Kushiel's Justice (23 page)

“Are you angry at me?” I asked, using the sword’s reach to keep him at bay.

Joscelin sidled around, forcing me to turn so that the light of the lowering sun was in my eyes. “Angry, yes. At you, no.”

I squinted at his dark silhouette. “What would you have me do?”

He took an unexpected step, feinting low with his left-hand dagger. I parried awkwardly and cursed as his right-hand dagger descended, trapping my blade with the quillon. His left-hand dagger rose to prick the underside of my chin. “I’d have you be
careful
!”

A smattering of cheers and applause arose. Joscelin stepped back and gave his Cassiline bow. I sighed and sheathed my sword.

“Well done, indeed!” a strange, melodious voice said. “An art worthy of song.”

I turned slowly, the hair on the back of my neck prickling.

“Dagda Mor!” someone whispered.

The harpist stood on the far side of the yard, arms spread to show he bore no weapons, only his harp slung over his back in a leather case. He was a tall, rangy figure with strong, striking features, coarse black hair streaked with iron-grey.

“My lord Ferghus,” Grainne emerged from the hall and inclined her head in greeting. “Be welcome to Innisclan.”

“Lady Grainne.” He smiled easily, showing white teeth. “My thanks.”

Everyone in the yard was very quiet as the harpist Ferghus approached. Joscelin watched him warily, crossed daggers at the ready. Conor was there, his eyes wide with wonder and fearful apprehension. The harpist paused, laying a lean brown hand on his head.

“Well played, lad,” he said.

“Thank you,” Conor whispered.

Joscelin shifted when Ferghus drew near, blocking me. The harpist gave another easy smile, showing his empty palms. I touched Joscelin’s arm and stepped out from behind him.

“So you’re the one would be a Prince of Alba,” the harpist said.

I offered my hand. “Imriel.”

He took it. “Ferghus.”

At close range, he didn’t look dangerous; but he didn’t look
safe
, either. There was a hint of something wild glinting in his black eyes, slanting the planes of his cheekbones. Like Morwen, the scent of forest loam and fermented berries clung to him. Untamed places, I thought. And though his jerkin and breeches were of roughspun brown cloth, he carried himself like a king.

“Will you dine with us, my lord?” Grainne asked calmly. “There’s a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

“Shall I sing for my supper?” he asked. “As in days of old?”

Her red-gold brows rose slightly. “If you wish.”

Unexpectedly, Ferghus roared with laughter. “Ah, Grainne, Grainne! I’ve missed you, lass.” He stepped toward her, touched her cheek with affection. “Too long, it’s been.” Something caught his eye. “Ah, and who’s this?”

Grainne introduced Phèdre.

The harpist looked at her for a long, long moment. I couldn’t see his face, but hers was unreadable. Joscelin and I exchanged a glance. In silent accord, we moved closer. But Ferghus offered no threat, only took a long breath.

“And so the harbingers of change are upon us once more,” he said lightly. “With dancing blades and beauty to put the stars to shame. Twenty years ago, we failed to take heed, and the world turned upside down in your wake. What now, I wonder?”

“Is he always like this?” Phèdre asked Grainne.

The Lady of the Dalriada smiled. “More or less, yes.”

The harpist loosed another unexpected peal of laughter. “Oh, indeed! Well played, fair lady, well played.” He bowed to Grainne. “And to you, my lady, I accept your offer of hospitality. I would dine in your hall this evening.”

So it was that Innisclan hosted a master bard of the Maghuin Dhonn.

It was a strange, constrained meal. To be fair, Ferghus was an exemplary guest. He ate and drank with gusto, complimenting the fare. There was nothing obvious about him that was extraordinary. He didn’t even have the woad facial markings that Morwen bore and that rendered the Cruithne exotic to a D’Angeline eye. And yet strangeness clung to him like a cloak. He brought a tang of wild places into the stone halls of Innisclan with him.

He was as different in his own way as
we
were.

D’Angelines.

The realization struck me at the table, as I glanced at Ferghus, at Phèdre and Joscelin. They, too, looked out of place there. I supposed I did, too.

