Kushiel's Justice (26 page)

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. I knew her father had been killed in a rockslide when she was a child, and she’d always spoken fondly of him. I hadn’t known she’d foreseen his death.

“Thank you.” Dorelei squeezed my hand. “The thing is, my life is bound to yours now. And you’re bound against charms.”

“Harmful ones.” I hesitated. “
Their
magic.”

“It may be it’s all of a piece.” Her voice dropped again. “I told her what he said, that harpist. That our gift came from their blood. She said it might be true.”

“Well, of a surety, they’re obsessed with trying to unravel the future.” I took a deep breath and told Dorelei what had transpired with Morwen that day. She listened to me without interrupting, grave and concerned, until I got to the part where I tried to grab the leather bag.

A disbelieving giggle burst from her. She clapped one hand over her mouth and stared at me. “You didn’t!”

“I did,” I said.

Dorelei’s eyes were wide as saucers. “What did she do?”

“Ran.” I grinned. “Ran like a rabbit. I wasn’t anywhere close to catching her.”

“Are you jesting?” she asked dubiously.

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t. Not about this, I promise. But why would she say she wanted me to get her with child? It makes no sense. A month ago, she wanted me to leave Alba and return to Terre d’Ange.”

“A lot may change in a month,” Dorelei murmured.

It was my turn to stare. I opened and closed my mouth several times, no doubt looking as dumbstruck as I felt. “Are you . . . ?” I cleared my throat and gestured with my free hand in the vicinity of her belly. The words emerged in a whisper. “With
child
?”

“Well, what did you think we were about!” she said tartly. She let go my hand and sighed. “I don’t know for sure, Imriel; not yet. But I think so, yes.”

“But that’s . . . that’s wonderful!” I blinked. “Isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Dorelei looked steadily at me. “Nothing’s really changed, has it? Not beneath these.” She reached out to pluck at the red yarn. “If it had, these wouldn’t be needful.”

“I don’t know.” I thought about my glimpse of Sidonie in the sea-mirror, my encounter with Morwen. The way the bindings had itched and chafed, the croonie-stone had grown heavy. “Probably not.” I returned her even gaze. “I’m doing my best, and I think ’tis fair to say we’ve grown fond of one another, but it may never change, Dorelei. I’ll not make any false promises. What of you? Would you claim to love me?” She made no reply. “When I returned today, you were happy, there with your aunt and Urist’s men. Kinadius leapt up like a scalded cat when I entered the hall. He’d hoped to court you one day, you know.”

Dorelei flushed. “What are you saying?”

I spread my hands. “Only that he’s the sort of man could make you happy, and I’m not.”

“A proper Pict, you mean?” She smiled sadly. “It doesn’t matter, Imriel. Neither you or I entered this marriage thinking to find love and happiness.”

“No, but one can hope,” I said.

“One can.” She rose and went to gaze out the window again. “And one can recognize the moment when hope turns to folly, too. But it’s not only that. It’s all become so complicated. We agreed to a marriage of state. You didn’t agree to having your heart’s desire locked away behind an
ollamh
’s charms. I didn’t agree to have my dreams silenced. Mayhap these are signs that should be heeded.”

“What will you?” I asked simply.

Her slender shoulders rose and fell. “You know, I’ve thought about it from time to time. The sky wouldn’t crack and fall if we were to part. My brother is the Cruarch’s heir, yes, but he needn’t worry about naming an heir of his own for years and years. The Cruarch may have conceived this solution, but ’tis Terre d’Ange pushed for it.”

The answer took me by surprise. I’d no idea she’d thought seriously about ending our marriage. Since I didn’t know what to say to it, I only addressed her latter comment. “Believe me, I know,” I said. “I felt the pushing.”

“So fearful of protecting their interests!” Dorelei laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Our nations are allies and both of us profit by it. Why should that change, no matter who rules? Tell me truly, Imriel, what do they think a child of ours would guarantee? Unquestioning fealty?”

“I don’t know.” My chest felt tight. “My lady, I never claimed to agree with my countrymen. Despite Blessed Elua’s teaching, they place far too much significance on his bloodlines.”

“And yet you agreed to this,” she mused. When I didn’t answer, she laughed again, short and humorless. “Do you know what the worst thing is?”

“No,” I murmured.

