Kushiel's Justice (25 page)

After Innisclan, the chambers seemed spacious. We refreshed ourselves and joined our hosts for dinner. It was a pleasant meal, due in large part to the children, who were permitted to attend during the early portion of the evening. In them, I could see a bright shadow of the man their father had once been, merry and irreverent.

“You’re
pretty
,” Galanna informed Phèdre, clambering down from her chair and flouncing her skirts. “Do you like my dress?”

“Very much, my lady.” Phèdre smiled. “ ’Tis as lovely as you are.”

She tossed her silken black hair. “I know.”

Joscelin grinned at Hyacinthe. “There’s D’Angeline blood in that one.”

“Oh, do you reckon, Cassiline?” Hyacinthe shifted the burden on his lap; the boy Donal, who’d ensconced himself there. It was an image I’d never thought to see; the Master of the Straits as rueful father. Donal leaned forward, intent on grabbing a serving-spoon from a dish of baked pears. “No, no, let it be.”

“They’re a bother, aren’t they?” Sibeal said fondly, rising to pluck Donal from Hyacinthe’s grasp. “Forgive us for inflicting them on you. Anyway, ’tis time they were a-bed. Let’s find Nurse, shall we?”

A chorus of howls ensued.

“Here, I’ll take him.” Dorelei reached out her arms. “Just for a moment.”

“As you will.” Sibeal transferred him gladly. The boy settled into Dorelei’s lap with a sigh of victorious contentment, and began telling her a long, rambling tale about chasing a frog in the garden that morning.

I watched them together. Dorelei smiled, bending her head to listen to her young cousin. He had a round, impish face, his father’s black curls, and a pair of protruding ears. If we had children, they’d be close kin.

“We wanted to give their lives a semblance of normalcy.” Hyacinthe was watching them, too. “And I wanted them to have the things I never had.”

“Like a father?” Phèdre asked softly. “It seems you’re a good one.”

“He indulges them terribly,” Sibeal said, smiling at him.

Hyacinthe smiled back at her. “That’s because I can always lock myself in the tower and leave you to deal with them.”

The children were permitted to linger for a few more minutes, and then Sibeal exterted her maternal will and declared an end to it. The nurse, a befreckled young Tarbh Cró woman who clearly doted on the children, was summoned and led them away. I laughed at the production they made of it, with downcast heads and dragging feet, futile pleas trailing behind them.

After their departure, we spoke of more serious matters, telling them what had transpired with the Maghuin Dhonn. I expected Sibeal to be reluctant to hear them discussed, but she didn’t seem as troubled by the Old Ones as Dorelei and the Cruithne in general. I suppose being wed to a man who could command the seas to rise and fall had that effect.

Hyacinthe was interested. “Drustan’s asked me to keep an eye on them,” he said. “ ’Tis a funny business, though. I can’t always see them. Not all of them.”

“In the sea-mirror, you mean?” Joscelin frowned.

He nodded. “Betimes I can’t find them, even though I know where they ought to be.”

“Mayhap it’s because betimes they’re not human,” I murmured.

“I’ve wondered about that,” Hyacinthe said. “And I’ve wondered, too, about their stories of coming to Alba long, long ago, when the Straits were still covered with ice. If it’s true, their magic is old, as old as what’s written in the Book of Raziel, only different.”

Dorelei shivered beside me.

“Can you speak the
dromonde
to learn the truth?” Phèdre asked, curious.

“Not without one of the Maghuin Dhonn before me.” Hyacinthe shook his head. “And mayhap not even then. The
dromonde
looks backward as well as forward, but I do not think I can see past the origins of the Tsingani.”

There was a good deal more conversation about them, but it was speculation and came to naught in the end. When all was said and done, neither Hyacinthe nor Sibeal knew any more about them than we did. Still, the evening wore on and grew late in the process, until Sibeal declared it was time for the adults to be abed, too.

“We’ve not even spoken of your affairs,” Phèdre said to Hyacinthe. “Have you made any decisions?”

“Yes.” He glanced at his wife, then back to Phèdre. “But we’ll speak of it on the morrow.” Hyacinthe grinned, and for the first time, there was a merry glint in his black eyes, mortal and ordinary. “I may have one last task for Anafiel Delaunay’s pupil and her Perfect Companion.”

T
WENTY-FIVE

O
N THE MORROW
, I found myself abandoned.

