Kushiel's Justice (62 page)

Joscelin stared. “His head.”

“Well, his skull.” I cleared my throat. “To bury under Dorelei’s feet so her spirit will rest easily. We had to boil it. It was supposed to be preserved in lime, but that was spoiled in the shipwreck. Urist said it would be all right this way.”

“His head,” he repeated.

“It’s an Alban custom,” Phèdre murmured. “Remember Grainne?” And then, quite unexpectedly, she burst into tears.

“I’m sorry!” I said in alarm. “Please don’t cry. I shouldn’t have said anything about the head.” I knelt beside her chair and put my arms around her. “I’m here, I’m all right. Everything is, or it will be.”

“I know.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Oh, Blessed Elua! Lucca was bad enough, but at least I knew Denise Fleurais at the embassy was doing everything humanly possible to get you out of there. This . . . Imriel, if you’d died out here, all alone, or in Alba . . . I just, I just don’t know what I would have done.”

“But he didn’t, love,” Joscelin said gently. “Look at him! We came all this way, and he didn’t even need rescuing.”

“You look at him!” she cried. “He looks five years older and worn down to the bone. He lost a wife and a child and nearly got killed, and we weren’t there for him!”

“I know,” Joscelin said, stroking her hair. “Believe me, I know.”

I let Phèdre go and sat quietly on the floor, my arms around my knees. I didn’t know what to say. I’d never seen her so thoroughly unstrung before, not even during the worst of Daršanga. It was unnerving. “You did rescue me,” I said at length. “You rescued me ten years ago, and you rescue me every day of my life. Every skill I used to survive, the two of you taught me. Everything I know of hope and persistence in the face of despair, I learned from you. You taught me to love, and that love is reason enough and more to keep living.”

Phèdre wiped her eyes. “We should have been there.”

“I’m not a child,” I said softly. “You can’t protect me from the whole world, Phèdre.”

“I can try,” she said.

I smiled. “Do I really look five years older?”

“You look like hell,” Joscelin said. “And by the way, what shipwreck?”

I opened my mouth to reply. “No,” Phèdre said. The old, familiar strength surfaced in her expression; stubborn, surprising, and resilient. The knowledge that she hadn’t been there when it happened would always tear her up inside. But she would face this, as she had faced everything else. “Start at the beginning.”

So I did.

I hadn’t told anyone but Sidonie the whole story of what had happened that terrible night in Clunderry. I told it to Phèdre and Joscelin. It was easier. I’d had a longer time to live with it. I told it without faltering. I didn’t dwell on the details, but I didn’t censor them, either. And then I told the rest. Urist’s promise to Dorelei. The upset I’d caused in the City of Elua. The pursuit, the pilgrims, the shipwreck. Tarkov, and Kebek the Tatar. Miroslas, and the long hunt that followed. It went quicker than I would have reckoned. There wasn’t that much to tell, really. Days of labor on the barren island, days of tedium in a gaol cell, days and days of snow and cold, and then the end, and how it happened. It was the things I couldn’t put into words that mattered the most.

They listened to those, too.

When I finished, Phèdre sighed. “I swear to Elua,” she murmured. “I’d like to lock you up in a safe place and never let you leave.”

“Sidonie said somewhat like that.” I paused. “Did you see her?”

“We did.” She didn’t quite smile, but almost. “You held out a long time before asking.”

I felt myself blush, and laughed. “You came a long way. I didn’t want to appear insufferably self-absorbed.”

“She’s well,” Joscelin said. “Terrified for you, engaged in a silent contest of wills with her mother, but well.”

“Was there any message?” I asked hopefully.

“Just come home,” Phèdre said.

S
IXTY-FIVE

O
N THE FOLLOWING DAY
, we caught up with Maslin, Hugues, and Ti-Philippe west of Tarkov. Micah ben Ximon and the large contingent of soldiers with him accompanied us. Maslin still wore a stunned expression at the turn of events. I didn’t blame him. I felt it, too.