Dorelei turned to face me. “I actually do love you.” There were tears on her brown cheeks. “Not . . .” She made an impatient gesture. “I don’t know, not like it is in the ballads. It’s stupid and it hurts. You’re insufferably self-absorbed, and you make me miserable.”

“I’m not—” I began.

“Oh, you
are
!” She laughed bitterly, dashing at her tears. “And then you do your best to be kind and charming, and you look at me, truly look at me with those stupid blue eyes, and smile, and my heart turns upside down, and I
hate
it, and I hate you for it.”

“That would be love,” I said quietly.

“Now you know.” Dorelei sniffled and wiped her nose. Her voice hardened. “So what will
you
, Imriel de la Courcel?”

I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows propped on my knees. “You spoke of parting. Is that your wish?”

“I don’t know.” She sounded weary. “Betimes, I think it would be better for both of us. You’d be free. I’d be able to dream freely again. Mayhap all this strangeness that’s been attendant on our marriage would end. I’d like that, very much. It frightens me to have the . . . Old Ones . . . meddling in our lives. And I . . . this would pass, I think, in time.”

“What of the child?” I asked.

“What would you have me say?” Dorelei smiled ruefully. “It would hardly be the first child in Alba raised without a blood-father. There would be no lack of men at Clunderry willing to play the role. You’d acknowledge him, I hope. Or her. I’ve not been with anyone else.”

“Of course!” I glanced up at her, stung.

“So.” Dorelei shrugged. “Mayhap we should cancel the Alban nuptials. You’ll have to tell me what’s needful to recant the vows we swore in Terre d’Ange.”

My head ached. I felt a sense of loss, keen and piercing; the first true emotion I’d felt since Aodhan placed his protective charms on me.
What if there’s a child?
Sidonie had asked. I’d made some careless reply, assuming it would make little difference. I thought about my mother’s letters, filled with an unexpected depth of maternal passion, and about the way Hyacinthe devoted himself to his children, having grown up fatherless. And I thought about Dorelei calling me self-absorbed, too.

And Morwen. Morwen had said the future had changed. I wondered if she’d known.

“I’d rather not.” I swallowed. “If . . . if there is a child, I’d rather it were born knowing I cared enough to wed you, to stay with you. To be a father to my daughter or son, at least long enough to see him draw his first breath, laugh his first laugh. But . . .” I took a deep breath, trying to ease the tightness in my chest. “Not at the cost of your happiness, Dorelei. I’ll abide by whatever you wish.”

“You mean it?” she asked.

I nodded. “If my staying will make you miserable, I’ll go.”

She considered me. “And if you stay, what happens later? To us?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “If we find that our lives together don’t contain enough happiness to sustain us, so be it. At least we will always know we tried, and so will our child. If he becomes Talorcan’s heir, he’ll have the full mantle of legitimacy.” I hesitated. “ ’Tis your choice, truly. Do you think you could endure my presence a while longer? Even if it meant the loss of your dreams?”

Dorelei laughed, but this time there was no bitterness in it, only sorrow. “Oh, I think I could manage it.”

“Good.” The ache of emptiness retreated a little. I smiled at her. “You’re sure?”

“I think so, yes.” She sighed and left the window, coming to sit beside me. “You know, this wasn’t the discussion I’d planned on having, but I’m glad we did. ’Tis time and more we were fully honest with one another, and this time I’m more to blame than you. We did promise to be friends to one another.”

“Many a marriage of state is built on worse,” I agreed.

“True.”

Her admission of love hung between us. I hadn’t known she felt that way, hadn’t even suspected. For as much attention as I’d been paying her, it was my own feelings, or lack thereof, I’d been obsessing over. Self-absorbed, indeed.

I cleared my throat. “Shall I see if there’s another guest chamber available?”

“Well, I didn’t mean we had to take it
that
far,” Dorelei said quickly, then flushed. We both laughed, although she stopped first, turning somber once more. “We should wait a while, though. I’ll know for a surety in a couple of weeks. If I’m right, then there’s no harm in making love. The damage is done, as it were. But if I’m wrong . . .” She fell silent.

“What if you are?” I asked. “If you’re not with child, what then?”

The strength of women is different from the strength of men, deep and enduring. Dorelei looked at me, her eyes dark and solemn. She touched the red yarn bound around my wrist. “Imriel, I don’t know what the Old Ones want, and I don’t care. You’re not meant to live this way and neither am I. If I’m not with child, then I think it would be for the best if you boarded the first ship to Terre d’Ange. Don’t you?”

