Kushiel's Dart (Phedre's Trilogy #1)

"It will show faith." I glanced wryly at Joscelin, gazing shoreward with keen interest, vambraces glinting as he leaned on the rail. "If it is a trap, my lord, all your men would not suffice. If it is not, we will not be outnumbered, not with one trained by the Cassilines on guard. And my lord, if you can spare it... somewhat to offer the Dalriada, from your hoard. The Queen will recompense your loss."

"So be it." Quintilius Rousse made his selections—Hyacinthe's fishing companion Remy among them—and gave orders, giving the helm over to Jean Marchand. He went into his cabin, returning with a coffer he showed to me, filled with silks and gems, and vessels of spice. I nodded approval, as if I had knowledge of such things. And then one of the oar-boats was lowered, the rope ladder descended, and I found myself handed down into the boat.

Rousse's six sailors set to at the oars and we began moving through the shining waves, each stroke bringing us closer to shore, farther from the safety of the ship, and all things D'Angeline. I held my head high, doing my best to look as if I knew what I was doing.

At some thirty yards, they came clear. The men were warriors and no mistake, fair-haired and ruddy, reminding me uneasily of the Skaldi, tall and thewed as they were. But I'd been right: one was a child, a young boy, with red-gold hair and a gold torque about his neck, jumping up and down in his eagerness and shouting in an unintelligible tongue.

And the other . . .

She was no child, but a young woman, slim and self-possessed, with black hair and nut-brown skin, and there was a little space around her, where the Dalriada warriors gave way.

"Be welcome," she said clearly as we drew in earshot, her voice giving tongue to the words in Cruithne, fluid and musical. She held out one hand and the Dalriada men waved their swords, shouting; then sheathed them, surging forward, wading heedless into the sea to grasp the sides of our oar boat, hauling us through the shallows unto the rocky shore. The boy raced back and forth, waving his toy spear.

"Be welcome," the young woman repeated; no more than a girl, really, with twin lines of blue dots etched along her brown cheekbones. Her dark eyes smiled, her hand still extended.

The D'Angelines sat stock-still in the boat, beached and no longer rocking on water. With a slight shock, I realized that I and I alone knew what she had said. I rose, taking care not to tilt the boat.

"I am Phedre no Delaunay," I said carefully in Cruithne, taking pains to mimic her inflections, "and I come as ambassador from Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d'Ange. We seek Drustan mab Necthana, the true Cruarch of Alba."

The warriors yelled at the sound of Drustan's name, rattling their swords and stamping. The young boy shouted. The girl smiled again, laying her hands on his shoulders and stilling him. "I am Moiread, his sister," she said simply. "We have been waiting for you."

"How?" I whispered, then remembered, turning to the others. "It's all right," I said in D'Angeline. "They are giving us welcome." Strong hands extended, helping me out of the boat; I nearly staggered, to catch my footing on solid land. Moiread's smile deepened and she came forward to take my shoulders in her hands, looking into my eyes. Hers were wideset and very dark, seeming even wider with the blue dots on her cheeks.

"I had a dream," she said calmly. "Brennan played on the beach, and a swan flew overhead. He threw his spear and pierced its eye. The swan fell to earth, and took off its skin of feathers. It plucked out the spear and spoke. So I followed Brennan, to see where he shook his spear at the gulls. When I found out, Eamonn's men came. We waited. And here you are."

I shuddered under her hands. "You followed a dream?"

Her dark eyes moved over our party, came to rest on Hyacinthe's face. "You followed a dream," she said, and left me to go to him, touching his face with slim, brown fingers. "A waking dreamer."

He started back at the touch, with a strange expression. Rousse's men and the Dalriada stared at each other and fingered weapons gaugingly. The boy Brennan tilted his head up at Moiread and asked something. I could almost pick out words in what he said, almost.

"May we meet your brother?" I asked Moiread, desperate to make sense of the encounter.

"Of course." She turned back to me, still smiling. "But you must meet the Twins, first. They are the Lords of the Dalriada."

It was a strange procession. Two of Rousse's men remained behind with the boat, to relay what had happened shipboard. The rest of us followed, as we wended our way along a narrow track through the green hills. The Dalriada were laughing and shouting, one of them taking the boy Brennan on his shoulders, playing at being a horse. The D'Angelines were silent and wide-eyed. I did my best to explain, with scant idea myself what had befallen us.

