Kushiel's Scion (Imriel's Trilogy #1)

Since I no longer had need of Lady Denise's guards, I dispensed the last contents of my purse among them, thanking them for their service. Three of them accepted it gladly, eager to depart for their own destinations and make the most of their time in Terre d'Ange before returning to Tiberium in the spring. Romuald scratched his head and regarded me dubiously.

"Think I'll stay in your service, if you don't mind," he said. "Until we reach the City."

"Of course not."

"Like to tell her ladyship I saw the job through." He watched Gerard's men loading Gilot's casket carefully into a cart. "And then there's him. It's a funny thing, your highness. I never knew him, but I came to think of him as a friend of sorts, on the road together so long." He gave an embarrassed chuckle. "You must think me a little mad."

"No." I laid a hand on his shoulder. "You would have liked him."

Another parting, another farewell.

Jeanne embraced me. I closed my eyes, remembering her black hair spread on the pillow, the sea-surge of love. "Come visit us," she said. "Anytime. You could come in the spring for the Moon-Tide Festival. Have you ever seen the taurières at sport or a Mendacant perform?"

"No," I said. "Not a real one."

"Think on it."

I promised I would, and then Roxanne de Mereliot gave me a kiss of parting; a mother's kiss, gentle on my brow. "A safe journey," she said, patting my cheek. "And my love to Phèdre and her lovely Cassiline." Her dark eyes crinkled. "He makes a terrible Mendacant."

I laughed. "I know."

And then we were off. Another journey, a last journey. At least for a while. Despite the chill, the sun was bright and Marsilikos was doing a bustling trade. The harbor might be quiet for the season, but the city wasn't. All manner of folk would winter here. We passed shops and taverns and markets, temples and brothels. Native Marsilikans recognized Gerard and called out cheerful greetings as we passed, then fell silent when they saw the casket. I saw a few offer prayers to Blessed Elua, and I was glad.

The city behind us, the road before. One of Gerard's men brought out a wooden flute and began to play as he rode, and another beat the time on a tambor. After a moment, Gerard began to sing. He had a fine voice, deep and rolling.

"What was all that about Mendacants?" Romuald asked curiously. "I saw one, once. Came to town when I was a boy. No offense to your highness, but Elua, could he spin a tale!"

I cocked my head at him. "A true tale?"

"Ah, well." He grinned. "Who's to say?"

So I told him, as we rode, about how Joscelin had taken on a Mendacant's guise to cross the country with Phèdre and Hyacinthe; a wandering Eisandine storyteller in a multicolored cloak, travelling in the company of the Tsingani. He knew the story, of course; he was D'Angeline. But he only knew the poets' version, which didn't mention ignominious disguises. I knew the version Phèdre told, laughing at the memory of Joscelin Verreuil practicing the dramatic swirl of his Mendacant's cloak, glaring with stiff, irritable Cassiline dignity at Hyacinthe's persistent coaching. There were some stories they'd never told me; ones I'd learned elsewhere, like how Waldemar Selig sought to skin her alive. From Gilot, mostly.

But this one, Phèdre had told.

And Joscelin… Joscelin listening with wry patience. When I was younger, I'd begged him to demonstrate. He'd done it, too, telling some wild, half-remembered tale they'd concocted between them. He'd actually made a good job of it, which made it all the funnier. Phèdre and I had laughed until we wept. I'd rolled on the floor, helpless with it.

Ah, Elua!

"Are you all right, your highness?" Romuald asked in concern; the same kind, decent concern he'd shown on the barge.

"Yes." I willed my voice to steadiness. It was the nearness of it that had caught me. The nearness to the journey's end, the nearness to those I loved. My heart swelled within me, aching, but I made myself give him an answer, the same answer I'd given before. "I will be." Romuald nodded gravely. "That's good, then."

Chapter Seventy

Never in my life had I been so glad to see the white walls of the City of Elua. From the first glimpse, I found myself standing in the stirrups and craning for a better look. The Bastard caught my mood and began straining at the bit, arching his neck and sidling. He wanted to run, and I wanted to let him.

Gerard laughed at me. "Eager, are we?"