“Yes.” There was a vast relief at saying the words. “I do.”

She smiled sadly. “Good.”

T
WENTY-SIX

O
UR RELATIONSHIP CHANGED
for the better after that night.

Dorelei’s honesty had been as bracing as being doused with a bucket of cold water. I’d been working so hard to convince myself that things might be fine between us, if only I tried hard enough. If only I pretended to be what I thought I should. And bound behind charms, I’d done a better job of fooling myself than I had her.

It was a blessed relief to have it in the open between us. I stopped trying so hard to be pleasant and charming, and discovered she liked me well enough as myself. I worried less about being attentive, and more about actually paying attention to what she thought and felt.

We grew easier with one another, truly easier. If Dorelei’s feelings for me troubled her, we spoke of it. And if my bindings chafed, I acknowledged it.

Oddly enough, they didn’t, though. Not as they had.

I spoke to Phèdre about what Dorelei and I had decided, alone and in private. She was Queen Ysandre’s confidante, and I thought it best to tell her first. She heard me out in thoughtful silence. “Are you upset?” I asked when I’d finished.

“Upset? Elua, no!” Phèdre laughed in wonderment. “I’m still trying to get my thoughts to encompass you with a child of your own.”

The words drew an unexpected grin from me. “No, but about the other thing. Dissolving the marriage if she’s not with child.”

“No.” She glanced involuntarily toward the east, toward Terre d’Ange. “No, Ysandre will be, and I daresay Drustan, but for my part, I’d be relieved. Even if you are safe from harm, I don’t like the idea of you wrapped round with an
ollamh
’s charms, your own nature divided against itself. ’Tis contrary to Elua’s precept. And surely, they’ll have to acknowledge the matter is troubling. Neither of you can be blamed for the choice.”

“You’d stand by us, then?” I asked.

“Of course.” Phèdre sounded surprised. She hesitated. “What do you mean to do afterward, Imri?”

We hadn’t spoken of Sidonie since leaving the City of Elua. “I’ve no idea,” I said truthfully. “Nothing rash, I promise.” I raised my brows. “Mayhap I could accompany you and Joscelin on whatever it is you’re about.”

“Oh, that.” She smiled at me. “So you do want to know, then?”

I thought about it. “Not really, no.”

Phèdre laughed and kissed my cheek. “Fairly spoken.”

In some part of me, I knew all of this would come to naught.
’Tis too late for that
, Morwen had said when I’d spoken of returning to Terre d’Ange.
A lot can happen in a month
, Dorelei had said when I’d told her. There was a line drawn between those two things, taut and inevitable. Even I, dumbstruck and shocked to my callow core at the notion of impending fatherhood, had seen it without prompting.

But we waited until we knew for a surety.

In its own way, it was a pleasant time. Although I reported my encounter with Morwen to the others, there were no further sightings of the Maghuin Dhonn. The Lady Sibeal ran her household with a firm, gentle hand. Phèdre, Joscelin, and Hyacinthe continued to engage in their private intrigue, which involved long conferences in the tower, maps, and hushed, esoteric arguments. Awe gave way to a measure of familiarity. Day by day, the Master of the Straits began to seem more human, more mortal. The heavy mantle of responsibility that weighed on him seemed lighter in their company.

Meanwhile, Urist and his men alleviated the tedium with hunting and shooting for the pot, and Dorelei and I often rode with them, vying with one another for sport as we’d done at Innisclan.

I felt myself suspended between one thing and another; the known and the unknown. What would come, would come, and there was naught I could do about it. In truth, I couldn’t have said what I truly wanted.

Betimes, freedom beckoned. There was no denying it.

But at other times, I found myself gazing at Dorelei, filled with an inexplicable tenderness. Ah, Elua! The notion that we had begotten
life
between us . . .

It is an old mystery; the oldest mystery.

I prayed to Blessed Elua, and my prayers were simple.
Love as thou wilt
, he bade us. But he failed to elaborate on all the myriad forms of love that existed. And so I prayed, simply, that whatever happened, I acted in love.

“You’re sure?” I asked Dorelei when she told me.

“Yes, I’m sure!” She swatted at my hands as I raised her skirts, laughing helplessly as I held her down on our bed and pinned my ear against the soft brown skin of her belly. “Imriel, let be. ’Tis too early. There’s naught to hear.”

“How do you know?” I lifted my head. “Have you done this before?”

