Kushiel's Justice (37 page)

T
HIRTY-SIX

M
ORWEN WAS WAITING
at the edge of the woods. She took in the sight of Firdha and Urist and his men with a faint smile. “Ready, are you?”

“Yes,” I said briefly.

She tilted her head. “Then come.”

We followed her into the woods in a procession echoing the Feast of the Dead, with a handful of Urist’s men carrying torches. Morwen led it, swift and silent on her bare feet, needing no torch to light her way. The paths were still fairly clear, not yet overgrown. We passed through the oak grove, where she stooped and placed her hands on the earth, murmuring a prayer.

I wished I’d taken the time to visit Elua’s shrine.

On and on we walked. Torchlight made the trees seem to shift and writhe. I found my ears straining at every sound. My nerves were strung taut as harp-strings and my bindings itched ferociously. By the time we reached the clearing, the moon had risen above the treeline. It was full and round as a coin, drenching the glade in silvery light. The standing stones seemed majestic and peaceful, casting stark black-on-dark shadows on the grass.

“Two things.” Morwen faced me. “Before we begin, your men must extinguish their torches. And you may not enter the stone circle wearing steel.”

I frowned. “Why not?”

“Because that is the way the magic works,” she said patiently.

“Let me hear you recite the Daughter of the Grove’s oath,” I said.

There was no trace of a smile on her face, no hint of mockery. “As you wish.”

Firdha led Morwen into the center of the standing stones, there beside the half-buried boulder where she had offered the
uisghe
. They spoke together, their voices low and indistinct, and then, to my surprise, Morwen bowed to the
ollamh
, who raised the golden branch of her office. The bear-witch stooped, touching earth, touching stone, then rose, lifting her empty palms to the sky.

“I, Morwen of the Maghuin Dhonn, do swear this oath,” she said, her voice clear and carrying. “No harm will befall Imriel de la Courcel of Clunderry this night, nor any member of his household, nor any person dear to him. I swear it by stone and sea and sky, by all the gods of Alba, and by the
diadh-anam
of the Maghuin Dhonn. If I lie, let my magic be broken and my life be forfeit. Let every man and woman’s hand be raised against me, let my name be gall on their lips. Let the gods and the
diadh-anam
forsake me, and let the land itself despise my footfall. Let my spirit wander for ten thousand years without solace.”

The earth seemed to shudder beneath the soles of my boots. A slight breeze made the torches ripple, and I saw Urist nod with grim satisfaction. It was a powerful oath.

Morwen lowered her arms. “It is done.”

“It is,” Firdha said.

They returned slowly to the outer edge of the stone circle. The
ollamh’
s face was grave. Morwen’s brown skin looked more pale than usual, the claw tattoos standing out like dark slashes around her eyes. “Does it suffice?” she asked me.

I clenched my hot, itching hands into fists. “Let us do this thing, lady.”

So it began.

I unsheathed my sword and drew my daggers from their scabbards, giving my weapons into Urist’s keeping. I unbuckled the vambraces with their chased images of the Black Boar that Dorelei had placed on my arms with loving care. I checked the bindings beneath them.

“Take off your boots,” Morwen said softly. “Your feet must touch the earth.”

I obeyed. “Thus do we worship Elua, too.”

“Truly?” Her brows furrowed. “I did not know.”

“Mayhap there is much we might learn of one another,” I said. “Is that all?”

“Yes.” She reached out her hand. “Come with me.”

I took her hand and went.

The grass was cool beneath my feet, damp with dew. Morwen’s touch was light and careful, though it almost seemed her fingers trembled. Urist and his lads spread out to position themselves around the perimeter of the standing stones, torches bobbing like fireflies. Firdha stayed behind. She, too, would keep watch in her own way. When Urist’s men were in place, he gave a signal and the torches were snuffed.

Beside the center boulder, Morwen let go my hand and bowed her head. “Here.”

“What must I do?” I asked.

“Wait.” Beneath the stars and the bright moon, she stooped for a third time, digging her fingers into the earth surrounding the boulder, an object too large and heavy for five strong men to move. There was a scraping sound. Her shape changed, surging and rippling. I heard her groan. The boulder shifted in its deep mooring, and my mouth went dry.

It
rose
. A solid slab of stone, lichen-stained and half buried. Morwen’s hand—or something like it—shot out and reached into the hollow beneath the boulder, snatching at a hidden bundle and removing it.