“What a thing, eh?” The harpist caught my eye. “Earth’s Oldest and Youngest dining at the same table.”

“So you claim, my lord,” Dorelei murmured.

“Little sister of the Cullach Gorrym.” His unblinking gaze fell on her. “Our blood flows in
your
veins, too.” He splayed three fingers, touching his cheek below his right eye. “Where do you think your mother’s line gets its gift?”

Dorelei turned pale, the woad dots that marked her own cheek standing out in contrast. “If it is true, it is also true that we never used it for ill.”

“Will you give insult in the Lady’s own household?” Ferghus smiled his easy smile. “Ah, now! That’s no way to bargain for your prince’s freedom. Tell me, lass, do you love him? The pretty lad with the sea-blue eyes and another’s name written on his heart?”

Her pallor turned to a violent flush.

“Ferghus . . .” Grainne began.

“You spoke of insult, my lord?” I interrupted, keeping my voice as light as his. “Then I do believe we are at quits, for you have just given insult to my lady wife.” I smiled at him. “But mayhap we can mend our differences over a cup of
uisghe
, for there is the matter of another insult yet to be discussed.”

He tapped the table with lean, restless fingers. “Morwen, is it?”

“You know perfectly well it is,” Grainne said to him.

Ferghus eyed her sidelong. “Fetch the
uisghe
, then. I’ve a fancy to play a tune first.”

She nodded at Conor and Caolinn, who ran to fetch a jug of
uisghe
and a tray of earthenware cups. Brennan poured while Ferghus removed his harp from its case and checked the tuning with loving care. The harp looked old, the wood smooth and polished through long handling. It was a simple, unadorned instrument, but the sweeping lines were wrought with exquisite beauty.

The harpist tossed back his cup of
uisghe
, so quickly my throat burned in sympathy. He closed his eyes and smacked his lips, then held his cup out to be refilled. He drank half of that, then settled the harp on his lap.

“Listen,” he said to us, and began to play.

To describe perfection is an impossible thing. Ferghus played the harp the way a swallow takes wing, effortless and graceful. The first notes brought tears to my eyes. His playing was so beautiful, it made me want to laugh and weep all at once. My heart ached within my breast, pierced by the sheer loveliness of it.

And then he began to sing.

He sang well, although no better than any number of musicians I’d heard in the Queen’s salon. It was his harping that uplifted the song and made it soar. It was so beautiful, it was hard to concentrate on the verses he sang. It was some long minutes before I realized I recognized the tale he was telling, or at least some version of it.

It was a story of the Maghuin Dhonn, and how they had suffered under the yoke of Tiberium. How they had tried to accommodate them, to assimilate them, as they had accommodated the folk of the Cullach Gorrym, the Tarbh Cró, the Eidlach Òr, and the Fhalair Bàn.

How they had failed.

How their people had sickened and died as the army of Tiberium occupied the land, taming it with stone roads, bringing strange diseases from faraway places. How they had dwindled and fled to the wild places, the last bastion left to them.

How they had prayed to their untamed gods and goddesses and to the Maghuin Dhonn herself, their
diadh-anam
, the lodestone of their existence. How the greatest magician among them, mighty Donnchadh, fasted and prayed. How he had drunk the sacred broth and gone alone to the Place of the Gates, and beheld a vision of the future.

How mighty Donnchadh had seen how it might be averted through great sacrifice, and how he had transformed himself into a living incarnation of the Maghuin Dhonn, the mighty Brown Bear. How he had suffered himself to be sold into captivity and tormented for sport, until in his wrath he tore loose the stakes that bound him, and slew the Tiberian Governor of Alba.

How he had lost his humanity and saved his people

The song ended, the last notes fading into a profound silence. Ferghus sat with head bowed, his cheek leaned against the uppermost curve of his harp. I thought about his song, weighing it against the account of the Tiberian historian Caledonius, and the tale Drustan mab Necthana had told me about a bear-cub raised on human flesh by a maddened magician of the Maghuin Dhonn.

