Kushiel's Dart (Phedre's Trilogy #1)
Page 62"Come." Breidaia cocked her head, listening. "They are making ready to feast. Shall we join them?"
Such was my mood as we proceeded to the hall of the Lords of the Dalriada, as despairing and reckless as Quintilius Rousse at the helm, racing through the mist toward unseen shores.
If the Twins were at odds on their course, they were agreed on their display of hospitality. Full half the ship had been brought to land while we rested, and the hall was crammed with guests, D'Angeline, Dalriada and Cruithne alike, loud and celebratory. It was a strange thing, to mark the presence of so many D'Angelines among foreigners, honed features shining like cut gems among unpolished stone.
They got on well enough, I daresay; sailors are a garrulous lot, and more used than most to the barriers that language presents. We feasted well, for Alba is a fertile land, and the Dalriada boasted of the wealth of it. Simple fare, by D'Angeline standards, but in abundance; venison and fish stew, spring greens, a curded cheese that was surprisingly sweet, pottage and crude wine. There is a drink they make too, uisg/ie, that burns at first with a fiery harshness, but is smooth at the second sip, tasting of peat and herbs.
As the night wore on, the uisghe flowed freely, and the bards of Dalriada entertained us with long poems that I translated for the D'Angelines. They are mighty talkers, the Dalriada; I understood Grainne's insult better. Then Quintilius Rousse, ruddy with drink, responded with a D'Angeline sailor's song that I blushed to translate. If I was unsure before then, I'd no doubt when it was done; there was no shame among the Dalriada or the Cruithne as regards such things. They clapped their hands and shouted, picking up the chorus.
It reminded me, a little, of the Skaldi, but it was different, here. If naught else, I noted that the women were as bold as the men, eyeing the D'Angeline sailors with undisguised interest. No few of them left ere the night was over, Rousse's men following where they led with willing grins, or at least those with a taste for women. D'Angeline, Dalriada; it mattered naught, for they'd been a long time stranded in Kusheth, with no company save each other.
When Rousse's song was done, Eamonn's champion, Carraig, a Dal-riada warrior who towered over the others, made a half-jesting challenge to Joscelin, poking with amusement at his vambraces and gesturing, then clearing a space in the center of the hall, drawing his sword and waggling it tauntingly.
The Twins shouted approval, quaffing uisghe; Dalriada and D'Angeline urged the fight. The Cruithne looked amused. Joscelin, with considerable forbearance, glanced at me with raised eyebrows.
On a whim, I looked to Drustan mab Necthana.
As before, there was understanding between us. I read the query in his dark eyes, so oddly grave in his blue-marqued features. Can your man win? I nodded, imperceptibly. His shoulders lifted in a faint shrug, one hand cautioning temperance. I rose to my feet and addressed the Twins.
"Let it be seen, then, what manner of sword the D'Angelines bring, my lords," I said, uisghe rendering my tongue fluent. "But let no blood be spilled, to stain our quest! Let he who is disarmed surrender with honor!"
They accepted the terms with cheers, and Joscelin rose smoothly, bowing with crossed arms. Quintilius Rousse made his drunken way to my side.
"Thought Cassilines only fought to defend," he said, slurring his words a little.
I shrugged. "The Prefect of the Cassiline Brotherhood abjured him. Joscelin's blade is sworn to Ysandre."
"Ahhh." His eyes gleamed, and we watched.
Carraig swung his sword over his head in a blur, roaring; it descended as he rushed forward, mountain-tall. Joscelin's daggers flashed free of their sheaths, crossed hilts catching and deflecting the blade. The revelers laughed as he spun gracefully out of the way, and Carraig staggered, gathering himself for a second charge. Steel clanged; the sword slid harmlessly off one vambrace. Joscelin moved sideways, evasive as water, reversing his grip; with a motion too subtle for the eye to follow, he brought the hilt of one dagger down on Carraig's sword-hand, which opened in anguish, while he swept his leg against the back of the Dalriada's knees.
