Kushiel's Justice (28 page)

The ceremony began with a lengthy invocation of Alba’s deities, great and small, belonging to all the Four Folk; gods and goddesses of the moon and sun; of fire and healing, smithcraft and cattle; horses, wells, springs and rivers; of battle and poetry; of wild things, growing things, of abundance and plenty. On and on the list went—Lug, Saolas, Nerthus, Macha, Brigid, Aengus, Bel, Manannan, Hengest, Danu, Crom, Aine, Cailleach . . .

I knew the names, or most of them. Religion in Alba was at once complex and simple, a mixture of deities, ancestors, and earth spirits. There were no temples, only sacred places. Of those, there were thousands. I had to own, though I understood the lore, I didn’t yet grasp the faith in my flesh and bones. But mayhap it would come in time. For our child’s sake, I would try.

After the deities, the
ollamhs
invoked the blessing of the
diadh-anams
, the guiding spirits of the Four Folk; the Black Boar, the Red Bull, the Golden Stag, and the White Horse. The sun was hot overhead, and I felt sweat trickle along my brow. It was the only thing, I thought, that these two wedding ceremonies had in common.

It seemed like a very long time ago that I’d stood beside Dorelei in the Palace gardens, sweltering and heartsick in my high-collared doublet.

When the
ollamhs
had done with their invocations, they beckoned. Dorelei and I came forward and presented ourselves to them, bowing deeply. “Dorelei mab Breidaia, Imriel de la Courcel. Shall you plight your troth to one another?” Firdha asked.

“Daughter of the Grove, for a year and a day, we shall,” Dorelei answered firmly. There was a little murmur among the onlookers at her words, not necessarily disapproving. We had discussed this at length, she and I. Albans practiced two forms of marriage; one binding, one less so. If, after a year and a day, we chose to part, the matter would be ended, at least as far as Alba was concerned.

Firdha nodded. “So be it. Join your hands.”

We faced one another. I crossed my wrists, clasping Dorelei’s hands in mine. We stood and smiled at one another as first Firdha, then Colum, twined our wrists together with red yarn, adding to the layers that already bound mine, invoking another lengthy series of blessings for health, happiness, and fertility.

The
ollamh
Colum tapped my shoulder with his golden oak branch. “Speak your vows.”

“By stone and sea and sky, and all that they encompass, for a year and a day, I pledge myself to you, and you alone,” I said softly.

Dorelei’s hands tightened on mine, slippery with sweat. Her dark eyes were raised to meet my gaze. The first time we’d wed, I’d been the one felt the sting of sacrifice.

This time, it was she.

For so long as our lives were bound together, for so long as I was bound by Aodhan’s charms, her dreams would be silent. What that meant to Dorelei, I couldn’t even begin to imagine. I was humbled by it. “By stone and sea and sky, and all that they encompass . . .” Her throat moved as she swallowed. “I pledge myself to you, and you alone.”

There were cheers then, surprisingly hearty. The
ollamhs
invoked a final blessing, and then Dorelei and I walked around the circle together, side by side, our wrists still conjoined. When we reached Drustan, we found the Cruarch smiling.

“Rejoice, daughter of my sister,” he said to Dorelei; and to me, placing a thick gold torc around my nearly bare neck, “Be welcome, Prince of Alba.”

More cheers.

I felt humbled by them and bowed my head. “I will try to be worthy, my lord.”

Drustan’s eyes glinted. “I know.”

When we had completed the circle, we returned to the center. The
ollamhs
unbound our wrists and presented us with the lengths of red yarn; Firdha’s to Dorelei, Colum’s to me. They were luck-charms now, meant to be saved for the birth of our first child. With these threads, we would tie off the birth-cord that bound mother to babe, preparing it to be severed.

“Ward them well,” Firdha said.

Dorelei and I glanced at one another. “We will,” I promised.

So we were wed a second time, and the second was better than the first; far better. As I glanced around the circle of folk who surrounded us, I saw only love and good wishes. No one had wept at our D’Angeline nuptials, but now I saw Phèdre’s eyes bright with tears; and many others, too. Alais was weeping openly, as was Dorelei’s mother, Breidaia. Eamonn and Brigitta had clasped hands, gazing at one another and remembering their own nuptials in besieged Lucca. Even Joscelin’s stoic look appeared a bit put-on, and I caught sight of the Master of the Straits grinning at him.

“What happens now?” I whispered to Dorelei.

She smiled, dimpled. “More eating and drinking. What else?”

