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

"No," I admitted.

Eamonn flopped onto his back, staring at the rafters. "Ah, it's a beautiful place!" he said. "I hope to show it to you one day. I mean to go back, you know, when I've grown a bit in the world. The thing is, when you come to it, it's not that Innisclan is too small for me." He glanced over at me, and his shrewd eyes glinted. "I'm too small for me."

I grinned at him. "Not according to the innkeeper's daughter!"

"Lewd bugger!" He laughed and threw a pillow at me. "Ah now, you know what I mean. But this Maslin of yours, he doesn't. He reckons the world's cheated him, and it's left a hole in his heart. He's trying to fill it somehow, but nothing ever fits. It's not your fault."

"Whose, then?" I asked.

"No one's." Eamonn shrugged. "Life isn't fair, Imri. You of all people ought to understand. Still, we can but try to do good. And you did. What he's done with it is up to him."

I tossed his pillow back to him. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is." He tucked the pillow under his head, stretching and sighing. "Oh, Imri! You should come to Tiberium with me in the spring. Think of what a time we'd have."

"I can't," I said. "Not until I turn eighteen."

"Ah well, you could," he said slyly. "If we were clever about it."

We had talked about what a grand adventure it would be. I'd even given it thought. It was hard always being surrounded by intrigue, encumbered by a net of safeguards. I'd give a lot to be like Eamonn, feckless and unfettered. Even if the Queen sent a company of guardsmen to haul me back to Terre d'Ange, it would be a glorious escape.

I couldn't do it.

It came back to the same thing: Phèdre and Joscelin. I couldn't betray their trust. It wasn't just a matter of all we had been through together. I remembered that day in the throne room when I was formally adopted into their fosterage. I remembered Queen Ysandre's outrage and genuine disbelief at the request, and how Phèdre had held forth the Companion's Star in silence, claiming a boon the Queen herself had promised long ago. I'd had no idea the stakes would be so high. What had I known of Court? Until then, I'd never been aught but a goatherd or a slave.

"I can't, truly," I said to Eamonn. "It's a matter of honor."

"Oh, honor!" he said. "All right, then. Next year, mayhap, you'll join me."

"Mayhap."

The lamp on the nightstand between us gave a final sputter and died. Near me, I heard Eamonn settle into sleep, his breathing growing heavy and slow. I lay awake with my eyes open onto darkness, envying him.

Afterward, I made it a point to avoid Maslin. Most of the time, it was easy. To be sure, he wasn't eager to seek out my company, either. Still, there were times when it was unavoidable. And despite Eamonn's words, which I knew to be sensible and true, I often felt obscurely guilty in his presence.

Other times, I was angry at him.

Those were the times that frightened me. I found myself studying him, gauging his fault-lines, imagining the perfect way in which to drive a wedge into them that would crack his pride asunder. It wouldn't be hard to do. With a few well-chosen, well-timed words—a careless mention of my own generosity, say, and how I had granted Lombelon to him while he stood before me with dung under his nails—I could humiliate him before the Court. He would hate me for it, but no one would ever forget it.

I didn't, of course. But I thought about it.

The only good thing about Maslin's presence was that it restored a piece of common ground between Alais and me. She didn't like him.

We discussed it during a hunting party in late autumn. It was one of those invigorating days when the air was crisp and bright, cold enough to see one's breath. We rode to hawk and hound, and everyone turned out in fine new warm attire; velvet gowns and padded doublets, sweeping cloaks trimmed with ermine and marten.

I rode with Alais, who had had little chance to go a-hunting with Celeste. It was a scene of merry pageantry as the party spread out across the meadow. Patient cadgers carried the birds of prey for the gentry, transferring them to gauntleted arms. The beaters and bird-dogs plunged into the brush, seeking to flush quarry. Wineskins and flasks were passed back and forth, laughter and wagers were traded. Alais and I set ourselves apart. Celeste was the only coursing hound present, but I reckoned sooner or later the beaters would flush a hare.

Sure enough, one burst from the sere grass, its powerful hind legs propelling it in mighty leaps. Alais gave the command I had taught her, and Celeste bounded to the chase.