It made a considerable clatter, Carraig falling, sword spinning from his grip. By the time he realized he was on the floor, Joscelin's crossed daggers were at his throat. Eamonn's champion yielded with better grace than I'd expected. When Joscelin bowed and sheathed his daggers, Carraig rose, seizing him in a roaring embrace and pounding his back.
"We've impressed them with that, at least." Hyacinthe appeared at my elbow, a lopsided grin on his face, black eyes bright with uisghe. Not an ounce of jealousy in his tone; I saw why, clear enough. Moiread stood at his side, calm and smiling. A waking dreamer, indeed. The daughters of Necthana had an interest in him. He swayed a little on his feet, looking at me as if he wondered whether I would bid him stay or go, and not sure which he hoped.
"We have that, at least." I brushed my hand over his hair. I'd drunk too much, or not enough, to have it out with him. "Go where you will, Prince of Travellers," I said, with scarce-impaired dignity, or so I thought. "I'm about the Queen's business." His eyes gleamed, and he made a bow, disappearing with Moiread.
I looked back; Joscelin was firmly ensconced among the Dalriada warriors, hardly displeased by their lauding, laughing and struggling for words as he attempted to explain the Cassiline discipline. Quintilius Rousse had vanished; in his place were three young Dalriada men, falling over each other and shoving to offer me another mug of uisghe.
To those who have never served, untrained, as a royal ambassador, I offer this advice: Be wary of strange drink.
Parts of that night run together in my memory; others, alas, stand out clear. I remember Eamonn wading into the fray, shoving his men aside to offer me a seat and uisghe and somewhat else. I remember Grainne quarreling with him, red-gold hair like a mantle on her shoulders, eyes sharp with amusement. They squabbled like children, the Twins, I remember that.
They squabbled over me.
I must have said somewhat, at some point; what, I do not know, but I acceded to one of them, or both. That was what set them to arguing, though they needed little excuse. "Everyone is prettier than you, Eamonn," I remember Grainne laughing. "I should know what it's like, for a change. Isn't that what D'Angelines do?" She looked at me for an answer; I must have said yes. It is true enough, after all. Eamonn said something surly, which I do not recall, and Grainne looked mockingly at him. "Anyway, it is for the guest to choose."
So I did.
In the morning, I woke with a splitting head.
"Are they all like that, D'Angelines? Taught to do so?"
The words were spoken in Eiran, which had seemed perfectly comprehensible to me the night before. Now, I had to grope at the meaning, puzzling out the dialect as I struggled to collect myself from the rumpled sheets and deal with one of the Lords of the Dalriada, already fully awake, alert and clothed.
"No, my lady," I said in reserved Cruithne, pushing my hair back to meet her curious regard. "Not all."
"Pity," she said mildly, tying her kirtle.
A small figure raced into the room and leapt onto the bed, burrowing amid the coverings; the boy Brennan, who I had guessed by now was her son. I winced, my head pounding.
"Go gently," Grainne said indulgently to him. She sat on the edge of the bed, ruffling his red-gold hair, gazing amused at me. "I am not sure I like it, to know someone better than I at such things. You serve to remind me, though, that some things are best done in leisure, not haste. Is it how you are trained to acknowledge royalty?"
I would have laughed, if my head hadn't ached so. Brennan squirmed out from under his mother's hand and wormed behind me, small fingers tracing the marque up my spine with a child's curiosity. "No, my lady," I said again, pressing fingertips to my temples. "It is what / am trained to do." I thought ruefully of the night, of the further wedge I'd driven between the quarreling Twins. "I'm not fit for diplomacy. I told the Queen as much."
"You're adept at tongues." One corner of Grainne's mouth curled in a smile. She rose to regard herself in a small mirror, thrusting a jeweled pin in her glorious hair. "Anyway, I've given you the key to Eamonn."
"My lady?" The child's poking was distracting me from my headache, but I failed to understand.
"He could never bear for me to have aught that he lacked," Grainne said complacently. "A horse, a sword, a brooch . . . whatever it was, Eamonn must have as much, or finer."
