Kushiel's Dart
Page 67"Gildas will take thee to the Master of the Straits," the younger man said. "I will see to the others. Thou art weary, and fearful. We offer rest and succor."
I repeated his words to Drustan, who nodded again and spoke reassuringly to his men. It was decided.
So, I thought, as we disembarked, crossing the gangplank, our footsteps sounding hollow above the water; the Master of the Straits has servants, and mortal ones. Do they wield his power, to ruffle the waves, or merely speak his command? The face of the waters spoke, and all understood; these men speak D'Angeline, the old tongue of courtly lays.
These things I thought as we mounted the steps, climbing upward into the skies. Gildas led, Rousse and Drustan behind, the young Cruarch's misshapen foot causing his pace to slow somewhat as he scrambled from step to step. I followed, Joscelin stuck to my side like a tall Cassiline burr while Hyacinthe trailed behind us. I would have spoken to him, but his shuttered expression forbade it. Behind us, we heard the reassuring clamor of the remainder of our party disembarking, the skittering hoofbeats of frightened horses on stone, the babble of voices trying to communicate in foreign tongues.
We climbed and climbed, mounting into the sky. It was a vast temple at the summit, and no mistake. A broad path branched to the right at the foot of it, but further stairs awaited us before, steep and narrow, wrought of white marble. My breath grew thin and came in gasps, and I'd been living hard, riding with the Cruithne. I heard the men and horses turn off at the branching path, and envied them. Rousse was panting too, and I heard Hyacinthe's breath ragged in his throat; Drustan set his face with grim determination and showed no sign of fatigue, though he labored twice as hard as any of us.
Joscelin . . . Joscelin was Cassiline. He'd run miles behind Gunter's thane's horse, through deep snow, and come out of it glaring hatred. I shook off his hand when he sought to brace my elbow, aiding me up the steps.
And white-haired Gildas wasn't even winded.
So we gained the temple.
It is my fate, it seems, to fall privy to rare and splendid vistas in a state of exhaustion too profound to care. At the summit of this lonely isle, where columns of white marble rose into open air, like a prayer uttered to an unheeding god, I bent over and gasped for breath, fixing my gaze on the lone figure at the center of the temple.
He was tall and robed in grey, like the others, yet unlike, for the color of his robe shifted under the open skies, dark and pale with the changing light, hanging motionless in the breeze. His hair hung long and unbound, iron-grey, I thought; then it too shifted, changing color with the scudding clouds. He stood alone, his back to us, and a great bronze vessel, broad and shallow, stood beside him on a tripod, at the heart of the rectangular structure.
"Come," Gildas said, and began to walk.
We followed him across the white marble flagstones.
The tall figure turned as we drew near, regarding us with sea-green eyes, revealing a face at once ancient and elemental, mantled in iron-grey locks, a face as white as shell and older than bones, shifting and fluid, with a power in it that rose from the very depths of the ocean.
I had seen the face of the waters, terrible and powerful.
A sending, no more. A thought born of a sea-rooted mind, the reaching hand of power. This . . . this was the Master of the Straits.
"My lord," I whispered, and knelt.
Drustan mab Necthana took one lurching step forward, locking gazes with the Master of the Straits. The high breeze lifted his scarlet cloak. "Lord of the Waters," he said evenly. "You gave your pledge. When the Cullach Gorrym ruled in Alba, you would allow us the crossing. Why have you brought us here?"
The Master of the Straits smiled, and his eyes lightened to the color of sun-shot mist. "You were warned, young Cruarch," he said, and though his mouth moved, the words seemed to arise from the very wind, echoing around the open temple. "You were warned . .. Alban."
A gift of tongues, the Skaldi claimed I had; witchery. I had Delaunay for a teacher, no more and no less. The Master of the Straits had the gift of tongues, for I swear it, I heard the words in D'Angeline, but Drustan heard Cruithne, and replied in kind.
"Lord of the Waters," he said sharply. "You gave warning as a hunter lays bait. Why have you brought us here?"
