Kushiel's Justice (15 page)

It was like a dance, dark and elegant, filled with gasps and sighs and soft commands. It made my throat tight with desire, my rigid phallus strain against my breeches. I glanced over at Mavros. He was smiling at the stage, heavy-lidded. One hand was idly stroking his attendant’s hair. Her head bobbed above his groin, her cheeks working.

“My lord?” my attendant whispered. “If it please you?”

“All right,” I said recklessly. “Why not?”

“Thank you, my lord!” he breathed.

I closed my eyes, feeling his deft fingers unbutton my breeches. I heard him sigh with pleasure, felt his mouth descend to engulf me, skilled and eager. I listened to the crack of the flogger, the slap of the tawse, the moans and murmurs, the occasional low chuckle. I pushed away thoughts of Darsšanga and thought of sunlight.

Sunlight, and tangled hair the color of honey.

And horrible, wonderful things done in the name of love.

Afterward, I felt purged and calm; calmer than I’d felt for days. Mavros had been right, and I was glad he’d done what he’d done, arranging the Showing instead of letting me indulge my worst desires. I told him so as the carriage-driver drew rein in the Palace courtyard, my head lolling on the seat.

“Yes, I know.” Mavros patted my cheek. “As I told that damnable priestess’ daughter, I do know what I’m doing, cousin. At least when it comes to family.” He regarded me with worried fondness. “Elua, you look a mess! Give your lady wife my apologies. And
talk
to her, will you?”

“I will,” I promised drunkenly.

“Good,” he said.

Entering the Palace, I waved off the footman’s insistence on summoning a guard to escort me to my quarters. It was late enough to be quiet, for which I was grateful. I walked slowly through the marble halls, willing my head to stop spinning. The unusual hush helped. By the time I reached my quarters, I was reasonably steady on my feet.

Inside, it was dark. I fumbled with my flint striker, trying to kindle a lamp, and failed to raise aught but a clatter and a shower of sparks. I gave up and took a taper into the hallway to light it from one of the wall sconces. The D’Angeline guard on duty looked amused. I went back inside and used the chamberpot in the privy closet, scoured my face in the washbasin. The cool water felt good.

Carrying my lighted taper, I made my way to the bedchamber. At first I thought Dorelei was asleep. I knelt beside the clothes press that held my things, easing the little book of love letters from my shirt and tucking it away in the bottom drawer beneath an old pair of breeches I wore for hunting. When I rose to unbutton my shirt, I saw her watching me.

She was sitting with arms wrapped around her knees, clad in a thin shift with her shining black hair loose over her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

“Mavros sends his apologies.” I raked a hand through my tangled hair. “I didn’t know it was so late.”

“Where did you go?” Dorelei asked quietly.

“To the Night Court.” I sat on the edge of the bed and hauled my boots off. The lone candle flickered. I felt her waiting silence and sighed, turning to face her. “Dorelei, I’m sorry. I’ve been cruel and unfair. It’s not your fault.” When there was no response, I swallowed and said the words aloud. “I’m in love with someone else.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“You do?” I blinked. “How?”

For a long moment, she didn’t answer. “I asked Alais,” she said at length. “You know, I’m perfectly aware that this is a marriage of politics. I didn’t expect you to love me, and I didn’t expect you to be faithful to me. But I hoped, at least, that there could be honesty between us. At first I thought it was me, that I was distasteful to you.”

“You’re not—”

Dorelei held up her hand, forestalling me. “But you can be so charming sometimes, kind and funny. And I thought some of it was real. Alais thought so, too. She says you have a good heart. So I thought it must be because of what you suffered, like you warned me.” I didn’t say anything and she continued. “But then it seemed like there was always someplace else you’d rather be, someone else you were always looking for, and I began to wonder. And so I asked Alais.”

I felt a chill in my veins. “What did Alais say?”

“Alais turned a lot of strange colors,” she said steadily. “And told me to ask you. I didn’t want to, though. I wanted to see if you’d tell me yourself.”

“Well,” I said. “Now I have.”