Our plan was to continue on to Vralgrad. We didn’t have a great deal of choice in the matter, since Micah was insistent on it. If luck was with us, Tadeuz Vral would be merciful and forgive me for the deaths of Berlik and the Tarkovan guards. In hindsight it was fortunate that Talorcan and his men had turned back in frustration rather than trying to give battle against the Vralian border guard. That, Tadeuz Vral would be unlikely to forgive. And thanks to Micah ben Ximon’s discretion, he didn’t know about the first attempt.

Mayhap since Micah had won a second war for him, it would render his mood charitable. Micah thought that the Rebbe’s intervention might make the difference in the end; that, and the fact that Berlik had not chosen to accept the Yeshuite faith. I hoped so. Whatever transpired, we were like to be trapped there for a while until the spring thaw made a sea voyage possible. Our only other choice would be to attempt a passage overland through Skaldia. Somehow, I doubted the pilgrim-hat ploy would work as well in the opposite direction.

Riding from Tarkov to Kargad took only a day. It was strange to remember how long that journey had seemed when I’d made it before, alone and on foot. It hadn’t even begun to snow at that point. Since then, I’d endured so much worse.

We passed through Kargad without stopping and continued along the banks of the frozen Ulsk River. I thought about Ethan of Ommsmeer and his family, but I made no attempt to contact them. I didn’t think he would welcome the knowledge of what I had done.

I wondered what story might one day find its way to his ears; the hard truth, or the wishful fantasy concocted by the priests and acolytes of Miroslas? It would be a piece of irony indeed if Berlik of the Maghuin Dhonn became a Yeshuite icon in his death.

All along the Ulsk, and then later, the Volkov, people hailed Micah ben Ximon and his men as conquering heroes. I had supposed that the frozen waterways would be abandoned in winter, but I was wrong. Vralians are hearty and ingenious folk. There were a number of traders travelling over the frozen rivers in horse-drawn sleighs.

Ben Ximon acknowledged the cheers somberly. From what I could gather, he’d led an effective siege, marshaling his army and blockading Petrovik before its inhabitants were able to stock sufficient supplies to make it through the long winter without venturing outside its walls. There were women and children there. Some, I heard, were so weak they could barely walk by the time the surrender came. Some had likely died of sicknesses they would have survived otherwise.

Micah ben Ximon didn’t look as though he felt himself a hero.

For our part, we drew the sort of wondering stares that D’Angelines in distant, isolated lands do; and mayhap that, too, would work itself into the tale.

“Did you know most Vralians believe an angel appeared to Micah ben Ximon in a dream and taught him to fight?” I asked Joscelin.

“So he said.” He gave a half-smile. “And there I was, expecting to be hailed as his mentor. He asked for my silence on the matter, which is one of the reasons he agreed to aid us in securing your freedom. Unnecessary though it proved, I gave my word. You’ll not see me draw my daggers in Vralia. I’ll rely on my sword if I must.”

“Does it trouble you?” I asked.

Joscelin shook his head. “Not especially. I don’t condone the lie, but it doesn’t sound as though he started it himself. He just never refuted it, nor did anyone else who knew. Anyway, it’s his business.”

I didn’t tell him that I’d told the Yeshuite sailor Ravi that the myth was untrue, that I’d practiced the Cassiline forms in front of him and the crew. Still, my practicing on a shipwrecked shore—or behind the locked door of a gaol cell with only Kebek for an audience—wasn’t quite the same as Joscelin revealing himself in all his prowess before Micah ben Ximon’s men. I wondered if that particular truth would seep out, or if Ravi and the others would keep their silence and let the myth endure. When all was said and done, I doubted Joscelin would care either way. He had never been one to care about appearances or heroics or receiving accolades for his deeds. I daresay keeping Phèdre in one piece had kept him too busy; and then later, protecting me, too.

Maslin was quiet and withdrawn around him at first; around all of them. As he’d said, he wasn’t a complete fool. For most of our acquaintance, he’d behaved very badly toward me, and having half of Montrève’s household present reminded him of it. For a time, I wasn’t sure if the tentative friendship we’d forged would endure, or vanish as Maslin sank back into envy and bitterness. But I hadn’t reckoned on Phèdre, who had noticed the change between us and Maslin’s withdrawal alike.

“You look so much like your father,” she said to him one evening, when we were lodged in a small, smoky inn in a town whose name I can’t recall. “I remember the first time I saw him.”

