Kushiel's Scion (40 page)
The days following the Midwinter Masque were filled with gossip and hearsay. To be honest, there was little else to do in the City during the dead of winter. I found myself growing weary of it, feeling cooped and cloistered.
The Game of Courtship recovered from whatever blows were dealt it on the Longest Night and continued apace, but I held myself back from it. There were young women I liked well enough among my friends, but it was a tame emotion, fond and easy. I listened to my friends' protestations of heartbreaking passion, and measured them against what I knew of love, which was all at once terrible and wondrous and cruel. I could not imagine any of them surviving what Phèdre and Joscelin had endured.
I could play at pleasure, but not love.
Since it seemed unfair to play the game while my heart wasn't engaged, I didn't. There was pleasure to be found elsewhere. When Eamonn and I weren't continuing our respective studies, we went often to Night's Doorstep, accompanied by Montrève's none-too-reluctant retainers. It was still the fashion for daring young gentry to do so, but we were more welcome than most. There were more Tsingani than ever in Night's Doorstep, and they had not forgotten what Phèdre had done.
I liked it there, as did Eamonn. There was an honesty and a spontaneity present that was lacking in mannered Court life. We sat for hours, talking and arguing over jugs of wine or tankards of ale, joined by folk from all walks of life. And too, Naamah's Servants plied their trade in Night's Doorstep. They were of a less rarefied ilk than the adepts of the Night Court, but they took their calling no less seriously.
The Night Court, alas, was beyond our everyday means. I received an allowance from the proceeds of my estates, but most of that was held in trust until I reached my majority. I daresay Phèdre would have had it increased if I had asked, but I felt awkward. Her father had been a merchant's son, and it was owing to his feckless ways that she came to be sold into indentured servitude in the Night Court. I would sooner cut off my right hand than ask her.
As for Eamonn, he had little concept of money's value. Isolated from the rest of the world for long centuries, Alba's trade remained a fledgling industry; and the Dalriada were not at its forefront. Eamonn had arrived in Terre d'Ange with a purse of newly minted gold coin, and left to his own devices, he would have spent it until it was gone. It was Phèdre who hauled him to meet with her factor, who taught him about banking houses and shrewd investments. Eamonn had sufficient funds to live on, but it was not enough for the luxury of the Night Court.
So we made do.
For as much as I fretted at winter's confines, I dreaded spring's arrival. But as surely as dawn follows dusk, it came. Snow melted in the passes of the CamaelineMountains. In the south, the earth thawed. Dormant plants burst forth with green growth. I celebrated my natality and turned seventeen, one year closer to my majority. Along the western coast of Terre d'Ange, watchers vied for a sight of the Cruarch's flagship.
And Eamonn mac Grainne scented the air and looked toward Tiberium.
I held my tongue for days, then blurted the words. "I wish you wouldn't go."
We were drinking in the Cockerel when I said it. Eamonn was hunched over the table, a foaming tankard dwarfed in his hands. He always seemed too big for his surroundings. His coppery brows knit into a perplexed frown. "Why, Imri? You know it's what I want."
I stared at the table, tracing lines in the scarred wood. "I'll miss you, that's all. What does Tiberium offer that Terre d'Ange doesn't?"
"I don't know," he said peaceably. "That's the point." He blew foam from his tankard and sipped. "I'll miss you, too."
"Not enough," I said darkly.
Eamonn laughed. "Are we friends or lovers?"
I shrugged, picking at the scarred wood with my thumbnail. "You know the answer. You're like a brother to me, Eamonn." I paused. "What I told you in Montrève… I've never told another living soul, except for Phèdre."
"Daršanga," he murmured.
I nodded. "I trust you."
"Imriel." Eamonn covered my hand with his, stilling it. "I will take that trust to my grave, and you know it." His grey-green eyes were wide and earnest. "But you must find your own way in the world, as I must find mine." He shook his head in frustration, words failing him. "This… your friendship is a gift unlooked for. I will treasure it, always. But this thing, I must do it for me."
