Kushiel's Justice (39 page)

“There was nothing you could have done, love,” I said gently. “And trying to meddle with the future is a bad idea. Dorelei thought it drove the Maghuin Dhonn a little bit mad, and I believe she was right. That’s what this was all about, you know.”

Alais looked up, her eyes troubled. “Yes, but I can’t help
having
the dreams, Imri. Or at least not without being someone I’m not, all bound up like you are. I don’t think that’s right, either. Surely there’s a balance. Not to seek a greater gift than one was given, but to understand the small one and use it wisely. That’s all. Do you think it so wrong?”

I thought about it. “Well, you did tell me about the man with two faces. It helped me remember Lucius was my friend, and that may have made a difference in Lucca.”

“I had another true dream about you, once,” Alais said softly. “Do you remember?”

“Did it involve a snowstorm and a barren tree?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I dreamed we were brother and sister, really and truly.” I didn’t say anything. Alais smiled sadly. “I thought it meant you were to wed Dorelei and I was to wed Talorcan. I think I may have been wrong about that. Firdha says one of the most dangerous things you can do is apply your own desires to a dream’s meaning.”

“Alais . . .” I murmured.

“It’s all right.” She drew her knees up beneath the skirt of her gown, wrapping her arms around them. “I don’t know why I was so upset about it. You and Sidonie.” She cocked her head, considering. “No, that’s not true. I was jealous. You were always
mine
, Imri.” I raised my brows, and Alais laughed. “Well, not like
that
! Like . . .”

“Like a brother?” I suggested.

Alais nodded. “I love Sidonie, I do. Not many people know her well. She’s very . . . careful. But it can be hard to be her younger sister. Everything was always set, everything was certain for her. She’s the Dauphine. She’s the pretty one, the proper one, the one who never gets her clothing torn, or spills her food, or blurts out the wrong thing at the wrong time, or gets forgotten, or cares what anyone thinks.”

I thought about linen ripping beneath my fingers and Sidonie’s voice at my ear, gasping ragged entreaties, and despite the pang of guilt that came with it, I smiled for the first time since Dorelei’s death. “That’s not really true, you know.”

“Well, it always felt like it.” Alais smiled too, wistfully. “And then there was you, Imri. I was too young to remember the arguments, and anyway, I didn’t care. I only knew you were brave and strong and kind, and a little bit wild and dangerous, but in a good way. Like a fierce, loyal dog that no one else can pet. And you’d had adventures; terrible adventures and wonderful adventures. And you weren’t afraid of anything, but you always listened to me and treated me like a real person.”

Her description startled me. “Is that how I seemed?”

“Oh, yes!” Alais’ face glowed. “And everyone else except Phèdre and Joscelin was too stupid to see it; too stupid to see you, the real you. That made you
mine
.”

“Oh, Alais!” My throat tightened. As though her words had dislodged a core of grief trapped deep in me, I started crying again; deep, racking sobs that made my chest ache.

Fearless, she’d said. Ah, Elua! I’d been anything but.

I wept for the child I’d been, masking terror that made me awaken thrashing and screaming in the night. I wept for the man I’d become, trying to be good and making a mess of it. I wept for Sidonie, who had reckoned the cost of our dalliance so much better than I, and yet had taken the rare risk of being careless.

I wept for love’s terrible price.

I wept for Dorelei, who had been brave and strong and kind, and taught me to be the things I only pretended to be. Who had forced me to confront my own insufferable self-absorption with courage and honesty. I wept for her warm, brown skin that had smelled like fresh-baked bread, for the dimples that showed in her cheeks when she smiled, truly smiled.

And I wept for our son, who never had a chance.

It felt like being torn apart; and yet the chirurgeon Girard was right. There was healing in it. I was aware, distantly, of Alais’ alarm. She went to fetch the chirurgeon, and I heard his gentle voice telling her not to worry, to let my grief run its course.

And in time it did.