I did not know where the truth lay.

“My lord, you play most beautifully.” It was Phèdre’s voice that broke the silence. Ferghus lifted his head and gazed at her. “And yet I am confused by your story.”

“How so?” he asked.

Phèdre rested her chin on her fist, contemplating him with lustrous eyes. “ ’Twas Cinhil Ru of the Cruithne who united the tribes of Alba and drove the Tiberians from your soil. How is it, then, that the Maghuin Dhonn claim the credit?”

“Magic is a deep thing, lady, and the ways of gods are mysterious.” Ferghus stroked the gleaming wood of his harp. “Cinhil Ru rallied the Four Folk of Alba by telling them false tales about bears fed on the flesh of babes. He told them the Maghuin Dhonn had gone mad, that the same fate would befall all of them if they did not stand together. And so they did.” He showed his white teeth in a smile. “And afterward, once the Tiberians were gone, there came the Master of the Straits. For many, many years, Alba was protected.”

“Now that, surely, had naught to do with the Maghuin Dhonn,” I said.

He turned his smile on me. It looked friendly, but the appearance was belied by the restless glitter of his eyes. “Who can say? All things are bound to one another, though the bindings are hidden to the eye. I am a skilled bard, but a poor magician.”

“Speaking of bindings . . .” I tapped the croonie-stone.

“Ah, yes.” Ferghus set down his harp with care and drank the rest of the
uisghe
in his cup. “ ’Twas wrought in fairness, Morwen’s binding, on
taisgaidh
ground. Yet you claim insult for the lad’s carelessness?” he asked Grainne.

“I do,” she said. “It matters not where the charm was wrought. He was summoned against his will while he was a guest in my household. Will you have the world claim the Lady of the Dalriada cannot protect an honored guest in her own hall?” Grainne shook her head. “Indeed, I claim insult. But I am willing to forgive it in exchange for the mannekin trinket.”

Ferghus looked longingly at the
uisghe
jug. “Is that the whole of your offer?”

“Would you have me sweeten it?” She laughed. “Fine, take the jug.”

“I will.” He reached across the table, snatching it agilely and setting it before him, then rose. After replacing his harp in its leather case, he slung the case over his shoulder. “I will take your offer to Morwen, and to Berlik, too. He will want a say in the matter.” His voice changed. “Tell me, Grainne. What if they refuse? Will you break our long truce?”

His words hung in the air. Everyone looked to Grainne, who frowned. “So long as the lad is unharmed, I will not break our truce,” she said slowly. “But so long as he is bound, the Old Ones will be unwelcome in my holdings.”

“Ah, lady!” Ferghus’ gaze lingered on Conor. “ ’Tis a hard answer.”

Grainne nodded. “ ’Tis a hard question.”

“So be it.” The harpist plucked the
uisghe
jug from the table. “I’ll return ere too many days have passed.”

With that, he took his leave.

T
WENTY-THREE

I
N THE DAYS FOLLOWING
the harpist’s visit, we spoke of little else.

I tried not to engage in the speculation, for I could see it troubled Conor, and I felt for the boy. He took to absenting himself to pay long visits to the
ollamh
Aodhan, which I thought was to the good. The
ollamh
had a foot in both worlds, and he would give the boy good counsel.

For my part, I was curious about the disparity between the history Drustan had related and the harpist’s tale. I asked Dorelei for her thoughts, but she was reluctant to discuss it.

“Can you not leave it be, Imriel?” she pleaded. “You’ve been told it’s ill luck to speak of them. Do you not believe it yet?”

I ran a finger beneath the strand of red yarn tied around my left wrist. “I only want to know the truth.”

“Your
wants
are dangerous things,” Dorelei muttered.

I gave her a hard look. “You’ve had no cause to complain of them lately.”

It was the first time we’d quarrelled; or come near to it, anyway. Like Conor, I decided it would be best if I absented myself for a time. I saddled the Bastard and rode to the seashore, where I spent the better part of an afternoon reading the book of love letters Sidonie had given me.