There was a special horse-litter waiting to carry us back to the fortress for the third and final day of celebration. It was a open affair with a low railing, draped with fine-combed red wool and strewn with cushions, slung fore and aft between a pair of perfectly matched white horses; a gift, I learned later, from the Lady of the Dalriada.

Once our procession was under way, many of the watching commonfolk approached to touch the hanging drapery and partake in the blessings the
ollamhs
had invoked for us. Despite the lead rider’s best efforts to set a slow, even pace, the litter lurched and swayed somewhat fierce. Dorelei and I laughed breathlessly and clutched at one another, fearful of being pitched overboard.

Some distance from the edge of the park, it stopped.

I didn’t know why, not at first. I only knew a tense hush fell over the procession. The commonfolk around us vanished, melting away unobtrusively.

And then I saw the Maghuin Dhonn.

Berlik in his bearskin robe, I knew; and Morwen and Ferghus. There were a score of others with them, men and women alike. Aside from Berlik and Morwen with their mist-colored eyes, they were all as dark as the Cruithne, only marked with a strange, wild air and a different angle to the planes of their faces. They stood quiet and motionless in their roughspun clothes, watching and waiting. None of them appeared armed, although Ferghus had his harp over his shoulder. I didn’t see the leather bag around Morwen’s neck, and guessed it was hidden away once more.

Drustan rode forward, his face impassive. “You are not welcome here.”

“It is
taisgaidh
land, Cruarch.” Berlik’s voice was as I remembered, like something emerging from the deep, hollow places of the earth. “Will you profane the old ways?”

Drustan ignored the question. “What do you want?”

Berlik’s pale, somber gaze rested on Dorelei and me. I felt her shiver violently at my side. “Not all of the
diadh-anams
of Alba have been invoked this day. We come to offer the blessing of the Maghuin Dhonn upon this union. Do you refuse it?”

I was silent, not knowing how to answer.

“We do.” Dorelei’s voice was unexpectedly forceful. “There is a shadow on you, my lord; on all of you. I wish no part of it.”

Berlik inclined his head slightly. “There is darkness in all of us, lady; even in the heart of Alba. It is not wise to ignore it.”

“Is that a threat?” Drustan asked sharply.

The Maghuin Dhonn looked steadily at him. “No, Cruarch. It is a truth.”

Although the skies were clear, somewhere in the distance there was an ominous rumble of thunder. Hyacinthe, seated atop a bay gelding, was still and silent, but there was no trace of the merry Tsingano lad about him now; only the Master of the Straits. The mantle of power clung to him as clearly as Berlik’s bearskin robe, and infinitely more dangerous.

The weary lines etched on Berlik’s face deepened.

“So,” he said to Hyacinthe. “You too, magician?” Hyacinthe made no answer. Berlik sighed. “We are few,” he said, addressing his words to all of us. “We are ancient, and we are few. The old blood runs true in very few of us, now. But we have been Alba’s caretakers for a long, long time. The future narrows. Much that we have preserved lies in jeopardy. Remember that we made this offer.”

With that, Berlik bowed, his robe rippling around him, then turned and began walking westward across the park. All of his folk followed, wordless. Only the harpist Ferghus sent a parting glance in our direction, and that was at his son Conor, riding at Eamonn’s side. Conor averted his eyes, not meeting his father’s gaze. Outside of Innisclan, no one knew his paternity.

“Talorcan.” Drustan beckoned. “Take as many men as you can muster and follow them. Once they leave sacred ground, ensure they depart the city.”

“Aye, my lord.” Talorcan hesitated. “Do you wish us to engage them?”

Drustan gave a hard smile. “If they give you just cause, yes. But I will not defile the wedding day of my sister’s daughter by breaking the rule of law.”

Talorcan made him a left-handed salute. “Aye, my lord.”

Thus we were a far smaller party that returned to Bryn Gorrydum’s fortress, and the mood was chastened and somber. Although the Cruarch’s table of endless bounty was groaning and laden again, for once, no one had the heart to tackle it properly. Instead, there was a good deal of muttered speculation about what
they
wanted.

I wondered, too.

Elua help me, I believed Berlik’s offer had been sincere; as sincere as his oath. I only wished it wasn’t all cloaked in mystery and portent. I intended Alba no ill; indeed, I’d grown fond of the land. If the Maghuin Dhonn beheld some dire future approaching in which I inadvertently did great harm, I wished they’d simply
tell
me. Mayhap there was somewhat to be done about it.