The seat of the Dalriada royalty is a great hall, set atop one of the highest hills. It echoes the hall of Tea Muir in Eire, I am told, where the High King of Eire rules. A stone building, filled with daub and white washed with lime, the roof thatch; but that is not to do it justice. It is vast, with seven doors, through which one enters according to rank. They have laws governing such things, the Eirans do.

We entered through the Sun Door, which was an honor, although I did not know it then. It is the second-highest rank they could have accorded us, the highest being the door of the White Mare, through which only the scions of Tea Muir may enter. There we were made to wait in a sitting room, while Brennan was sent scuttling on an errand and the Dalriada warriors lounged about in bright-eyed poses. Beyond the next door, we heard sounds of quarreling.

"You speak for the swan," Moiread said to me, nonplussed. "Who stands with you?"

"He does," I said without hesitation, pointing to Quintilius Rousse, who held the treasure-coffer. "And he, and he." I indicated Joscelin and Hyacinthe, who both bowed uneasily.

"That is well," she said, and disappeared. After a moment, she returned. "The Twins will see you."

I looked once at Quintilius Rousse, once at Joscelin and once at Hyacinthe, drawing strength from their steady regard. Taking a deep breath, I followed Moiread into the hall of the Lords of the Dalriada.

I don't know what I had expected; it had all occurred with such speed. But if it was anything, it was not this: The two of them, brother and sister, on their adjoining thrones.

Now, I know them well enough, the Twins. Then, I took refuge in what I knew best, taking the coffer from Rousse and offering it to them, then kneeling with bowed head. Grainne looked at me keenly, I saw through lowered lashes, toying restlessly with the gold torque about her neck and the jeweled pins scattered in her red-gold tresses. Eamonn was the more suspicious, setting the coffer aside and raising his voice in a sharp query.

"They have come to see Drustan, " Moiread said, and I understood the Eiran words, picking them out one by one in her liquid accent, piecing them together after she had spoken. "They seek audience with the Cruarch."

Eamonn frowned, but Grainne stood up, her grey-green eyes alight. She was a tall woman, and striking by their standards; her features were cruder than ours, but her hair and her eyes were quite lovely, and her generous mouth that smiled at us. She wore a sword at her waist, and I gauged her to be not too much older than Joscelin, in her late twenties, no more.

"Tell them they are welcome, " she said. "And fetch your brother."

"My lady," I said haltingly, lifting my head, the half-familiar words twisting my tongue. "I understand, I think."

She gave me her sharp gaze, red-gold brows arching. Eamonn muttered on his throne; I caught only a word of it. Trouble. He was tall, like his sister, but his hair had a paler hue, his eyes a muddier tinge.

So that is how it is, I thought. To the others, I said in D'Angeline, "They are sending for the Cruarch."

We heard him before we saw him; a halting gait, among other steps. I had forgotten that. I heard Delaunay's voice in my memory, light and amused. And Ysandre de la Courcel, flower of the realm, shall teach a clubfoot barbarian Prince to dance the gavotte.

Drustan mab Necthana, Prince of the Picti, the deposed Cruarch of Alba, entered the hall.

He had with him an older woman and two younger, as well as Moi-read, who could only be his mother and sisters, and a handful of warriors as well. They were cut from the same cloth, all of them, slender and dark, a handsbreadth shorter at least than the Twins. But Delaunay trained me to observe, and I noted well how the Dalriada fell back, creating a space for the Picti.

Truly, he bore their sign, in blue woad-marque, bisecting his brow, swirling on his cheeks, outlandish and barbarian. But it was not entirely displeasing, and his eyes gazed out through Pictish warrior's mask, fine and dark. A cloak of combed red wool hung from his shoulders, clasped with gold.

"You are the swan's voice," he said to me in Cruithne, those dark eyes cutting me through to the bone. "What does she say?"

If he had not spoken ... he was strange enough, and fearful, that I might have doubted my answer. But there was somewhat in his voice, a slight break, hopeful and young, that only one trained to listen would hear. I rose to my feet, lifting the chain from about my neck, holding forth Rolande's gold signet ring. It swayed between us.

