Kushiel's Scion (116 page)
Chapter Sixty-Five
It was a swift and uneventful journey.
We rode hard, pushing the horses and the tireless mules, pausing only long enough to catch a few hours of sleep at night in makeshift camps. Quentin LeClerc apologized for the hardship. Eamonn and I laughed. Although we'd been sleeping softer in Lucca, we'd been living harder. We were used to going short of sleep.
At night, we talked about the battle. I found out he'd lagged behind when Valpetra's men charged us, trying to safeguard his "hares" flight.
"I got caught," he said ruefully. "Too slow." He'd seen me trying to reach him, there at the end. He laughed at the memory of it in a way that only Eamonn could. "Twirling around like a high-priced whore on an acrobat's stage," he said, grinning. "Gallus Tadius would have whalloped you a good one."
I rubbed my fading bruises. "I know."
We talked about Canis and my mother, though not much. Eamonn wanted to speculate; I didn't. The nearer we drew to Tiberium, the more I felt the shadow of the Unseen Guild hanging over me. I didn't want it to touch him. Being Eamonn, he didn't press.
We spoke of Lucius and the tremendous reserve of courage he'd found within himself to carry through with his charade of Gallus' plan, adapting it as circumstance dictated.
"He was good," Eamonn marveled. "So good! I tell you, if I ever have to fight again, I hope it's under someone half as good. If he hadn't sent for you that night, I'd never known aught was amiss." He eyed me curiously. "What did you say to him, anyway?"
"Not much." I smiled. "But I got him to sleep."
Eamonn snorted. Being D'Angeline, I let him wonder.
We spoke of friendship and loyalty. I'd come to understand a good deal more about friendship during my time in Tiberium; and Lucca, too. It required a standard of honesty and openness I'd shunned in my dealings with everyone but Eamonn. I was resolved to do better to meet it, henceforth; and to demand it in turn, too.
We spoke of the Duke of Valpetra, and the mortal demons of avarice, ambition, and vengeance that may possess men, as destructive as any supernatural force. We spoke, in hushed Eiran, of Bernadette de Trevalion and the devastating madness that lay seeking to wreak retribution for past sins in innocent blood, passing down hatred from generation to generation. And when we had done speaking of the past, we spoke of the future.
"Have you decided what you'll do about it?" Eamonn asked. "Will you accuse her?"
"No," I said slowly. "No, I think not."
"It's a hard thing, choosing to be the one to put an end to a blood feud." He picked up his whetstone. "Worth doing, though. So you'll wed Dorelei mab Breidaia, then?"
"In the late spring." I sat with my arms wrapped around my knees, gazing at the campfire and trying to remember what she looked like. Dark eyes, Cruithne eyes. Sidonie's face surfaced in my memory. I pushed it away. "Will you come?"
"Mayhap." Eamonn ran the whetstone over his sword, head bowed and intent. His coppery hair spilled over the bandage that still bound his wound, glinting in the firelight. "It depends."
"On Brigitta?" I asked.
He nodded. "She may be awaiting me in Tiberium, or she may already be on her way to Skaldia. I don't know. But I will find her. And if I can come, I will."
I lay back on my bedroll, folding my arms beneath my head. "How did you come to conceive this great love?"
In truth, there wasn't much to tell; or at least little I didn't know. He'd known her for months before I arrived in Tiberium and hadn't bothered to court her. It had begun as a whim, spun out of idle intrigue after the day when they'd argued over Waldemar Selig in one of Master Piero's classes. But once it had begun, he found himself well and truly hooked. He began each day yearning to see her, ended each day hating to part from her. While I had been immersed in my affair with Claudia, keeping my secrets, they had spent endless hours together.
"We're a lot alike," he said.
I thought about Brigitta's scowl and ill-temper. "You're nothing alike, Eamonn."
He shot me an unreadable glance. "You don't know her, Imri. Not really."
"So tell me," I said.
The litany of Brigitta's praises was a lengthy one. He loved her fearlessness, her fierce pride, her determined independence. He saw through all the prickly defenses in which she cloaked her true nature, which shone forth to his eyes like a bright flame. She made him want to be a better man. Together, the two of them formed a greater whole.
I listened to his endless litany, to the rapt tone of his voice. And I listened to the hidden meaning, too. There were sides to Eamonn I didn't know; the secret self that lay beneath his cheerful exterior. Although we were as close as brothers and I had risked my life to save his, Brigitta had touched him in a way I never could. It lay beyond friendship.
I wondered what it was like.
Watching the stars, I tried to imagine it. What would it be like to love a woman so? I knew what it was to want. I'd wanted Claudia so badly it was like a fever under my skin. And there were other desires, too; deeper and darker than sheer carnal yearning. I had not forgotten Valerian House. I had known tenderness, too; the healing gift of Emmeline of Balm House. I had even yearned to share it with Helena Correggio. And I knew the compulsive allure of infatuation, ill-conceived and dangerous, complete with attendant jealousy, in the form of my cool and haughty royal cousin, Sidonie.