“No.” Her fingers knotted in my hair, her face softening. “Come here.”

I went.

Sibeal sent for a wise-woman, an herb-witch who’d attended her own birthings. It was women’s business, that, and I wasn’t privy to it. She was a nut-brown woman, wizened and bent. Later, Dorelei told me she’d poked and prodded, testing her insides with surprisingly gentle fingers, smelling them afterward, her broad nostrils flaring.

At the time, I knew only what the wise-woman reported.

“Oh, aye!” She gave us a gap-toothed grin, her head bobbing. “The lass is with child.”

I knew; I’d known all the while.

It made me tender, it made me solicitous, it made me a little bit mad. I couldn’t get past the notion of it. I forgot, altogether, about the bindings on me. During the days, I was content. At night, I made love to Dorelei, crooning to the child in her belly.

“Which one of us do you
want
?” she asked me once, tartly.

At that, I sat back on my heels. “Would you have me lie, my lady, and say the child has naught to do with it?”

“No.” Her dark eyes filled with tears. “May the gods help me, I’ll take what I may have of you. After all, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I grew up without the benefit of parents to love me. I’ll not have our child do the same.”

“I know,” Dorelei whispered in reply.

Somewhere, somehow, we’d come to understand one another, Dorelei and I.

During those days, my bonds, like Hyacinthe’s responsibilities, rested more lightly on me. Oh, I checked them daily, but there was naught to threaten them. I bore them easily. Betimes, I was glad of them. Without the ache of desire plaguing me, I was able to take genuine joy in moments of ordinary happiness.

It came almost as a surprise when the day arrived for us to depart for Bryn Gorrydum, but summer was fleeting and Hyacinthe had watched the Cruarch’s flagship cross the Straits in his sea-mirror. It was time. Only a month ago, I would have faced the prospect of repeating my nuptial vows with a vague, half-felt dread, masked by steel resolve and false courtesy. Now I was calm.

So it was that we all set forth, riding in the company of the Master of the Straits and his lady wife. The children, who had grown fond of us, howled bitterly at being left behind. I watched Dorelei embrace them in farewell and promise to visit, a tender ache in my breast. I wondered if the child we’d made together, their young kinsman-to-be, would emerge stamped with the inexplicable trait of some unknown ancestor, like Donal and his protruding ears.

The thought of my impending fatherhood still overwhelmed me with unfamiliar emotion.

In ways I’d never guessed, it seemed I was truly my mother’s son.

Although the city was only a day’s ride away, we elected to make camp a half league or so beyond its outskirts that evening. Urist sent Kinadius to fetch the rest of our escort to accompany us on the morrow, that we might enter the city in splendor befitting the Master of the Straits, a Princess of Alba, and assorted D’Angeline royalty.

“How long has it been since you camped a-field?” Joscelin asked Hyacinthe as we lounged around the campfire that night.

“Not as long as you might think, Cassiline.” Hyacinthe sounded amused, and far younger than he had when we’d first arrived. “I do leave the Stormkeep at times to wander about. I do it quietly, that’s all.”

He’d appeared at Montrève once when I was a boy, not long after Phèdre had rescued him. I’d not been on hand to witness his arrival, but I still remembered watching him leave; a dim figure on a grey horse, vanishing into the dawn mists. I wondered what it felt like to command the elements, to reconcile that self with the Tsingano lad who’d told fortunes for coin in Night’s Doorstep. My own struggles seemed small and insignificant beside his fate.

In the morning, the full complement of our men arrived, and we rode the rest of the way to Bryn Gorrydum.

If our initial reception had been a trifle cool, this one made up for it. Whatever reservations Albans might have about Dorelei’s and my marriage, they held the Master of the Straits in high esteem. The Cruarch himself met us at the city’s edge, accompanied by an honor guard. On Drustan’s right was his heir Talorcan, and on his left . . .

“Imri!”

Alais’ voice was filled with lilting joy. If she’d been at all wroth with me for her suspicions regarding Sidonie, she’d forgotten it. Indeed, she looked happier than I’d ever seen her. Her face was alight with it, her violet eyes sparkling.

I smiled with genuine pleasure. “Hello, villain. ’Tis good to see you.”

We rode in procession through the city to the fortress. Alais chattered with boundless enthusiasm the whole while, telling me every detail of their journey across Terre d’Ange and the Straits and their arrival in Bryn Gorrydum. She barely spoke of home, and I didn’t ask.

