Mistrals Kiss   ::   Гамильтон Лорел

For my life, I couldn’t remember ifthere had been sun a moment ago. I might have asked Sholto, but he was focused on what was in my hand, and whispered, “It can’t be what I think it is.”

“It is the chalice.”

He gave a small shake of his head. “How?”

“I dreamt of it, as I dreamt of Abeloec’s horn cup, and when I woke it was beside me.”

He leaned heavily on the spear, and reached toward the shining cup. I held it out toward him, but his fingers stopped just short of it, as if he feared to touch it.

His reluctance reminded me that things could happen if I touched one of the men with the chalice. But weren’t we in vision? And if so, would that hold true? I looked at Segna’s body, felt her blood drying on my skin. Was this vision, or was it real?

“And is not vision real?” came a woman’s voice.

“Who said that?” Sholto asked.

A figure appeared. She was hidden completely behind the grey of a hooded cloak. She stood in the clear sunlight, but it was like looking at a shadow — a shadow with nothing to give it form.

“Do not fear the touch of the Goddess,” the figure said.

“Who are you?” Sholto whispered.

“Who do you think I am?” came the voice. In the past, she had always either appeared more solid or been only a voice, a scent on the wind.

Sholto licked his lips and whispered, “Goddess.”

My hand rose of its own accord. I held the chalice out to him, but it was as if someone else were moving my hand. “Touch the chalice,” I whispered.

He kept his grip on the spear, leaning on it, as he stretched out his other hand. “What will happen when I touch it?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Then why do you want me to do it?”

“She wants you to,” I said.

He hesitated again with his fingers just above the shining surface. The Goddess’s voice breathed around us with the scent of summer roses: “Choose.”

Sholto took in a sharp breath and blew it out, like a sprinter, then touched the gold of the cup. I smelled herbs, as if I had brushed against a border of thyme and lavender around my roses. A black-cloaked figure appeared beside the grey. Taller, broader of shoulders, and somehow — even shrouded by the cloak — male. As the cloak could not hide the Goddess’s femininity, so the cloak could not hide the God’s masculinity.

Sholto’s hand wrapped around the chalice, covering my hand with his, so that we both held the cup.

The voice came deep, and rich, and ever changing.