Consorts of Heaven Read Online Free

his head. One hand flailed up to push the bowl away. Without thinking, Kerin caught the hand in hers. His fingers grasped hard. Her song faltered, but she did not pull away. When his hand fell back she kept hold of it. His touch was soft and hot, and reminded her of a child’s: innocent, desperate, totally dependent on a parent. She drank the water herself and put the bowl down, keeping hold of his hand. Then she started to sing again, her eyes fixed on his face as though she could save him by will alone.
    She went through every tune she knew - lullabies, hymns, story-songs, even the cheeky ditties the boys sang at star-season - and her voice grew hoarse, but if she stopped singing, she risked losing him.
    Evening was approaching. The fire was down to embers. If it went out, she would have to go and ask for flame from the moot-hall.
    It was dark by the time Damaru returned. She wondered whether she might persuade him to fetch some peat, knowing the thought futile even as it formed. But he could help in another way. She broke off from singing and said, ‘Damaru, play. Play the harp for him again, please.’
    He did not obey at once but came over and stared at the man, his expression hard to read. Kerin might have called it sympathy, had she thought her son capable of such an emotion. Then he got his harp down, sat on the floor and launched straight into a twirling, urgent air.
    In the dim light she saw the stranger’s face change as it had when he first caught her hand. His movements became less frantic, his cries quieter. Kerin wished she could see him better, and, when the pressure on her hand eased for a moment, she pulled free. She stretched as she stood, then got an old basket down from the shelves and flung it onto the smouldering hearth.
    She bent down to blow into the fire. For a moment she thought she had sacrificed the basket in vain. Then a flame caught. She sat back and looked over at her patient. He had raised his hand, reaching out to her.
    She returned to his side and grasped his hand again. When she spared a glance for Damaru the flaring light from the fire revealed fresh stains on the harp strings. She almost told him to stop playing, then changed her mind. Fingers would heal; the stranger’s mind might not.
    She stroked the man’s face. Lack of food and sleep was making her light-headed, and for a moment she thought it was her husband who was lying ill in their bed.
    After a while Damaru’s playing slowed, then stopped. He put the harp down and staggered over to the water-jug, cupping his hands to drink straight from it.
    Her patient frowned in his delirium, then whimpered. Kerin shushed him and put a hand on his cheek. Her touch appeared to soothe him. She had planned to sleep on the floor, but after a moment’s hesitation, she climbed onto the bed with him. Damaru crawled into his own bed.
    Kerin lay down beside the man, stroking his head. He shifted against her until they touched, he inside the covers, she on top. She felt a strange mixture of emotions: guilt at such intimacy in her marriage bed, relief that the worst was past, and a less-than-healthy excitement.
    But mainly, she felt exhausted.

CHAPTER THREE
    Bad smell: acrid and harsh. Constriction. He was under a heavy, stiff covering. Weight pressed against his side. He was trapped. Have to get free! But—
    He could hear something: a regular rasping sound. Breathing? Someone was breathing, very close by.
    He forced his eyes open, gummy lids tearing apart. The momentary pain snapped him into full consciousness. But even with eyes open, he couldn’t see. Was he blind too?
    Not blind. Just in darkness. He lay somewhere dark and smelly and he couldn’t move. Oh, shit. This is bad.
    The thing pressing against him moved. He froze, his pulse thundering in his ears. The way it changed position - it was alive.
    He was lying next to somebody. This is really bad.
    He heard a ‘mmmppfhh’ noise beside his ear. His body felt too heavy to move but he