I clasped his hand, hard. "You won't forget me?"
"Never," he said simply.
This year, Quintilius Rousse timed his return to the City of Elua to coincide with Drustan's arrival. Ten days later, he departed with Eamonn in tow. With the Queen's blessing, the Royal Admiral would escort his unlooked-for Dalriadan son to Tiberium.
We turned out to bid them farewell. Ti-Philippe knew a couple of the City Guard on duty at the Southern Gate, and they let me mount the guard tower. From that vantage point, I watched as the Admiral's party rode toward Marsilikos. Eamonn turned in the saddle, waving. I waved back, watching until they were small in the distance and I could only pick out Eamonn by the gleam of sunlight on his coppery hair. And then they were gone.
It began a moody time for me. Although I had known it, even I failed to fully reckon how much Eamonn's unwavering cheer balanced my own brooding tendencies. My Court friends irritated me with their endless prattle. Night's Doorstep seemed a hollow pleasure without Eamonn's company. By the time we departed the City for Montrève, I was glad to leave.
In Montrève, it was a little better. As I had done before, I sought refuge in physical labor, assisting in the day-to-day business of running the estate. I worked as hard as I had played the previous summer, often laboring from dawn until dusk. It raised a few brows, but the Friote clan welcomed my assistance with good-natured tolerance.
Phèdre worried, I know.
Some weeks into the summer, she called me into her study, regarding me with concerned affection. "I didn't exactly get my Longest Night's wish for you, did I?"
"Happiness?" I asked.
She nodded. "It is just that you miss Eamonn?"
"No." I shrugged. "It's a part of it. But there's more, too." I propped my chin on my hand, thinking. "I don't know. I don't know what to do with myself. Everyone else seems to be content with their lot or sure of their goals, and I'm not either. Not because of you," I added hastily. "The discontent, I mean. Ah, Elua! I ought to wake up every day grateful to be alive. And I do, I am, but—"
"Imri." Phèdre cut me off gently. "It's all right, love. You can't force happiness."
"Were you happy at this age?" I asked.
"I was." She smiled. "Happy, shallow, and vain."
It made me smile, too. "How did you know what you wanted?"
"They were simple wants," she said wryly. "I wanted to make my lord Delaunay proud of me, and mayhap to love me. I wanted to make my marque and be hailed by the City as the Queen of Courtesans." Phèdre shook her head. "The other things, those came later."
"Saving the realm, you mean?" I teased her.
She flushed. "I never meant to. Well, I didn't set out to. I was only trying to do what was right. And somehow, there always seemed to be one more thing to be done. It added up to more than I reckoned." A delicate furrow formed between her brows. "They were terrible times, Imriel, a lot of them."
"I know." I sighed. "But now it seems like there's nothing left to be done."
"No room left for heroes, you mean?"
Even in Phèdre's gentle tone, it sounded foolish said aloud; and yet she had cut to the quick of it. I looked away. "I just feel… trivial, sometimes."
"So it's not enough to be good?" she asked.
The question caught me out, and I glanced sharply at her. "It should be, shouldn't it?"
Her eyes were dark and sympathetic. "It is, love; but the truth is, it doesn't always feel that way. Don't worry, your time will come."
I took a deep breath. "I feel like I ought to do… I don't know, somewhat. I could find my mother," I said slowly. "Find her and bring her to justice. That would be a worthy gesture." I imagined Sidonie's expression. "It would silence a lot of doubt."
"Mayhap," Phèdre said. "You'd have to start by reading her letters."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because the first step in dealing with Melisande is understanding her," she said. "It's true for anyone and doubly true for your mother."
I shook my head. "I don't want to understand her."
"Then you're not ready. Someday, mayhap, but not today." Rising, Phèdre stooped to kiss my brow. "Imri, it's all right to yearn for things you can't even name."