"You've no idea," I said fervently.

It seemed to take forever to reach the gates, and then we had to wait while the guards examined the contents of a merchant's caravan. At last, they waved him through and it was our turn.

"Marsilikos, my lord?" a guard asked Gerard, noting the banners and his crest.

"Gerard de Mereliot," he said cheerfully. "And friends."

The guard looked us over. His gaze passed over me at first and lingered on Gilot's casket. He frowned. "Who died?"

"He was the Comtesse de Montrève's man," I said.

"Why—" He gave me a startled glance. "Oh. Oh! Your highness?"

"Imriel, yes."

A pair of Tsingano lads idling over a game of knucklebones in a patch of sun leapt to their feet. One of them stuck his fingers in his mouth and gave a sharp whistle. "Hey! Is that him?" he called.

The guard grinned. "Aye, it's him!"

With dueling whoops and shouts, they dashed away, pelting through the City.

"What in the world?" Gerard asked, bemused.

"Tsingani." The guard shrugged. "They've been hanging about for a few days. I don't mind, as long as they don't steal."

Another time, I might have stayed to defend the reputation of the Tsingani, but not today. I could well guess that the lads were there at Phèdre's behest; or mayhap Emile's out of the affection he bore her. Even now, they were racing to carry the news. Filled with impatience, I pushed past the guard to follow in their wake.

"Welcome home, your highness!" he called after me.

The City of Elua.

It seemed bigger than I remembered it. I'd thought it would seem smaller, but it didn't. We crossed the arched bridge over the Aviline, the river sparkling in the wintry sun. Pedestrians made way for us, casting respectful glances at the casket. No one recognized me in the midst of Gerard's men, surrounded by Marsilikan banners and livery.

My heart was thudding in my chest.

We got almost as far as Elua's Square when the sound of pounding hoofbeats shattered the air. I recognized Ti-Philippe by his seat, riding hell-for-leather, with Hugues on his heels. A grin split my face, and I gave the Bastard his head.

"Imri!"

It's a wonder no one was killed. We collided in Elua's Square in a churning tangle of horseflesh, limbs, and leather. Hugues embraced me so hard, I thought he meant to lift me clean out of the saddle, and then the Bastard reared and nearly unseated me, spooking Ti-Philippe's mount in turn. Somehow, laughing and talking all at once, we managed to get ourselves untangled and righted.

"Where—" I began.

"Imri, love."

Phèdre's voice.

I'd not even heard them arrive in the confusion. They had already dismounted. Standing in the square, Joscelin a half-step behind her. I stared at them. My mouth had gone dry and the blood was pounding in my ears until I felt dizzy with it. Phèdre's eyes shone. She was wearing a dark green gown. It hurt to look at her. At them.

No one spoke.

I dismounted in silence, dropping the Bastard's reins. My legs were trembling. I made myself move them. I walked into her arms, and his arms came around the both of us.

Home.

How long we stayed that way, I couldn't have said. A long time, I suppose. It didn't feel like it. But at length, I became aware of the murmur of voices, other voices, low and somber. Taking a deep breath, I pulled away.

Joscelin looked at the cart. "Gilot?"

I nodded. I didn't trust myself to speak, not yet.

"Ah, love!" There was sorrow in Phèdre's voice; an ocean of sorrow. Tears gleamed on her beautiful face. "I'm so sorry."

"I know," I whispered. "So am I."

Thus was my homecoming, filled with shared gladness and grief. We didn't go home straightaway, but took Gilot's casket to the cemetery. All was in readiness. Phèdre had written to his family when she received the news of his death. It would have been his wish, his mother had written in reply, to be buried as a member of Montrève's household. His service to House Montrève was his greatest pride.

Gerard and his men accompanied us; and Romuald, too. An elderly priest of Elua met us at the cemetery gate, emerging from the humble gatehouse there. It was a duty many of them took upon themselves in the last years of their lives.

"Comtesse." The priest inclined his head. His hair was white, as white as snow. Even his lashes were snowy, barely visible against his wrinkled eyelids. "Come with me."