"You say he will go to war for me?"
Her look was kindly condescending. "Left to choose, Eammon will not decide, neither yea nor nay, until Macha's bull gives milk. For you alone . . . no. But it will gall him, to be denied what I have had. That is the key, Phedre no Delaunay." She took care with my name, saying it slow, then smiled. "Though you are almost, almost worth a war."
I dragged myself up to sit cross-legged, raking my hands through my hair. Melisande's diamond hung about my throat, the only thing to adorn me. "Did you do it for that?" I asked.
"No." Grainne smiled again, clapping her hands and summoning Brennan to her. He clung to her waist and grinned up at his mother. "For me." She touseled his hair, and gave me a considering look. "Do you think your ship-captain would breed strong sons and daughters?"
"Quintilius Rousse?" I laughed, then caught myself. "Yes, my lady. That, I do."
"Good." Her grey-green eyes glinted in the sunlight. "Tomorrow, we may die, so it is best to live today. And some things are best decided in haste. Maybe you can teach my brother as much."
"It seems," I said, "I will have to try."
SEVENTY-ONE
Mercifully, I was not the only one suffering the aftereffects of uisghe that day; most of the D'Angelines were bleary-eyed, and no few of the Dalriada. Not all, it seemed, had Grainne's constitution. Even some of the Cruithne nursed aching heads, although Drustan was not among them.
None of them, however, had to face Joscelin Verreuil's glare of disapproval.
"It is a disgrace" he hissed at me, as we sat to break our fast. "Do you think every problem can be solved by falling into someone's bed? Do you think it's for that that Ysandre de la Courcel chose you?"
"Forgive me," I muttered sourly, propping my head in my hands. "I've not your skill with a sword, to resolve matters that way. Anyway, I might not have fallen there, if you hadn't left me, all of you. Mayhap you should try it. It might improve your mood."
"I have never—" he began grimly.
I looked at him.
"That was different." He said it quietly.
"Yes." I rubbed my aching temples. "It was. And this was what happens when you send a Servant of Naamah to do a diplomat's job, and ply her with strong drink."
Joscelin drew breath to speak, then looked at my miserable state. A muscle in his cheek twitched that might have been a repressed smile. "At least you had the choosing of it. Or so I hear."
"Oh, I chose, all right."
He glanced at Grainne, laughing at the head of the table and eating with good appetite, tearing bread from a loaf. "She does have a certain barbarian splendor."
I laughed, then stopped. It hurt my head.
By noon, I had recovered enough to accept Drustan's invitation to tour the Dalriada settlement, which was called Innisclan. We went on horseback, the Pictish Prince and four of his Cruithne, Joscelin and I. He pointed out the holdings, the smithy and the mill, the vast cattle herds of the Dalriada that spread across the land, grazing on the bright spring grass.
A peaceful scene; but the moist warmth in the air made my blood run cold. The season was hastening on, each day that fleeted past bringing us closer to summer and war.
"Where lies your home, my lord?" I asked Drustan.
"There." Turning his horse, he pointed unerringly to the southeast. Like all exiles, he carried within him a map that ever marked the way homeward. "Bryn Gorrydum, where Maelcon sits upon my throne." He bared his teeth in a white snarl, frightful in his blue-marqued face. "I will mount his head above my door!"
Elua help me, I could only pray he did. "Will Eamonn accede, do you think?" I asked him.
Drustan shook his head, losing his fearsome expression. "There is no fiercer fighter when he is cornered, but Eamonn does not ride into danger. If Maelcon ever came for me, Eamonn would fight until his dying breath. But his nature is to defend, not attack."
"If Grainne chose against him, would the Dalriada follow?"
I had not, I think, understood what Ysandre had told me; she had spoken of it indirectly, couching the meaning in the words of politics. I understood, then. She loved him, with all the wayward fervor of the sixteen-year-old girl she'd been when they met.
And he felt the same.
"Yes, my lord," I whispered. "She does."