On my knees, I thought, mind racing. Drustan was right, the honeyed promise of safe passage, a toothless warning, easy to discard. The Master of the Straits wanted something of us. What? Beside me, Joscelin's hands hovered over his hilts. Quintilius Rousse stood like a bull ready to charge, head lowered. Hyacinthe was swaying on his feet, barely upright.
"Why?" the Master of the Straits mused, and the sea-winds sighed around us. He clasped his hands behind his back and gazed at the far oceans. "Why." He turned back to us, and his eyes were as dark as thunderheads. "Eight hundred years I have ruled, chained to this rock, claimed by neither earth nor sky!" He raised his voice, and the winds lashed us and the clouds roiled, the seas far below beating themselves in a frenzy against the cliffs. His hair rose on the wind, standing around his face like a dreadful corona. "Eight hundred years! And you ask me why?"
We braced ourselves, recoiling against the wind; through the fingers raised to shield my face, I saw Drustan mab Necthana leaning into it, eyes narrowed. "Why?"'t'te asked, shouting the word. "Lord of the Waters, you hold my people hostage! Why?"
I understood. It was my gift, Delaunay's training, to hear the unspoken thing, to see the connections beneath the surface. I rose. "My lord," I said carefully. "This I understand to be true. You are bound here, to this isle, whether you will it or no. You wish to break this binding. Two things are needful. One is the union of Alban and D'Angeline, present in the betrothal of Drustan and Ysandre. What is the other?"
"Ahhh." He took a step toward me and caressed my face with one hand, as if he had the power to mold my flesh like water. I closed my eyes and shuddered profoundly. "One who hears, and listens, and thinks. That is well. You have named the riddle. Answer it in full, and you may leave." Drawing his hand back, he swept his arm across the shallow cauldron, sleeve trailing, taking on the hue of bronze.
The cauldron was filled with water that rippled and stilled, reflecting not sky, but the face of Ysandre de la Courcel, who sat in a makeshift throne, the accoutrements of a war-camp behind her, listening intently to someone unseen. Drustan gave a short cry, and Quintilius Rousse pressed his fist to his brow.
"Answer it in full," the Master of the Straits said, and smiled, and his eyes were as bleached as old bones, "and you shall have my aid in full. Fail, and the seas shall claim you." He pointed to the western skies, where the sun sank low and red over the waters. "One night, I give you. When the sun stands overhead tomorrow, you will answer, or die."
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Gildas led us to the tower, which spiraled skyward from its perch on a lower crag, down another series of broad marble steps at the far side of the temple, then along a wide, paved path.
We followed silently, all of us lost in our own thoughts, the setting sun throwing our shadows black and elongated before us. It lit the tower like flame, drenching the grey walls with gold, shining unexpected on oriel windows of colored glass, rare and wondrous. The uppermost chamber of the tower was ringed all around with them, and two other tiers, staggered with the plain.
A pretty sight; it would have surprised me, if my capacity for surprise wasn't flattened. We entered the reception hall, and found a neat company of servants turned out to await us, ordinary men and women—islefolk, I guessed them—clad in simple linens.
"Thy shipmates are well-tended, thy horses stabled," Gildas said to us, and the stilted formality of his courtesies seemed sincere. "No harm will come to thee in this place. By thy leave, we offer the Master's hospitality. Warm baths, dry clothes, wine and supper."
"And the rest of my folk?" Drustan asked when I had translated for him. "Does this ... this priest stand surety for their safety?"
I asked in D'Angeline. Gildas bowed, grey robes swishing, remaining grey, unlike his Master's. "First Sister lies . . . thence," he said, pointing in a southerly direction. "Some three leagues. She is rich in kine and fowl and cider, and thy folk have been brought safe to her shore. Do thou no harm here, and they shall be well. On my head, I swear it."
With that, Drustan had to be content, and Quintilius Rousse as well, whose sailors were with the Cruithne host.
"Will the Master of the Straits dine with us?" I asked Gildas. He shook his head.
"Nay, my lady. Each other's company, will you share."
"You serve him." I eyed his robes, at odds with the simple clothing the patiently waiting servants wore. "Are you his priest?"
