftest rider from each steading to stay encamped, setting in place a network of communications.
Since I had no orders to remain in the great hall, I went out amid the camps that day, thinking to bid Hedwig farewell. I don’t know why, save that it was better than enduring the resentment of Selig’s folk. The mood among the camps was markedly different than it had been upon our arrival. Men who’d eyed each other with veiled loathing clasped arms like brothers, vowing to guard each other’s backs in battle when next they met. Selig has done this, I thought, and wondered how Isidore d’Aiglemort could ever have been so foolish. I knew, though, in my heart. He did but make the same mistake with Selig that the realm had made with him. "Camaelines think with their swords," I remembered someone saying dismissively at Cecilie Laveau-Perrin’s fête so long ago. So we had thought, while the Duc d’Aiglemort plotted and secured his army. I wondered if he had said the same words of Waldemar Selig. Maybe not. I never heard a fellow D’Angeline credit any Skaldi with thinking, with or without a sword.
Thinking these thoughts, I failed to pay heed to my course and wandered straight into the path of a Gambrivü thane as he emerged from his tent. He grinned, showing bad teeth, and caught my wrist, shouting. "Look, Selig’s decided to give us an early taste of victory, eh? Who’s for swiving like a King, lads? First luck to me, and seconds for the rest!"
It happened too fast, between one instant and the next. One instant I was still gaping at his rot-toothed face, drawing breath for a reply, and the next he bent my arm behind me with a quick, expert twist and shoved me down in the snow, one hand pinning the back of my neck. Shouts of encouragement rang out-and a few cautionary protests-as my face was pressed hard against the trodden snow. Even then, it wasn’t until he dragged my skirts up, exposing my bare buttocks to the cold air, that I believed it was happening.
One must understand, rape is not merely a crime in Terre d’Ange-as it is in all civilized countries, and indeed, even among the Skaldi, for their own women-it is heresy. Love as thou wilt, Blessed Elua said to us; rape is a violation of that sacred precept. As a Servant of Naamah, it was always mine to give consent; even for an anguissette., which is why no patron would have dared transgress the sanctity of the signale. Even Melisande honored it, within the bounds of Guild-law. What she did to me that last night…she would have ended it, if I’d given the signale. I do believe that. It was my choice to withhold it.
With Gunter and with Selig, I’d been taken against my will with no choice at all, and I thought I knew some measure of the horror of it. As the packed snow melted and froze against my cheek and the Gambrivü thane fumbled with his breeches while yelling Skaldi gathered around, I knew I had grasped only the smallest part of it.
And then another voice roared into the fray, and the weight was lifted from my neck. Scrambling out of the way and yanking my skirts down, I gazed up to see Knud-whose homely face looked positively beautiful to me-lifting the Gambrivü up by the scruff of the neck, landing two solid left-handed punches to his face.
It lasted that long, and then the other Gambrivü swarmed him, all brotherly goodwill forgotten. Knud went down struggling. Forgetting my own terror, I grabbed the nearest thing at hand-a cooking pot-and dashed it against the back of the closest Gambrivü head. One of their thanes caught my arms and held me back, rubbing himself against me and laughing.