His dark eyes returned to mine, dwelling on my face. Earth's oldest children, his sister had said. Perhaps, after all, he was not such an unfit match for the Queen of Terre d'Ange. "I will wait a week," Drustan mab Necthana said calmly, "for Eamonn to decide. Then, if his heart is unchanged, I will leave, and take up the banner of the Cullach Gorrym to march upon Bryn Gorrydum. There are those who will follow, though not enough, I think, without the Dalriada. You will take your ship and return to Terre d'Ange. Tell Ysandre I will come if I live."
There was naught to say; I bowed my head. Drustan turned his horse, calling his men, and we set out for the Hall of Innisclan. I translated our conversation for Joscelin as we rode.
"I am going to do somewhat else," I said then, "that you will not like. Just. . . abide it, and hold your tongue. I swear to you, on Delaunay's name, I've a reason for it."
For three days, we met and talked. Word of our arrival had spread, and Dalriada clan-lords appeared daily in Innisclan, until the hall could scarce hold them. Tall and fierce, all of them, in many-colored woolens and the fine, ornate goldwork on which they pride themselves. Some came ready for war, hair stiffened into white crests with lime; Rousse had spoken of it, but it was the first I'd seen.
But the Twins were the Lords of the Dalriada, and while Eamonn held out, there would be no war. And that he did; not alone, either, for there were those among the Dalriada who'd no will to risk war for the Cruithne's sake.
"A fool's errand, and one we're like to return from empty-handed," Quintilius Rousse said grimly, observing the proceedings. I'd spoken that day until my mouth was dry and my mind a tangled knot of words, D'Angeline and Cruithne coiled like a serpent's nest. Eamonn listened, and watched me with hot eyes, caring nothing for what I said. I am no orator, to sway men's hearts with words. My skills lie elsewhere.
"We've four days, yet." I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, fighting exhaustion. Three days of politely declining Eamonn's unsubtle interest, pretending not to notice. I couldn't even count the other offers. I dropped my hands and grinned at Rousse. "Are you so quick to leave the Lady Grainne's bed?"
He blushed all over his scarred face, muttering, "Wants to get a child."
"I know. She thinks you're good stock. She's very direct in her desires." Actually, they were rather well-matched, but I thought it privately.
"Sibeal had a dream," Hyacinthe announced, referring to Necthana's middle daughter. "She saw you, Phedre. You were holding a scale, tipped all to one side."
"You understood this." I raised my brows at him.
He looked at me nonplussed. "They are teaching me Cruithne. And I am teaching them about the dromonde. You have been busy elsewhere, doing the Queen's business."
"Yes, well, tell your dreamers that the scale is not yet ready to balance," I said wryly. "Do they see you as well, in their dreams, O Prince of Travellers?"
Hyacinthe shook his head, frowning slightly. "Only once. Breidaia dreamed me on an island, and asked if I was born there. Naught else."
"Passing strange," I said, forgetting about it in the next instant, as Drustan beckoned me to spin tales of the glories of a D'Angeline alliance for an eager-looking Dalriada clan-lord. We'd done a good job of that, at least. I made my way across the hall, feeling Eamonn's gaze at my back. So it had been, ever since I'd bedded his sister.
But I'd spoken true to Hyacinthe. If I was no diplomat, still, I knew to gauge a patron. Eamonn was a slow man, as cautious and deliberate as his sister was impetuous. He'd cast his luck and lost the first night; he'd be wary of approaching the brink. And I needed him to be desperate.
Four days, and then five. Grainne and Eamonn had shouting matches, backed by their factions. I saw the first quarrel between Dalriada and Cruithne, when one of Drustan's men was set upon by three outlander Dalriada. And I saw then why Eamonn had declined to test Drustan's steel. Outnumbered and outsized, the Cruithne warrior fought with a cunning and speed I'd never witnessed, holding his own until Drustan came at a run, half-gaited and furious, shoving Dalriada swords aside with his bare hands.
They could have killed him, then; they didn't, looking with fear and respect at his blue warrior's marques, the red cloak and the gold torque of his birthright, the Cruarch of Alba.