Kushiel's Justice (67 page)

S
EVENTY

W
E SET SAIL
on the morrow.

After a considerable amount of ale and a night’s sleep, I nearly thought I’d dreamed the presence of the Cruarch’s flagship and my encounter with its captain. But when we made our way to the harbor an hour or so past dawn, half-knackered mounts and all, the ship was still there. Alban sailors were making ready for the voyage, and Captain Corcan greeted us with a bow. With their aid, we got the the horses and our gear loaded, and then ourselves.

When the scarlet sails unfurled to reveal the Black Boar, I nearly wept.

’Tis a strange thing, how one may remain strong in adversity, shoring up one’s courage against fear. I hadn’t realized I felt that way. We had been uneasy in Skaldia, reluctant to put any faith in Adelmar’s sudden generosity, but that had proved genuine, albeit for reasons that were likely self-serving. Since crossing into the Flatlands, there had been no overt danger. We were a small company, but one with skilled and seasoned warriors in it. The Flatlands were relatively peaceable and held no animosity toward Alba or Terre d’Ange.

Still, it wasn’t the same as being among friends and allies. As being
safe
.

And we were safe now. These waters lay under the aegis of the Master of the Straits, and he was watching over us. Whatever part of me had remained braced against unforeseen danger finally relaxed. I felt raw with relief and gratitude.

The feeling stayed with me throughout the day. We sailed southward in open water, between the coasts. The wind at our back was mild and steady, like a promise of Hyacinthe’s assurance that we would come to no harm.

We wouldn’t reach Bryn Gorrydum until well into the following day. By the time the sun set, laying a blanket of ruddy light on the waters, my mood had begun to turn pensive. I spent some time by myself, gazing at the light reflecting on the sea, and thought about how far I’d gone and how much I’d changed since first I’d sailed to Bryn Gorrydum.

A long way and a great deal.

And I thought, too, about how I’d given up on my quest. I’d been honest about that when I told the tale. Joscelin had laughed softly when I told him it galled me to think that neither of them had ever given up hope and accepted failure. He reminded me that he had done that very thing long ago in Skaldia, in Waldemar Selig’s steading. That Phèdre had shamed him into persevering in much the same way that Berlik had goaded me.

Would you have come here with a humble heart if I had not?

I didn’t think I would have; and in a strange way, I was glad I had. That part, I hadn’t tried to explain to anyone. Phèdre would understand, I thought. But if I told anyone, it would be Sidonie. I didn’t want secrets between us, and I didn’t want to hold any part of myself back from her. And I thought, too, that she would understand. It was part of the shadow of guilt that lay between us for the secrecy and lack of faith that had set this all in motion. If I’d learned nothing else, I’d learned the value of truth and trust in matters of love.

And that, I owed to Dorelei.

So it was that I went to my berth that night with a humble heart. The waves held us up like a cradle, gently rocking. Safe. I fell asleep swiftly and slept soundly, and by the time I awoke the following morning, we were within sight of Alba’s shore.

It still seemed too good to be true. The grass was lush and green with the spring rains, and the trees sported pale leaves. Near the coast, fishing boats bobbed. It was a clear day—Hyacinthe’s doing, mayhap—and a blue sky arched overhead, sunlight sparkling on the waves.

Today, I felt . . . what?

Sadness and joy, commingled. There was so much I would have done differently if I had known what would come to pass; and yet, such things are never given to us to know. Not even the magicians of the Maghuin Dhonn, who were given a greater vision than most, were able to tease out the threads of the future without making a horrible, tangled mess of it.

And yet . . .

I’d done my best. I had tried. In the end, I had avenged Dorelei and given Berlik the redemption for which he yearned. They were two sides of the same coin; the bright mirror and the dark. I was bringing him home. I was bringing peace to her spirit.