“Now you have.” Dorelei regarded me, pinpricks of flame reflected in her dark eyes. “I don’t know who it is, Imriel, and I’m not asking. Believe me, I don’t want to know whose face you’re picturing when you hold me so hard it leaves marks. I’m not asking you to break off the affair. All I’m asking is that you stop treating me like I’m an actor miscast in your own personal tragedy through no fault of my own.”

“I don’t—” I began to protest, then stopped. “That’s well said, actually.”

“Please don’t make me laugh.” She shook her head, and I saw there were tears making a gleaming path on her brown cheeks. “I want you to treat me like a person, that’s all. To see
me
and not only who I’m not. I don’t love you either, you know. I barely even know you. But I might if you’d let me.”

It was fair; it was more than fair.

I got to my feet and made a courtly bow. “My lady, my name is Imriel de la Courcel nó Montrève. I have been many things in my short life, most recently what my foster-brother Eamonn would call a right bastard.”

Dorelei smiled through her tears. “Well met, my lord. My name is Dorelei mab Breidaia. I am the niece of the Cruarch of Alba, and most recently, your wife. If you are willing, I think we might at least become friends.”

“I would like that,” I said gravely.

Her eyes shone. “So would I.”

It was late and I was tired and still more than a little drunk. I shucked off the rest of my clothing and climbed into bed beside her. A part of my heart ached with loss and longing. A part was glad we had talked. I laid my head on my pillow and closed my eyes, feeling Dorelei’s fingers stroking my temples.

“I do wish you weren’t so beautiful,” she whispered.

“So do I,” I murmured.

“Oh, such a burden!” she said, soft and teasing. I opened my eyes to gaze at her. She didn’t know, didn’t understand that my face carried a constant reminder of my mother’s treachery. Although we’d never spoken of it, Sidonie had understood. She’d grown up with my mother’s veiled image hanging in the Hall of Portraits. She’d never said such a thing to me, ever. I sighed, knowing I should try to explain to Dorelei, too tired to do it. I lifted one hand and touched her cheek, tracing the dots of blue woad. I’d thought, when first she said she knew, that mayhap she’d seen it in a dream. Stranger things had happened.

“Have you ever dreamed of me?” I asked. “A true dream?”

“Only once.”

“Oh?” I closed my eyes again, feeling sleep begin claim me. “What was it?”

“It wasn’t one I understood,” she mused. “No one did. You were all alone, kneeling in a snowstorm, beneath a barren tree. Holding your sword and weeping.”

“Oh,” I whispered, and slept.

F
IFTEEN

O
N THE FOLLOWING MORNING
, I slept late. In consideration of my late—and somewhat drunken—return, Dorelei had left orders not to disturb me, and by the time I arose I’d missed Sidonie’s departure. It was probably as well that I did, though my heart ached at it.

Still, by the time the day ended, I had to own that it was easier knowing she was gone. Knowing we wouldn’t encounter one another in unexpected places, knowing we wouldn’t have to endure the grueling ordeal of being cordial to one another in public. Knowing the temptation to take dangerous risks was removed, knowing there was no way of arranging a covert assignation.

I didn’t like it, but it was easier.

I had no idea what I’d do upon her return. Amarante was right, of course. It would be for the best if I could find a way to remove myself from the Court. I toyed with the idea of an excursion to Montrève, but something in my heart balked at the notion. It was a special place, a private place. I wasn’t ready to share it with Dorelei. Mayhap, I thought, it would be better to tour my own neglected holdings with her. Of a surety, it would be politic to pay a visit, and they held no strong memories for me.

Well, except for Lombelon, which was no longer mine. Though I wouldn’t find Maslin there, oh no. He was off to Namarre accompanying Sidonie, second in command of her personal guard, which galled me to no end. The thought of her in his arms, naked and willing, was enough to make the bile rise in my throat. Why she liked him I couldn’t fathom, but she did.

She’d do it, too; I was sure of it. It was only a question of when.

I tried not to think about it.

And as matters transpired, for once the gods took pity on me. A few days after Sidonie’s departure, the one thing that could serve to lift me well and truly out of the slough of despondency took place.