Aside from pity for the plight of Remuel L’Oragen and Claire LeDoux of Namarre, I found myself unmoved. It was an unnerving sensation. I sat on a boulder and stared at the sunlight sparkling on the waves, trying to recapture the feelings I’d struggled so hard to suppress.

I couldn’t do it.

They were still there. Of that, I was sure. Aodhan hadn’t lied. I could sense them, in the same way I’d been aware of my own helpless will the night Morwen had summoned me. But I could no longer feel them.

I’d thought myself glad of it until I’d tried. Now I was no longer sure. I tugged at the croonie-stone, wondering what would happen if I removed it. And then I thought about that night.
Come here
, Morwen had said, and I’d gone, obedient as a lamb to slaughter.

“Blessed Elua,” I murmured. “What will you?”

There was no answer, save from the Bastard, hobbled nearby. He lifted his speckled head and snorted, gazing at me with incurious eyes. So I sighed, untied his hobbles, and rode back to Innisclan.

By the time I arrived, I’d nearly forgotten the harsh words Dorelei and I had exchanged. Seeing her, I remembered and made an apology. She accepted it with a smile and tendered an apology of her own, and the matter was forgotten.

So instead I spoke to Phèdre regarding the Maghuin Dhonn, asking her which version of their history she believed true, Drustan’s or Ferghus’.

“Like as not, the truth lies somewhere in between.” She was quiet for a moment. “Do you believe the tales of shapeshifting?”

I thought about Morwen. “Mayhap.”

“Caledonius wrote that when they skinned the bear, they found a human body beneath its pelt,” Phèdre observed. “I don’t know, love. It may be that what Ferghus said was true, that it was powerful magic at work. And it may be that Drustan said was true, and the Maghuin Dhonn succumbed to madness nonetheless.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “One truth does not discount the other.”

“No,” I agreed. “It doesn’t.”

We were both silent then, remembering Daršanga, where dark magics were at work and madness held sway. Where I had been enslaved through a quirk of unhappy fate. Where Phèdre and Joscelin had rescued me, and averted a great evil.

“All things are bound to one another,” Phèdre mused. “Though the bindings be hidden to the eye. ’Tis an interesting notion.”

“The harpist was an interesting fellow,” I said wryly.

She laughed. “Grainne thinks so.”

“The Lady Grainne has . . . interesting . . . tastes.” I eyed her. “You haven’t . . . ?”

“No, no.” Phèdre looked amused. “That was a long time ago. She was merely curious, I think.”

“What of Hyacinthe?” I asked.

“Hyacinthe.” Her expression warmed when she said his name. “I’ll tell you one thing. I’ll be glad when we’re safe under his aegis.”

It wasn’t exactly an answer, but it wasn’t exactly my concern, either. Once, not long ago, it would have bothered me. Now the sharp edges of my jealousy seemed worn away. Some of it, I thought, was maturity. I’d grown and changed a great deal in the past year, and I’d even learned somewhat of what it meant to be in love.

But some of it wasn’t. Some of it was due to the muting of my own desire.

Later, I tested the notion, forcing myself to envision somewhat that should have tormented me: Maslin de Lombelon in Sidonie’s bed.

It gave me a distant pang. Somewhere, on the far side of the
ollamh
’s protections, I knew it hurt. I knew it provoked irrational jealousy, bitter and hateful. But I didn’t feel it, except as a vague irritation; a response, mayhap, to somewhat I’d read in a book or heard in a friend’s tale. To be honest, I was in two minds as to whether I
wanted
to feel it. Mayhap what I’d said was true and this curse was an unexpected blessing after all. To be sure, it made my life with Dorelei easier to bear. We’d exchanged words, yes, but even that wasn’t entirely a bad thing. It was a sign that the relationship between us was growing real. We were no longer walking on eggshells around one another, fearful of giving offense.

And Sidonie . . .

Ah, Elua! We hadn’t been sure, either of us, that our feelings would last. Mayhap it was for the best if mine withered and died, smothered under a blanket of Alban sorcery. Mayhap my feelings for Dorelei would grow into the kind of passion for which I yearned.

