The Mark of Thorn: Book of Scars

Chapter Ten

"Please, put down your weapons; there is no need for them here," he urged her. "Let me examine you, beautiful one."

How many times in her life had she been told that she was beautiful? Cornelia could not count. She was accustomed to appraising eyes, wicked little smiles, and inappropriate whispers. The sword at her side was a powerful weapon against monsters, but against men—mere, sex-driven men—her physical appeal was just as dangerous when she could use it to her advantage. This powerful, albeit strange, man before her had asked for a better look, and since she had come here to acquire a favor, she consented to his wish with neither hesitation nor qualm.

Pulling back her hood, she removed the blood-splattered cloak of drab brown from her shoulders and folded it to rest on the table. Her weapons followed in order to appease the man; her sword, shield, and satchel with various weaponry inside resting with her cloak. These things removed, she stood unrivaled by the remainder of the world.

Her sun-kissed skin was smooth and without blemish, young and taut. Honey-colored strands of hair cascaded down her torso in loose, natural curls. Her chin was rounded as nicely as any feminine chin should be. Her lips were full and even, like two fine, soft pillows resting against each other. Her nose was slender, a perfect centerpiece for her face. Stunning, seductive eyes with long lashes were set far apart beneath arched brows. Those eyes were as green as a forest meadow.

Even through a layer of dirt and grime, there was little doubt that she was unsurpassed. And if it was possible for a man to be uncertain that her face was the most beautiful he'd ever seen, then he would have to admit that her body was exquisite. The ratio of proportions from her feet to her neck was perfectly set, and yet it was almost unbelievable that such a body could exist. Her legs, her breasts, her waist, her thighs; every part of her could be singled out and compared to the great beauties of God's world—however few remained now—and the world would lose. The woman was a poet's dream.

The aged mystic looked over her carefully in the clothes she wore, making his judgments. Her white shirt fit her well, with sleeves like hanging lace, and it was covered by a vest made of gold-colored thread, embroidered with elaborate trails of flowers up the sides. Her riding pants were dark brown and clung to her skin snugly. Her boots were of the same, reaching up to her thighs, and were decorated with the same golden flowers on the top cuffs. These were expensive garments and suited her well, but though they had been cleaned many times, there were still faded hints of bloodstains upon them.

The woman waited patiently for the verdict of his inspection, saying nothing herself, and finally, the old man had come back from his examination with new thoughts and knowledge.

"Perfection personified," he said finally, holding up his hands in appreciation. "If only you would smile... But you don't have much to smile about, do you?"

The mystic approached her then, circling like a vulture with slow movements. She stood still, allowing him to pass around her, and as he did, his voice came to her ears.

"I know you, but that should not come as a surprise," he said, running his spindly fingers through her hair as he stood behind her. "You've lived a short, painful life. You went from naïve days in the sun to a time of cold, lonely darkness. Abuse, neglect, horrid things. Then you were able to discover love. You were happy, and then once again that was taken from you. You have been robbed. Nothing now but a widow, without a friend in the world. Oh, perhaps you will once again live to see happiness, but what comes after that is imminent death for one as cursed as you."

Cornelia felt the man's hands slide around her waist, pulling her back against him. She did not flinch or speak. Her breath did not quicken in fear or agitation. He inclined his voice directly to her ear.