It wasn’t long before Talorcan and his men returned, empty-handed and grumbling. The Maghuin Dhonn had proceeded beyond the borders of the city and vanished into
taisgaidh
land; truly vanishing, leaving no tracks.

“I wish this hadn’t happened today,” Dorelei murmured unhappily.

“So do I, love.” My gaze fell on Conor, quiet and withdrawn. No doubt he was troubled, too, albeit for different reasons. I snapped my fingers. “Conor! Conor mac Grainne, did you not promise to play at my wedding?”

The boy raised his head. “You’re sure?”

“I am,” I said. “Charm us, lad.”

His eyes widened at my choice of words, but he reached for his harp and began to play. At first his fingers faltered on the strings, but slowly they gained in steadiness. A tune emerged, sweet and stately and compelling.

Whether or not there was magic in it, I couldn’t have said; not for a surety. If there was, I was bound against it. But I watched while everyone gathered fell silent to listen, smiling dreamily, and I thought there was. Conor played like a man trying to scale a mountain or lift a heavy boulder, his eyes closed in concentration, his coarse black hair plastered to his damp brow. But slowly, slowly, the mood in the great hall of Bryn Gorrydum shifted.

When he finally ceased, there were cheers.

“To my brother!” Eamonn shouted, getting to his feet. “The finest harpist in seven generations of the Dalriada!” He hoisted a goblet of mead. “To Imri, the best friend a man could ask for, and to Dorelei, who nonetheless deserves better!”

Laughter.

Cheers.

It wasn’t perfect, not quite. I daresay nothing ever is. But it salvaged the day. Worries over the Maghuin Dhonn were set aside in favor of celebration. There was eating and drinking; there were innumerable toasts. There were harmless quarrels and arguments, and jests about my pretty face, which Dorelei endured, blushing. Conor played quietly throughout the evening, his dark eyes closed, spiky lashes splayed on his broad cheekbones, stitching together a melody that interwove past and present and future alike.

Along the way, day gave way to night, and night wore on into the small hours of morning. One by one, celebrants peeled away, staggering off to their chambers. Some, like Hyacinthe and Sibeal and Drustan, departed early. Others stayed longer.

When Phèdre and Joscelin bade us good night, she cupped my face in her hands, gazing up at me. She seemed so small to me now, and vulnerable; the scarlet mote of Kushiel’s Dart floating on her dark iris. Once, it would have disturbed me to my core. Now it didn’t.

I daresay she knew. She always knew.

“You seem . . . happy, love.” She smiled ruefully. “Despite everything.”

“I am,” I said honestly. “Despite everything, I am.”

Joscelin cleared his throat and nodded at Dorelei, slumped over the table and sleeping peaceably, her head pillowed on one arm. His summer-blue eyes glinted. “You might want to look to your lady wife.”

“I will,” I promised.

Once they had gone, I tried to wake Dorelei, who murmured in protest. So I scooped her into my arms. She nestled her warm brown cheek against my bare chest as I mounted the stairs, ignoring the ribald jests from below.

“Imriel,” she whispered. “I do love you.”

“I know.” I kissed her brow. “So do I.”

“You don’t.” One hand scrabbled at my chest, then fell limp, dangling. “Not really.”

“I do,” I avowed. “As best I can, and a bit more beside.”

Our bedchamber was decorated with shriveled flower petals and the lamps were burning low. I laid Dorelei gently on our nuptial bed and eased her out of her kirtle. She heaved a great sigh, curling onto her side, one hand resting on her lower belly. It had begun to evince a bulge, only the tiniest bit. I drew the blankets over her and laid down beside her.

And there I lay.

And lay.

I was awake; I was wide awake. I listened to Dorelei’s soft, rhythmic breathing. I listened to the sounds of the fortress settling into slumber. The last of the straggling celebrants quieting; the last of the Cruarch’s servants clearing the detritus of our nuptials.

At last I gave up and rose.

I pulled on my breeches and retrieved Mavros’ letter, padding barefoot and bare-chested down to the great hall, where the torches yet smoldered. A good many Albans were strewn about, snoring hard.

I cracked open the seal of House Shahrizai and read.

Mavros had penned a brief letter, lighthearted and typical, filled with snippets of idle gossip. It was only a cover, an excuse to send a letter from Sidonie, written in Caerdicci for discretion’s sake. I’d known, I suppose; or at least suspected. I just hadn’t allowed myself to think on it.