My heart soared when first we glimpsed the fortress of Bryn Gorrydum, the city sprawled around it, the harbor lying before it like a pair of open arms. The wind shifted to drive us straight into its embrace. I felt a gladness at once bright and somber, powerful and strange. This time, it seemed the gods and goddesses of Alba and Terre d’Ange were in accord. I felt their presence in the leaping waves along the prow, in the bright sun that shone overhead, in the beat of the blood in my veins, urging me toward the Alban shore.

When I saw the reception awaiting us, I understood.

Of course there was a reception. All of us crowded into the prow, watching as the dock drew near. Hyacinthe was there with Sibeal; he must have brought word from the Stormkeep himself when we set sail. Drustan mab Necthana, his crimson cloak flapping in the breeze that bore us toward him. Alais was with him, and Breidaia and Talorcan, watching us approach.

And beside the Cruarch . . .

Sidonie.

Even at a great distance, I knew her. I saw the gleam of sunlight on her hair, and I knew. A spark of gold; the spark that had kindled happiness in me. The golden cord that bound us together tightened around my heart, the only bond I’d ever borne joyfully.

Urist nudged me. “Isn’t that your girl?”

I didn’t answer, my heart too full.

“I believe that would be the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange, sent to represent Queen Ysandre,” Phèdre said in a careful tone.

I didn’t need a warning to know that this was a state affair and not a lovers’ reunion. I could read it in Sidonie’s carriage. Her personal guard was arrayed behind her, clad in their livery of Courcel blue, marked by paler blue stripes. When we drew nearer, I could read it on Sidonie’s face, grave and serious. Like her guards, she was dressed in Courcel blue. It seemed darker against her fair skin. Her hair was upswept and coiled, a slender crown of gold with sapphire points almost lost against its hue. It had been almost a year since we’d last seen one another. She looked less a girl, more a woman.

Our eyes met.

A thing may be true and not true. An affair of state; but a lovers’ reunion, too. I didn’t need to see her smile of profound gladness to know it was there behind her solemnity. And I didn’t need to smile in reply. What was between us was larger and deeper than what lay on the surface. The cord drew taut, the knot was tied. Captain Corcan gave the order to strike the sails. We glided into port. Sailors went to oars, slowing and guiding our progress. Others tossed out lines, expertly caught and tied.

The Cruarch’s flagship had arrived.

I was the first to disembark. It was fitting. I walked slowly down the ramp. My legs should have felt unsteady after a day at sea, but I wasn’t aware of anything but the moment. My Vralian attire was worn and shabby, but I had my sword hanging from my belt, I wore the engraved vambraces Dorelei had given me, and the Cruarch’s torc around my throat. I carried the leather bag containing Berlik’s skull with both hands, holding it before me.

“Welcome, Prince Imriel.” Drustan’s tone was unreadable.

“My lord Cruarch.” I bowed deeply and held it. “My lords and ladies of Alba.” I straightened and proffered the satchel like an offering. “I come bringing vengeance for my wife, Dorelei mab Breidaia.”

Drustan took the leather bag from me. He undid the strings, removed Berlik’s skull, and held it aloft. White bone gleamed under the sun. The jawbone grinned at death’s endless jest, but the empty eye-sockets beneath the broad expanse of brow were filled with sorrowful darkness. A sigh ran through the assembled company.

“Well done,” Drustan said quietly.

I bowed again; to him, to Breidaia and Talorcan, Hyacinthe and Sibeal. To all of Dorelei’s kin, including Alais, who stood with them. And then I turned to Sidonie, and bowed to her as I would have to the Queen of Terre d’Ange.

“Well met, Prince Imriel.” Her voice was calm and steady. When I rose, she lifted her chin to meet my gaze. “On behalf of her majesty Queen Ysandre, I extend the sympathies of Terre d’Ange on the loss of our kinswoman Dorelei mab Breidaia. I extend our gratitude to you and your companions for seeking justice on her behalf.”

Those were the words she spoke.

I love you
.

Those were the words I heard.

I gave Sidonie the kiss of greeting, austere and correct. We could wait. We had learned to wait. It was enough to feel her lips beneath mine, soft and warm. A promise. The blood beat in my veins, a steady pulse of joy. “Thank you, your highness.”