When it passed, I was limp and exhausted and hollow. My chest and abdomen ached with a deep, burning pain, and I could tell my healing wounds had been opened anew. But I felt calmer, like the sky after a terrible storm has passed, discharging all its fury.

Alais was still there, watching me fearfully. “I’m sorry, Imri,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“It’s not your fault.” I dragged my forearm over my swollen eyes, then shifted and patted the bed. “Come here.” She came over and curled up beside me. I ran my hand over her black curls. “Whatever happens, in my heart, you’ll always be a sister to me, Alais. I couldn’t ask for a better one.”

She swallowed. “I’m so sorry about Dorelei. I miss her.”

“So do I.” I closed my eyes. “So do I, villain.”

“You loved her after all, didn’t you?” she asked. “In the end?”

“I did.” I stroked her hair. “It was hard not to.”

“But not like you love Sidonie?”

“No.” I opened my eyes and met her solemn gaze. “No, that was different. I’m sorry if it was hurtful to you, Alais. I didn’t intend it to be. Neither of us did.”

“I think Sidonie must love you very much,” she mused.

“Do you?” I asked.

Alais nodded. “I do. She’s like that. She’s very fierce, even though it doesn’t show.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Oh, I know.”

She made a face. “It’s a little strange to think about, Imri.”

“Well, don’t think about it,” I suggested.

“But I might have to, mightn’t I?” Alais considered me. “I’ll do it if you promise to stop thinking about dying.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” I tugged at one of her curls. “I’ll be honest. It hurts, Alais, at least right now. It feels an awful lot like dishonoring Dorelei’s memory.”

“You smiled, though,” she said shrewdly. “I saw it. Anyway, Dorelei wouldn’t want you to die, Imri. She’d want you to go on living. And she would want you to be happy. I know.”

“It’s complicated.” I shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Alais kissed my cheek, then clambered out of bed. “I have to go,” she said. “It’s getting late, and you should rest. I think Messire Girard wants to check your bandages, too.” She stood for a moment, pursing her lips. “There’s something else you should know.”

I peered at her. “Oh?”

“Father got a message last night,” she said. “Hyacinthe was watching in his sea-mirror. He saw a bear climb out of the water on the far side of the Straits, yesterday morning, in Azzalle. It lay on the shore for a long time. He thought it was odd.”

A cold, satisfying rage rose in me. “Did he kill it?”

“No.” She frowned. “He said that he couldn’t be sure. He’s seen other bears, dozens of them, and he’s not going to start calling down the lightning to purge the earth of them.” She shuddered. “We . . . we told him to look for a bear with pale eyes, but he couldn’t tell. Do you think a bear could swim that far? Father didn’t.”

It was at least seven leagues across the Straits at the narrowest part. “I don’t know,” I said. “But if I were Berlik, I’d try.”

“That’s what I thought,” Alais said.

T
HIRTY-EIGHT

A
LAIS’ WORDS GAVE ME
a reason to live.

I wanted vengeance.

I’d known hatred before. In Daršanga, I’d hated to the depths of my young soul. I’d hated the mad Mahrkagir and his terrible Âka-Magi, and Jagun the Tatar warlord who had seared my flesh with a burning brand, marking me like cattle. I’d hated them with sick, helpless loathing, and I’d gloated over their deaths.

This was different.

It was a pure, clean, righteous fury, cleansing as fire. Life was distilled to a simple purpose. I was a man, not a child. I was not helpless. I would heal and regain my strength. I would hunt down Berlik and kill him, and then I would bring his skull back to Clunderry to be buried at Dorelei’s feet for all eternity.

It had seemed like a barbaric custom, once. Now I understood it.

I became a model patient. Since I would not be allowed to travel until the chirurgeon Girard said I was ready, I heeded every word of advice that he gave me. I suffered my bandages to be changed, my wounds bathed and salved. I ate everything I was given, drank every tonic. I slept when he told me to rest, my conscience soothed by the clarity of my purpose. When he allowed me to get up and walk about, I did. When he told me not to overexert myself, I didn’t.