He hesitated at that. " 'Tis true we fill the bronze bowl with seawater, Tilian and I; once at sunrise, once at sundown. And betimes we may speak as his voice, when it is needful. Thus are we privileged to serve. But we cannot break the geis who are born to the Three Sisters."
I remembered the bronze bowl on its tripod, shallow, but vast. Twice a day, they must descend those interminable steps down to the sea, returning with it brimming; thrice, today, because of us. No wonder he'd not gotten winded. "The binding upon him, it may not be broken by one born to the isles?"
Another pause, then Gildas inclined his head a fraction. "As thou sayest. Wilt honor us by accepting our hospitality?"
"Yes," I said, since there seemed little point in declining; and, "Thank you," for he had handed me unwitting the key to the riddle; although he took it as thanks for the hospitality, as I meant him to do.
So, I thought. That is that.
How it fell out with the others, I cannot say, but I was led up the winding stair to a sumptuous chamber. Three house servants were my guides, a young woman, and two of middle age, quiet and demure. I do not suppose there was much gaiety involved in serving the Master of the Straits.
The rooms were gorgeously appointed, and I, raised in the Night Court, do not say such things idly. The bed itself was a marvel, ebony posts carved in fantastic forms, the coverlet of velvet, tasseled in gold. The bath was of solid marble, and the ewers in which they carried heated water were silver.
"From the bounty of the sea's floor," one of the older women murmured, pouring steaming water into the bath.
Shipwrecks, I thought, shedding my clothes.
They whispered in awe.
I realized, then, what was different; peasant-stock, these islefolk, so one doesn't expect too much . . . D'Angeline, they spoke, but if the blood of Elua and his Companions flowed in their veins, it was nowhere evident in their features. No, they were purely mortal, earth-born and bred, with none of the odd outcroppings of gift or beauty that marked even the lowest-born of
D'Angeline peasantry. Elua had loved shepherdesses and fishing-lads alike, he'd not scrupled at peerage, that was a human construct. But Elua and his Companions had set no trace on the bloodlines of these folk.
And then I climbed into the bath and forgot such concerns.
There is no situation so dire that a hot bath cannot improve one's outlook; so I have always found to be true. And I have never been ashamed to revel in luxury. Not since my contract with de Morhban had I been treated as I was accustomed; I gave myself up to it without a second thought. Soaps and perfumed oils, they brought, combs and scissors, until I was utterly and thoroughly pampered, cleansed of sea-crossing, hard riding, war and its labors.
I could live like this, I thought.
Then I thought of the Master of the Straits and shuddered.
They brought clothing when my bath was finished, old-fashioned and gorgeous. The bounty of the sea's floor. Whose trunk, I wondered, had held the gown I chose? It was a bronze satin, rich and shimmering, the neckline worked a handspan deep with seed pearls. There was a hairpin, too, with a spray of pearls, that fastened at the crown of the head and twined into my sable locks.
Yes, I admired it in the mirror, a weighty affair of dark glass, gilt-edged and massive. What would one expect?
A foot-servant came, then, bowing unobtrusively, to escort me to dine.
The dining hall was one of those set about with oriel windows. A long table shone with polish, set with plates of silver and white linen cloths. The others had already been summoned. Quintilius Rousse caught his breath when I made my entrance.
"My lady Phedre," he said, bowing and extending his arm.
We had all, it seemed, received the same treatment. The Admiral was positively resplendant, in a russet coat and a brocade vest, his white shirt spilling a froth of ruffles down his broad chest. Hyacinthe wore a doublet and breeches of midnight-blue, pewter slashes showing at his sleeves. I'd not seen him out of Tsingani gauderie; he looked every inch a young nobleman, albeit with a melancholy cast. Joscelin wore black, reminding me with a pang of Delaunay in his austerity, a chain of square-linked silver glittering on the placket of his doublet, his fair braid like a marque down the center of his back. His Cassiline arms made an odd addition, although he'd foregone his sword.
I daresay Drustan cut the strangest figure among us, in a black silk shirt with a ruffled cravat, moleskin breeches of charcoal-grey and a coat of deep-red velvet. His face, marked with the blue whorls of a Cruithne warrior, seemed an exotic affectation. And yet, in a peculiar way, it became him.