Those were the words I spoke.

I love you
.

Those were the words she heard.

We knew it; we both knew it. I daresay there was no one there who didn’t know it on some level. Albans do not love gossip the way D’Angelines do, but they are not insensible to it, either. Still, we conducted ourselves with absolute propriety.

The others descended the ramp; Urist, leaning on his walking-staff. He got a somber hero’s welcome, shrugging it off uncomfortably. So did Brun and Kinadius, although Kinadius welcomed it more gladly. I didn’t mind; so far as I was concerned, he deserved it. He was young and stouthearted. He might have loved Dorelei as she deserved.

Somehow, Phèdre managed to get Montrève’s household off the ship with unobtrusive grace, mindful that they were peripheral to the occasion. Quiet greetings were exchanged, and even Alais was restrained.

We rode in procession through the city, winding toward the fortress. Drustan presented Berlik’s skull to Talorcan, Dorelei’s nearest male kin. I saw a shadow cross Talorcan’s face as he accepted it. Kinadius was right, there was bitterness there. Still, Talorcan held it aloft as he rode. People from all of the Four Folk of Alba gathered to watch as we passed, murmuring among themselves. Whether it was ritual or spectacle, I could not say. Of a surety, word would go forth this day that one did not offer violence against the kindred of the Cruarch of Alba without paying the ultimate price.

Or, mayhap, that there was nowhere on earth to flee Kushiel’s justice.

I rode beside Sidonie as befit my status as a Prince of the Blood. She was mounted on a white palfrey with a pretty gait. The Bastard kept pace with Sidonie’s mare, matching her step for step. It made me smile inside. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the merest hint of a dimple crease Sidonie’s cheek, and I knew she was thinking the same thing.

Once we were in the fortress proper, the somber tension eased somewhat. In the great hall, Talorcan approached me after speaking to Urist.

“I understand you were the one to kill the bear-witch.” He extended Berlik’s skull. “We ride for Clunderry on the morrow. As her husband and avenger, the honor of burying his head at Dorelei’s feet belongs to you.”

I accepted the skull, the smooth bone cool against my hands. “Thank you, my lord.”

Talorcan nodded stiffly. “And you. I am grateful.”

I watched him turn away. The last time I’d seen him, I’d been bound by Alban charms. I hadn’t been able to read him well. Now I could. He was a steady and thoughtful young man, but he was proud, too, and his failure was eating at him. Until now, nothing in his life had tested his mettle so profoundly. I hoped he would learn to accept it with grace.

Alais came over and hugged me without speaking, wrapping her arms around my waist. I held her hard with one arm, Berlik’s skull awkward in my other hand. After a long moment, she sighed and let me go.

“That’s him?” She eyed the skull.

“It is,” I said.

Alais lifted one hand and touched it. There was a shadow behind her eyes, too; a shadow of a different kind, filled with blood and screaming. She had been there in the hall of Clunderry when Berlik burst into it in bear form, killing Dorelei with one swipe of a massive paw. I hadn’t witnessed it. Alais had. Her beloved dog was buried at Dorelei’s side. I could only imagine her nightmares. “I’m glad he’s dead,” she said. “I knew it. When I had the dream, I knew. We all did. Still, ’tis different, seeing it.”

I touched her black curls. “I know, love.”

Sidonie.

Sidonie surprised me. When was that not true? I watched her approach. She looked different, here; a D’Angeline among Cruithne, only her dark eyes giving any hint of sharing their heritage. She did, though. She took Berlik’s skull from my hand and gazed at it for a long moment without comment. I watched her face. Her lashes swept upward. “Was it hard?” she asked softly.

My throat tightened. “Yes.”

Sidonie nodded. “I thought it would be in the end.”

I swallowed and cleared my throat. “You’re . . . here. Alais’ dream?”

“And my aunts’, too.” She gave Berlik’s skull back to me. “Father sent a messenger dove from the temple, he was that certain of it. Mother and I agreed that one of us should be here to represent the throne of Terre d’Ange.”

