"Death."
***
Dom
stood quickly, and turned away from the stricken woman. He need to regain
control of his thoughts and try to understand why she was unaffected by his
gift. For a split second, he was ashamed for breaking the promise he'd made to
his father. He had given his word to never attempt to persuade anyone but an
enemy. But—was this girl a victim of his father's meddling, or did she
have an agenda for her own benefit?
The
only thing he could read from her had been terror when she stared back, yet she
refused to give into her fear. He admired that. She spoke with a practiced tongue,
as was expected when one was raised in the Orders of Truth. The religious sect
was known for its immense library, and had gained the support of scientists,
cryptographers, linguistic scholars and physicians. The members of the Order
acted as bridges between science and faith; believing all, yet also believing
none. However, the secret 'extra-curricular' education offered by the Northern
Ireland convent was only known to either the members, or supporters, of the
Order. His father, the late King Malkai, had been a supporter. And now, by the
responsibility of birth, he was a supporter as well. Not only financially, but
intimately. A supporter of a pagan worshipper who was able to deflect his gift.
What had Father done?
The
weary man leaned against the portside bow to look out over the waves. Closing
his eyes, he lifted his face to the midday sun and inhaled the salty air. He
had missed the fresh wind blowing on his face and, for the first time in
months, felt strong and healthy again. His steward was correct as well; hiding
in the shadows and allowing his body to fall into sickness was not the way to
protect his people, his country or his future. What was it about this girl that
the old king believed could help his world? Had his father known that the woman
was immune to his son's gift as well? How would she respond to his other
abilities?
Mikel
had also told him that the girl was said to be fair. Shannon McCleary was not
beautiful in the ways described by proper society. She had, in fact, many
flaws. Her skin, instead of being the palest white, was kissed by the sun and
glowed with a tinge of gold. Freckles flecked adorably along the bridge of her
tiny, pert nose. Her shoulders did not gently slope as those of a woman
unaccustomed to work; they were strong and square, across the span of a
generously endowed bosom. Her brow was naturally arched and not disfigured by
the tweezing favored by ladies of noble birth, nor did she display a
fashionable high hairline of blond locks. Instead, her fiery red, knee-length mass
of gently curling hair framed her forehead in a graceful widow's peak.
Large,
round, azure-blue eyes, half-hidden beneath sweeping kohl-black lashes gave her
a sleepy, yet exotic appearance, which was so unlike that of the plain,
unpainted eyes of the higher class. And her lips—he felt his manhood stir
thinking about them. Berry-red and swollen as though stung by a bee, her lips
framed a set of unusually white, straight teeth. Even the pink blush of her
cheeks was achieved without the help of a cosmetic, although, he chuckled to
himself, at the moment those lovely cheeks held a slight twinge of seasick
green! Her figure was pleasing; although again, not in the way of modern
society. She was tall and willowy, her waist so small that he could wrap his hands
around it, and her breasts plump and high.
Dom
ran his hand along the polished railing. His father had described Shannon's
mother to him; how she looked, how she spoke, but mostly about her wild streak
combined with innate gentle goodness. It had been those qualities that had made
the old man fall in love with her. Dom recalled the stories told about the
maidens of the Emerald Islands; druid women were known to be as unpredictable
as the weather, and just as exciting, and he found himself becoming curious.
Dom glanced over his shoulder. Shannon had not moved
***
Dom
stood quickly, and turned away from the stricken woman. He need to regain
control of his thoughts and try to understand why she was unaffected by his
gift. For a split second, he was ashamed for breaking the promise he'd made to
his father. He had given his word to never attempt to persuade anyone but an
enemy. But—was this girl a victim of his father's meddling, or did she
have an agenda for her own benefit?
The
only thing he could read from her had been terror when she stared back, yet she
refused to give into her fear. He admired that. She spoke with a practiced tongue,
as was expected when one was raised in the Orders of Truth. The religious sect
was known for its immense library, and had gained the support of scientists,
cryptographers, linguistic scholars and physicians. The members of the Order
acted as bridges between science and faith; believing all, yet also believing
none. However, the secret 'extra-curricular' education offered by the Northern
Ireland convent was only known to either the members, or supporters, of the
Order. His father, the late King Malkai, had been a supporter. And now, by the
responsibility of birth, he was a supporter as well. Not only financially, but
intimately. A supporter of a pagan worshipper who was able to deflect his gift.
What had Father done?
The
weary man leaned against the portside bow to look out over the waves. Closing
his eyes, he lifted his face to the midday sun and inhaled the salty air. He
had missed the fresh wind blowing on his face and, for the first time in
months, felt strong and healthy again. His steward was correct as well; hiding
in the shadows and allowing his body to fall into sickness was not the way to
protect his people, his country or his future. What was it about this girl that
the old king believed could help his world? Had his father known that the woman
was immune to his son's gift as well? How would she respond to his other
abilities?
Mikel
had also told him that the girl was said to be fair. Shannon McCleary was not
beautiful in the ways described by proper society. She had, in fact, many
flaws. Her skin, instead of being the palest white, was kissed by the sun and
glowed with a tinge of gold. Freckles flecked adorably along the bridge of her
tiny, pert nose. Her shoulders did not gently slope as those of a woman
unaccustomed to work; they were strong and square, across the span of a
generously endowed bosom. Her brow was naturally arched and not disfigured by
the tweezing favored by ladies of noble birth, nor did she display a
fashionable high hairline of blond locks. Instead, her fiery red, knee-length mass
of gently curling hair framed her forehead in a graceful widow's peak.
Large,
round, azure-blue eyes, half-hidden beneath sweeping kohl-black lashes gave her
a sleepy, yet exotic appearance, which was so unlike that of the plain,
unpainted eyes of the higher class. And her lips—he felt his manhood stir
thinking about them. Berry-red and swollen as though stung by a bee, her lips
framed a set of unusually white, straight teeth. Even the pink blush of her
cheeks was achieved without the help of a cosmetic, although, he chuckled to
himself, at the moment those lovely cheeks held a slight twinge of seasick
green! Her figure was pleasing; although again, not in the way of modern
society. She was tall and willowy, her waist so small that he could wrap his hands
around it, and her breasts plump and high.
Dom
ran his hand along the polished railing. His father had described Shannon's
mother to him; how she looked, how she spoke, but mostly about her wild streak
combined with innate gentle goodness. It had been those qualities that had made
the old man fall in love with her. Dom recalled the stories told about the
maidens of the Emerald Islands; druid women were known to be as unpredictable
as the weather, and just as exciting, and he found himself becoming curious.
Dom glanced over his shoulder. Shannon had not moved
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