The boulder settled back into place.

Morwen laughed, low and sad. She straightened and covered her eyes. Fingers or claws? I blinked, unsure. Fingers. She lowered them. “Sit,” she said. “Sit and be welcome.”

I sat. Morwen sat opposite me and placed her bundle atop the boulder, unrolling it. There was a wineskin, a stoppered jar, a wooden cup, a leather bag, and a knife of chipped stone. She unplugged the wineskin and poured a measure of dark liquid into the wooden cup, showing it to me. “I will drink first.”

I watched her drink, watched the muscles of her throat move. When she had finished, she poured a second measure and handed me the cup. I sniffed at it. It smelled earthy and bitter and foul. “What is it?”

“Mushroom tea.” Her pale gaze held steady. “A gift of the earth, Imriel.”

I lifted the cup toward the stars. “Blessed Elua, hold and keep me,” I said, and drank. It tasted like it smelled. I gagged, but I managed to swallow it, setting down the wooden cup.

“Well done.” Morwen unstoppered the jar and daubed unguent on her fingers, closing her eyes and smearing it onto her closed lids. She blinked a few times. “Lean forward and close your eyes.”

I obeyed. Her fingertips felt cool. I kept my eyes closed as she smeared unguent on my lids, trying not to flinch at her touch. I could smell the ointment, sharp and herbal. I could smell
her
, loam and fermented berries. I could taste the mushroom tea on my tongue, acrid and bitter, drying the tissues of my mouth.

“It begins.” Morwen reached across the boulder to grasp my right hand. “Here.” She placed the leather bag in my palm. “As I promised.”

I stared at it, gaping. When I closed my fingers on it, I could feel the shape of the mannekin charm it contained. My blood pounded in my veins, in my wrists and ankles and temples. My entire body throbbed.

“And here,” she added, picking up the stone knife.

Fast; so fast! Before I could react, the stone blade snicked forth, the tip sliding beneath the yarn bindings around my right wrist and severing them. My heart expanded within my breast and freedom rushed in upon me, swift and almost sickening. I drew a deep breath, reeling where I sat. “Ah, no!” I whispered. “Elua!”

“Did you think you would be able to see, bound as you were?” Morwen asked in a hard voice. “Don’t worry, I will make the offering.” She turned her left hand palm-up on the boulder. The stone knife snicked again, chip-edged and keen, opening a cut on her wrist; and then she did the same to her other hand. Her hands reached for mine, slippery with blood. “Put the mannekin aside and hold hard to me. If nothing else, you
will
see. And you will understand.”

I did as she said.

For a long time, nothing happened. Morwen closed her eyes and breathed slowly. Her face was calm and serene beneath the claw-marks, despite the steady seep of blood from her wrists. I tried to emulate her, but my body was shivering with an uncomfortable mixture of excitement and nausea. My belly clenched on the mushroom tea, and I thought for a time I might vomit.

Slowly, slowly, it passed. The shivering stopped. My body began to feel warm and heavy. I relaxed, bit by bit, feeling stored tension ease from my neck and shoulders. Morwen opened her eyes and smiled at me.

“You see?” she said. “A gift of the earth, nothing more.”

I laughed. “We’re allowed to speak?”

“Oh, a little,” she said. For some reason, it made us both laugh. I sat, holding her hands across the boulder, and thought about how much better things would have been if we’d spoken honestly and openly from the beginning. If the Cruithne had spoken frankly about the Maghuin Dhonn, their powers and their claims, instead of shunning them out of superstition. If the Maghuin Dhonn had approached me and spoken frankly of their concerns, instead of trying to trick and bind me.

I tried to tell Morwen this, but the words emerged in a muddle and I was overly conscious of the way my voice echoed within my own skull.

“Hush,” Morwen said. Her pupils had grown enormous. “Just watch for a time.”

So I did.

It seemed the night had grown brighter; or mayhap my vision was altered. Everything seemed very sharp-edged and clear; the stones, the blades of grass, the slow, spreading puddle of blood trickling over the edges of the boulder. I could see near and far all at once; a branch on a distant tree and a twig caught in Morwen’s hair. It was exhilarating, but it was unnerving, too. I tried looking at the sky overhead. At first the black velvet spaces between the stars were calming; then I thought about the night sky’s infinite depth, and it made me dizzy.

“Think of a pleasant time,” Morwen said.

I thought about Sidonie.

