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Mistrals Kiss :: Гамильтон Лорел
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“Do not do this, Sholto,” she whispered.
“You raised me to be king, Agnes. You told me that if the sluagh do not respect my threat, then I will not be king for long.”
“I did not mean — ”
“Go with Ivar, now, or it ends between us.”
She reached out to him, as if to touch his hair.
He jerked back and yelled, “Now, Agnes, go now, or it will end badly between us.”
Fyfe threw back his cloak, revealing his weapons, and each of his hands touched a sword hilt, ready for a cross-draw.
Agnes gave Sholto one last look that was more despair than anger. Then she followed Ivar down the steep slope of the lake, using her claws to dig into the soil, so she wouldn’t slide into the bones that spiked the earth.
Ivar was already wading through the still water. It came above his waist, which meant the water was deeper than it had looked. He had to strain to lay a hand over Segna’s heart between the hanging weight of her breasts. He turned that lipless, unfinished face to look at Sholto, and the look did not communicate good news.
Agnes was taller than Ivar, and had an easier time in the water — it came only to her thighs. She waded to the other hag, and when she reached her let out a wail of despair.
Sholto collapsed to his knees on the side of the lake. “Segna,” he said, and there was real grief in his voice.
I knelt beside him, touched his arm. He jerked away. “Every time I am with you, someone I care about dies, Meredith.”
Ivar called up, “I am not certain she is dying. Gravely injured. She may yet live.”
Agnes was petting her sister’s face. But I could see the gaping mouth, the labored breathing. Blood bubbled from the chest wound when she breathed, poured down her mouth. It would have been death to most.
“Can she survive it?” I asked, softly.
“I do not know,” Sholto said. “Once it would not have been a killing blow, but we have lost much of what we were.”
“Abeloec’s wound from the bones is still bleeding,” Doyle said.
Sholto’s head drooped, hiding his face in a curtain of that white hair. I was close enough to hear him crying, though so softly that I doubted anyone else would hear it. I pretended not to notice, as was only respectful for a king.
Segna reached out to him. She spoke in a voice thick and bubbling with her own blood, “My lord, mercy.”
He raised his face, but kept his hair like a shield on either side, so only I, kneeling beside him, could see the tracks of tears on his face.
“Do not do this, Sholto,” she whispered.
“You raised me to be king, Agnes. You told me that if the sluagh do not respect my threat, then I will not be king for long.”
“I did not mean — ”
“Go with Ivar, now, or it ends between us.”
She reached out to him, as if to touch his hair.
He jerked back and yelled, “Now, Agnes, go now, or it will end badly between us.”
Fyfe threw back his cloak, revealing his weapons, and each of his hands touched a sword hilt, ready for a cross-draw.
Agnes gave Sholto one last look that was more despair than anger. Then she followed Ivar down the steep slope of the lake, using her claws to dig into the soil, so she wouldn’t slide into the bones that spiked the earth.
Ivar was already wading through the still water. It came above his waist, which meant the water was deeper than it had looked. He had to strain to lay a hand over Segna’s heart between the hanging weight of her breasts. He turned that lipless, unfinished face to look at Sholto, and the look did not communicate good news.
Agnes was taller than Ivar, and had an easier time in the water — it came only to her thighs. She waded to the other hag, and when she reached her let out a wail of despair.
Sholto collapsed to his knees on the side of the lake. “Segna,” he said, and there was real grief in his voice.
I knelt beside him, touched his arm. He jerked away. “Every time I am with you, someone I care about dies, Meredith.”
Ivar called up, “I am not certain she is dying. Gravely injured. She may yet live.”
Agnes was petting her sister’s face. But I could see the gaping mouth, the labored breathing. Blood bubbled from the chest wound when she breathed, poured down her mouth. It would have been death to most.
“Can she survive it?” I asked, softly.
“I do not know,” Sholto said. “Once it would not have been a killing blow, but we have lost much of what we were.”
“Abeloec’s wound from the bones is still bleeding,” Doyle said.
Sholto’s head drooped, hiding his face in a curtain of that white hair. I was close enough to hear him crying, though so softly that I doubted anyone else would hear it. I pretended not to notice, as was only respectful for a king.
Segna reached out to him. She spoke in a voice thick and bubbling with her own blood, “My lord, mercy.”
He raised his face, but kept his hair like a shield on either side, so only I, kneeling beside him, could see the tracks of tears on his face.