Kushiel's Justice (17 page)

“I understand,” I said steadily, although it gave me a little shiver.

Raphael Murain sighed. “Come with me.” He escorted me to the far side of the garden and unlocked a door onto a small bedchamber with shuttered windows, prettily appointed and bedecked with flowers. Even the bed was strewn with petals. “As I said, neither the first or the last. Wait here.”

I waited.

Sidonie came.

We didn’t make it to the bed; we didn’t make it beyond the door. The moment it closed, her arms were around my neck, my mouth on hers. Elua, the taste of her! She bit my lower lip, sucked on my tongue. I shoved her against the door, shoving her skirts up. She wrapped her legs around my hips. I clawed at her fine linen underdrawers, tearing them. Only the sound of ripping fabric made me pause.

“We should—”

“No.” Sidonie’s nails dug into the back of my neck. “Please.”

Bracing her with one arm, I undid the straining laces of my breeches. I could feel the wet warmth of her sliding against my phallus, heard her gasp at my ear. Enough; Elua, enough! I shifted to grasp her buttocks with both hands, entering her with a thrust so hard and deep, it made the door bounce.

It was hard and fierce and so, so terribly good! The door creaked and rattled as I slammed into her, over and over, feeling her climax with a wordless cry, her thighs suddenly gripping me so tightly I could barely move. It didn’t matter, I was ready. I buried myself in her and spent, the release so dizzying and intense that for a moment I couldn’t see.

The sparkling darkness receded.

I held her where she was, breathing hard. “Feel better?”

“Yes.” Sidonie smiled. “Carry me to the bed?”

“Can’t.” I shook my head. “Not with my breeches around my ankles.” She laughed, low and enthralling, arms still wound around my neck. The sound made me ache. I released my grip on her buttocks, moving my hands to her waist. Her legs slipped slowly down mine until her feet touched the ground and she stood, her skirts falling into place. “Sun Princess,” I murmured. “You break my heart.”

“Mine, too,” she whispered.

“I know.” I stooped to retrieve my breeches, tying them loosely. “Come here.” I swept her off her feet, scooping her into my arms and carrying her to the bed.

How long it lasted, I couldn’t say. An hour, mayhap, before there was a discreet knock at the door. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. I gazed at Sidonie, naked and disheveled, bruised geranium petals stuck to her damp skin, and heaved a sigh from the depths of my heart.

“I have to go.” She climbed out of bed and began pulling on her clothing. “Will you write to me?”

“Yes.” I plucked a crimson petal from her collarbone. “Will you?”

“Yes.” Sidonie swallowed. “And in a year . . . ?”

I nodded. “We’ll see.”

She took my right hand and held it to her cheek. Planted a kiss in my palm, then folded my fingers and kissed the gold knot of a ring; soft and lingering, her breath warm against my knuckles. There were tears in her eyes. “Think of me?”

“Always,” I said.

There was another knock at the door, more insistent. Sidonie swept her hair into a coil. I helped her pin it in place, adjusted the stays of her bodice. I tugged on my breeches and kissed her one last time before she went to open the door.

And then she left.

Sunlight flooded the little bedchamber. I sat on the edge of the bed, its covers tossed and tangled, turning the gold ring on my finger. I thought about what Elua’s priest had said to me about love when I was fourteen years old, spending the Longest Night maintaining Blessed Elua’s vigil with Joscelin, filled with a mixture of bitterness and hope and hero-worship.

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.

He hadn’t told me how much it would hurt.

I wished he had.

S
EVENTEEN

O
N THE MORROW
, we departed for Alba.

It seemed like half the City turned out to see us off. Everyone loves a gala procession. Of a surety, we were that. The Cruithne guards rode bare-chested, displaying their woad warrior’s markings. The D’Angeline guards were resplendent in Courcel blue uniforms. The carriage-horses and wagon-mules had been caparisoned with silver head-plumes that bobbed with every step. No one was riding in the carriages, not on such a bright, fine day. Eamonn was grinning, the sunlight glinting on his red-gold hair, Brigitta beside him. Phèdre and Joscelin were there, the Queen’s Champion and the realm’s most famous courtesan.

