Chapter 19
Almost a full week passes while the Captain burns through his fever. I rarely see the light of day as I fretfully sit at his side, his confession replaying in my mind often, mingled with memories of the rites and our youthful innocence. My courses arrive, dampening my mood and fraying my emotions further.
The few times I leave his side, it is to carry updates to Erik, who, as Quartermaster, is in charge by default while Lennox is abed, or to make offerings to the Goddess, pouring wine or whiskey in the sea as I beseech her to heal him. Lyra visits often, aiding me in caring for her uncle, the little cat that is supposed to rid the ship of vermin trailing her. Other than helping me with my tasks, she sits at his side reading aloud, cat curled in a ball on her lap. The ship we breached is still tied to us as we drift, but I haven’t had the energy to question why.
Fear is a constant, and unwelcome, companion as I spend hours trying to force broth, fresh water, or willow bark tea into Lennox, avoiding the thought that he might not wake. When I do sleep, which isn’t often since he is restless as the fever burns through him, I dream of the past — waking uneasily to memories of pleasure and pain, moonlight and flames.
As I sit staring at a book on the table one afternoon, eyes not focused enough to read, the mattress creaks behind me. I whip in the direction of the sound to find Lennox sitting on the side of the bed, feet touching the floor for the first time in days.
“You’re awake!” I gasp and spring to my feet, nearly knocking the chair over in my excitement. His fever broke earlier in the day, but he remained asleep for hours after. “Are you well enough to be getting up?” I ask as I approach his side.
“I’d better be,” he says, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. “We can’t afford for me to be down any longer over this nonsense.”
“You could have died; it isn’t nonsense,” I remind him gently as I brush his overly long hair from his forehead. The black walnut coloring has faded significantly to a dark blond; I can see the true golden hue peeking through at the roots and in the thick stubble covering his jaw.
My hands slip beneath his forearms as I try to help him stand, but he brushes me away, stubbornly insisting he do it himself. His bandage is no longer seeping, and the last time I changed it, all signs of inflammation had abated. Still, a week in bed is sure to have his body weakened.
“Would you like something to eat?” I ask.
“Yes, I think that would be fine. And I need some water to clean up with,” he replies, running his hand over the rough beard he has grown.
My steps are hurried as I rush from the cabin to fetch the items, happiness surging through me that he has recovered. I return with the water, and food will be brought when it’s ready. He is already dressed in a clean shirt and pants and is in the company of Erik as the door shuts behind me. They quickly end their hushed conversation, and Erik sweeps past me with purpose.
“Getting underway, I assume?” I ask, placing the water on the table. Lennox has already pulled out his razor and block of shave soap to remove his beard.
“We are,” he perfunctorily replies, seating himself before a small mirror to shave, barely glancing in my direction.
I’m confused by his behavior. No longer is he the gentle man I nursed back to health. Here sits the brash Captain I met my first night aboard the ship. Irritated at his demeanor, I gather my remaining supplies and walk silently from the cabin.
When I reach my quarters, Lyra sits at the table reading a book. She has grown thinner in the past week, and her skin is pale from staying under the deck. I change out of my soiled dress and shift, replacing it with a pair of trousers and a linen shirt before laying down on my small bed.
Exhaustion from worrying over Lennox weighs me down, and my thanks is a surly, stubborn man. I’m surprised at his behavior after what was nearly an outright declaration of love while he burned with his wound. But, I’m more embarrassed by my own response. Shame stings my cheeks – how could I be so foolish to be wrapped into these tender feelings?
“Your uncle is awake and seems well,” I tell her curtly. Then, to avoid examining my bruised heart too closely, I curl into a ball and will myself to nap.
* * *
The hand in my hair grips harder and pulls me backward in the darkness of the tunnel. I thrash as strands are ripped from my scalp, but the grip doesn’t relent. He has me in his grasp now, dragging me backward with an arm around my waist as I kick and struggle.
Tears burn my eyes, and my ragged feet scrape on the ground as I try to free myself. I don’t know what awaits me when we are back in the temple, but I have to get away. Suddenly, the darkness is gone, and a blaze lights my vision as stacks of texts on fire in the center of the temple come into view. Men wearing the red and black of Dargan Blackwell, the new King, build pyres and stakes. I shake with terror at the thought of burning alive.
I know what Blackwell and his clergy say about us: that we are wives of demons, that we are whores for the Devil himself, that we are damned, and feel no pain since our souls are forfeit. I know this isn’t true; the pain in my feet and scalp is proof enough.
We know no Devil or demons. We simply worship the Goddess, utilizing the energy that fuels all nature and life around us. Our sacred sexuality sends energy back into the world as much as it drifts between two lovers in their embrace. Women have known the power of this energy since time began; why are these men so fearful?
As I twist and turn in my captor’s arms, other younger priestesses are herded toward the camp while our older leaders are beaten and bound, awaiting the pyre. My mentor, our High Priestess, lies still on the marble floor. A dark stain surrounds her broken body, covering the sigils inlaid on the floor that should have protected her, and I can’t control the wail that escapes me. I know my fate as the man holding me laughs and drags me toward the tents being erected outside the temple grounds.
My mind clouds and I drift between reality and insensibility as my robe is torn from my body. Rough hands grope my skin, bruising the pale flesh. A sob echoes in my ears as I am crushed beneath his weight, it takes me a moment to realize the sound comes from my lips. When I try to scream for help that I know won’t come, he covers my mouth with a hand crusted in blood, and I struggle to breathe through my fear and the barrier of his skin. His hot breath makes me shudder, but I cannot escape any part of him.
I have never been touched so savagely, the pain of his violation makes me retreat further inward. Surely this will be over soon? But then new fear bubbles to the surface when I comprehend what will happen when he is done with me. That I might then meet the pyre myself, or be tossed into another tent for more of this misery, causing me to choke on my tears.
When he is finished, I am pushed unceremoniously to the side as he puts himself back together. He doesn’t notice his sword belt lying behind him, dagger and sword still attached. He never sees the dagger, even when it juts from the front of his throat, and he chokes on his blood.
* * *
I feel hands on me as I scream and thrash to escape the man dragging me.
“Andromeda. Andromeda!” A voice shouts my name as I kick. “Andromeda, wake up!”