Hyacinthe, Phèdre, and Joscelin closeted themselves in his tower to discuss whatever mysterious task it was for which the Master of the Straits might seek the assistance of Kushiel’s Chosen and a Cassiline warrior-priest. Dorelei besought the counsel of her aunt in the matter of her dreams, which had been silent for longer than was their wont.

And I, who was neither a god’s chosen, a warrior without parallel, nor a visionary dreamer, was left to my own devices.

Oh, I had a task of my own to accomplish; one small measure of responsibility. Hyacinthe had offered to extend the Stormkeep’s hospitality to a half dozen of our men, which was as far as the keep’s resources could stretch. The rest would be dismissed with generous pay to await us in Bryn Gorrydum, which would be better than the idle tedium of the encampment.

The unused garrison quarters were being cleaned and aired that morning. I rode down to the base of the crag to consult with Urist.

He polled the men, asking for volunteers. I wasn’t surprised when the D’Angelines elected to a man to depart for Bryn Gorrydum.

“No offense, your highness,” one of them said cheerfully, “but I’ve heard tell there’s a pleasure-house in the city where a few of Naamah’s Servants have elected to serve.” He nudged the fellow next to him. “You’ll do in a pinch, but I fancy somewhat prettier. Cleaner, too.”

“Buggering perverts,” Urist remarked without heat.

“Painted prude,” the D’Angeline retorted cheerfully. “Your highness, will you tell Lady Phèdre and Messire Joscelin that it’s been an honor to ride with them, bear-witches and all?”

I smiled. “I will.”

To no one’s surprise, the six who elected to stay were Urist’s men, members of the
ollamh
Firdha’s former honor guard. They drew lots for it, grumbling and arguing, while the others taunted them with exaggerated tales of the pleasures they were forgoing. Urist watched the proceedings with a wry, competent gaze that put me in mind of Gallus Tadius. It made me strangely nostalgic for my days as a member of the Red Scourge in Lucca.

There are worse things than being a soldier; one among many, a cog in a wheel. Gallus Tadius taught us to do our jobs, and he taught us well. As much as I’d hated the drilling, I’d come to take pride in it, too. By the time Lucca’s wall fell, we’d all known what to do. Gallus Tadius gave us orders. We followed them.

There was a simplicity in it.

I missed that, even if I hadn’t been terribly good at it.

I’d slept poorly the last night. I didn’t dream of Sidonie—indeed, if I dreamed at all, I do not remember—but my thoughts kept returning to her, blurred and incomplete. Ever since I’d seen her in Hyacinthe’s sea-mirror, I’d felt myself chafing at my bindings. They felt tight and bothersome, and I was frustrated by my inability to truly
feel
my own emotions. I knew it worried Phèdre. Blessed Elua bade us to love as we willed. Was I violating his precept in protecting myself from the Maghuin Dhonn? Did it matter that I was doing my best to learn to love Dorelei? I didn’t know.

After I’d distributed a generous purse among the men, Cruithne and D’Angeline alike, I left them to the work of striking the camp. I let the Bastard stretch his legs along the high cliffs overlooking the sea, giving him his head. Like me beneath my charmed bonds, he’d chafed at the slow, measured pace of caravan travel.

The Bastard ran for the sheer joy of running, plunging and snorting, exuberance bursting beneath his speckled hide. Clouds of seagulls swirled overhead at our approach, soaring with raucous cries. I laughed at the sight, thinking of Master Piero and the pigeons. I let the Bastard run until the Stormkeep was small in the distance behind us and his hide was darkening with sweat.

And then I slowed him to a walk and turned him, and we began to make our slow way back, picking a path amidst the boulders and outcroppings. I didn’t feel any wiser, but at least I felt a good deal calmer.

“Imriel.”

The Bastard spooked at Morwen’s voice, shying violently. I clung to his barrel with my thighs, ripping my sword from its sheath. “Name of Elua! What do you want of me?”

Morwen sat perched on a boulder, knees drawn up beneath the hem of her roughspun brown dress, arms wrapped around them. Her feet were bare, dirty brown toes clinging to the rock. “You don’t need to be afraid,” she said. “Berlik swore for all of us. I mean you no harm.”

I cursed and wrestled the Bastard to a standstill. “Then why are you here?”

The leather bag hung around her throat once more. She touched it, and I became accutely aware of my bindings. “Your desire summoned me.”

“Not of my will,” I said shortly.

Her pale eyes blinked between woad claws. “Nonetheless.”