Eamonn returned.

He presented himself at the Palace, himself and his Skaldic wife. There was no letter, no word of warning. I was sharing a midday luncheon with Dorelei and Alais when the news arrived, delivered by a grinning guard. Alais let out a little shriek.

“Eamonn mac Grainne?” Dorelei asked. “The Lady of the Dalriada’s son?”

“The same.” I laughed, lightheaded with relief and gladness. “I told you, he fostered with House Montrève for a year. I was hoping to have word from him weeks ago. Have you met?”

“Oh yes, years ago, when I was a little girl. I daresay he won’t remember it.” She smiled. “I do, though. He was lively.”

“Indeed.” I held out one hand to her. Alais was already tugging on my other hand. “Well, come on! Let’s go.”

The Palace Guard had, after some debate, escorted them to one of the Queen’s private salons. Brigitta was stalking around the perimeter of the room, eyeing the luxurious appointments warily. Eamonn was watching the door, rocking on the cracked heels of his boots and grinning to split his face, which sported a thick red-gold beard.

“Imri!” he shouted.

My heart rose into my throat; I couldn’t even answer. I embraced him hard, thumping his broad back with both fists. Eamonn gave me a long, crushing squeeze, then held me off by the shoulders.

“All right, all right!” he said good-naturedly. “Dagda Mor! You’d think I’d risen from the dead.”

I feinted a punch at him. “Elua! You might as well, by the smell of you.”

“Eamonn!” Alais hugged him about the waist, then wrinkled her nose. “You do stink. And you’re very hairy.”

Eamonn laughed. “Sorry, young highness. It’s been a long journey.” He pried her gently away and bowed, switching to the Caerdicci language. “May I present my lady wife, Brigitta of the Manni.”

“Yes, of course.” Alais, suddenly realizing she was the ranking member of the royal family present, struggled for composure. Her face reddened as she gazed at tall, blonde Brigitta, who was regarding us all with profound skepticism. “Well met, my lady, and welcome to the City of Elua. I’m Alais de la Courcel.”

“Hello, Brigitta,” I said to her. “You’re supposed to curtsy.”

“Hello, Imriel.” She smiled slightly. “What are the dues of fealty in a strange land?”

It sounded like one of the questions Master Piero would have posed us back in Tiberium, and it made me laugh. I turned to introduce Dorelei to her, and realized belatedly that they shared no language in common. Brigitta spoke Skaldic and Caerdicci; Dorelei, Cruithne and D’Angeline. Of a necessity, I made the introductions in two languages and the women nodded awkwardly at one another.

At least with Eamonn there was no awkwardness. “Breidaia’s little girl!” he exclaimed, hugging her. “Look at you, all grown up. I’m sorry we missed the wedding.”

“Never mind that,” Alais said impatiently. “Tell us what
happened
!”

I was dying to hear it, too, but it was clear they were both travel-worn and weary. “Mayhap you might extend the Queen’s hospitality to them?” I suggested gently to Alais. “I suspect Prince Eamonn and his wife would be grateful for it.”

“Oh!” She flushed again. “Yes, of course.”

By the time Ysandre and Drustan arrived to proffer their greetings, Alais had summoned the Master of Chambers. Quarters had been located for Eamonn and Brigitta and Palace servants had gone ahead to drawing them a much-needed bath. They would have moved their baggage, too, but there was none.

“Name of Elua!” Ysandre murmured, bemused. “The last time anyone emerged from Skaldia and turned up on my doorstep looking like this . . .” She shook her head, and I knew she was thinking of Phèdre and Joscelin, who had escaped from slavery to bring word of an impending invasion. I was glad Brigitta didn’t catch the reference. She was none too fond of D’Angelines as it was.

“Oh, we were robbed, that’s all,” Eamonn said cheerfully. “Still, here we are!”

