"Mont Nuit." At the base of the hill, Hugues breathed the name. "Ready, Imri?"
I nodded. "I'm ready."
We passed other parties leaving as we arrived; riders and coaches, some of them unmarked. Ti-Philippe exchanged good-natured greetings with several of them, and I found myself glad he was there. He was Phèdre nó Delaunay's chevalier, and no one thought it strange to find him on Mont Nuit. For my part, I kept my head low, gazing at my hands on the reins.
All of the Thirteen Houses had their estates on Mont Nuit, and all of them were splendid in different ways. Each estate was gated and fenced, with the insignia of the House rendered on the gates. Cereus House, first and oldest, sat atop the hill's crest. The others lay lower. We reached Balm House before I had a chance to see the place where Phèdre spent her childhood. The insignia on the gates matched the relief on my ivory token.
"Here we are," Ti-Philippe said softly.
There was a gatekeeper. Behind bars of wrought iron, he bowed to us. "What seek you, my lords?"
I showed him the token. "Healing."
He bowed again, deeply. "Then find it," he said, opening the gates.
We rode up to the courtyard of Balm House. It was a pleasant place, low and sprawling. The air smelled green and good, like Richeline's herb garden. Ostlers descended on us, solicitous and friendly, taking our horses to be stabled and directing us to the main door. I found my feet faltering.
Hugues nudged me. "Go on, Imriel."
The door of Balm House opened, spilling a square of lamplight. There was a figure silhouetted in it; a woman's figure, broad-hipped and solid.
"Young highness," she said in a grave voice. "I am Nathalie nó Balm, the Dowayne of this House. Be welcome here, you and your men."
I took a deep breath and entered. "Thank you."
She looked like a mother; or someone's mother. Not mine, surely. There was somewhat in her presence and her manner that eased me. "So," she said, smiling at me, ushering us into the foyer, where servants in the livery of Balm House bowed and took our cloaks. "You seek healing here."
I held out my hand with the token on it. "Phèdre sent me."
The Dowayne Nathalie took it from me, her eyes crinkling. "Yes, I know. We have spoken. Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève is wise in Naamah's ways, and you are wise to trust to her wisdom. Will you trust to mine?"
I hesitated. "How so, my lady?"
"Ah." She steepled her fingers and touched her lips. "Come and see."
She led us into the reception salon. It was a vast space, but it was arranged on an intimate scale, divided by carved screens which formed a number of smaller spaces. There were clusters of couches, with hanging oil lamps casting a warm glow above them. Everywhere, potted plants grew, lending an herbal fragrance to the air and mingling with the scent of beeswax candles. In the center of the room, a small fountain trickled gently, and somewhere a flautist was playing, low and sweet. There were a handful of patrons arrayed on the couches, conversing with graceful adepts. Apprentices circulated with winejugs and trays of cordial, quiet and unobtrusive.
"A peaceful place," Ti-Philippe observed. "Very pleasant, my lady."
"My thanks, chevalier." The Dowayne inclined her head to him, then turned to me. "Balm House is not like other houses. If it is your wish, I will arrange a showing of those adepts available and willing to serve you. But if you permit, I will use my own judgment, and choose." Her smile deepened. "And thus do I judge, young highness. A woman, not a man; although there might be healing there, too, it is too soon and not what you seek. A woman, a young woman, close to your own age, but far enough from it to impart a wisdom of her own."
"All right," I said. "Yes." My mouth had gone dry again, but I steeled myself against it, reading her face. "You've already chosen, haven't you?"
"You see much." She touched my cheek with surprising tenderness, and her gaze was gentle. "Is it through your mother's blood, or your foster-mother's training?"
"Both," I whispered.
"Poor lad," murmured the Dowayne Nathalie. "It's a hard burden to bear."
Caught between empathy and desire, I merely nodded.
The Dowayne rang a small silver bell that hung from her belt. Its tinkling chime was scarce audible above the murmur of conversation, fountain, and flute, but an apprentice was there in an instant. "Please summon Emmeline," the Dowayne said. The apprentice bowed, and the Dowayne indicated a nearby cluster of couches. "I pray you, sit and refresh yourselves."