I’d been right about one thing I’d told her some time ago—the Albans loved her. There was no tribute the way there would have been in the City of Elua, no cheering and throwing of flower petals, but I could see it in the faces of folk lining the streets as we passed. They smiled at the sight of her, warm and indulgent, taking pride and pleasure in her obvious delight at being here in Alba.

I felt a little of that warmth spill over onto me, and I was glad of it.

When we reached Bryn Gorrydum’s stony grey fortress, we found it full to the rafters. Our Alban nuptials would be a far smaller affair than the wedding in Terre d’Ange, but the Palace could house nigh unto a hundred peers without straining, and the City of Elua was vast. A small handful here in Bryn Gorrydum felt like many, many more. After the peaceful isolation of the Stormkeep, I felt ill at ease being confined with so many folk.

With her father’s blessing, Alais took it upon herself to show us to our quarters, while Talorcan tended to Phèdre and Joscelin, and Drustan himself to Hyacinthe and Sibeal. There was a welcoming feast already under way in the great hall. As Alais escorted us through the narrow corridors to our rooms, the roar of it seemed to echo everywhere.

“ ’Tis enough to make me miss Innisclan,” Dorelei whispered.

“I know,” I whispered back. “Me, too.”

I’d hoped for a chance to have a quiet word with Drustan, to tell him about the Maghuin Dhonn and all that had transpired since we left Terre d’Ange, but it was not to be, at least not that day. Our nuptials wouldn’t take place until two days hence, but it seemed the celebrating had already begun in earnest, and we were expected to make an immediate appearance.

“Hurry, won’t you?” Alais pleaded. “
Everyone’s
here, and they’re all waiting!”

“Everyone?” Dorelei cocked an amused brow at her.

“Everyone!” Alais repeated.

In Terre d’Ange, the fête wouldn’t have properly begun until the guests of honor arrived, but this was nothing at all like a D’Angeline affair. For the first time, I truly felt the vast chasm that existed between life in Alba and home. Our initial arrival in Bryn Gorrydum had been quiet and uneventful, and the differences hadn’t struck me as hard in Innisclan or Stormkeep, where we’d been the guests of old friends.

But this; this was an affair of state. It was raucous and informal, and if there was a protocol, I couldn’t determine it. And if everyone was indeed awaiting us, there wasn’t much evidence of it. From what I could see, they were already having a fine time.

The hall was crowded and sweltering in the late-summer heat. There was a long trestle table piled high with food. The sight of an enormous roast, glistening with fatty juices, made my stomach a bit queasy.

There were people standing and milling around the table, laughing, jesting, eating, and drinking. Dark Cruithne, and the more fair, ruddy folk of the Tarbh Cró and the Eidlach Òr. Most of the men clustered around the table, while the women, of whom there were far fewer, seemed to be at the far end of the hall. There were children and dogs underfoot. Servants shoved their way through the throng, bearing platters of food and pitchers of drink.

“There’s Eamonn!” Alais pointed across the hall, where his bright head was visible. “He and Brigitta arrived yesterday, and his younger brother, too!”

“Has my mother not arrived?” Dorelei asked.

“Oh, yes! I’m supposed to take you to her.” Alais took Dorelei’s hand and plunged into the crowd, leading her across the hall.

I began to follow, but I didn’t get far before I was waylaid. Phèdre and Joscelin were yet to make an appearance, and my D’Angeline features stood out like a beacon.

“You’re the young prince!” A stalwart blond fellow with impressive drooping mustaches clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Gwynek of Brea.”

“Imriel de la Courcel,” I offered.

“Welcome!” He grinned beneath his mustaches. “Peder, come greet the young prince! And by all that’s holy, bring the lad a drink.”

A taller version of Gwynek came over to introduce himself, thrusting a goblet of mead into my hand. By the time I’d won my way free, I’d met a dozen clan-lords of the Eidlach Òr and the Tarbh Cró, all of whom were deemed important or influential enough to be invited to attend our nuptials.

They were friendly, but there was a testing edge to their friendliness; even with each other. Travelling the
taisgaidh
ways, quiet and undisturbed—save for Morwen’s mischief—Alba had seemed a peaceful place. Now I remembered Drustan saying there was always feuding among the clans. It was easier to believe here. I could well imagine these men drinking together under the same roof in cheerful brotherhood, and going home to plot raids on one another.