“Are matters between you . . . ?” I hesitated.

She shook her head. “ ’Tis a temporary truce in the Battle of Imriel.”

It was so good to hear my name on her tongue, I almost didn’t care what words preceded it; but eventually, they penetrated my wits. I tucked Berlik’s skull under one arm and took her hand in mine. We both bowed our heads, gazing at our entwined fingers. I was near enough to feel the heat rising from her skin. There was a fine gold chain around her neck, and I could see a brighter glint in the depths of her decolletage, nestled between the swell of her breasts. A gold knot; a ring. Her gift, my pledge.

“Clunderry,” I murmured.

Sidonie’s fingers tightened briefly on mine. “After Clunderry.”

I turned away from her to meet Phèdre’s gaze, filled with a complicated mix of affection, rue, and an unexpected thoughtfulness that looked a great deal like respect. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders, and went forth to greet Hyacinthe and the others.

S
EVENTY-ONE

I
T WAS A STRANGE FEELING
, retracing our path to Clunderry. All of us went, save Hyacinthe, who returned to the Stormkeep. It was only three days’ ride, and the days passed swiftly. I remembered my first glimpse of the place so well; the Brithyll River widening to form a weedy lake, the castle, the village, the mill’s sails turning lazily. An idyllic place, a happy place.

I had no memory of leaving it.

Or at least, I had only snatches of memory, fever-ravaged. Pain. A jolting cart, anxious faces. Voices, distant and echoing. The Bastard’s bony head leaning over the cart that carried me, snorting through flared nostrils. Someone cursing him.

Elua.

None of us had been there since it happened; not me, not Urist, not even the Lady Breidaia. It hurt too much. And yet, Clunderry was as it had been. Life went on apace. The folk turned out to greet us, bowing low at the sight of our entourage led by the Cruarch himself. I recognized and remembered them. Trevedic the young reeve; old Cluna, the midwife. Kinada, Kinadius’ mother; his sister, Kerys. They were all there, from Hoel, the lowly cook’s apprentice who’d been crowned on the Day of Misrule, to Murghan, the one-armed steward who had been rumored to share Lady Breidaia’s bed.

And there were others, too. The
ollamh
, Firdha, had come. Leodan of Briclaedh, my cattle-raiding neighbor. My southern neighbor Golven of Sionnachan, who had lent me his beekeeper, Milcis. Others I didn’t recognize; others I did.

Eamonn was there.

Eamonn and his wife Brigitta, representing the Lady of the Dalriada. Her youngest was there, too; the boy Conor. Not a boy, not anymore. A young man with dark, watchful eyes, his harp slung in a case over his shoulder. The blood of the Maghuin Dhonn ran strong in his veins. I wondered how many people knew it.

The only person missing was Dorelei.

I missed her.

It had been a whole other life here in Clunderry, and it had been a good one. I’d been happy, and even if the happiness hadn’t been entirely real, many parts of it had been. I was touched by the number of folk who welcomed me back with sincere gladness and pride.

Alais, of course, they welcomed with delight; there were a great many folk who had grown fond of her. But I was glad to see that they seemed genuinely honored that Queen Ysandre had sent her eldest daughter to attend, reckoning it a fitting tribute. In their eyes, Alais had become a daughter of Alba, and did not represent Terre d’Ange; but Sidonie did.

She did it well, with a quiet dignity beyond her years. The composure that had seemed unnatural—and betimes irritating—in a child suited her as a young woman.

We had arrived well before noon and the better part of the day was taken up in arrangements and preparation. It would be a simple ceremony, but there would be a great feast afterward.

I kept to myself that day, and after our initial arrival, folk left me alone. Even Eamonn was subdued, although he greeted me with a great, crushing embrace.

“I’m so sorry for what happened, Imri,” he said hoarsely. “Dagda Mor! We were all sick at the news. Mother holds herself to blame for allowing you to accept Berlik’s oath.”