It sowed chaos on the hunting field.

The hare doubled in a panic, zigging and zagging between riders and attendants. Celeste followed in hot pursuit, a tall lean shadow. At the same moment, a covey of partridge flushed from the underbrush. Horses shied in alarm, jolting their riders. Hawks bated, battening the air with their wings and straining at their jesses. Everyone was shouting; gentry, cadgers, guardsmen. I could hear Eamonn's loud whoop amid the clamor.

Alais and I laughed harder than we had since the Queen's harvest celebration in the apple orchard, laughing until our sides ached.

When it was over, Celeste had caught the hare. Alais gave the command for her return and she loped over to us, the hare's limp body drooping from her mighty jaws, blood beaded on its grey-brown fur. I dismounted and praised her as I took it from her.

"Poor thing," Alais murmured, regarding the hare.

" 'Tis a harsh sport," I agreed. An attendant come forward with a game-bag. With a deft move, he slit the hare's belly, tossing the entrails to Celeste. In Montrève, I'd have done it myself. "We needn't continue, if you'd rather not."

"No." Alais' chin rose. "I don't need to be coddled."

I sighed, putting one hand on her stirrup. The Bastard nudged me from behind, whuffling at my hair. "No, you don't. And I'm not. I'm just trying to be your friend, Alais."

"I know." Her violet eyes darkened. "You're not like him."

Following her gaze, I saw Maslin, who was in charge of the company of the Queen's Guard escorting this outing. Until now, I had managed to ignore that fact. Clad in his lieutenant's finery, he had dismounted to aid Sidonie; calming her mount, helping gentle the goshawk on her arm. Her head was bent toward him, her hair hiding her face in a golden curtain. The sight made my stomach give an unexpected lurch.

"Maslin of Lombelon?" I asked.

"I don't like him!" Alais said fiercely. "I know what you did for him, Imri. And he's not even grateful. He doesn't even care."

"He does," I said. The old guilt plucked at me. We were both born to treasonous parents, but he had suffered more than I for it, at least in those ways under mortal jurisdiction. At Court, that was all that mattered. "It's just… what I did wasn't enough." Alais fixed me with a hard look. "Oh, please!"

"I know, I know." I watched him with Sidonie. "Name of Elua! Tell me he's not thinking of courting her."

"No, not exactly." She shrugged. "But she likes him."

"Sidonie?"! asked, incredulous. "Why?"

Alais shrugged again. "I don't know. Because he's not like the others. He doesn't mince words or tell pretty lies. But I don't like him. He looks through me, and there's something cold in his eyes." Her mouth twisted. "I know what he sees. I'm too young. I'm not pretty, not like Sidonie. It's not my fault."

"That's not true." I gazed up at Alais. Her violet eyes were wide and vulnerable, fringed with sooty lashes, set in her awkward young face like twin jewels. "I think you're beautiful."

Color rose to her cheeks, and she scowled at me. "Don't lie to me!"

"I'm not." I smiled, seeing at once the whole of Alais—the clever, impulsive and open-hearted girl she had been, and the proud and prickly adolescent she was becoming. I could see the fault-lines in her, and it filled me with nothing but tenderness. Alais was young and insecure, and she struggled so hard not to let the whispers of Court bother her, not to be resentful of her older sister to whom so much seemed to come so easily. And yet she was fierce and loyal, too. No one would ever find it easy to exploit her faults, and I would gladly kill anyone who tried. "You are beautiful, Alais. Never believe otherwise."

"Thank you," she whispered.

Sitting on her haunches at my feet, Celeste beat her tail like a whip, grinning with bloodstained jaws. I laughed. "See, even Celeste agrees. And everyone knows dogs can't lie." I reached up and squeezed Alais' hand. "Come on, love. Let's see if we can catch another hare."

I made a show of mounting, giving her time to wipe away the tears I'd pretended not to see. The Bastard obliged by turning in an abrupt circle, forcing me to hop on one foot until I gained enough leverage to swing myself astride. By the time I did, Alais was smiling. Across the field, I could see a few people laughing, too, but it was worth it.

