Winter gave way to spring, and I turned fifteen. My favorite gift on the occasion came from Joscelin, who commissioned a pair of daggers for me modeled after the Cassiline style. With Phèdre's aid, he even contrived to have scabbards made to fit my rhinoceros-hide belt, which was one of my most prized possessions.
The Queen hosted a small private dinner in my honor, which might have been pleasant, if not for the awkwardness. Sidonie and I were polite to one another. The incident was never discussed. I felt worst for Alais, who didn't wholly understand why her favorite cousin had begun avoiding her. Perceptive though she was, there were some things she was simply too young to grasp.
"I wish you would visit more," she complained. "You're better now, aren't you?"
"Much better," I said. The lingering aftereffects of my sickness had vanished at last, leaving me thin but hale. "I'm sorry, Alais. I've been busy, that's all."
She wrinkled her nose. "Doing what?"
"Practicing," I said. "Fighting villains."
That earned me a look of disgust. Alais had a child's keen sense of when she was being humored. "You will, you know."
"Will what?" I asked.
"Fight villains." She nodded. "I dreamed it. You were helping a man with two faces."
I almost laughed, but I didn't. Alais had dreamed true things before, though never anything so fanciful. Small things, usually, that came to pass. "Two faces? Did he have a face on the back of his head?"
"No." Alais shook her head. "He didn't wear them both at once."
"Ah," I said. "He wore a mask, then?"
"No," she said patiently. "He had two faces. And you were older."
"Why was I helping him?" I asked. "Was he a friend?"
She considered the question. "One of him was."
Though I questioned her further, I got no more from her on the subject of the man with two faces; instead, she extracted in turn a promise from me to visit before we left for Montrève. I gave it gladly enough, though I could not help glancing at Sidonie as I did. There was a pink flush on her cheeks as she met my eyes, but she held them as coolly as ever.
It was galling, but at least it was a familiar annoyance.
Once the ordeal of my natality was behind me, I set my sights on Montrève. Summer could not arrive soon enough for me that year. I was tired of the City, and yearned for the freedom of the countryside. I longed for open air, to scramble over the mountains and swim in the brisk streams. I wanted to see the puppies from last year's litter, grown into young dogs, long-limbed and gawky. I wanted to see Charles Friote and measure my growth against his; I wanted to boast to Katherine how I had endured Elua's vigil on the Longest Night. I wanted to be surrounded by people whose loyalty was as solid and dependable as the earth itself; villagers, country folk, the manor household.
And of course, there were the Shahrizai, who were none of those things.
They were coming. The matter had been discussed at length. Joscelin, predictably, misliked the idea. Although he would never say it, betimes I think he would not mind if the province of Kusheth fell into the sea, taking every last member of House Shahrizai with it.
"I made a promise," Phèdre said to him. "Would you have me renege on it?"
He gritted his teeth, and I knew he was thinking about a diamond strung on a frayed velvet cord and a note reading, I keep my promises. "Unless her kin have lied, this has nothing to do with Melisande."
"It does," she said. "I promised to let Imriel make his own choices."
"Unto the point of folly?" Joscelin asked. Phèdre raised her brows at him, and he had the grace to look abashed. "All right," he grumbled. "But they're not bringing their own guards to be lodged at Montrève."
"They're not asking to," she said dryly. "It seems they have confidence in the ability of the Queen's Champion to ensure their safety."
It wasn't a real argument, though. They had made up their quarrel over the Longest Night, for which I was glad, having been the cause of it. When Joscelin looked mortified at the thought of defending the Shahrizai, Phèdre laughed and kissed him until he forgot his concerns, and all was well between them.
Afterward, she consulted Ysandre, that the arrangement might be made openly with no hint of intrigue. I daresay the Queen shared Joscelin's misgivings, but she had accepted the Shahrizais' oaths of loyalty, and there was little she could do without giving insult. So it was decided, and letters flew back and forth from the City of Elua to Kusheth, until all was agreed.