I was too nervous to remain seated. Within a few moments, the adept Emmeline arrived. She was some twenty years of age, tall and slender, with solemn grey eyes and lovely features. Her hair was the color of Katherine Friote's, a honeyed brown, spilling like silk over her shoulders.
"Welcome, Prince Imriel," she said gravely, curtsying. "I am Emmeline."
"Have I gauged you well, young highness?" Nathalie nó Balm asked shrewdly, appearing at her side.
I stared at Emmeline, and nodded. "Well met," I said to her, feeling awkward. "I'm… well, yes. Imriel. Which you already knew."
"Indeed, it is my honor, your highness." She smiled at me. It was one of those smiles wholly without guile, that make one feel as though the sun had broken through the clouds, and I found myself smiling in return.
"The Comtesse has taken care of all arrangements," the Dowayne said. "If you are well pleased, then go and find the healing you seek. Your men will be well attended and there are quarters where they may seek repose, should the hour grow late."
I glanced at Hugues and Ti-Philippe.
"Well?" Ti-Philippe smiled, not unkindly. "Go on, then."
I glanced at Emmeline.
"Come," she said simply, holding out her hand. I took it and let her lead me through the salon. A few patrons looked up as we passed, and I found myself ducking my head to hide my features. My heart was beating as hard as though I'd run a race. After the salon, we passed through a series of halls, where we encountered no one, to Emmeline's room itself. There she closed the door behind us.
Like everywhere else in Balm House, it was pleasant; large and spacious, with fretted lamps casting intricate shadows on the walls. A charcoal brazier warmed the air. The bed was vast, piled high with white pillows and hung about with sheer curtains. I tried not to stare at it.
"Imriel." Emmeline still held my hand. Now she turned it over, bowing her head and tracing a line over my palm and the inside of my wrist with one fingertip. Surely she could feel my pulse racing. I swallowed hard. We were standing so close, I could smell the faint scent she wore, a light perfume with notes of citrus.
"Yes?" I said hoarsely.
"Imriel nó Montrève de la Courcel." Raising her head, Emmeline looked into my eyes. We were almost of a height. "Understand, there are desires in your blood that will not find fulfillment here tonight."
It was at once a disappointment and a relief to hear it said. I nodded, preparing to clamp down on my ardor with an iron will. "I understand," I said grimly.
"No." She gave me that brief sunburst of a smile. "You don't, not yet. It is a gift I wish to give you; Naamah's gift. But there is a gift I ask in return."
"A patron-gift?" I said stupidly.
Emmeline shook her head. "Your trust," she said softly. "Already, you have given it twice this evening; to Phèdre nó Delaunay and to the Dowayne. I ask you to give it a third time; to trust yourself, and to trust me to guide you in this. It is only for a little while, for this charmed space of time. And I swear to you, I will hold it in Naamah's keeping. No harm will come to you, only good."
Unexpected tears stung my eyes. " 'Tis hard to do, my lady!"
"I know," she said gently.
I drew a harsh, ragged breath. This was neither the scene of tender romance nor torturous passion I had envisioned. "What must I do?"
"Be still," Emmeline murmured, "and trust." She laid one hand on my breast, splaying her fingers over my hard-beating heart and gazing into my eyes. The air in the room seemed to thicken, and I felt the presence of something—Naamah, or Blessed Elua himself—hover over us. "Can you do that?"
"I think so," I whispered. "I will try."
"Good," she whispered in reply. "It is all any of us can ask."
And there, in that room of fretted shadows, Emmeline of Balm House stripped me bare. She did it slowly, with an adept's grace. Her delicate fingers undid the buttons on my velvet doublet, and she removed it with care. She teased my silk shirt loose from my breeches, sliding her hands beneath it. I hissed as she eased it over my head, her hands sliding along my ribs, over my shoulders. Her touch was gentle and warm, not yet meant to arouse. It might have been soothing were I not strung tighter than a harp-string.
"This is sacred, Imriel." Her fingers, dipped in scented oil, annointed my chest, tracing a line toward my navel. "You; all of you. Do you understand?"