"My lord," I said, raising my voice. "Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d'Ange, would honor the covenant between you."

Drustan mab Necthana took the ring, closing his hand hard about it. He glanced at his mother, and his three sisters, who nodded, all in unison. A gleam flared and died in his dark eyes. "What is the price?" he asked me harshly.

I met his dark gaze, staring out from his blue-marqued face that had seen loss and betrayal, his father's murder. For a moment, we understood each other, the Pictish Prince and I. "Terre d'Ange stands under threat of invasion," I said softly. "If you regain the throne of Alba, the Master of the Straits will allow you to cross. That is the price. Your aid, to secure the D'Angeline throne. That is the price of wedding the Queen of Terre d'Ange, my lord."

Drustan looked at the Twins.

They shifted on their thrones, the Lords of the Dalriada. Grainne leaned forward, while Eamonn leaned back, not meeting the Cruarch's gaze.

"What do you say, my brethren?" Drustan asked it in Cruithne. His dark eyes gleamed. "You have waited for a sign, Eamonn. Here it is. Let us take up the sword, and Alba will flock to our side. Maelcon's men will run before us, and the Master of the Straits will reward us, laying the waters as calm as a carpet. What do you say?"

"I say—" Grainne drew a deep breath.

"No." Eamonn cut her off, tugging at his torque, speaking slowly in Cruithne. "No." He shook his head, stubborn as an ox. "The risk is too great, and the gain to little. Do they bring an army? Do they bring swords?" He opened the coffer, showing its contents, shimmering and harmless, redolent with spice. Grainne murmured appreciatively, drawing out a length of gold-shot green silk. "No!" Eamonn drew the coffer back, nearly closing the lid on his sister's hand. "Fair words and baubles!"

"Dagda Mor!" Grainne snapped at him, eyes flashing. "You are a coward and a fool! 7 say—"

"You say what you like!" he flared back at her, slipping back into Eiran. "Unless we both say it, the Dalriada go nowhere! We are hard-put enough to hold this piece of land!"

Too much to hope I was hearing wrong; I followed it well enough, looking between them. Rousse, Joscelin and Hyacinthe watched perplexed as the Twins quarreled.

"Eamonn." Drustan raised his voice, silencing them. "You hold this land now because my father chose to honor Cinhil Ru's old promise to the Dalriada, and the folk of the Cullach Gorrym will not move against me, no, nor many of the Tarbh Cro, even if Maelcon commands the Red Bull to war. But what of your children, and your children's children?"

"Who will know their father and grandfather for a coward!" Grainne said hotly. "If we do not—"

"Enough!" Eamonn shouted at his sister, clutching his head. He glowered at Drustan. "Think you that Alban will flock to a cripple's standard, my lord?"

The Cruithne warriors murmured and one of Drustan's sisters drew a soft breath; his mother touched her arm lightly, bidding her to silence. Drustan mab Necthana laughed, showing strong white teeth, and held out his arms. The red cloak he wore slipped back, revealing the elaborate whorls of blue that tattooed his bare shoulders, braceleted his arms. "What do you think, brother? They have done before. On horseback, I have four strong legs. It is enough."

I could not help but glance at his deformity, then, though I'd resisted until that moment. In truth, though he wore boots of soft leather to conceal or protect it, one could see that his right foot twisted at the ankle, and the stunted foot bent upon itself, so that the sole did not rest upon the ground. For all that, his right leg looked as hale as the left, with lean-knotted muscle.

"Will you try my sword and see if I am fit to follow?" Drustan asked softly, and Eamonn looked away. "Then you have answered your question, brother."

I took the moment to translate quickly for the D'Angelines, recapping what had transpired. Quintilius Rousse looked unhappy. Joscelin glanced at Eamonn. "I'll try his steel," he muttered, with un-Cassiline ire. "Let him see how he likes the baubles I carry."

In the pause, the hall had erupted with a great deal of similar talk, the Cruithne and the Dalriada shoving and quarreling. Grainne was in the midst of it, shouting at one of the Picti, her sword half-unsheathed. Strange to me to see a woman armed, but she was not the only one of the Dalriada women to bear a sword; only, as I learned later, the mightiest of them. It is not uncommon among the Picti, either, though Necthana and her daughters did not ride to battle. Indeed, they were the only serene figures there, watching the proceedings with four sets of identical, wide dark eyes.