But love…
There was Alais, of course. The thought of her made me smile. She was the one person in my life I loved with a pure and uncomplicated simplicity. Even during her irritable adolescence, her spirit brought me joy. But that was different. There was no desire there, no hidden undercurrent.
I couldn't imagine all of those things combined into one woman.
And if they could be, it wasn't Dorelei mab Breidaia.
Well and so, I thought. I have made my choice, and I should be content that I'm alive to see it through. And so I listened to Eamonn dream aloud about his love, pushing away my envy and knowing that I would never feel as he did. Perhaps it was just as well. There were women in my life who cast long shadows.
My mother, wrapped in a tissue of myth and lies.
Phèdre.
Better to love a man, mayhap. Half-drowsing, I thought about Lucius' kiss and the unexpected desire it had evoked. I was glad he'd done it. It pitted a spark of brightness against the black tide of horror that was Daršanga. And I had come to love him.
You will find it and lose it, again and again.
Then I thought of Claudia Fulvia in her bedchamber ablaze with candlelight, kneeling on the bed and gazing at me over her shoulder, her heavy breasts swaying. And I knew it wasn't the same. I wanted that. I wanted carnal desire so intense it cleaved my tongue to the roof of my mouth, opened a pit beneath my feet. But I wanted aching tenderness and purity, too.
I wanted it all.
The dark mirror and the bright.
Laughing softly at myself, I drifted into sleep with Eamonn's voice still droning musically above me. I slept, and for the first time since the siege, dreamed of somewhat other than blood and war.
On the morrow, we reached Tiberium.
I had first entered the city as Imriel nó Montrève, impoverished gentleman scholar. This time, I entered it as Imriel de la Courcel, Prince of Terre d'Ange. There was no point in trying to hide it. All of Tiberium knew that a company had been dispatched to Lucca at the behest of the D'Angeline ambassadress. I'd learned from Quentin LeClerc that the decision had been made with unprecedented speed. The princeps had made his will explicit; the Senate had voted unanimously to endorse it. The consul of the citizen assembly had lodged a protest, and withdrawn it within a day.
So we entered with fanfare, and the people of Tiberium gawked at our company. A few of the bolder ones shouted out for news. One of LeClerc's men—Romuald, who'd warned me about the dam—called back the news of victory in Lucca.
There were cheers then. And the Tiberian citizens stared at Eamonn and me, nudging one another. They gazed with open curiosity at Gilot's casket, carried in the open cart. It was very fine, made of polished walnut and draped with a banner bearing the lily-and-stars insignia of Blessed Elua and his Companions. "Who died?" someone called.
"A hero!" I raised my voice. "A hero of Terre d'Ange." Beside me, Eamonn nodded.
We made our way to the embassy. A crowd followed us, many of them reaching out to touch the hem of Gilot's banner as the cart passed them. Tiberians are very fond of dead heroes, even D'Angeline ones. I clung to the memory of Gilot staring gape-mouthed around him on the quai in Ostia, and blinked back tears. The Bastard pranced and stomped, glaring around him with white-ringed eyes, forcing the onlookers to keep a wary distance.
At the embassy gates, the guards turned them back and we passed into relative quietness. Lady Denise Fleurais was awaiting us in the courtyard. Since it was a formal occasion, she bowed low in greeting. "Your highness," she murmured. "Prince Eamonn. Be welcome." We were made welcome; extravagantly welcome. Although the Lady Denise, with her shrewd diplomat's instinct, took care not to overwhelm us, the sudden immersion in luxury made for a stark contrast with the lives we'd been leading. Every amenity of the embassy was laid at our disposal. Our mounts were whisked away to the stables, Gilot's casket with carried with careful honor into a stateroom where it would reside until returning home.
The palazzo's private baths were cleared for our usage. Barbers and masseurs were sent to attend us in the unctuarium. While we soaked and luxuriated, Lady Denise's couturier measured our discarded clothing and made hurried alterations to near-finished garments intended for other clients. A leather-worker undertook to replace the cracked heels and worn soles of our boots. By the evening, we had been scoured and scrubbed, oiled and rubbed and combed, and in Eamonn's case, shaved. We were clad in clean, unworn attire, the fabric soft against our skin. Our newly resoled boots shone with polishing.
It felt good.
And it felt strange.
I sat down at Denise Fleurais' table in the small salon where we had dined before. The table was draped in white linen so pure it was dazzling in the candlelight. All the accoutrements on the table gleamed with polishing. I rested my fingertips on the edge of the table, feeling the fine weave of the cloth, and gazed quizzically at the backs of my hands. They were clean and familiar again. My hands, well-shaped and sinewy. The knuckles were no longer swollen, and only a few deep nicks remained. The squarish nails had been trimmed and buffed. I'd once heard Phèdre remark in an unguarded moment that I had my mother's hands.
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