The men of Montrève bore the casket; Joscelin and I in the front, Ti-Philippe and Hugues at the rear, the poles resting on our shoulders.

It was heavy.

We followed Phèdre and the priest through the city of the dead, along aisles of grass turned brown and sere. The priest's bare feet were gnarled beneath the hem of his blue robe. Only the members of the Great Houses of Terre d'Ange were buried here. Some of the mausoleums we passed were ornate, adorned with elaborate statuary, surrounded by dozens of grave markers. Others were simple.

Montrève's was simple. There is a graveyard on the estate where most of the members of House Montrève lie. Only two lay within the mausoleum in the City: Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève and Alcuin nó Delaunay. It was built on Ysandre's orders, following their murders.

And there, beside it, a new grave had been dug. The freshly turned soil lay in a neat pile on the far side, a pair of shovels crossed atop it. It had been made ready as soon as the courier from Marsilikos had arrived. We lowered the casket on the near side of the grave and slid the poles from the brass rings.

"Has he been blessed and annointed?" the priest asked Phèdre.

She glanced at me, and I shook my head. "No," I said.

I undid the latches myself while the priest offered a prayer, and then the four of us lifted the lid from the casket. A powerful odor of myrrh filled the air. I was half afraid of what we might find—I daresay all of us were—but the embalmers had done their job well.

Gilot.

True and not true.

It looked like him, like a Gilot carved of marble, bloodless and pale. His closed eyelids were smooth and serene, his mouth closed and somber. The priest drew a vial of oil from his vestments and smeared some on his brow, uttering the formal words of blessing. He kissed his fingertips and touched them lightly to Gilot's breast.

"Go forth in love," he said. "May you pass through the bright gate to the true Terre d'Ange-that-lies-beyond."

We replaced the heavy lid and I reclosed the latches. And then we picked up the casket and lowered it into the earth. Phèdre stooped and grasped a handful of soil. "Blessed Elua hold you in his hand, Gilot," she whispered, letting it trickle through her fingers.

I followed suit, and others after me. And then I took up a shovel and began filling in the grave. Others helped, and I let them, but I didn't relinquish my turn. It was something I needed to do. I had promised to bring him home.

I keep my promises, my mother had written.

So did I.

And then it was done. I set down my shovel and straightened, running my sleeve over my brow. I felt tired and sad, but lighter, too. A burden had passed from my keeping.

"You all right, your highness?" Romuald asked me a last time.

"Yes," I said. "I am."

We parted ways after the cemetery. Gerard was bound for the Palace to carry his mothers greetings to the Queen, and his men would accompany him. I thanked him for his kindness.

"Oh, anytime!" he said cheerfully. "Mind what Jeanne said and come visit, will you?" He laughed. "Watch out for candles, though!"

I flushed. "I will."

Romuald left us, too. Phèdre had offered him hospitality, but he had declined, stammering somewhat about an inn and friends in the City. He was ill at ease in her presence, awestruck and overwhelmed. I didn't blame him. Gilot had been like that at first. He used to stare at Phèdre when he thought no one was looking, blushing and tripping over himself to apologize when he was caught out at it. He'd gotten over it, though.

"You're welcome, highness," Romuald said when I thanked him for his service. "I couldn't risk have you turning up on her ladyship's doorstep looking every inch a ragged beggar, could I?"

I laughed. "I wouldn't have dared!"

"Oh, no?" He grinned at me, then dared a sidelong glance at Phèdre, who looked bemused. "Ah, well… I'm glad to have seen you home safely." He nodded in the direction of the cemetery. "And him."

I clasped his hand. "Do me a kindness. He left a woman behind in Tiberium, Anna Marzoni. She's a young widow, with a daughter. I've seen to it that they'll be provided for, but if you think on it, will you call on them when you return and make certain they want for naught?"

Romuald nodded. "Of course."

He rode away whistling. I watched him go, thinking he was a good man, a kind man. Gilot, who'd always rolled his eyes at Lucius, would have liked him. I wondered if Anna would find him beautiful. She would, I thought. She might even let herself care for him. Who could say? It was worth hoping, at any rate.