And me; a Prince of the Blood, now a Prince of Alba. Riding alongside my wife. Somewhere in the multitude of trunks stowed aboard the wagons there was a truly disreputable shirt in gaudy Tsingano colors and a small leather volume of love letters.

I felt numb.

At the head of our procession rode the royal family, doing us the honor of escorting us to the gate of the City. Ysandre was merry, Drustan pleased. Alais wore a downcast expression. I couldn’t bear to look at Sidonie. All I knew was that she sat very straight in the saddle, upright and unwavering.

We filed through the gate. Ysandre made a pretty speech about the Dalriada, and Drustan added a few words. The crowd cheered. A throng of well-wishers flooded through to bid us farewell, including most of Montrève’s household. Eugènie and Clory embraced me and wept. Hugues gave me his wooden flute as a keepsake, insisting over my protests. Ti-Philippe listened, nodding, to last-minute instructions from Phèdre. Joscelin watched with amusement, his strong hands resting idle on the pommel of his saddle.

And then it was over.

Heralds atop the walls blew a fanfare on long trumpets. The Cruithne commander Urist raised a battle-horn to his lips and blew a long note in reply. The crowd cheered again. The Bastard pranced under me, reckoning the attention was all for him. Dorelei’s eyes were bright, her gaze fixed on the western horizon. The Queen raised one hand in salute.

Urist blew another long blast, and our company began to move.

We were bound for Alba.

I clenched my right hand into a fist, feeling the ring’s bite. Knowing Sidonie was somewhere behind me, watching. If she could be strong, I could, too. I squared my shoulders as I rode away from her, feeling her dwindling presence tug at me like a sea-anchor. I wanted to turn the Bastard and ride back, I wanted to take her in my arms and kiss her in front of the Queen, the Cruarch, and the watching City, and let the consequences be damned.

But I didn’t.

The first day was the hardest, and all the harder because everyone around me was glad-hearted. ’Tis a lonely business, being miserable when happiness abounds. I did my best to hide it, although the people who knew me well, knew. To my surprise, one of them was Dorelei.

She was the only one who spoke of it. We’d made the village of Hercule in L’Agnace by nightfall. Accommodations had been arranged for the peers among us at a local inn, along with a handful of soldiers. The rest made camp in a field on the outskirts of the village. Dorelei and I shared a private room, as did Phèdre and Joscelin, Eamonn and Brigitta.

Our room had a battered bronze mirror. Dorelei sat on a low stool before it, brushing her long black hair, watching me in the mirror. I sat cross-legged on the bed atop the thin counterpane, toying with Hugues’ flute.

“Can you play it?” she asked, curious.

I lifted it to my lips and blew a few notes, soft and low, my fingertips dancing over the wooden holes.

“Oh!” Dorelei’s face kindled. “How nice!”

I lowered the flute. “I played the shepherd’s pipe when I was a boy.”

Her reflected features turned grave. “You don’t speak of it often.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Not often.”

“I’d listen, you know.” Dorelei hesitated. “Do you . . . do you miss her, Imriel? Was it hard to leave her?” She hesitated again. “It is a
her
, is it not?”

“Would it matter?” I asked, my voice stony. She flinched, and I sighed. “Oh, Dorelei! I’m sorry. Yes, and yes. You did beseech me for honesty. I miss her, and it was hard.” I patted the bed beside me. “Come here, I’ll play for you.” I didn’t play well, but I could still carry a tune. I played a simple, lilting melody from my childhood, one of the songs all the children at the Sanctuary knew by heart.

Dorelei sat quietly, listening. “ ’Tis a pretty tune,” she said when I finished. “Are there words to it?”

“Oh, yes.” I played the first measure, then sang for her.
“Little goat, brown goat, with the crooked horn. Little goat, bad goat, eating all the corn. If you don’t come away with me, I’ll lock you in the paddock. Cook will come and chop you up, and stew you like a haddock.”

She laughed with delighted surprise. “That’s terrible!”

I smiled. “I know. You shouldn’t have asked.”

“Will you play it again?” Dorelei asked. I obliged, and she sang the chorus. She had a sweet voice, clear and true. I taught her the rest of the words and played it through. We were both laughing by the time it was over.