“Oh?” It was all Maslin said, but there was hunger in it.

“It was at the Longest Night fête at Cereus House,” she said. “I was shy of my tenth birthday, but the Dowayne permitted me to attend, as I’d be a part of my lord Delaunay’s household the following year and no longer eligible.”

That was the infamous fête at which Baudoin de Trevalion appeared as the Sun Prince, already plotting treason; and yet Phèdre managed to tell the story without a hint of censure, painting a vivid portrait of the affair—the madcap prince and his glittering entourage, Maslin’s father Isidore d’Aiglemort foremost among them. She told other tales, too, and although all of us knew the shadow that would fall over d’Aiglemort’s story in the end, somehow, she made it bearable and brought to life a time when Maslin’s father was young and vibrant, the heroic leader of the Allies of Camlach and a darling of Terre d’Ange. If Maslin could have eaten her words with a spoon, I daresay he would have.

No one said aught to gainsay it. There was that which came after, yes. But in the end, Isidore d’Aiglemort gave his life to save his people.

I watched Maslin become easier in our presence that night. It was a kindness she was offering him, and he’d grown enough to accept it with grace and be grateful for it. I was glad for him.

It was another cold, bright day when we reached Vralgrad. The city threw open its gates to welcome its returning hero. Micah ben Ximon’s bannermen carried their staves high. Yeshua’s cross fluttered brilliantly under the hard blue sky, scarlet on white. In Terre d’Ange, Queen Ysandre would have been there herself to receive her royal commander, but there was only a company of royal guardsmen in their white and red brocade coats. Grand Prince Tadeuz Vral was in the temple, giving thanks to God and Yeshua ben Yosef for his victory. The streets were thronged with ordinary citizens clad in heavy winter attire, their breath rising in frosty gusts as they cheered and shouted.

They cheered us, too. After all, we were there with him.

It all felt very odd. I’d sooner have entered quietly with our small D’Angeline company. For good or ill, great events were stirring in Vralia, and they’d naught to do with us. I didn’t even know what I thought about it. I’d liked Tadeuz Vral, which I hadn’t expected. But then, I’d come to be fond of Kebek the Tatar, too. It didn’t seem unreasonable to me that whoever ruled Vralia might come to some accommodation with the Tatars that didn’t involve conquering them or forcing them to accept the Yeshuite faith. I might have liked Fedor Vral if I’d met him, too, but I hadn’t. Vralia was a nation in the throes of transformation, and all it had been to me was the backdrop against which my own personal quest had played out.

And yet if Joscelin hadn’t taught a young Yeshuite living in La Serenissima and forbidden to bear a sword how to fight in the Cassiline style, mayhap none of this would have come to pass.

Truly, the ways of the gods were mysterious and unknowable.

I was grateful when Micah ben Ximon headed for the great temple and dispatched us to the palace with a pair of royal guardsmen and a promise of hospitality. Grateful for the hospitality, grateful for the relative quietude. And most grateful of all to see Urist.

Tadeuz Vral had been generous. I daresay it was a lucky thing that the rumors from Tarkov had never reached his ears, or he might have rescinded his generosity. But they hadn’t, and he hadn’t. Urist was still esconced at the palace. He retained the same chamber that had been given us when we first arrived, although I found out later that he spent most of his time among the palace guards, dicing and following news of the war, picking up bits and pieces of Rus and teaching them to curse in Cruithne.

It must have worked well enough, for someone sent word to him. We had only just arrived in the great entry hall with its inlaid tile floor when he came limping out from a corridor, leaning on a walking-stick, a vast grin splitting his tattooed face. I was so glad to see him, gladder than I’d reckoned. When all was said and done, he was the only one who
had
been there at Clunderry when it happened. It made a difference, sharing the memory.

For a moment, we just stood there. I was carrying the battered leather bag with Berlik’s skull, not daring trust it to any of the palace servants. Urist’s dark eyes gleamed. “You did it.”

“I did,” I said.

He gave a nod. “Thought you would.” He clapped me on the shoulder with gruff affection. “On to Clunderry, eh?”

“My lord Urist—” Phèdre began in protest.

He cut her off. “Let him be a man, my lady, and do a man’s duty.”