"Other people don't," I said.
"Oh, they do." She smiled at me. "They just don't know it."
In some oblique way, it made me feel better. I couldn't even say why. It was true, Phèdre had a gift for understanding people. It reminded me of what Mavros had said two summers ago. Whatever the mirror of otherness reflected, bright or dark, she was willing to look into it without fear. Even in Daršanga, it had been true; and what she had seen reflected of herself in the Mahrkagir's mad gaze, I shuddered to think. Death's Whore, we called her.
Yet she had given hope to us all, she and Joscelin. And saved us.
That summer, I renewed my resolve to be worthy of them. I stopped brooding and sought to be somber and conscientious, grateful for what I had and mindful that, in Phèdre's words, it was all right to yearn for things I could not name.
When sorrow struck Montrève, it stood me in good stead.
It happened to Katherine. Although she and Gilot had yet to wed, they had settled contentedly into a life together. She had lit a candle to Eisheth in his name and gotten with child. By the time we arrived, her belly was already beginning to swell. She sported her little bulge with pride, carrying on with her chores, stroking it smugly. For his part, Gilot went about beaming.
She lost the child.
It happens, I am told. Still, it was a terrible thing. I remember servants hurrying from the bedchamber, their arms laden with bloody linens, and Gilot's pallid face, his fearful eyes stretched wide to show the whites. The Eisandine chirurgeon Phèdre had summoned could do nothing. She emerged, shaking her head in regret.
"Your lady will recover," she said softly. "But I fear this babe is lost."
Gilot shook and wept.
I went with him into the bedchamber, where Katherine reclined, pale and drawn. Phèdre had drawn up a chair beside her; without comment, she laved her seneschal's daughter's temples with a cool, damp cloth. Our eyes met, filled with mutual sympathy.
"Oh, my love!" Choking, Gilot knelt at the bedside. "I'm so sorry!"
"It's not your fault," Katherine murmured, turning her face away.
Such is the nature of love; wondrous and terrible. It cannot always withstand life's cruel vicissitudes. So I beheld that summer, although it wasn't evident that night. After a decent amount of time, I drew Gilot away, murmuring well-meaning sentiments. With Joscelin's tacit nod of approval, I ordered a keg of brandy breached, and got Gilot well and truly drunk.
Afterward, I went to see Katherine on my own.
"I'm sorry for your loss," I said humbly. "Truly, I am."
"Thank you, Imri. You've always been a good friend to me." Her fingers curled into mine. She smiled wanly. "What is it, do you think, that Blessed Elua sought to impart to me with this lesson?"
I shook my head. "It's not my place to say, Katherine. Sometimes bad things happen."
"They happened to you." Her head rolled on the pillows, her hollow gaze seeking mine. "Oh, Imriel! How did you endure it?"
"One day at a time," I said. "One hour at a time, minute by minute." I stroked her hand. "Then, and for a long time afterward. But it does get better, I promise."
Katherine mended, at least in body. Her heart was another matter. After the miscarriage, nothing was the same between her and Gilot. Why, I could not say; I'm not even sure she knew herself. But although she was apologetic for it, she withdrew from him and remained distant, saying only that perhaps they had committed to one another too young.
For his part, Gilot was hurt and bewildered.
I grieved for him, but there was nothing anyone could do to help. He tried to ply her with tenderness, to no avail. Whatever it was that had broken between them, it could not be fixed by love alone; not now, and mayhap never.
That autumn, when we departed for the City, Gilot came with us.
I watched them say their good-byes in the courtyard. It was a strained moment and a sad one. When we struck out on the journey, I made it a point to ride beside Gilot, offering my silent commiseration. From time to time, I glanced at his clean-cut profile. He was quiet and sober, every inch the professional man-at-arms, his brown hair bound unwontedly in a tight braid. All the lively merriment gone from his eyes. We rode for several leagues before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was harsh with pain and impotent anger.
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