An hour later, we heard their tale over our interrupted luncheon. Neither the Queen nor Cruarch were able to attend, but I sent word to the townhouse, and Phèdre and Joscelin came posthaste. They’d grown fond of Eamonn during the time he fostered with us and the feeling was amply reciprocated. Eamonn let out another shout, sweeping Phèdre off her feet in a glad embrace, setting her down to clasp Joscelin’s hand with a broad grin.

“This is my lady Phèdre,” Eamonn said to Brigitta. “She taught me to speak and write Caerdicci. And my lord Joscelin.” He laughed. “He taught me I’m not as clever with a sword as I think!”

“Well met, my lady,” Phèdre said graciously to Brigitta, speaking in fluent Skaldi. “We’re so very pleased to have Prince Eamonn returned safely, and you with him.”

Brigitta nodded curtly; staring at her, staring at Joscelin with his Cassiline daggers and the longsword at his back. I thought of Erich, the young Skaldi man in the zenana. Phèdre had spoken to him in his mother tongue, too. And although he’d given no indication of it for weeks on end, he had known exactly who she was. He’d known her by that and by the scarlet mote in her eye. I remembered what he’d said.
The defeated always remember
. He’d been six years old when it happened. I hadn’t even been conceived. Nor had Brigitta, but she’d grown up with the same stories.

“Eamonn,” I said in D’Angeline. “Did you ever happen to mention to Brigitta exactly
who
Phèdre and Joscelin are, and their history with a certain Skaldic warlord?”

“Well, of course!” He blinked at me. “Oh, that. No.”

I sighed. Everywhere I turned, it seemed I was hemmed in by the past. Heroism on one side, treachery on the other. “Oh, hell! No mind. Tell us what happened, will you?”

“May we eat first?” Eamonn asked plaintively. “I’m perishing.”

Between bites of a warmed-over roast with piquant sauce and large chunks of bread, he got out most of the story. Being Eamonn, he made it funny, although I daresay little of it was at the time. Armed with the map Brigitta had drawn for him and copies of maps in the archives at the University, he’d gone in search of her father’s steading amid the tribes of the Manni in southern Skaldia.

“I nearly made it, too,” he said, cramming another hunk of bread in his mouth.

Eamonn was telling the story in Caerdicci, and I’d been translating for Dorelei. “You didn’t encounter any . . . hostility?” I asked delicately at his pause.

He shook his head, mouth full, and Brigitta answered for him. “Once he crossed the border into Skaldia, he told people he was a countryman stolen by the Caerdicci and raised in slavery in Tiberium.” She sounded proud. “He could be Skaldi, you know. He almost looks it.”

I translated for Dorelei, who nodded. “They share roots from long ago.”

“I know.” I smiled at her. “The
ollamh
told us at great length.”

She laughed her infectious laugh, breaking to end on a giggle. It had grated on me before, when Sidonie was here. Now I only felt my smile turn a little wistful. I caught Eamonn’s gaze on me, shrewd and wondering.

“Anyway,” he said, swallowing. “I was caught in a blizzard before I reached the steading. Some of Hallgrim’s—Brigitta’s father’s—thanes found me. And I couldn’t very well lie to
them
. Brigitta had warned them I would come for her.”

Eamonn went on to relate how they’d taken him back to the steading, where he had presented himself as Brigitta’s husband. Her father and brother had refused to acknowledge his claim, refused to believe he was a prince of the Dalriada. Her mother had been more circumspect, swayed by political interest and the golden torc he wore about his neck. They’d come to a compromise.

“He agreed to serve as a carl until my father relented,” Brigitta told us.

“Dagda Mor!” Eamonn chuckled. “I think he saved the hardest, foulest chores for me. I don’t think anyone else did a lick of work that winter, and my hands were cracked and bleeding in a week’s time. But it only lasted until the spring.”

Phèdre and Joscelin exchanged a glance, doubtless remembering.

“That’s so romantic!” Alais clasped her hands together, eyes bright. “How did you know her father would relent?”

“Oh, I knew.” Eamonn smiled at Brigitta. “He has a stubborn daughter and a stubborn wife. Stubborn women will wear a man down every time. Come spring, Hallgrim was minded to let me go and let Brigitta go with me, if only to buy a moment’s peace in his household. But
then
,” he added, “her brother Leidolf got angry and challenged me to the holmgang. Do you know it, Joscelin?”