So I told myself, anyway.

In the meanwhile, we continued to enjoy the hospitality of the Lady of the Dalriada, awaiting a response from the Old Ones. Several days passed. Eamonn and Joscelin were engaged in plans for the academy and library—like all Siovalese, Joscelin had a keen interest in architecture. Our bored escort of D’Angeline and Cruithne soldiers were pressed into service, digging trenches to lay the foundations for the library. Phèdre and Brigitta were content to explore the treasure trove of books we’d brought, having conceived an unlikely friendship on the course of our journey here.

And I, I spent a good deal of time with Dorelei.

By day, we rode for pleasure and for sport, hunting and shooting for the pot. She taught me to use the Cruithne short bow and we made a game of it, trying to outdo one another. Betimes, some of the Lady’s children accompanied us; at other times, we ventured out alone. We grew easy with one another.

By night, we spun out our evenings with long meals in the hall of Innisclan, telling stories or playing music afterward. The Lady’s clan was a high-spirited lot, and if there was any strangeness in the way they treated Conor, it soon passed. The protection the
ollamh
had placed on me held. When we retired to bed, there were no pipes, no laughter, no mysterious tug on my will. Indeed, save for the yarn fetters and the croonie-stone, my life held a semblance of normalcy.

And then the Maghuin Dhonn returned.

As with the harpist’s visit, they appeared as the sun was growing low in the west, shortly after we’d sat down to dine. This time, we were alerted by shouts from our escort’s encampment, sending us hurrying outside into the yard to see what transpired.

There were three of them. They came from the north, pacing unhurriedly over the green hills, their long shadows pointing eastward toward Terre d’Ange. I felt my heart stir within me as they drew near, filled with a mix of hope and uncertainty.

Urist’s men turned out, wary and watchful, forming a double cordon through which the Maghuin Dhonn must pass. The Old Ones ignored them. I could smell their scent on the evening breeze, musk and loam and berries. The air felt dense and heavy with it.

Two of them, I knew; the harpist Ferghus and the woman Morwen. I didn’t know the third. A man, a big man, half a head taller than the harpist. Like Morwen, he had eyes as pale as mist, framed by raking woad claws. Berlik, I guessed; both had mentioned the name. Although the evening was warm, he wore a bearskin robe, rendering him even bulkier.

In the yard, Grainne stepped forward, Brennan at her side. The rest of us arrayed ourselves cautiously. Dorelei moved closer to me, and Joscelin’s hands rested on his dagger-hilts.

“Lady.” The big man greeted Grainne. His voice was deep and husky. I couldn’t place his age, but he had the most somber, sorrow-laden face I’d ever seen.

Grainne inclined her head. “My lord Berlik.”

“I have heard your offer,” he slowly. “For six days, I have fasted and prayed. Some glimpses of what will be have been afforded me. Others have been denied.” Berlik turned his head and his strange, pale gaze rested on me, palpable as a touch. The woad-marked flesh below his eyes sagged with weariness. He turned back to Grainne. “The trinket belongs to Morwen, and she will not be swayed. The offer is refused.”

Someone drew a sharp breath. I swallowed hard against a intense surge of disappointment, mingled with a tinge of treacherous relief. Glancing at the woman Morwen, I saw no triumph in her face, only a strange, careful gravity. The leather bag that had hung around her throat before was missing.

“Do you deny the insult?” Grainne asked.

“I do not.” Berlik shook his head, stirring shaggy black locks. “I bear an offer in turn. Do you forgive the insult, I will swear that no member of the Maghuin Dhonn will harm so much as a hair on the lad’s head, anywhere on the length and breadth of Alba’s soil.”

Grainne was silent a moment. “By what oath?”

“By stone and sea and sky,” he murmured, “and all that they encompass. By the sacred troth that binds me to my
diadh-anam
.”

“And the Maghuin Dhonn have so consented?” she asked the other two.

“We have, Grainne,” Ferghus said. All the lightness had fled his voice. “Not a hair on his head, not a scratch on his skin. Not by any means.”

