The Silver Devil by Teresa Denys Page A

I stared down
at him with an intentness I did not understand.
    His
head was pillowed on my hair, trapping me even in sleep; the haughty patrician
mask was still there, but the long dark lashes fanned his cheeks like a
child's, and the sensual mouth had relaxed in a queerly vulnerable curve. He
looked almost like a boy, but there was nothing adolescent in the sprawled
beauty of his naked body. Then, as I watched, a crease of tension marred his
smooth brow. His head moved restlessly, and he began to shift and murmur in the
grip of some nightmare. Sweat started out on his forehead and little animal
sounds began to come from his throat; then he began to talk, and I realized he
was talking to his dream.
    "You
will say I did not mean it." The urgent whisper was a travesty of his old
autocratic command. "You must tell them you consented—it was your
blasphemy as much as mine. Is this your merciful God, who lets you burn in
hell? Or is it the devil who sends you to me so often?"
    There
was a breathless silence. His body arched and his head moved in panic-stricken
denial, back and forth, back and forth on the black, silken pillow.
    "You
lie.... You are damned for what you did after. I only meant to silence you, to
stop your eternal preaching. You said you loved me—why haunt me, then? It was a
boy's trick, I tell you.... I did not mean you to be dead.... Let me alone....
Tell them.... For God's love, close your eyes!"
    It
was the scream of an animal, and the sheet ripped under his clawing fingers as
he shuddered into wakefulness. His eyes stared up into the darkness, wide and
blank with terror—then slowly their glare faded, and his hand groped across the
bed as though to assure himself that this and not his dream was the reality.
    "Felicia..."
    He
spoke without looking at me. I remember feeling astonished that he should still
remember my name.
    "Yes,
I am here."
    His
hand caught mine convulsively, dragging me close to him. In that moment I felt
no fear; I had no thought for myself as he clung to me, his bright head buried
in my breast.
    "The
same dream." It was the voice of a frightened child. "Always the same
— the chapel and her body, and the stink of blood. She lies there staring at
me, blaming me — I swear I did not mean it. It is her fault, but she will not
leave me alone. She says her God will have His vengeance on me, too. But He
cannot touch me. Now I am duke I can buy absolution for a thousand such sins,
and then the dreams will leave coming."
    He
was shivering, and I drew the bedcovers around his shoulders and listened. He
talked of blood he could not escape, a lake which spread towards him and would
drown him if it reached him; and I cradled him, wondering what he had done that
such a dream should haunt him. Whose was the blood, and who was the woman who
had said she loved him; it was better not to ask.
    I
waited until I thought he was asleep and then cautiously tried to free myself
to relight one of the candles. But as soon as I moved, his grip tightened
again, feverishly.
    "I
was going to bring you a light," I said gently. "It will fright the
dreams away."
    He
shook his head violently. "No, you must stay with me.... While you hold me
I cannot see her eyes. I will make you the richest woman in the state if you do
not leave me...."
    In
a spasm of pity I took him and rocked him, soothing him with a string of soft
inanities until the bated breath went out of him, and his body lay in a curve
of unfolding grace like a falcon relaxed into captivity.
    There
was a silence; then I felt the brush of wet lashes against my skin as he opened
his eyes. His head lifted a little, and he said in a harsh whisper, "You
will talk of this. You will say I am brainsick and turn this folly to court
gossip."
    I
said no, but he did not seem to hear me. His arms closed around me, his strength
hurting my back, his cheek against my hair.
    "I
do not want to have you killed, Felicia. Swear you will not speak."
    "I
have said I will