"Do you know, I had a dream, once, that we were brother and sister," Alais said. "Really and truly, I mean. When I woke up, I wished it were so." She paused. "I do love you, Imri."

I grinned at her. "Me too, villain."

Her brows drew into a scowl. "Stop calling me that! It's silly."

"All right, villain."

Chapter Twenty-One

For the first time, I attended the Midwinter Masque.

I told myself it was for Eamonn's sake, though it wasn't entirely true. I wanted to go. I'd heard too many stories of the splendor and gaiety of the Longest Night. And this would be my only chance to attend it with a friend, one true friend, in tow.

If Joscelin was hurt, he didn't show it; I daresay he understood. He would keep Elua's vigil as always, while Ti-Philippe stood in as Phèdre's escort. For her part, Phèdre was pleased. Once the matter was determined, nothing would do but that we all accompany her to the salon of her couturiere, Favrielle nó Eglantine, to be fitted for costumes.

It was customary for the members of a household to be costumed around a single theme. Favrielle took one look at the four of us—Phèdre, Ti-Philippe, Eamonn, and I—and put her hands on her hips.

"What do you expect me to do with this, Comtesse?" she asked in an acerbic tone.

"I thought you might have some ideas," Phèdre said mildly.

Favrielle shook her head and muttered, pacing around the comfortable antechamber of her salon and studying us. She was a pretty woman, with disheveled curls of coppery gold and a delicate face poorly suited to its customary expression of ill-temper; but then, I suppose irascible genius doesn't choose its vessel.

"Stand up," she said abruptly to Eamonn. He did, towering over her. "Name of Elua! How am I supposed to handle a giant in your midst?"

Phèdre shrugged. "Are there no popular themes this year that would suit us?"

"Popular?" Favrielle shot her a scathing look. "I set trends, Comtesse. I do not follow them."

"Of course." Phèdre inclined her head, hiding a smile. "Forgive me, Favrielle."

Ignoring her, the couturiere walked around Eamonn, studying him as though he were prize livestock. He stood, patient and bewildered. The rest of us sat waiting while Favrielle nó Eglantine's sharp gaze flickered from him to us and back again. Finally she dismissed Eamonn with a wave of her hand, then resumed pacing, biting her thumbnail, deep in thought.

"I have an idea," she announced at length. There was a rare note of uncertainty in her voice. "You may not like it." She rang a bell, and an apprentice appeared. "Bring me Dorian's folio."

In short order, the apprentice returned with a handsome leather-bound folio. Favrielle handed it to Phèdre, who paged through it, gazing at the woodblock prints. Her hands went still, and she looked up at Favrielle. "These are Skaldic myths," she said.

Favrielle nodded. "I told you you might not like it." Stooping beside Phèdre, she pointed at a print of a handsome, hulking deity, a mighty hammer in one hand. "Donar, the thunder-god. That's who I thought of for the Dalriadan prince."

Eamonn peered over her shoulder. "I like the look of him!"

"Your country wasn't invaded by the Skaldi," Ti-Philippe muttered.

"It wasn't their gods who ordered it." Phèdre rose and walked a little distance away. "Believe me, I know." She looked at Favrielle. "What else?"

"Loki." The couturiere pointed at Ti-Philippe, then me. "And Baldur the Beautiful. For you, Comtesse, the goddess Freyya." She took a deep breath, expelling it through pursed lips. "Color. Everyone will be doing strong color, bright color this year. I'd keep you all in white; frost, ice, snow. Silver accents, nothing more."

Phèdre nodded at the folio. "Where did you get that?"

"The artist is Dorian nó Eglantine. He's a friend." Favrielle watched her. "He spent a year travelling through the southern reaches of Skaldia, gathering their myths and making the sketches on which these are based. But he's been afraid of going public with the prints."

"I don't blame him," Ti-Philippe said sourly. "He wasn't on the battlefield at Troyes-le-Mont."

Favrielle shrugged. "It's art, chevalier." She turned back to Phèdre. "I would not suggest this for just anyone. But you… you have earned a certain right. It would be respected as a gesture of peace and accord. As you say, it was not Skaldia's gods who made war upon us."