Elua knows, I didn’t mean to. It seemed wrong, there in one of Alba’s sacred places, with Dorelei’s kiss still lingering on my lips. But I couldn’t help it. I was free of my bindings. The moment Morwen spoke, my thoughts leapt to Sidonie, as swift and straight as an arrow from the bow. Sidonie in a shaft of sunlight, smiling. Tangled in bedsheets. Propped against the door of the bedchamber in Naamah’s Temple, her legs around my waist. Glancing at me with stricken eyes when it was announced the Cruarch’s flagship had been spotted. Throwing rose petals at my wedding, her face a mask.

Golden hair, spread on a pillow.

A golden cord, knotted.

A knot of gold on my finger.

Images crowded me, changing and mutating. I shook my head, trying to dispel them. My heart ached, and I had to struggle to draw breath.

“Let her go,” Morwen said unexpectedly. “Look to the stones.”

As though her words had given me permission, I was able to break the chain of my thoughts. I breathed slowly and deeply, gazing at the standing stones. They seemed immensely tall and powerful. When I blinked, I thought I could see runes and markings carved on them; whorls and spirals and crosses. Although I couldn’t read them, it seemed they whispered a story to me. And then it seemed the stones were moving in a slow, endless dance.

Morsen drew a long, shuddering breath. “Now you see.”

The moving runes made pictures.

The stones were telling a story.

A boy. There was a boy. I saw the stamp of House Shahrizai on his face; in his dark blue eyes, the full curve of his lips. And Cruithne blood, too. Images flickered. Clunderry, and Dorelei. Laughter. Dorelei lying motionless in a bed, and old Cluna drawing a sheet over her face. Me, and the boy clinging to me. Me, setting him down gently and prying loose his grip.

The boy, with Alais. Tending the shrine of Elua.

The boy, older, flushed with anger, shouting at Urist.

And then he was gone. The dance faltered and the world lurched.

“What?” I whispered. “What happened to him?”

“He left Alba.” Morwen’s voice was low. “Wait.”

The dance resumed, and the boy was back. My son; a young man, now. Shrewd and beautiful, with calculating eyes and a charming, indolent smile that masked ambition and complicated desires. I remembered somewhat Phèdre had said about my mother.
In a roomful of people, she shone
.

So did my son.

I watched him grow to full adulthood. I watched him plot and scheme. I watched him smile to himself as quarrels broke out across Alba. I watched quarrels escalate into war. I watched him acquit himself well in a losing battle. I watched him crowned Cruarch in a hasty ceremony when Talorcan was slain.

I watched him appoint D’Angelines to office.

I watched him lead an army composed of as many D’Angelines as Albans sweep across the land, crushing all resistance. He was a fearless leader, and a ruthless one. I watched him turn women and children from their homes and torch their houses. I watched him kill a wounded man begging for mercy.

I watched him ride in a victorious procession.

I watched him issue decrees.

I watched D’Angeline architects swarm over Bryn Gorrydum. I watched as the last of the Maghuin Dhonn were hunted like animals. And I watched as all across Alba, my son ordered the oak groves burned, the standing stones lashed round with chains and dragged down by teams of oxen.

I watched until I could no longer bear it.

“Make it stop.” I raised my voice.
“Make it stop!”

Morwen released my hands with limp, sticky fingers. The visions faded, although the world was still strange and pulsing. I felt sick and disoriented.

“Your son is a monster, Imriel,” Morwen said quietly.

“You don’t know it’s true!” My voice was thick.

“I do.” She sat quiet and still, her hands resting atop the boulder in a puddle of her own blood. A lot of blood. “There were other visions around you, before; a confusion of them. At first you departed and he wasn’t there. Then there was our daughter to balance him. But one by one, they all went away. This is all that’s left.”

“Why?”
I whispered.

“I don’t know.” She sounded sad. “It seems his mother lost a second child before term and died. What happened to you, I cannot say, save that you never set foot on Alban soil again. And it seems your son conceived a powerful hatred of the Maghuin Dhonn.”

A mad laugh bubbled out of me. “And why do you think that might be, woman!” I shouted at her. “Name of Elua! You’ve done naught but plague and torment me since I came to Alba! Elua!” I ran my hands over my face, forgetting they were sticky with her blood. “Did you ever think,” I said bitterly, “that mayhap if you hadn’t meddled in our lives in the first place, none of this would come to pass?”