Kushiel's Scion (32 page)
After my visit to Balm House, I was at peace with myself for the first time in many months. Word had gotten out, of course, and there were knowing looks to be endured, but I found they did not trouble me.
"Thank you," I said to Phèdre. "You chose rightly."
"Good," she said simply. "I thought so."
I grinned at her. "You weren't sure?"
Phèdre raised her brows. "In matters of love, nothing is certain."
I thanked Joscelin, too, for his role in quelling my would-be abductors. He merely nodded, then asked cautiously, "So you were pleased with your evening?"
"Yes." I hesitated, then asked him. "Joscelin, have you never wondered?"
"About the Night Court?" he said.
I shrugged. "About the Night Court, or anything. Anyone. Others."
"Of course." Joscelin laughed at my startled expression. "Imri, I am human. It's just…" He shook his head, searching for words. "I was a middle son, and my family keeps the old traditions. I grew up knowing I was meant for Cassiel's service. In my father's household, one's word of honor was a sacred bond. When I swore my oath to the Cassiline Brotherhood, I meant it, every part."
"But you broke it," I murmured.
"I fell in love," he said quietly. "Yes. And I will not dishonor my vows for aught less."
"How did you know?" I asked. "When?"
Joscelin frowned. We were cleaning our gear together; oiling the leather straps and polishing metal bits. "It was in Skaldia," he said. "I'm not sure exactly when. Mayhap when Phèdre crawled into the rafters to spy on Selig's plans. Or mayhap it was when she cursed me for giving up hope." Remembering, he smiled slightly. "She threatened to write to the Prefect of the Brotherhood and tell him Blessed Elua was better served by an adept of the Night Court than a Cassiline priest."
"She did?" I asked, half-enthralled and half-horrified.
"Oh, yes." He laughed. "And somewhere in there, I realized that I would willingly lay down my life and die in the service of such glorious, foolish, improbable courage, although it took a good deal longer for me to realize what it meant. Why?" Joscelin asked belatedly, frowning. "Do you fancy yourself in love?"
"No," I said honestly. "I just wondered."
Laying down the tangled straps of his baldric, Joscelin touched the back of my hand. "I'm a poor model for you, I know. I'm sorry, Imri. I can only be what I am. But I am pleased for you, truly."
I hugged him then, hard and fierce. "Thank you," I whispered. "And it's not true. You are the best model there ever was, ever."
"You're welcome," Joscelin said, bemused.
I thought a great deal about love in those days; and a great deal about lovemaking. Over and over again, I relived my night with Emmeline, poring over every detail of it. The awful desire that plagued me was not gone, but it had changed. I knew myself to be capable of giving and receiving pleasure; Naamah's gift in its purest form. The hurdle I'd built in my mind was nowhere near as high or vast as I'd imagined it, and the terrible uncertainty of sheer inexperience was gone. I still had desires I was unready to confront, but I wasn't scared of the act of love itself anymore.
This, too, is sacred.
If nothing else had changed, I might have flung myself into the Game of Courtship. At sixteen, I had reached the age where it began in earnest, and although I could not envision marriage, I could well envision the rituals of courtship and the pairings that accompanied it. But that spring brought another change, borne across the Straits on the Cruarch's flagship.
It brought Eamonn mac Grainne.
I had nearly forgotten Drustan's request, made almost a year ago. When Phèdre made mention of it, I found myself torn between curiosity and annoyance. I wondered what he would be like, this Prince of the Dalriada whose mother had fought like a tigress on the battlefield, all the while carrying him in her womb. At the same time, I dreaded the thought of bringing a stranger into our midst when I was at ease with myself and the world.
Still, it was a matter of honor, and I meant to welcome him with all due courtesy. There would be time to take this Eamonn's measure before he became a part of our household. Our departure for Montrève would be delayed until Admiral Rousse returned from a posting to Illyria some weeks hence, and until that time, Eamonn would be Ysandre's guest at Court.