“Clunderry,” I murmured. For the first time in a while, I thought about Dorelei lying slain. Her sightless eyes, her savaged belly covered with a blood-soaked cloak. I glanced at Phèdre’s troubled face. “Urist is right. I need to see it through. Let’s just hope Tadeuz Vral is inclined to let me go.”

“He’d best be,” Joscelin said grimly.

Whatever else might have been true, the Grand Prince of Vralia wasn’t inclined to grant us an audience that day; nor the following day, either. We were in the same state of limbo I’d felt in Tarkov; neither guests nor prisoners. We were given lodging and hospitality, but we were attended by guards at all times. When we were within our chambers, they waited outside the door. When we ventured out, they accompanied us.

On the fourth day, there was a buzz of excitement in the palace. I asked one of our guards was it was about and learned that the famous Rebbe Avraham ben David had arrived from Miroslas to serve as the High Counselor to the Grand Prince. There was a train of refugees making its way from Petrovik on foot, a thousand strong. They had pledged to vow themselves to the Yeshuite faith, and the Rebbe’s first act would be to preside over the ceremony.

On the fifth day, Micah ben Ximon came for us.

“He will see you,” he said briefly. “All of you. I would counsel you not to lie. I have not spoken of what happened at the border, as you were not involved. Otherwise, I have told him the entire truth insofar as I know it.”

“Are you in disfavor?” I asked.

His face was hard and set. “Not in any way his lordship can afford to show after the victory I won for him. But he is not pleased.”

Unlike our previous encounter, this was a formal audience. It took place in the throne room, a vast, vaulted space with checkered marble floors that gleamed in the wintry light pouring through the narrow windows. Tadeuz Vral was seated in his throne, and beside him stood Rebbe Avraham. The Rebbe looked grave and thoughtful. The Grand Prince looked grim. He was clad in heavy brocade robes trimmed with ermine, and atop his head he wore a conical gold crown studded with gems, also trimmed with fur. His expression didn’t change much as we approached, except that his eyes widened at the sight of Phèdre.

“So,” he said to me. “You are back.”

“Yes, my lord,” I said. “To plead clemency.”

Tadeuz Vral gave a sharp bark of laughter. “You accepted my friendship and my coin, and lied to my face! ‘Behold,’ ” he quoted. “ ‘He travaileth with iniquity, and hath conceived mischief, and brought forth falsehood. His mischief shall return upon his own head, and his violent dealing shall come down upon his own pate.’ Is it not so written?” he demanded, turning to the Rebbe.

“It is,” Rebbe Avraham said quietly.

“You see?” Prince Tadeuz said to me. “ ‘God judgeth the righteous, and God is angry with the wicked every day.’ You have slain three men under the mantle of my rulership. Why should I grant you clemency?”

I glanced at the others with me; at Urist, who had gauged my merits and found me worthy of loyalty, who had come to love Dorelei as a daughter, though he’d never said so in as many words. At Maslin, who had come in anger and envy, only to begin learning how to love. At Ti-Philippe and Hugues, stalwart, insistent, and loyal to the marrow. At Joscelin and Phèdre, the bedrock on which my existence rested. There were faint worry-lines etched between Phèdre’s brows, but she held her tongue, trusting me to answer for myself. My heart ached with fondness.

“As this is your kingdom, I must answer to you, my lord,” I said to Tadeuz Vral. “But I am Elua’s child. I will not answer to your God.”

His face flushed. “Well, it is against
my
law to slay a pilgrim!”

“Nor was he,” I said steadily. “Not at the end.”

“And yet you hunted him believing it to be so,” Tadeuz Vral said. “Would it have mattered if it were true?”

There were a great many things I might have said.

In the end, I spoke only the truth. “I don’t know.”

“An honest answer.” The Grand Prince seemed somewhat mollified. He propped his chin on one hand and contemplated us. “You are a small problem, but a vexing one. Micah tells me that the truth is more dangerous than the lie; that you are persons of some import, and perhaps I would be better served by discretion than righteousness.” He paused. “I find it hard to believe that persons of true significance and power would travel in such a manner, but Micah has lived beyond Vralia’s borders, while I know nothing else. And I do not wish to make an enemy of Terre d’Ange and Alba.”