I shook my head. “ ’Twas no fault of hers. I made the choice myself. How are matters in Innisclan?”

“Well enough.” Eamonn glanced over at Conor, talking quietly with Alais. “We were grateful to hear that you asked the Cruarch to have mercy on the innocent.”

“You went a-hunting the Old Ones, though,” I said.

“I did.” His face turned grim. “Found a few, too. Conor summoned the harpist. I didn’t think he would come, but he did. Don’t worry, I didn’t kill anyone. But I let it be known that anyone sheltering Berlik would be put to death without any questions asked.”

“No one sheltered him,” I said. “He fled.”

“A long way, I hear,” Eamonn said.

I nodded. “A very long way.”

While the others met and mingled, I went for a walk around Clunderry’s holdings. I would as soon have gone on my own, but Urist caught me slipping out of the castle and refused to allow it. I daresay he was the only companion I could have borne.

We walked slowly together, Urist leaning on his stick. All the fields had been plowed with neat, straight lines. Tender shoots of grain were emerging from the furrows. We passed the threshing barn. I remembered taking part in that backbreaking labor, coming home to Dorelei with dust and chaff clinging to my sweating skin. We strolled through the orchard, which was just past its peak blossoming. A gentle rain of petals fell from the apple trees as we walked beneath them, and the skeps of coiled straw were buzzing with honeybees.

“That would have pleased her,” Urist said.

I smiled. “It would.”

The distant pastures with their low stone fences were dotted with grazing cattle. We crossed the Brithyll on an arched wooden bridge, the heel of Urist’s walking-stick echoing hollowly over the water, then circled around the reedy lake. Several families of ducks followed us curiously, trailing fuzzy ducklings.

I wasn’t sure Elua’s shrine would still be there, but it was, there beneath the arbor I’d helped build. Although nothing was blooming yet, the roses and lavender and columbine I’d transplanted myself had been tended with loving care. The effigy of Blessed Elua stood beneath the arbor, smiling toward the castle, his arms outstretched. I took off my boots to approach, then knelt and gazed at his face. I thought about what a priest of Elua had told me about love many years ago, the first time I kept his vigil on the Longest Night.

You will find it and lose it, again and again. And with each finding and each loss, you will become more than before. What you make of it is yours to choose.

It was true.

“I have chosen, my lord,” I whispered. “Please, no more losses.”

Although there was no answer, the steady throb of my heart was answer enough. I knew where love lay, and I would do my best to hold fast to it. I rose and donned my boots. Urist waited patiently, leaning on his stick. In the west, the sun was beginning to sink, low and golden, shadows stretching long across Clunderry. Behind the mask of his warrior’s markings, there was compassion and understanding.

“Come on, lad.” Urist clapped my shoulder. “Let’s give our lass her due.”

“I’m ready,” I said.

Dusk was a time of day that Dorelei had loved. That wasn’t why it had been chosen, of course; that had somewhat to do with twilight blurring the boundaries between the worlds of the living and the dead. She had, though. The world went soft around the edges; that’s how she’d described it.

We walked in solemn procession, all of us. The
ollamh
Firdha led the way, with Drustan beside her. I followed, carrying Berlik’s skull. The Lady Breidaia was on my right, Talorcan on my left. Behind us came Alais and the Lady Sibeal, and behind them, Sidonie, flanked by Phèdre and Joscelin, my foster-parents. Behind them came everyone else, and I could not begin to guess at the order. There were too many people.

It was the first time I’d visited the burial mound.

It wasn’t large. There were only a few stone markers there. Dorelei’s was the newest, the carvings on it still sharp-edged and clean. There was the Black Boar of the Cullach Gorrym; there, too, was the swan of House Courcel. There were runes written on it that only an
ollamh
could read. Still, it was old enough that the grass had grown over her grave, rendering it invisible. And there along the sloping incline, a deep hole had been dug, smelling of fresh-turned earth. A pile of loose soil lay beside it.

