Kushiel's Scion (35 page)

Authors: Jacqueline Carey

Tags: #High Fantasy

BOOK: Kushiel's Scion

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"Not Elua." Hugues' face was set in unwontedly stubborn lines. "Never Blessed Elua! And the others, who became somewhat more, did but follow him."

"Out of love," Gilot added. "That is the promise of Elua's precept. Through love, we become greater. We become more."

I said nothing.

Eamonn looked at me and sighed. "Is there not a tavern in this town?"

There was. It was a tavern and inn, called the Golden Fleece. It was one of those names beloved of D'Angelines, referencing alike the wealth of Montrève and an ancient Hellene tale. It was there that we went to quaff a cup of wine, and there that I beheld Eamonn in action.

Let me be clear; it was the innkeeper's daughter who chose him. She perched on his knee, flirting, wrapping her arms around his neck. Eamonn embraced her, seeking refuge in that which was solid and knowable. He jiggled his knee and lowered his head, burrowing his face between her breasts, inhaling deeply of her scent.

"What else?" he asked me, raising his head. "Eh, Imriel? What else matters?"

"All knowledge is worth having," I said; echoing Phèdre, echoing Anafiel Delaunay, echoing Elua's Companion Shemhazai.

"Mayhap," Eamonn said. He smiled at his companion, the innkeeper's daughter. "Pretty Jeannette, I am a stranger in this land. I see that you are as fresh and fair as a lily kissed by dew, and there is laughter in your eyes to gladden a man's heart. And yet there are mysteries here I do not understand. Pray, tell me what knowledge I lack. What does it mean when D'Angelines speak of love?"

She giggled and whispered in his ear.

His smile broadened. "Ah, well! That, I understand."

He called for more wine then. After several cups, my head was spinning. I watched the innkeeper's daughter Jeannette lead Eamonn away. They disappeared to the upstairs of the Golden Fleece, returning some time later with grins on their faces.

"Why him?" I asked Jeannette as we took our leave. Unsteady on my feet, I gestured vaguely in Eamonn's direction. "I mean… I just wonder, that's all."

"Because he is happy." She smiled up at Eamonn, touching his cheek. "It's nice."

He beamed down at her.

"Is that enough?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"For a moment's pleasure, aye." Her gaze rested on me, filled with womanly shrewdness. "Ah, highness! I could dash my heart to pieces against your brooding beauty; and make no mistake, I have thought upon it. I daresay a great many young women do, and there will be many more. Each one will think mayhap she will be the one to pierce your mystery to the core, the one to open your proud, secret heart."

She shook her head. "I am a simple woman, and I will not delude myself. This I can remember, and smile."

"Oh," I said.

"I will always smile at the thought of you," Eamonn promised her cheerfully.

The innkeepers daughter winked at him. "I daresay you will!"

Eamonn whistled all the way back to the manor, periodically breaking into snatches of Eiran song in a resonant, tuneful voice. Whatever unease he had felt at beholding the simulacrum at the Temple of Shemhazai, it had wholly departed.

Blessed Elua, I thought, would have approved.

"Brooding beauty!" Eamonn broke off his singing to laugh aloud. "It is true, is it not?" He eyed me affectionately. "One day, you will have to tell me why."

"I will," I said. "One day."

And I did.

I had spoken to Eamonn of my mother. Somehow, it was easier with him. He knew little of Melisande's treachery; it was not a story that had stirred the Dalriada, having naught to do with them. It made him blessedly objective, and easier for me to accept his sincere, untainted sympathy.

I had not spoken of Daršanga.

He knew, of course. It was common Court gossip that I had been abducted and sold into slavery. What that meant—truly meant—no one knew. None of us had spoken openly of those horrors.

It was in the high lake meadow that I told him, the one I had visited with Roshana and Katherine last summer. It seemed a long time ago. We rode there together, Eamonn and I, scaling the mountains' heights. As I had guessed, he loved it. We tethered our mounts, and he greeted the lake with an exuberant shout, stripping off his clothing and plunging into its translucent depths.

I followed suit.

It was cold; so cold! We trod water and splashed one another; laughing as our teeth chattered and our lips turned blue. And when we could stand it no more, we hauled ourselves onto the slate lip and sprawled there, basking in the warmth of the sun-drenched stone.

"What is that!" Eamonn asked, pointing at the pale scar on my left buttock. "Dagda Mor! It looks like a cattle-mark."

In the warm sun, I shivered. "It is. Or something like it."

"This is the thing you do not speak of, is it not?" Eamonn grew quiet, watching me with his grey-green eyes, damp hair plastered over his brow. "We are like brothers, you and I. I will never betray your trust. If you can bear to say it, I can bear to hear it, Imriel."

And so I did.

Taking my courage in both hands, I told him about Daršanga. Not all of it; not the worst, in some ways. Only Phèdre knows that, and it is her secret to keep. But I told him about Jagun of the Kereyit Tartars, who set his brand on me. I told him of the ka-Magi, who kept death on a leash like a hound. And I told him about their anointed ruler the Mahrkagir in all his awful madness, and what it was like before Phèdre came.