They would not come until midsummer, and I was just as glad. I wanted Montrève to myself for a while. I chafed my way through the long spring, awaiting word of Drustan's arrival. After the Cruarch of Alba had returned, we would be free to take our leave of the City. It seemed later than usual this year; although perhaps that was due to my own impatience.
At last, the red sails of his flagship were sighted, and the City made ready to receive him. Since their marriage, it has always been a joyous occasion. While that had not changed, there was a measure of reserve. Not among the D'Angeline commonfolk, who adored Drustan mab Necthana. They never forgot that he and his Cruithne, with the aid of the Dalriada, saved our nation in its direst hour, falling upon the forces of Waldemar Selig.
Among the peers of the realm it was different. They muttered about the line of succession in Alba, and the imbalance of power that might ensue. And they muttered about how to redress the inequity, and the line of succession here in Terre d'Ange. Although my thoughts were fixed on Montrève, I kept my ears open as we attended the procession, and I heard the muttering. Not a lot, but here and there it was evident.
Cruithne half-breeds.
That was the term that made me break into a cold sweat, for it was the one they used for Sidonie and Alais; especially Sidonie, for she was the Dauphine. I shouted and clapped and threw petals with the others as Drustan entered the gates, and wondered if she knew. I guessed that she did, and felt sorry for her. In some ways, perhaps, her lot was no easier than mine.
If Sidonie felt the disapproval, she never showed it. It was a piece of irony. When impetuous Alais flung herself on her father and Drustan caught her up with a smile, setting her on the pommel of his saddle, everyone cheered. How not? Though her features were pure Cruithne, she was a lovable child—and she was not the Queen's Heir. Sidonie, though… she was so much the mirror of her mother, from her upright carriage to her clean-cut profile, her chin raised in cool defiancé. And yet it earned her few cheers. The commonfolk liked her well enough, after a fashion. They remembered Ysandre's ride toward the walls of the City of Elua, when Percy de Somerville had sought to make it his own. They remembered how she faced down an entire army through sheer courage.
So did the peers, who muttered. Because Ysandre was pure-blooded D'Angeline, and Sidonie was not, and there were powerful people in several of the Great Houses of Terre d'Ange who mistrusted her for it, who despised the fact that the sacred bloodlines of Elua and his Companions had been rendered impure. Because some of them supported Percy de Somerville's goals, although they would never say it aloud in earshot of anyone loyal to the Queen.
I saw them glance my way, sometimes.
Not often, and not for long. The shadow of my mother's infamy hung over me. But I saw the speculation in their eyes, and I knew they were asking themselves, which is less tolerable? Melisande's son, or a Pictish half-breed?
Thus far, the answer yet favored Sidonie. After all, my mother's machinations nearly gave Terre d'Ange into the hands of Waldemar Selig. An alliance through marriage with Alba, even one that favored the Cruithne over time, was preferrable to conquest by Skaldia. Still, I hated knowing anyone thought it.
It would help if Ysandre would promise Sidonie's hand in marriage to some pure-blooded young D'Angeline nobleman who could trace his lineage back in an unbroken line to Elua or one of his Companions. She wouldn't, though. It was politics, in part. It might silence the muttering, but those who disapproved were too few to pose any meaningful threat. There were too many favorable alliances to be made while the possibility yet dangled, and Sidonie was only thirteen. And too, it was idealism; Blessed Elua's precept, Love as thou wilt. Ysandre did not, I think, cling fast to the conviction that her daughters would make love-matches to equal her own. But she had every intention of allowing them the opportunity to do so, insofar as the pragmatic constraints of politics permitted.
I wished them luck; especially Alais, since it was hard to imagine that Sidonie would grow into the sort of woman apt to inspire true ardor. But perhaps that was true of her mother at that age.
For my part, I was glad to be well out of it.