“Thank you,” I said to her. “That was fun.”

“ ’Twas your doing.” She ducked her head with a shy smile and took my right hand in hers. Her slender fingers toyed, unthinking, with the gold knot of Sidonie’s ring. It was more than I could bear, and I pulled my hand away gently. “I’m sorry.” Dorelei glanced up at me, her wide eyes filled with sorrow and a sympathy I didn’t deserve. “Will it be better in Alba, do you think?”

“I do,” I said. “Truly.”

She kissed my cheek. “I hope so.”

After that night, I made a determined effort to master my mood. I sought to live from moment to moment, enjoying the camaraderie of the friends and loved ones who surrounded me, taking pleasure from Eamonn’s gladness at going home after his long travail, from Phèdre and Joscelin’s delight at embarking on adventure, albeit a small one. From Dorelei’s happiness at returning to Alba, from the fierce earnestness with which Brigitta applied herself to her study of Alban languages.

All of us tried to help in her endeavor. We sang a great deal as we rode. With Eamonn’s aid, Phèdre translated a handful of Skaldic hearth-songs into Eiran, and we sang those over and over. I began learning to play them on Hugues’ flute, which had proved to be a far better gift than I’d reckoned. Betimes I played the song about the little brown goat to make Dorelei smile, and we made up Eiran verses for that, too. Betimes, when everyone was tired of singing, I played simple, wandering melodies of my own invention.

There is healing in music; or so they say in Eisande, which is famous for its chirurgeons, its musicians, and its storytellers. I found it to be true. I poured my grief into the mouthpiece of the wooden flute and turned it into music, refused to let myself dwell on it.

Refused to allow myself to think about Sidonie.

Betimes, my concentration would lapse and my thoughts would drift toward her. The memories that broke through the barriers I’d erected against them were vivid and shocking in their intensity. Love is an irrational force, urgent and animal. Betimes—ofttimes, to be honest—it was memories of lovemaking that pierced me. That, at least, I could understand. It was an endless source of wonder to me that Sidonie managed to effortlessly combine uninhibited ardor, tenderness, and willing depravity.

She was so young, and so sure in her desires.

Elua, I loved that about her.

But it was the other memories that hurt the worst. All the little intimate moments, so damnably precious and few. The way she’d wrinkled her nose at me, so like Alais; and yet so not. The upraised sweep of her arms as she coiled her hair, quick and deft. The way she carried herself in public, stalwart as a soldier and twice as proud. The tears in her eyes when we parted for the last time.

It hurt.

It hurt a lot.

Again and again, I pushed my memories away. There were days when it was easy and days when it was hard. My love for Sidonie was a boulder in my heart. I sought to let go of it and let it sink. Let it sink below the surface, carrying my heart with it. Let it come to rest on the stream’s bottom, a vast hidden bulwark, dividing the current. Let it stay there, hidden and unseen. Forgotten.

Betimes it worked.

Betimes it didn’t.

It was the best I could do.

The Cruarch’s flagship was awaiting us in Pointe des Soeurs, along with a pair of lesser vessels to carry our entourage. I hadn’t seen it since I was ten—no, eleven—years old. The sight of it filled me with remembered awe. I watched it bob gently in the harbor, the crimson sails lashed, wondering if it was the selfsame ship I’d known as a child. If it was, I’d stood aboard its wooden decks and watched as Phèdre floundered to her feet atop the waters, and spoke aloud the unspeakable Name of God to banish the vengeful angel Rahab.

“Elua!” Phèdre gazed at it. “It’s been so long.”

“Not so long.” Joscelin leaned over in the saddle to capture her hand, lifting it to his lips for a kiss. His summer-blue eyes danced. “Never
that
long, my love.”

I caught Dorelei watching them, a shadow of sorrow in her eyes. She hid it when she noticed me looking, giving me a quick smile.

And then we were at sea, the shores of Terre d’Ange falling away behind us. There were only water and wind, bearing us afloat, bellying our crimson sails as they were unfurled. Wind, caressing our cheeks; wind, ruffling the waters. We crossed the Straits and headed northward up the coast. Our journey was uneventful. How not? The Master of the Straits controlled the winds and the waters.