I curtsied; they bowed. Quintilius Rousse escorted me to my chair, and we dined. We dined very well in the castle of the Master of the Straits, with darkened windows around us, served by his staff with downcast eyes. We dined, and spoke little, until the plates were cleared, and a bowing servant set a tray with a decanter of cordial and five glasses upon the table. Rousse poured.
"So," he said, taking a drink and smacking his lips, setting his glass on the polished wood with a solid thud, glancing around with his keen blue gaze. "We've a riddle to solve. Shall we pool our wits, and put to it, then?"
No one answered. I took a sip of cordial; it burned, sweet and agreeable, in my throat. Glass in hand, I rose, going to one of the windows, gazing out at the dark night, the invisible sea below. What had Delaunay trained me for, if not for this? To tease out the thread of a riddle and unravel it. They spoke the tongue of ancient ballads on this isle. I leaned my brow against the window, feeling the glass cool and smooth against my skin.
"You know."
Soft-spoken words in Cruithne. I did not turn to look at Drustan mab Necthana, but nodded, moving my head against the glass. I had read a thousand ancient tales, in D'Angeline, in Caerdicci, in Skaldi, in Cruithne. Translations from the Hellene, which I had scarce begun to master. I knew. These things have a pattern, a structure, and I was trained to see such things. I knew.
Drustan drew a sharp breath. "There is a price."
He rose, then, and bowed; I turned around to meet his eyes. "Know that I will pay it if I can."
There was naught else to say, so I nodded once more. Drustan twisted the signet ring around his finger, dark eyes holding mine, then left.
"What did he say?" Quintilius Rousse asked, bewildered. "By the ten thousand devils ... I thought we were here to resolve a mystery!"
"Ask Phedre," Hyacinthe said, his voice hollow, raising his haunted face. "She thinks she has solved it. Ask her, and see if she will speak." He slid his hands blindly over his face, and let them fall, helpless.
"If this riddle is mine to answer in full, then I will," I said softly; his pain tore at my heart. "Don't begrudge me that, Hyacinthe."
He gave a choked laugh, then stood unsteadily. "Would that Delaunay had left you where he found you! I rue the day he taught you to think."
I'd no answer to that, either. Hyacinthe made me a mocking bow in his best Prince of Travellers style, the slashes in his sleeves flaring eloquently. Quintilius Rousse scowled at his exit, shaking his head.
"I like this not at all," he growled, picking absently at a tray of sweets. "If you've an answer, lass, share it! Let us put our heads together, that all may benefit!"
"My lord Admiral," I said. "No. If Anafiel Delaunay found this answer, he would not share it. Nor can I. If you come to it on your own, so be it."
Quintilius Rousse muttered something about Delaunay's folly. Joscelin moved, restless, coming to stand next to me, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out upon darkness.
"I'm not going to like this, am I?" he said quietly.
I shook my head. "No."
He stared at the unseen sea until I laid my hand upon his arm. "Joscelin." He looked at me, then, reluctant. "Since the day you were assigned to ward me, I've been a trial to you. A thousand ways I've strained your vows, until your very Brotherhood declared you anathema. I swear to you, I'll only do it once more." I cleared my throat. "If we must... if we must part, you must abide it. You were trained to serve royalty, not the ill-conceived offspring of Night Court adepts. You swore your sword unto Ysandre's service. If you would serve her, protect Drustan. Promise me as much."
"I cannot promise it." His voice was low.
"Promise me!" My fingers bit into his arm.
"I do Cassiel's will! No more can I swear."
It would have to be enough; I could ask no more than I would give. I released him. "Even Cassiel bent his will to Elua," I murmured. "Remember it."
"Remember you are not Elua," Joscelin said wryly.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
I did not sleep well that night, in the Master of the Straits' fabulous four-posted ebony bed. My heart and mind alike were too full. Once I rose, opening the door of my chamber onto the tower landing, candle in hand, gazing at the closed doors of my companions' sleeping-quarters. I would have gone somewhere, to someone, then; but I knew not whom. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">