The Cruarch's reception at the gates of the City was lavish this year. Ysandre meant to demonstrate that Terre d'Ange had not forgotten its debt of gratitude to the Dalriada. Unfortunately, the weather was foul, spitting down a cold rain. Hordes of D'Angelines milled about shivering, festive spring attire plastered to their skin. A squadron of the Royal Army stood at attention, rain dripping from their parade armor. Barquiel L'Envers, commanding them, bore a look of profound distaste, which I found heartening.
Usually, the Alban contingent looked splendid, riding bare-chested beneath their cloaks, displaying their intricate woad tattoos, silver tores flashing at their throats. Today, they were huddled under their cloaks, hoods drawn tight, looking sodden and miserable.
All except two.
One was Drustan mab Necthana, who knew the importance of making a kingly impression. He sat upright in the saddle, hood thrown back, already searching to meet his wife's gaze. And the other…
"That must be Eamonn," Phèdre murmured.
I would have known him at a guess. Among the dark Cruithne, he shone like a torch, half a head taller than the rest of the company. Rain beaded on his bright coppery hair and cascaded from his broad shoulders. He didn't seem to notice, gazing around him with frank delight.
When the herald bawled his name after Drustan's, he flashed a wide grin.
They made their way through the gates and the formal greetings were exchanged. Ysandre made a pretty speech welcoming Eamonn mac Grainne, and then introduced the members of her household.
"Well met, Prince Eamonn," I said to him when it came my turn, leaning over in the saddle and extending my hand.
"Ah, yes!" He clasped my forearm hard; a warrior's grip. His grin broadened, and I found myself returning it. "Well met to you, Prince Imriel!"
I found myself liking him.
I could not help it; there was something infectious about his joy. If I suffered from a lack of it, this Eamonn appeared to have a surfeit of it. And he was utterly heedless of its effect. I watched him greet Duc Barquiel with the same cheerful enthusiasm. It took Barquiel L'Envers aback, and that, too, cheered my heart. His D'Angeline was faulty, uttered with a peculiar lilt; Eamonn could not have cared less. Sidonie regarded him with mild shock, and Alais with alert interest.
When he met Phèdre, he insisted on dismounting, going to one knee and kissing her hand. "Dagda Mod" he exclaimed. "Now I see why the Dalriada went to war."
Phèdre laughed. "It was a long time ago, your highness."
"Ah, no." Climbing to his feet, Eamonn grinned at her. At close range, one could see his resemblance to Quintilius Rousse—the broad, rugged features that were at once homely and handsome. "Surely that must be a bard's lie, lady!"
We rode in procession to the Palace, while the chilled folk lining the streets cheered and attempted to throw rain-soaked flower petals that clung damply to their hands or fell limp on the cobblestones. Eamonn stared around him in open-mouthed wonder. I found myself riding beside him, and he turned to me. "This city… It's so big! All the houses!"
"You don't have cities in Alba and Eire?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Not like this."
Somewhere behind me, I heard the word barbarian muttered. I turned around to meet Barquiel L'Envers' bland expression.
"It was the Tiberians who began it," I said to Eamonn. "You put up a better fight than we did. They were building cities and roads in Terre d'Ange while the Cruithne were driving them back across the Straits."
It was true. It was also true that after the fall of Tiberium and the advent of Blessed Elua, the Master of the Straits had rendered Alba and Eire isolated for eight centuries, while D'Angeline civilization had flourished.
"Oh, we're great fighters, we are!" Eamonn agreed cheerfully. He patted the sword-hilt at his side and gave me a sidelong glance. His eyes were grey-green, and there was a trace of shrewdness in their mirth. "You don't wear a blade. Do you not fancy a good fight?"
I smiled. "It's not customary to carry a sword until one comes of age. But I know how to use one."
"He's the warrior, is he not?" He nodded toward Joscelin, who was riding nearby, ignoring the rain with his usual impervious Cassiline disdain. "The one they speak of."
"He is," I said. Whoever they were, it seemed a fair likelihood.