I resolved to make myself as cold and hard as a blade, keen and ruthless.

Alais came every day to keep me company. She told me how the hunt for Berlik was progressing. Mostly, it wasn’t. There was no sign of him in Alba, and the Maghuin Dhonn who had been found professed a terrified innocence. She told me that Drustan had imprisoned several of them and put them several to hard questioning, but he hadn’t killed anyone yet. She told me that Drustan had written to Bernadette de Trevalion to bid her spread word thoughout Azzalle to search for a bear with pale eyes, or a man with bear-claws tattooed on his face. I thought what a grim piece of irony it would be if the woman who’d tried to have me killed for the sake of stale vengeance became the agent of Kushiel’s justice.

Days passed.

Bit by bit, my body healed.

It was Urist, of all people, who tempered my resolve. He paid me a visit, bringing with him my daggers and vambraces, which he had retrieved from the stone circle when Talorcan had ordered him to fetch Morwen’s body. My throat tightened at the sight of the vambraces, remembering Dorelei buckling them on my arms that terrible night, but I didn’t weep. I told him that once we were on D’Angeline soil, I meant to begin hunting for Berlik. I asked for his aid; for the sake of Dorelei, for the honor of Clunderry.

I thought he’d give it unstinting, but then, I thought he’d have ridden with Talorcan, too. Instead, Urist gave me a long look. “I’ll do it on one condition. You’re to return to the City of Elua first.”

“And lose weeks?” I scowled. “Name of Elua! Why?”

“There’s no proof that bear-witch bastard’s crossed the Straits. And you’re not going to be fit to ride for at least a month, anyway,” he said. “I talked to that D’Angeline healer. He said he’ll consent to allow you to travel in another day or two, so long as you do it as an invalid. Litter or carriage.”

“That’s not an answer,” I observed.

“True.” Urist sat upright in the bedchamber’s single chair, hands on his knees, facing me. He’d sat just so the night we’d talked about the cattle-raid on Briclaedh, only he looked older and wearier. “My lord, your wife was a sweet lass. And no matter what anyone says, her blood’s on both our hands, isn’t it?”

It was a relief to hear someone acknowledge it. “Yes,” I said. “It is.”

“Guilt’s a hard burden to bear,” he mused. “Take it from a man who killed his own brother, traitor though he was. Believe me, I want vengeance for the lass as much as you do.” He smiled ruefully beneath his worn, blurred warrior’s tattoos. “When all’s said and done, you weren’t a bad husband to her, nor a bad lord to Clunderry, either. She loved you. She knew you, too; better than you knew her, I’ll wager.”

“I’ll wager you’re right,” I murmured.

“I promised her I’d do this if anything happened to her before the babe was born,” he said. “See you home.”

My eyes stung. I tilted my head and gazed at the ceiling. “Why?”

Urist was silent a moment. “She said if I didn’t, she feared you’d let guilt and anger eat out your heart. She said you’d understand.”

I did and I didn’t. Dorelei had known. She’d known about Sidonie; she’d known me. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t think I could bear to face that guilt, not yet. And yet, nor did I want to deny Dorelei’s spirit her final wish. I drew a shaking breath. “And if I do . . . ?”

“I’ll stand by you.” Urist looked at me without blinking. “Honor your wife’s last wish, lad, and I’ll ride to the ends of the earth to get vengeance for her.”

“Your word?” I asked.

He nodded. “My word.”

I got to my feet and clasped his hand. “So be it.”

Urist had spoken truly; that evening, Girard told me he thought I’d be fit to travel after another day’s convalescence. He made me promise that I would continue to heed his advice, that I would confine myself to travelling by carriage or litter.

I agreed readily. By now, I could move my arms freely without pain and walk for short distances, but I couldn’t even wear real clothing. I was forced to wear a loose-fitting shirt to cover my bandages, and a pair of baggy drawstring breeches that reminded me horribly of the breeches Dorelei had donned for the Day of Misrule, when she’d laughed so hard at the sight of me wearing her kirtle. I’d tried putting on my sword-belt, but my wounds were knitting, and the hard rhinocerous-hide chafed and dug into the tender flesh.