Firdha gave the invocation, calling upon the gods and goddesses of Alba to bear witness. Drustan stepped forward with a libation vessel, pouring
uisghe
on the green grass that grew above Dorelei’s grave. He passed the vessel to his sister, and to his sister’s son, and they made offerings, too.

“Let it be done.” Firdha nodded at me.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward. I’d been given new clothing in Bryn Gorrydum, and I was attired in the old Cruithne style, as I had been at our Alban nuptials. A crimson cloak lay over my shoulders, and my chest was bare save for the golden torc and the scarred furrows of Berlik’s claws. I took the libation vessel and made an offering, and then I knelt on the sloping greensward and placed the skull in the hole that lay beneath Dorelei’s feet, dug deep into the hillside. Berlik’s skull gazed out at me. I scooped up a double handful of soil and let it trickle over naked bone.

“Be at peace, Dorelei my love,” I murmured. “Be at peace, my son.”

Somewhere in the distance, a harp sounded.

A ripple of disturbance ran through those assembled. I got to my feet, gazing at them. Conor mac Grainne’s head was cocked and listening, but his harp-case lay untouched over his shoulder. It wasn’t Conor who was playing. It was farther away, wilder, filled with aching sorrow and regret.

Talorcan stirred, glowering.

“No!”
The word emerged from my lips unbidden. “All of Alba grieves,” I said more gently. “Let it be so this evening.”

In the pause that followed, Sidonie’s calm voice rose to fill the void. “Terre d’Ange grieves with Alba,” she said. “Let it be so.”

The harp echoed, wild.

Everyone looked at Drustan. The Cruarch cast his gaze heavenward, then lowered it. He looked at me. I looked back unwavering. “All of Alba grieves this evening,” Drustan said quietly. “Conor mac Grainne, will you give voice to this grief, as you gave voice to joy on the eve of the nuptials betwixt Imriel de la Courcel and Dorelei mab Breidaia?”

He knew, I thought.

Conor flushed. “I will, my lord.”

He unslung his harp-case and played for us; a sad, simple dirge. Or at least so it began. The longer Conor played, the more I heard in his playing. He played with eyes closed, his cheekbones bright with color. There was the tune he’d played for Drustan before, the twining harmonies evoking the death of his youngest sister, Moiread. There was the tune Ferghus had played for us, the song of the Maghuin Dhonn’s last sacrifice. And there, too, slow and unrecognizable, was the Siovalese children’s tune about the little brown goat.

The distant harp echoed it all.

It was strange, haunting and beautiful. I do not think there was any magic in it, save the magic of the harpists’ skill. The harps called to one another, echoing over the woods and fields. One by one, the guests came forward to take part in the ritual.

I watched Sidonie make her offering, tipping the libation vessel. She stood for a moment, head bowed. I could see the burden of our shared guilt and sorrow weighing on her. But she gathered herself, stooping with deft grace to grasp a handful of soil and sprinkle it over Berlik’s skull.

Bit by bit, the hole filled. The shadows deepened and the distant harp fell silent. Conor’s fingers stilled on his harp-strings. Drustan nodded to him. He came forward to place the last handful of earth on Berlik’s grave. The master gardener pressed and smoothed the earth, then set a piece of green sod, carefully preserved, over the place, tamping and watering it.

It was done.

Torches were lit. I let the procession turn and pass me by, lingering. Drustan gave me a curious look, but said nothing. I watched them wind toward the castle, then turned back toward the burial mound.

“Be at peace, Berlik,” I said quietly. “Watch over them for me.”

The lines of the burial mound were blurred by the deepening twilight. The world had grown soft around the edges. I stood there, breathing the moist spring air, listening to the ordinary sounds of night in the countryside emerge; the last tentative chorus of birdsong, the chirping of crickets, the occasional cattle lowing in the pasture. I remembered the way Dorelei’s laughter had sounded, ringing across the land she had loved.

I stooped and touched the earth of Clunderry a final time.

“Good-bye,” I whispered.