I stood, shuddering like a fly-stung horse while she moved around me. "Yes," I said helplessly. "Yes."
Emmeline's fingers found the weal-marks on my lower back, the faded scars of Daršanga. "Oh," I heard her murmur, and then I felt the touch of her soft lips, and the tip of her tongue tracing them, learning them. "And this, too."
Something knotted deep within me began to ease, almost painfully. My body began to respond to her touch. I unclenched my fists and gazed at the flickering lamps.
"There is no part of you that is not sacred." Emmeline rose before me, her hands sliding over my oil-slick breast. "And there is no shame here, only love. This is a benediction. Do you understand?"
"I am beginning to," I said, breathless.
She laughed. "Ah, Elua!" Her pupils were dilated. "You are a beautiful boy!"
I swallowed. "There is more."
I didn't want to have to explain; and I didn't need to. Emmeline nodded. She sank to kneel on her heels, removing my boots and undoing my breeches. My phallus, freed, sprang erect, straining. She annointed me with oil, murmuring a blessing. At the touch of her lips, I gritted my teeth and stared at the ceiling.
"This."
Emmeline's fingers found the brand on my left buttock; Jagun's brand. I looked down at her, seeing tears in her wide grey eyes.
"Oh, my love," she whispered. "Oh yes, this, too."
I started crying when she kissed it; and once I started, I could not stop. I wept as she led me to the bed, that big vast bed with all its white pillows. And there I lay and watched, tears trickling from the corners of my eyes, as she stripped off her silken gown, bare skin gleaming in the lamplight, and came to straddle me.
"Here," she murmured, grasping my phallus, guiding the tip to her hidden aperture. I could feel it parting her inner lips, dewy-moist, emanating heat. "Here, there is healing and Naamah's grace."
She lowered herself, and I gasped. Inside, her flesh was as slick and hot as blood, and as soft as silk. It was more intimate than anything I could have imagined.
Inch by slow inch, she sank down onto me.
Ah, Elua! I was sheathed in her to the hilt, and it was heaven.
"Is it not so?" Emmeline asked softly.
"Yes," I whispered through my tears. "I understand." And suddenly, there was tenderness and ardor, too. Emmeline leaned forward, her hair falling to curtain our faces. She kissed me; kissed away my tears, kissed my tear-swollen lids, kissed my lips. Her hips moved, only a little. If it had been more, I couldn't have stood it. I took her face in my hands and kissed her back, sinking my fingers deep into her shining hair. Her lips were soft, so soft. They parted beneath mine, and I felt the tip of her tongue touch my own. It was so lovely and sweet, I could have wept anew.
Is it possible to fall upward? It seemed it to me. Lying on my back, I fell upward into Emmeline; into her mouth, into her. Every part of me she had touched and made sacred blazed with a desire that was Naamah's gift, clean and pure, untouched by any shadow. I offered it back as tribute, and she accepted it with gladness.
Toward the end, everything gathered. Emmeline let out a gasp, lifting her head. I held her hips hard as she rode me, seeing for the first time the way a woman's face changes with pleasure, going soft and abandoned. It was impossibly beautiful.
With a sense of awe, I felt her inner walls ripple and flutter. Ah, Elua! It was too much to bear. I wanted the moment to last, I wanted to gaze at her face and fix it in my memory, but everything gathered. I was falling, falling so fast. Her face, the lamplight; everything blurred. I gave up and closed my eyes, letting myself fall.
"This, too," I heard her whisper. "This, too, is sacred."
Groaning aloud, I spent myself like a shooting star.
It seemed to go on forever. All the vast desire in my body was concentrated in my aching loins; my throbbing phallus and testes. A year's worth of awful, complicated longing was released in a surge of seed, and Emmeline rode the crest of my desire as a ship rides a tall wave.
But at last, it ebbed. I returned to myself enough to hear the harsh sound of my own breathing, its frantic pace slowing. I felt the tickle of her hair against my face and opened my eyes to see her face, her grey eyes shining with tears.
"You have given me a gift," she said. "Thank you."
"No." I touched her eyelashes. "You have." I paused. "Am I still crying?"