We attended the welcoming festivities for the Cruarch at the Palace, the last of our courtly obligations. I didn't mind overmuch, as I was pleased to see Drustan. Since it was not a formal audience, he gave Phedre the kiss of greeting and hailed Joscelin as a brother. Me, he greeted as an equal, gripping my arm in a strong clasp. I was startled to realize we were of a height.
Drustan noted it, too. His teeth flashed in a grin, unexpectedly white in the mask of blue woad. "You've grown, young Prince."
"So I'm told," I said, feeling awkward. Somehow, it didn't seem right that I should be as tall as the Cruarch of Alba. But Drustan's presence was greater than his stature. One forgot it, as one forgot that his clubfoot makes him half a cripple.
"Don't know what to do with it yet, do you?" He laughed, patting my shoulder. "Never fear, you'll make sense of it."
"I hope so," I said, meaning it.
"You will, lad." There was an unexpected gentleness in his eyes; dark eyes, warm and compassionate, so like and unlike Sidonie's. "Never doubt it." Drustan turned to Phèdre. "Phèdre nó Delaunay, I bear greetings to you from Grainne mac Conor, and somewhat more."
"Oh?" Phèdre smiled, one of her small, inward-looking smiles. "How fares the Lady of the Dalriada?"
"Grainne is well, as ever." Drustan smiled back at her. For reasons unknown to me, Joscelin rolled his eyes. "She sends her affections. Also, she is minded to send her second son to be fostered in Terre d'Ange for a time. Ysandre has agreed to welcome him to the Palace. Still, it is in Grainne's thoughts that you might open your home to him. I have spoken to her of your household, and she is much intrigued."
"Her second son," Phèdre murmured. "Is he—"
"Quintilius Rousse's son," Drustan said, pronouncing the words with care. "So Grainne says, yes."
"Why us?" Joscelin asked bluntly. "Why not the Admiral's folk?"
Drustan turned his dark, masked gaze on him. They were not equals, not in a physical sense. Joscelin stood head and shoulders above the Cruarch of Alba. But Drustan shifted his weight onto his good leg and tilted his head, not in the least intimidated. He was accustomed to carrying the burden of rulership and all its attendant responsibilities. "Because you are two of the best people she has ever met, my brother," he said calmly. "That is Grainne's reasoning."
At that, Joscelin flushed.
"Also." Drustan's smile returned, crinkling his eyes. "Admiral Rousse has no family, only a fleet to command. It is impractical."
Phèdre gave me an inquiring look. I shrugged, feeling at once curious and dismayed. "As long as it's not this summer."
"No," Drustan agreed. "Not this summer, but perhaps next. Will you consider it?"
"Grainne's second son," Phèdre mused aloud. "How is he called?"
"Eamonn," Drustan said.
I felt the word drop like a stone into the pool of conversation. All of them looked at one another. I knew the stories. Eamonn mac Conor had been Grainne's twin brother; together, they were Lord and Lady of the Dalriada. He had died on the field of Troyes-le-Mont.
"Yes," Phèdre said. "Of course."
Although I chafed at it, I raised no word of protest. I knew that Phèdre carried a burden of guilt for his death. She was the Queen's ambassador in a desperate time, and it was she who convinced the Lord and Lady of the Dalriada to go to war. If fostering this second Eamonn would help alleviate it, I would suffer his presence.
"Well," Joscelin said philosophically. "At least he's likely to be less trouble than the Shahrizai."
Drustan chuckled. "Do not be certain of it."
Afterward, he and Phèdre spoke at greater length; mostly, I think, about Hyacinthe. The Master of the Straits was wed to Sibeal, Drustan's younger sister. They had a child—a girl, born over a year ago—and Sibeal carried another in her womb. It was a matter that could further complicate the issue of succession in Alba, although it had not done so yet. They had remained silent on the matter, and no one, Alban or D'Angeline, was likely to intrude on the Master of the Straits' private affairs. If Hyacinthe were to put his and Sibeal's daughter forward as the Alban heir… well. That was another matter. It would be hard to negotiate with a man who possesses arcane powers and single-handedly wards the safety of both our nations' shores.