The waves danced for us, shaping themselves into patterns. Spelling out a message in an alphabet none of us could understand, save one. Phèdre watched the water and smiled to herself, while a green-hued Joscelin avoided looking at the water altogether. Somewhere, Hyacinthe was watching in his sea-mirror.

A day later, we made landfall at Bryn Gorrydum. The city wasn’t where Dorelei and I would ultimately forge our lives together—once we were wed, we were to be ensconced in Clunderry Castle, which lay inland—but it was the Cruarch’s seat of rule. Bryn Gorrydum was a harbor city, built where the Fayn River spilled into the sea. A sturdy grey fortress flying the Black Boar from its turrets perched above the harbor, surrounded by the sprawl of a thriving city. The innermost center looked to be old Tiberian stonework, but the outer rings gave evidence of a D’Angeline influence.

Phèdre and Joscelin marveled at it. “It’s grown,” she murmured. “I hadn’t expected it to have grown so much.”

“Oh, aye.” The Cruithne commander Urist sauntered up to the railing and spat over the edge. “Lots of things have grown. You should see Lug’s Town.”

“Bryn Gorrydum’s grown since
I
left.” Eamonn sounded wistful. I remembered him gaping at the tall buildings in the City of Elua. “I hope Innisclan hasn’t changed.”

It felt strange to set foot on Alban soil for the first time. I was a D’Angeline Prince of the Blood, descended from two of the oldest Houses of the realm, Kushiel’s scion and Elua’s. I felt, suddenly and keenly, that I didn’t belong here. It seemed as though the earth itself roiled underfoot in agreement, although I daresay it was only the effects of the sea voyage.

At least I hoped it was.

Compared to others I’d seen—Marsilikos, Ostia, the great harbor at Iskandria—Bryn Gorrydum’s harbor was small and sleepy. But there were ships flying D’Angeline and Aragonian flags, a few round-bellied merchant-ships from the Flatlands, even a Skaldic dragon-ship that made Brigitta clap her hands with glee. Twenty years ago—mayhap even ten—few of them would have been here.

Prince Talorcan had sent a delegation to meet us. As we ascended through the city toward the fortress, I tried to gauge the mood of the populace. If they were hostile, it didn’t show; but neither did they receive us with great joy. The dark-eyed Cruithne glanced sidelong at us, while other folk stared outright with impolite curiosity. Overall, the mood felt wary and watchful.

Of a surety, I didn’t feel I was entirely welcome here.

In the City of Elua, I thought, there would have been cheers. Even if the commonfolk cared for naught but the spectacle and the nobility immediately turned to plotting ways to dispose of the foreign prince, there would have been cheers. Well, and so. Mayhap it would change. Mayhap there would be cheers when Dorelei and I wed in the Alban tradition. It didn’t matter—I had no heart for cheers, anyway—but it served to remind me I was once more far from home.

At the fortress, Prince Talorcan received us graciously. He was a serious young man, the Cruarch’s heir; Drustan cast in a youthful mold, only without the quiet, intense air of command that made people fall silent and listen when he spoke.

Dorelei wept for gladness to see him and Talorcan smiled, folding her in a warm embrace. “Why weeping, my heart?” he asked in an older brother’s tone of teasing affection. “Surely your marriage has not treated you so ill?”

“No.” She smiled at him through her tears. “No, of course not.”

“That’s good.” Talorcan leveled a glance at me. “I know this is a marriage of state. But it is my hope that your husband will prove worthy of you, my sister. As I in turn will seek to be a worthy husband to Alais.”

I bowed. “I am trying, your highness.”

True and not true.

I hadn’t been unkind, not since that first day of our journey. And I hadn’t laid an ungentle hand on her since the night we talked, the night Mavros arranged for the Showing at Valerian House. Even in the throes of lovemaking, I’d been tender and considerate. I’d made her laugh playing the flute and singing silly songs, I’d listened to tales of her childhood. I’d even told her some of my own; innocuous tales of life at the Sanctuary of Elua.

I’d discovered that we liked one another, Dorelei and I. But I was fearful of giving free rein to my emotions. Fearful that all those emotions and longings I suppressed would spill forth, rendering me bitter and cruel.

Still, in my own way, I was trying.