At length Eamonn stomped down from his throne shouting, and the melee broke apart, while he and his sister argued until he threw up his hands.

"It is too great a matter to decide on a moment's whim," he announced, saying it in Cruithne for my benefit, glancing at me. "We receive you and your gifts with thanks, Phedre of Terre d'Ange. Tonight, we feast in your honor, and tomorrow we will speak again of such things. Do you agree, my Prince?"

Drustan inclined his head, but it was his mother who answered.

"That is wisely spoken, my lord Eamonn," Necthana said, in a voice deeper and even more mellifluous than her daughter's.

"Oh, he can speak," Grainne said contemptuously, tossing her red gold hair, "and speak and speak, until the brehons cover their ears and beg him to cease!"

Necthana's mouth twitched as if repressing a smile. "That is a great gift, child, and no doubt. But we have guests we have granted hospitality, and they are no doubt weary from their journey. Will you not offer them rest and refreshment?"

"Dagda!" Grainne looked us over with dismay, and interest. "Yes, of course." Clapping her hands, she began to summon serving-folk about. Leaving domestic matters to his sister's control, Eamonn wrapped his cloak around him and stalked out with his insulted dignity, taking the Dalriada men with him. Prince Drustan gathered his Cruithne, speaking to them in low tones. I caught a little of it; he was urging them to go among the Dalriada, and spread the spark of glorious battle.

"Do not fear." It was a low voice at my side, soothing and musical. I turned to see Necthana and her daughters, smiling at me, Moiread the youngest of them. "They are like an ill-matched team, the Twins," Necthana said, nodding at Grainne. "She pulls at the traces, while he digs in his heels. But if you can find the balance between them, they are strong in the harness."

"How do I do that?" I asked, pleading.

But she only touched my brow, gazing into my eyes and smiling. "You will find a way. For this you were chosen."

They turned away, then, proceeding with calm from the hall. I turned to my D'Angeline companions, shrugging.

"It seems we must find a way to balance the Twins," I said wryly, "if anyone has an idea, let me know."

SEVENTY

I was given a room to share with Breidaia, the eldest of Drustan's sisters, who would be the mother of his heirs, in the Cruithne manner. Even if he and Ysandre wed, her children would never sit the throne of Alba.

They would be heirs to the D'Angeline throne instead, half-Pictish scions of Elua, raised to House Courcel. I will admit, for one born and bred to Terre d'Ange, it was a discomfiting thought.

"We are the eldest children of Earth on this soil," Breidaia announced as if divining my thoughts. Directing a servant-maid to plump the pillows, she gave me a tranquil smile. "Many thousands of years before Yeshua's birth, before he bled on the wooden gallow, before the Magdalene shed tears and Elua walked the earth, we crossed to Alba. We are the folk of the Cullach Gorrym, those who followed the Black Boar to the west, before D'Angelines knew to count time upon their fingers. When the others came, tall and fair, the Fhalair Ban, the White Horse of Eire, the Tarbh Cro of the north, the Eidlach Or of the south, we were here."

The Dalriada were of the White Horse, and Maelcon the Usurper of the Red Bull. Of the Eidlach Or, the Golden Hind, I knew naught.

"And they will follow Drustan?" I asked. "All of them?"

"If the Cullach Gorrym wills," she said simply.

I was not reassured.

Breidaia bent her calm gaze upon me. "All things will be as they will. Do not fear."

It was soothing advice; but I'd seen too much to be soothed by the words of a girl no older than I, if as much. I had seen Due Isidore d'Aiglemort ride in triumph with the Allies of Camlach, and I knew, too well, the dangerous intelligence of Waldemar Selig, whose warriors numbered in the tens of thousands, and whose shelves bore texts of the greatest of military tacticians. It had been a long time since Cinhil Ru rallied the Cruithne against the armies of Tiberium; and a pair of quarreling twins, a tattooed Prince, and a rabble of undisciplined warriors did not inspire confidence. They are like children, I thought, who reckon they know danger, until they meet it face-to-face.

Then I remembered Moiread's dream, and was unsure.