An uncomfortable silence fell.

“Yes,” Joscelin said quietly. He met Brigitta’s narrowed gaze. “I fought twice in the holmgang. The second time was against Waldemar Selig. He was a very great swordsman.”

“A great
man
,” she said stiffly.

Eamonn made a rumbling sound deep in his chest. “Brigitta . . .”

“It’s all right.” Phèdre reached across the table to touch Brigitta’s hand. “Child, you’re a scholar. ’Tis better to know the reality than the myth, is it not? Waldemar Selig
was
a great man in some ways. In others, he wasn’t. You, too, have set on a course that may better your people’s lives, only it is done out of love. I think it is a better way. But having set your course, you must abide by it and accept what comes, including new friends in the shape of old enemies. Surely, you consented to as much when you agreed to wed the son of the Lady of the Dalriada.”

Brigitta looked startled. I wondered if she knew Selig had attempted to skin Phèdre alive on the battlefield. Somehow, I doubted that story was oft-repeated in Skaldia. She said somewhat low in reply to Phèdre which I missed, trying to translate for Dorelei.

“So you defeated Leidolf?” Joscelin asked, prompting Eamonn to continue. “In the holmgang?”

“Me?” He gave a wide-eyed look. “Oh, yes, of course.”

I wasn’t fooled by the seemingly artless way in which Eamonn had introduced the matter of Joscelin and Phèdre’s past. Eamonn didn’t always think matters through to their conclusion, but he was a good deal cannier than he looked. He’d meant to force the issue. With Brigitta quiet and thoughtful beside him, he told the rest of their story. How they’d departed from her father’s steading, leaving his golden torc behind as a pledge of surety for a generous gift to follow on their return to Alba. How they’d been set upon by brigands near the border and robbed. He’d kept his sword and defended Brigitta’s honor, but everything else had been lost; horses, supplies, money. For the better part of a week, they’d hovered near starvation, forced to travel on foot and beg.

“Luckily, we found a trade caravan bound for the Caerdicci coast,” Eamonn said lightly. “And I was able to take service with them as a mercenary until we reached Giano.”

In the coastal city-state of Giano, they’d found a small fleet of D’Angeline merchant-ships. As it transpired, Eamonn’s father, the Royal Admiral Quintilius Rousse, had received the letter his son had entrusted to my keeping, which I had left with the Lady of Marsilikos late last autumn. Although he was an absent father, Quintilius Rousse was a proud one, too. He’d spread word far and wide in the D’Angeline seafaring community that anyone spotting his errant, half-Eiran son was to give all aid possible. Eamonn and Brigitta had sailed aboard a merchant ship to the mouth of the Aviline River, travelling by barge inland to the City of Elua.

“And here we are!” Eamonn concluded, spreading his arms.

I shook my head. “Oh, Prince Barbarus. I wish I’d gone with you.”

He grinned at me. “Well, we might have beaten those damned brigands if you had, Imri. But I’m not sure Hallgrim would have been so accommodating. And besides, you would have missed your own wedding.”

I couldn’t tell him that I wished I had, not with Dorelei at my side. And of a surety, I couldn’t tell him what had befallen me betwixt my return and my marriage. That would have to wait.

“I’ve missed you,” I said softly.

Eamonn laughed. “Oh, I daresay you’ve kept busy without me.” He winked at Dorelei. “At least I
hope
so.”

She smiled politely, not understanding. This time, I didn’t translate.

Eamonn noticed that, too.

Several days passed before I had the chance to speak with Eamonn in complete privacy. They had truly arrived in the City of Elua with little more than the clothing on their backs, and while they were anxious to continue on to Alba, there was a good deal to be done if they weren’t to travel as beggars. Ysandre was gracious in the matter of hospitality and insisted that they allow the Palace couturiers to provide new attire. I made him a gift of monies from my own accounts, which Eamonn accepted reluctantly after I convinced him it was a belated token of congratulations on his nuptials.