“No,” Nyatrix says, her breath warming my skin. “You’reangry.”
Chapter 25
Iawaken to murky candlelight and the dance of water on stone. A worn, faded blanket is wrapped around my body, my head pillowed on a balled-up linen shirt. From my side, I push to sit up, my body protesting every movement, my mind remaining stubbornly blank for what feels like an eternity. Until I remember—the trek across the Sundered Lands, the wool of my gown’s skirts used to create cowls to protect us from the brutal Godwinds, the Lupa Nox carrying me in her arms all the while. I must have fallen asleep, cradled against the wolf’s chest.
I swallow at the thought and focus on my surroundings. The room around me is like nothing I’ve ever seen. A mosaic floor slopes down into a large, shimmering pool. The ceiling is domed, gray sun leaking through a single skylight at the very top. The rest of the space is all natural, rocky outcropping, though the edges are worn smooth, as if touched by thousands and thousands of hands. Lit candles, gowned in melted wax, cover the outcroppings like strange lichen.
Heat rises in tiny wisps of steam from the water—some kind of Blessing was performed here, I suppose, though I don’t feel the hum of Mysterium. Looking down, I see that I’m settled atop a flat, even plinth of rock raised a little off the ground. I try topick up my legs to swing them over the side but end up just crying out from the pain of my wounds. I bite down on my lip to prevent further embarrassment, but it’s too late.
“Are you all right?” comes a voice.
My head snaps in the direction of the sound, and I find Nyatrix sitting at the far edge of the pool, bare feet dangling into the water. When I don’t manage an answer, she stands with lithe, predatory grace and begins to make her way toward me.
My throat closes as I realize the shirt beneath my head must be hers, as she is no longer wearing one, just a thin band across her slim, firm breasts, the rest of her exposed to my hungry eyes. A defined line runs down the center of her tattooed abdomen, her corded muscles standing out in the play of light and shadow. The floral inking across her body is perfectly symmetrical, the leaves and petals worshipping the long, hard length of her, all power and defiance. Her collarbones are sharp, sword-like things, her shoulders exquisite curves of muscle. She’s broken the Blessed shackles off somehow, and there’s something oddly intimate about seeing her bare wrists for the first time.
“Where are we?” I ask instead of answering the question, looking past her into the unlit corridors branching off of this chamber.
She frowns and walks closer, so close that I can smell asphodels. “Hot springs,” she replies, tilting her head in the direction of the steaming waters. “Would you like to bathe?”
I hesitate. I would, in fact, love absolutely nothing more. Sand seems to have found its way into every crevice of my body despite our best efforts. I can feel grains burrowed deep into my hair—even though I kept it covered—and my flail wounds are surely at risk of becoming infected.
“I can leave. Or if you need help, I’ll keep my eyes closed,” the knight offers. “For your modesty. If that matters to you.”
“It does matter to me,” I bite out even though I can barely keep my eyes away from where her pants cling to her hips, just below her muscled navel. “Have we made it to Liminalia, then?”
There is clear civilization here: the worn if beautiful mosaics, the layers of candle wax on the stones, the Blessing performed intentionally, even if I can’t sense it. But Nyatrix laughs—good-naturedly, in a way that doesn’t make me feel bad for having asked the question. Like for the first time in my life, I’m in on the joke.
“No, not even close,” she says, dragging one hand through her hair. The heavy, pin-straight lengths are loose, falling to her shoulders. She’s already bathed, I realize, and I try not to think about her bare body submerged in the pool only steps from where I slept. “We’re still in the Sundered Lands. Beneath them, technically.”
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the faint drip of water.
“Your back needs tending to,” she says as I look up from my hands to find her at the foot of the plinth I’m lying upon. “We can do it however you want, but it needs to be done.”
I hold her gaze, my mind tumbling. We are both women. She is functioning as a healer, tending to my body as flesh and nothing more. Modesty is only of importance if there is temptation.
And there is no temptation, I tell myself.
“Could you help me up?” I ask her.
Nyatrix nods and comes around to my side, asking what she should do—not simply lifting me into her arms as she sees fit, even though she’s strong enough for the task. After some careful maneuvering, I sit on the edge of the plinth, my legs dangling over the edge.
And then the Lupa Nox is, of all things, kneeling at my feet, unlacing my boots. She works in silence, her head bowed,the candlelight gleaming off her hair. Carefully, she tucks my stockings into my boots and puts them off to the side. Then, still on her knees, she looks up and meets my gaze.
“You must think me so weak,” I whisper before I realize the words are leaving my mouth. I look away, tucking my chin into my chest. For a moment, there is only silence, the blur of my tears, the golden light on green-black water.
A shadow consumes me, and when I look up, Nyatrix stands over me. “Weak,” she echoes, her head canted to one side. “That is thelastthing I think of you, Ophelia.”
The way my name rolls off her tongue sends a flush racing across my chest.
What she says next does not help. “How much of your clothing can your modesty bear to have removed?” The corner of her mouth turns up dangerously, amusement simmering in her expression.
I feel my face redden. “Down to my shift and underthings,” I reply, mortified at the way my voice shakes. “You’ll be able to clean my wounds. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Of course,” she murmurs, stepping closer to me, her hips brushing my knees. I curl one hand into a fist and try to think of anything else. “I’m going to undress you. You’re in no state to do it yourself. But if anything upsets you, tell me and I’ll stop.”
The playfulness is gone from Nyatrix’s expression now, her dark eyes little more than fathomless pools. When I realize she’s waiting for me to say something, I just press my lips together and nod. Then her fingers are upon me, unlacing the simple closures at the front of my work gown. I turn my head away, face burning.
Nyatrix slides the gown from my shoulders, exposing my underthings. Undyed linen bands around my waist, the stiff fabric reinforced with dried reeds. Beneath it, I wear a simplebuttoned shift, the back surely marred with blood. I hear her breath catch and I look up to find her standing stock-still.