“I don’t understand.” Grainne took a step closer to them, searching their faces, and Morwen’s last of all. “Why? If you mean Imriel no harm, why not surrender the trinket?”

“I cannot.” Morwen looked small and diminutive before the Lady of the Dalriada, but she raised her chin to meet the Lady’s eyes, steady and uncowed. “It is
he
who means us harm. This may be our sole protection against it.”

“What?”
I raised my voice in protest, pricked by the comment. “I intend nothing of the kind! Or at least I damnably well wouldn’t if you’d leave me be.”

Morwen fixed me with her moon-pale gaze. “You do not know what will come to pass.”

“This is absurd,” Joscelin said flatly. “Lady, I do not mean to gainsay your rule, but—”

“Ah, no!” The harpist Ferghus raised a warning hand. “Do not think it, warrior. We are three and unarmed, but we are not powerless.” There was an edge to his easy smile. “You would buy our lives at certain cost. Meanwhile, the trinket lies elsewhere, hidden. You do not know who will claim it if we fall. Be wise, and accept our oath.”

“Prince Imriel,” Grainne said. “What will you?”

Dorelei’s fingers dug into my elbow, but there was no guidance in her grip, only fear. I frowned and looked at Berlik. He stood patient and unmoving, his massive head bowed a little. I pried Dorelei’s fingers loose from my arm and walked forward to confront him. Beneath his shadow, the scent of loam and berries was stronger, mingled with the rank odor of his bearskin robe. I had to crane my neck to see his sad, heavy face.

“What she said is a lie,” I said to him.

“No.” There was sorrow in his pale, shadowed eyes. “It may or not be many things, but it is not a lie.”

“A riddle?” I asked.

Berlik shrugged. “Truth is a riddle.”

I touched my sword-hilt. “Your kinswoman has somewhat I might claim as my own. What if I offered challege for it? Would you answer for her?”

His voice dropped to a low rumble, so low no one else could hear it. “Look down.”

I glanced down. The sleeves of his bearskin robe ended in shaggy paws, fierce black claws protruding slightly. Berlik’s vast shoulders shifted. The claws flexed and curved. I looked back up at him.

“You do not wish to do that,” he said in the same low voice.

“Nor do I wish to be bound, my lord,” I said.

“Things are not always what they seem.” Raising one hand—if that was what it was—Berlik touched the croonie-stone at my throat. A single claw clicked against polished stone. “Accept our oath. You may be grateful for it.”

There was no lie in his eyes, only sadness. Or madness? I couldn’t tell. Strangely, I almost found myself drawn to him, or at least wishing to speak further with him. But he said nothing else, only watched me silently.

I sighed, stepping back from him. “So be it.”

Grainne nodded. “Then swear, my lord Berlik.”

The bearskin robe rippled as he raised his hands; a man’s hands, large, but ordinary. At breast-height, he clasped his left hand into a fist, folding the other atop it. “By stone and sea and sky, and all that they encompass, I swear this. By the sacred troth that binds me to my
diadh-anam
, I swear this. Across the length and breadth of Alba, no man nor woman of the Maghuin Dhonn shall harm this man Imriel; not a hair on his head, not a scratch on his skin.”

The words hung like thunder in the air. Somewhere in the distance, a flock of birds took flight, wheeling across the bloody sky. Cattle lowed uneasily.

Berlik inclined his head. “Do we have your forgiveness, Lady?”

“You do,” Grainne said. “So long as your oath holds.”

“I will not be forsworn.” He smiled, awful and grim. “ ’Twould be a dreadful fate.”

I wondered what he meant. I wished he would stay and speak further with me. Unlike the others, I sensed no mischief in him. I wanted to know why he looked so sad and weary, what burden bowed his shoulders. I wanted to know why they believed I meant to harm them. It seemed unreasonable. If I bore them ill will, surely, they must see it was due to their own actions. It was all so very strange, I wasn’t even sure what I felt. If we could only talk in a reasoned way, mayhap all this could be resolved.