So it was decided. Drustan was notified and the arrangements were made.

I was going home.

On my last evening, I went to the temple proper. Sister Nehailah had visited me in my sickbed, of course. The first time, shortly after I’d emerged from darkness, she had simply offered her deepest condolences. The second time, she had spoken words intended to be consoling. I’d thanked her for her courtesy and told her I was in no fit mood to hear about the mysterious agencies of Elua’s mercy.

Somehow, I felt different after talking with Urist.

The effigy of Elua was similar to the one installed at Clunderry. It was located in the central courtyard, an open area left to grow wild. I couldn’t bring myself to kiss the effigy’s feet, but I knelt in the grass and gazed at his face.

“If you wished to punish me for failing to heed your precept, my lord, I would that you had punished
me
,” I murmured. “Dorelei was innocent.”

There was no answer. I thought about what Sister Nehailah had said.
It is in my heart that even he cannot protect us from ourselves
.

It was true. In the end, that was the crux of the matter. Dorelei and our son had died because I was in love with someone else. Oh, there were other reasons, but I couldn’t hide from that truth. If I hadn’t loved Sidonie, there would have been no mannekin charm, no dark magic with which the Maghuin Dhonn could attempt to twist my fate and alter the future.

And yet, despite all of it, knowing it, Dorelei’s last wish had been to send me back to Sidonie.

“Why did she do it?” I asked.
“Why?”

There was no answer, but none was needed. In my heart, I knew. Dorelei had loved me. She’d loved me in that awful, glorious, maddening way I hadn’t been able to love her. She had known me well enough to know that if aught happened to her, I would blame myself, punish myself. She had wanted, more than anything, for me to be free; and yes, to be happy.

How in the world that could come to pass, I couldn’t imagine.

I rested my hands on my thighs and bowed my head. There were the strings of red yarn tied around my wrists; one faded and worn, one bright and new. During my convalescence, I’d barely even been aware of them. The croonie-stone around my neck weighed no more than a feather. I’d have borne them lightly, gladly, for the rest of my life if it would have brought Dorelei and our son back. If it would have undone that terrible, terrible night.

Nothing would, though.

Not even vengeance.

“I’ll do my best, love,” I whispered, touching the earth. Somewhere beneath Alba’s soil my wife and unborn son rested. “ ’Tis a hard thing you ask of me. I
will
see you avenged, that I swear. But I’ll try not to let it consume me altogether.” I swallowed my tears. “Not to let it make me bitter and twisted.”

I rose, feeling a little bit better. When I turned, I saw Sister Nehailah watching me. Dusk was falling, and her bright golden hair glowed. She didn’t speak when I approached her, merely smiled with sorrow and compassion, touching my hand.

On the morrow, we set sail to cross the Straits.

It was a somber farewell. Not even a year ago, I’d arrived on Alban soil, a D’Angeline prince with a wife he didn’t want, hiding my misery behind a smiling mask. I was leaving as a widowed Prince of Alba, and the heart that had weighed heavy as a stone last summer felt shattered and hollow.

Any other year, Drustan would have sailed with us, but this year he was delaying his visit to Terre d’Ange in order to stay abreast of the hunt for Berlik. He gave a packet of letters into Urist’s keeping, then clasped my hand soberly. “I’ll send word.”

I nodded. “As will we.”

His grip tightened on my hand. “You will always be family.”

I wondered if the Cruarch of Alba would say that if he knew his niece’s last request was to send me home to his daughter. My eyes burned and I had to choke back a mad laugh. “Thank you, my lord.”

Alais was the hardest. She clung to me, hard enough to make my healing wounds ache. I ignored the pain and wrapped my arms around her, resting my chin on her curly head. “Elua bless and keep you, little sister,” I whispered. “Be safe and well.”