“Morwen . . .” I sighed. “I’m weary of games and riddles. I ask again, what do you want of me? Did you come to bid me go home again?”

“No.” She cocked her head, considering. “ ’Tis too late for that, I think. The future is woven of many threads, but the skein is tangled and knotted. Some have already been cut, others are fraying. More than one pattern emerges. We do not know how to unravel this riddle.”

“You might try simply living your life and letting me live mine,” I said wryly. “That’s how we ordinary folk do it.”

Morwen shook her head. “The stakes are too high.”

The croonie-stone around my neck felt heavy. My wrists itched, hot and tingling. I dismounted, dropping the Bastard’s reins, and walked toward Morwen, my sword in my right hand. Her body quivered, but she made no effort to flee. I could smell her scent, rank and earthy. “What,” I said through gritted teeth. “Do. You.
Want
?”

“You made an offering to the land. But you didn’t, not really. It was meant for another, far, far away. And your wife is not enough, will never be enough. That much, we have seen. But the future keeps changing.” Her chin rose, wide, pale eyes fixed on my face. She grasped the leather bag containing the mannekin charm with one hand, and splayed the other over her belly. “I want your child.”

I lunged at her, grabbing for the leather bag.

I missed.

Elua! I was fast, but Morwen was faster. She dodged and I stumbled over the empty boulder, falling hard on my left side, mindful of my sword. My wrists and ankles burned, and the croonie-stone felt like a millstone. By the time I got to my feet, she was running, a small brown figure fleeing over the green landscape.

Like a fool, I gave chase, but she ran faster than any mortal woman ought to be able to run, and her figure dwindled before me. I collected my wits and turned back to find the Bastard, but by then he was skittish and unwilling to be caught.

It took me long minutes to calm him, fearful all the while that he’d bolt and step on one of his trailing reins and break his stupid speckled neck. By the time I succeeded, Morwen was long gone. Even the itching of my bonds was fading. I rode in the direction she’d gone and spent the better part of an hour searching to no avail. Disgruntled, I turned back for the Stormkeep.

There, I found everyone in good spirits; or at least the Cruithne were. Phèdre and Joscelin were still in the tower, and Hyacinthe was watching the sea-mirror. But the Lady Sibeal and Dorelei were entertaining Urist and his handful of men at the long table in the great hall, laughing and chatting animatedly.

“Imriel!” Dorelei glanced up as I entered. She was sitting beside Kinadius and she looked happy. He rose with alacrity, offering me his chair. “We were just speaking of you. Will you not get your warrior’s markings ere we’re wed?”

I dropped into the chair beside her. “You wish me to get my face tattooed?”

Kinadius snickered. Dorelei gave me a dimpled smile. “I think you’d look very handsome with a proper warrior’s marks. Kinadius says you’re owed them for the battle you and Eamonn fought.”

I eyed her, uncertain whether or not she was teasing. “Eamonn didn’t feel the need.”

“It’s not a Dalriadan custom,” Urist said.

“Nor is a D’Angeline custom.” I forced myself to smile. “We tattoo our backsides like civilized folk.” At that, they laughed. “Tell me,” I said, thinking of the markings Morwen and Berlik bore. “Why do you do it?”

They glanced at one another. Kinadius shrugged. “It’s a mark of honor. It puts fear into one’s enemies, knowing you’ve killed good men before them.” He tapped the warrior’s crescent and spear in the center of his brow. “That’s for the first. Like I told you, it’s your due, unless you were merely boasting.”

“You mustn’t pay them any heed,” Sibeal said kindly to me. “Warriors think the sun rises and sets on their feats, and wear their prowess on their faces that everyone might know it. But you’ll note I made no such request of my lord Hyacinthe.”

“What of you?” I asked, curious.

“Did the Daughter of the Grove not tell you?” Dorelei asked.

I shook my head. “I know what it means, but not why.”

“Those who dream true dreams are marked, that others might know it and heed their words when they speak.” The happiness in Dorelei’s face ebbed away, leaving something troubled behind. “Or so it should be.”

I wondered if her talk with her aunt regarding her dreams had gone badly. I’d thought to tell Dorelei about my encounter with Morwen immediately upon my return, but now I thought better of it. She was preoccupied; and among the myriad things of which I was sick unto death, like riddles and games, mysterious interfering strangers, and people wanting me dead because of somewhat that happened before I was born, was having my personal tribulations the topic of endless, fruitless discussion. Morwen had neither harmed nor threatened me, and what she had said had no bearing on anyone but Dorelei and me. Later, in private, we would talk.