Eamonn scratched his chin. "Hard to reckon, pretty folk like you," he said in a dubious tone. "Do you think he might give me a bout?"
"He might," I said, adding, "and if he won't, I will."
Eamonn laughed aloud, though there was no malice in it. "Ah, boy! No offense to you, but I'd break you in two."
I sized him up. He had the advantage of height and reach on me—indeed, strapping as he was, he had the advantage of Joscelin—but I was willing to bet he didn't have the speed. "Care to wager?"
"Oh, aye." He grinned lazily. "That's a fine horse you ride."
"Not the horse," I said in alarm.
He laughed. "The crow's bigger than the cock, is it?"
I gritted my teeth, suddenly aware of Barquiel L'Envers' mocking gaze at my back. Eamonn's voice carried; surely he had heard the exchange. "All right, then," I said slowly. "The Bastard… my horse… against your tore."
"This?" Eamonn's eyes narrowed. He fingered the necklace that circled his throat, an intricate gold cable. "It is a sign of who I am. My lady mother set it around my neck with her own hands."
I raised my brows. "You spoke of cocks and crows?"
He paused, then loosed another full-throated laugh. "Dagda Mor! You have ballocks, Prince Imriel." Leaning over, he slapped me on the shoulder with enough force to make me regret my offer. "It is a wager."
So it was settled.
We made our way to the Palace, where Eamonn mac Grainne was installed as a guest to the appalled delight of the Court. It wasn't until afterward that I confessed to Phèdre and Joscelin what I had done.
"You what?" Phèdre was dismayed. "Imri, that's no way to treat a royal guest."
"He wanted to!" I said, defending myself.
"Phèdre." Joscelin was trying not to laugh. "He's a young man. That's what they do."
"Yes, and it's foolish and unnecessary!" she said, adding to me, "And it's a discourtesy, too, wagering that horse in a bet. It was a gift of state from the House of Aragon."
I already felt remorse over letting myself be goaded into risking the Bastard, and her words pricked me. "You're only saying that because of Nicola," I retorted.
Phèdre drew a sharp breath, then let it out in a sigh, throwing up her hands in surrender. "I leave this to your auspices," she said to Joscelin. "Since it is men's business."
He gave her his Cassiline bow, nearly sober-faced. "And I shall handle it accordingly, love." When she had gone, he turned back to me.
"Well?" I asked, still defensive.
"Oh, you're in trouble," Joscelin said, grinning openly. "He's a big lad, and I've seen the Dalriada fight. They're fierce, all right, and handy with a blade. You've come a long way in your training, Imri, but even I've lost on occasion. Remember what I told you about Waldemar Selig?"
"Am I going to lose the Bastard?" The thought made me feel awful.
"Mayhap." His expression softened. "There's nothing wrong with being proud of hard-won skills, Imriel; but it is a mistake to be ruled by pride. It's a hard lesson to learn. Believe me, I know."
"How did you learn it?" I asked in a small voice.
"I had a cursed anguissette inform me that Blessed Elua was better served by a courtesan than a Cassiline Brother," Joscelin said dryly.
"And it was true." He tousled my hair. "Come on, let's spar. You're going to need the practice."
It was my hope that our wager would remain a private thing; one, perhaps, that could be played out at Montrève. It was a vain hope. Eamonn had spoken openly of it at Court; and why not? He had no way of knowing it would be received as a novelty. Outside of martial Camlach and the training-fields of the Cassiline Brotherhood, noble-born D'Angelines seldom dueled with one another for sport.
Certainly not at Court, where grudges were played out by seducing one another's lovers or circulating cutting poems.
So the story got about, and nothing would do but that it be made into the centerpiece of a fete. I daresay Ysandre was no more pleased about it than Phèdre, but she acquiesced to the Court's eagerness for spectacle. And, too, there was a symbolic component to it. I was a Prince of the Blood, the only pure-blooded D'Angeline scion of House Courcel. Like her own daughters, Eamonn mac Grainne was of mixed heritage.
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