I told her, long ago. I had never told anyone else.

"He wanted to break me," I said to Eamonn. "Not all at once." I gave him a bitter smile. "I was lucky, if you can believe it, at least compared to the others. He was saving me for something special, or at least he was until Phèdre came. I wouldn't have lasted as long as I did if he hadn't. But he did… things."

"The Mahrkagir?" he asked softly.

I nodded. We were sitting face-to-face, now, both of us cross-legged on the sun-warmed slate. It had been hours in the telling. The lake-dampened attire we had donned had long since dried. In that bucolic setting, it seemed impossible to envision. I hugged my knees, hunching over them. "Yes," I whispered. "He did things."

Eamonn gazed steadily at me. "Do you want to tell me?"

"No. I don't know." I stared over his shoulder at the lowering sun. "One time…" I began, and then halted, shuddering. "Oh, Eamonn! It's vile."

"No." He touched my arm. "It may be. You are not, Imriel."

I nodded, shoving away unbidden tears with the heel of one hand. "One time," I said roughly, "there were two of us. Before Phèdre came. There was a woman, one of the Chowati, named Lilka, who was kind to me." I heard a ragged laugh escape me. "Ah, Elua!"

"What happened?" Eamonn leaned forward.

I gritted my teeth. "Duzhmata, duzhûshta, duzhvarshta," I intoned. "Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds. That was his Three-Fold Path. He marked her for death in his chambers, and offered me a bargain to spare her life, if I was willing."

"Were you?" Eamonn asked.

"Of course!" My pride stung, I flared at the words. "I tried." I scrubbed at the sockets of my eyes. "I tried," I said softly. "I did. He bade me to kneel, and open my mouth. And then he pissed into it." Eamonn made a sound; I smiled dourly. "That was the Mahrkagir's price," I said. "If I could swallow his piss without gagging, he would spare Lilka."

He flinched. "Did you?"

"No," I murmured. "I tried. I truly tried. But it was hot and it stank and oh, Elua! There was so much of it, and I was so scared. I swallowed what I could, and choked on the rest."

"I'm sorry," Eamonn whispered, looking sick. "So sorry. Dagda Mor, Imri! Did he… ?"

"He took her from behind," I said. "While I knelt there in a puddle of piss and bile and watched it. That was my penalty for failure." I turned my head to gaze at the lake, watching a breeze ruffle the water's surface. "He didn't use his iron rod, since it was already an act that would end in death. I didn't tell you about that. It was part of it, you know; sowing death in place of life. But he held a dagger to Lilka's throat the whole time, a filthy, old, rusty dagger. She kept her eyes closed," I added. "To spare me from seeing the look in them, I think; or mayhap from seeing the look in mine. I was grateful for that. Especially at the end."

Remembering, I fell silent. Eamonn said nothing, waiting.

"He spent himself in her," I said without looking at him, "and he pulled her head back by the hair and slit her throat. Her blood…" I paused, swallowing hard. "It was like a fountain, Eamonn. I was drenched in it."

With an effort, I made myself meet his eyes, fearful of the shock and disgust I might see in them. Instead, there was only shared grief and steadfast compassion.

"Ah, Imriel!" Eamonn grasped my right hand, clutching it hard. "I almost wish he were not dead, this Mahrkagir," he said fiercely. "So I could swear a blood-oath to avenge you!" He paused. "He is dead, is he not?"

I nodded. "Phèdre killed him."

"Phèdre?" His eyes widened. "Our Phèdre?"

It made me smile, a little. "She did. With a hairpin."

"Mother Mebh have mercy!" Eamonn's mouth hung open; he shut it with a click. "By all the cows in Connacht, Imriel, I cannot believe you lived through this." He shook his head. "All of you. But you… how old were you?"

"Ten," I said. "I was ten years old when they took me."

Tears shone in his grey-green eyes. "Ah, you poor lad!" He squeezed my hand. "People don't know, do they? Those poncey Court friends of yours?"

"What I told you?" I said. "No. No one. Only Phèdre."

Eamonn released my hand and made a fist, pressing it to his breast. "What you have told me, I will keep close to my heart," he said soberly. "Your secrets are mine, Imriel. Only know that I honor them, as I honor your courage."

"My thanks." I knuckled away a fresh onslaught of tears, sniffled, and laughed. "I did precious little to deserve it, other than survive. Ah, Elua! Well, if I am betimes brooding, now you know the reason why."

"I do," he said simply. "And it is enough that you survived. It is more than enough."

"There are other stories, other times," I cautioned him. "Some of them… are worse."

Eamonn squared his shoulders and nodded. "Do you wish to speak of them?"

"No. One was enough." It was true. And yet, strangely, I felt lighter and happier. Having shared the burden of my memories, it had grown easier to bear. The adepts of Balm House were right; there was healing to be found in trusting others. I got to my feet. "Come on," I said. "Richeline will be waiting supper on us."

That night, my sleep was dreamless and peaceful.

I wished it might always be so.

Chapter Twenty