“Oh, Imri!” She pulled away and looked at me, tearstained. “You, too.”

There wasn’t anything else to say.

We boarded the Cruarch’s flagship. Urist had recruited a score of men, all members of Clunderry’s garrison, including Kinadius, who had left Talorcan’s search to accompany us. We nodded at one another. He would take half the men and begin searching in Azzalle, asking questions, while the rest of us went on to the City of Elua.

The rowers set to on the oars and the ship eased into the harbor. Our royal escort stayed, watching. Drustan stood behind Alais, his hands on her shoulders. In the distance behind them rose the walls of Bryn Gorrydum, draped with black for mourning. I stood at the railing with one hand raised in farewell, watching them dwindle.

Watching Alba dwindle.

I did weep, then, for the first time in days. Silent tears, running down my cheeks, mingling with the salt spray of the ocean. After a time—a long time, I think—Urist came over and patted my shoulder awkwardly with a hard, callused hand. “Rest, my lord. The healer said so.”

I had promised to obey.

I rested.

We sailed into Pointe des Soeurs the following morning. A month ago, my heart would have leapt at the sight of the shore of Terre d’Ange looming larger in my vision, the land stretching behind it. Now I felt numb.

Pointe des Soeurs had been a lonely fortress once. Like Bryn Gorrydum, it had grown a great deal. There was an escort awaiting us on the dock. I thought that they would be disappointed to learn that the Cruarch was not aboard, but I was wrong. Word had already been sent. During the long days I’d spent in my sickbed, there had been a great deal of correspondence back and forth across the Straits.

I knew that, of course, but all my thoughts had been focused on the hunt for Berlik. Somehow, I’d not given thought to the fact that all of Terre d’Ange knew of my loss. It made me feel vulnerable and exposed.

It didn’t help matters that it was Bertran de Trevalion waiting to receive us. When I thought about it later, it made sense. Pointe des Soeurs lay within the duchy of Trevalion’s holdings; he was a high-ranking young nobleman known to have been my friend.

No one knew, not even Bertran himself, that his mother had tried to have me killed.

On the dock, he greeted me with a sincere bow, sympathy written all over his open, earnest face. “Your highness, House Trevalion offers its profound condolences.”

“Thank you, Bertran.” I fought back a swell of grief. “That’s kind.”

He nodded. “I’m awfully sorry, Imri. Truly.”

All the faces of the people around him were somber and grave. D’Angeline faces. I was home, and I felt like a stranger. I took more comfort in the presence of Urist and his men. Home. Clunderry had become a home. I wished I was there, watching Dorelei smile at the breakfast table while Kinadius teased his sister. The Cruithne were silent, and I daresay they felt the same way.

But we were here to seek vengeance.

The thought strengthened me.

I thanked Bertran again for his courtesy. The ascent to the fortress was steep, and he’d brought a litter chair with bearers to convey me. I felt like a fool sitting in it, and the Bastard, freed from the confines of the hold, eyed me skeptically; but I knew I couldn’t ride and I wasn’t sure I could make the climb on foot. When the bearers stepped forward to grasp the poles, Urist shook his head. “We will do it,” he said in heavily accented D’Angeline. “He is the lord of Clunderry and we are his men.”

Bertran looked startled. “As you wish.”

We stayed in the fortress that night. For a mercy, Bertran had the good sense not to plague me with too much hospitality. He met with Urist, Kinadius, and me and told us in a straightforward manner that there had been no sightings of pale-eyed bears or tattooed magicians reported throughout Azzalle.

“You’re sure he’s here?” he asked.

Deep in my bones, I was. I was sure that the bear Hyacinthe had seen was Berlik. He was forsworn; his people were forsworn because of him. I’d seen the sorrow in his eyes. He would flee Alba. He would take himself as far, far away from his people as he could, carrying his curse and his darkness with him, trying to protect them.

“I’m sure he crossed the Straits,” I said. “He left a trail. We’ll find it.”