“Ah, I see,” I said gently. “It seems I’ve a lot to learn yet about being a proper Pict.”

Her smile returned. “Are you saying you’ll you do it, then?”

“This?” I smiled back at her. “Not likely.”

That night around the dinner table, an atmosphere of hushed, secretive excitement prevailed. Whatever it was Phèdre, Joscelin, and Hyacinthe were about, they weren’t minded to tell anyone, and it made them cryptic and awkward. The children were oblivious to it; Urist and his men were dining in the garrison quarters. Lady Sibeal looked tranquil and undisturbed, and I guessed she knew. That left Dorelei and me to exchange confused looks.

When Galanna and Donal were packed off to bed under the nurse’s auspices, I asked pointedly, “Would you all prefer that we follow them?”

They exchanged non-confused looks.

“Forgive us.” Hyacinthe inclined his head. “We will let the matter rest.”

“Hyacinthe . . .” Phèdre murmured.

He raised his brows. “Would you have them burdened with it?”

“No.” Dorelei rose from the table with unexpected vigor. “I’ll not speak for Imriel, but whatever
it
is, I’ve no interest in being burdened with it. And so, I’ll bid you good night.”

I rose, torn, as she left the hall.

Sibeal gazed after her niece with quiet concern. The others looked at me. Figures out of legend, all three of them. Phèdre nó Delaunay, Kushiel’s Chosen, with her dart-stricken gaze and the Name of God in her thoughts. Joscelin Verreuil, her Perfect Companion, the Queen’s Champion. Hyacinthe, the Prince of Travellers, Master of the Straits.

“Imriel, if you wish—” Joscelin began.

“No,” I said slowly. “Like Dorelei, I don’t need another burden to carry. If you decide I do, then I’ll listen. Right now, I think it best if I go talk to my wife.”

No one spoke against it. I took my leave and made my way to the chamber that Dorelei and I shared. As I passed the corridor leading to the garrison, I could hear the sound of Urist’s men bantering over their cups. Once again, I envied the simplicity of their lives.

But I’d failed at being a simple soldier, too. I hadn’t been boasting, I’d acquitted myself well enough during the siege of Lucca, and none of my comrades had cause to complain of me. Still, my fellow soldiers hadn’t loved me, either. I didn’t have the knack of easy camaraderie that Eamonn did. And in the end, simplicity had evaded me. The Duke of Valpetra had sought me out, bent on vengeance because I’d cut off his hand. I’d survived only because Canis, my mother’s willing tool, had given his life for mine.

It seemed like a long time ago.

I found Dorelei gazing out the room’s single window, shutters open onto the summer breeze. The window looked inland, and twilight was falling over the green plains. She turned and gave me a swift, halfhearted smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You weren’t.” I sat on the bed.

“Do you know what they’re about?” she asked.

“No.” I smiled wryly. “Oh, I could hazard a guess, which I daresay is why they’re not bothering to hide it. It’s somewhat to do with the Book of Raziel. Phèdre and Hyacinthe have written back and forth to one another for years on the matter.”

“I didn’t know they used to be lovers.” Dorelei’s voice was nearly inaudible.

“Long ago.” There was only a single oil lamp burning low, and the room was growing dark. I found a pair of tallow candles and lit them. “Did your aunt Sibeal tell you? Is she troubled by it?”

“Yes, and no.” She watched the candle flames grow, casting shadows. “She said she always knew, that it didn’t matter. That what is between them is strong and good, and enough for the both of them. That if he were to betray her, it would never be under their own roof.” Her mouth twisted ruefully. “And that love is a complicated business.”

“What of your dreams?” I asked. “Did she know why they’ve gone silent?”

Dorelei sat on the bed beside me. “Because of you.”

“Me!” I was startled.

“Not at first.” She took my hand. “At first it was likely because I was far from home, and . . . scared. And then, mayhap, because of
them
.” Her lips thinned. “That music you heard, the charmed song.
They
may have interfered.”

“And now?” I asked.

She traced the threads of red yarn around my wrist. “We see only glimpses, you know. Riddles. Our own fates, or those we love. Those to whom our lives are bound.” She was silent a moment. “I saw my father’s death when I was eight years old. I didn’t understand the dream until it happened.”