Kushiel's Justice

"Upset? Elua, no!" Phèdre laughed in wonderment. "I'm still trying to get my thoughts to encompass you with a child of your own.”



The words drew an unexpected grin from me. "No, but about the other thing. Dissolving the marriage if she's not with child.”



"No." She glanced involuntarily toward the east, toward Terre d'Ange. "No, Ysandre will be, and I daresay Drustan, but for my part, I'd be relieved. Even if you are safe from harm, I don't like the idea of you wrapped round with an ollamh's charms, your own nature divided against itself. 'Tis contrary to Elua's precept. And surely, they'll have to acknowledge the matter is troubling. Neither of you can be blamed for the choice.”



"You'd stand by us, then?" I asked.



"Of course." Phèdre sounded surprised. She hesitated. "What do you mean to do afterward, Imri?”



We hadn't spoken of Sidonie since leaving the City of Elua. "I've no idea," I said truthfully. "Nothing rash, I promise." I raised my brows. "Mayhap I could accompany you and Joscelin on whatever it is you're about.”



"Oh, that." She smiled at me. "So you do want to know, then?”



I thought about it. "Not really, no.”



Phèdre laughed and kissed my cheek. "Fairly spoken.”



In some part of me, I knew all of this would come to naught. 'Tis too late for that, Morwen had said when I'd spoken of returning to Terre d'Ange. A lot can happen in a month, Dorelei had said when I'd told her. There was a line drawn between those two things, taut and inevitable. Even I, dumbstruck and shocked to my callow core at the notion of impending fatherhood, had seen it without prompting.



But we waited until we knew for a surety.



In its own way, it was a pleasant time. Although I reported my encounter with Morwen to the others, there were no further sightings of the Maghuin Dhonn. The Lady Sibeal ran her household with a firm, gentle hand. Phèdre, Joscelin, and Hyacinthe continued to engage in their private intrigue, which involved long conferences in the tower, maps, and hushed, esoteric arguments. Awe gave way to a measure of familiarity. Day by day, the Master of the Straits began to seem more human, more mortal. The heavy mantle of responsibility that weighed on him seemed lighter in their company.



Meanwhile, Urist and his men alleviated the tedium with hunting and shooting for the pot, and Dorelei and I often rode with them, vying with one another for sport as we'd done at Innisclan.



I felt myself suspended between one thing and another; the known and the unknown. What would come, would come, and there was naught I could do about it. In truth, I couldn't have said what I truly wanted.



Betimes, freedom beckoned. There was no denying it.



But at other times, I found myself gazing at Dorelei, filled with an inexplicable tenderness. Ah, Elua! The notion that we had begotten life between us…



It is an old mystery; the oldest mystery.



I prayed to Blessed Elua, and my prayers were simple. Love as thou wilt, he bade us. But he failed to elaborate on all the myriad forms of love that existed. And so I prayed, simply, that whatever happened, I acted in love.



"You're sure?" I asked Dorelei when she told me.



"Yes, I'm sure!" She swatted at my hands as I raised her skirts, laughing helplessly as I held her down on our bed and pinned my ear against the soft brown skin of her belly. "Imriel, let be. 'Tis too early. There's naught to hear.”



"How do you know?" I lifted my head. "Have you done this before?”



"No." Her fingers knotted in my hair, her face softening. "Come here.”



I went.



Sibeal sent for a wise-woman, an herb-witch who'd attended her own birthings. It was women's business, that, and I wasn't privy to it. She was a nut-brown woman, wizened and bent. Later, Dorelei told me she'd poked and prodded, testing her insides with surprisingly gentle fingers, smelling them afterward, her broad nostrils flaring.



At the time, I knew only what the wise-woman reported.



"Oh, aye!" She gave us a gap-toothed grin, her head bobbing. "The lass is with child.”



I knew; I'd known all the while.



It made me tender, it made me solicitous, it made me a little bit mad. I couldn't get past the notion of it. I forgot, altogether, about the bindings on me. During the days, I was content. At night, I made love to Dorelei, crooning to the child in her belly.



"Which one of us do you want?" she asked me once, tartly.



At that, I sat back on my heels. "Would you have me lie, my lady, and say the child has naught to do with it?”



"No." Her dark eyes filled with tears. "May the gods help me, I'll take what I may have of you. After all, it doesn't matter now, does it?”



"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I grew up without the benefit of parents to love me. I'll not have our child do the same.”



"I know," Dorelei whispered in reply.



Somewhere, somehow, we'd come to understand one another, Dorelei and I.



During those days, my bonds, like Hyacinthe's responsibilities, rested more lightly on me. Oh, I checked them daily, but there was naught to threaten them. I bore them easily. Betimes, I was glad of them. Without the ache of desire plaguing me, I was able to take genuine joy in moments of ordinary happiness.



It came almost as a surprise when the day arrived for us to depart for Bryn Gorrydum, but summer was fleeting and Hyacinthe had watched the Cruarch's flagship cross the Straits in his sea-mirror. It was time. Only a month ago, I would have faced the prospect of repeating my nuptial vows with a vague, half-felt dread, masked by steel resolve and false courtesy. Now I was calm.



So it was that we all set forth, riding in the company of the Master of the Straits and his lady wife. The children, who had grown fond of us, howled bitterly at being left behind. I watched Dorelei embrace them in farewell and promise to visit, a tender ache in my breast. I wondered if the child we'd made together, their young kinsman-to-be, would emerge stamped with the inexplicable trait of some unknown ancestor, like Donal and his protruding ears.



The thought of my impending fatherhood still overwhelmed me with unfamiliar emotion.



In ways I'd never guessed, it seemed I was truly my mother's son.



Although the city was only a day's ride away, we elected to make camp a half league or so beyond its outskirts that evening. Urist sent Kinadius to fetch the rest of our escort to accompany us on the morrow, that we might enter the city in splendor befitting the Master of the Straits, a Princess of Alba, and assorted D'Angeline royalty.



"How long has it been since you camped a-field?" Joscelin asked Hyacinthe as we lounged around the campfire that night.



"Not as long as you might think, Cassiline." Hyacinthe sounded amused, and far younger than he had when we'd first arrived. "I do leave the Stormkeep at times to wander about. I do it quietly, that's all.”



He'd appeared at Montrève once when I was a boy, not long after Phèdre had rescued him. I'd not been on hand to witness his arrival, but I still remembered watching him leave; a dim figure on a grey horse, vanishing into the dawn mists. I wondered what it felt like to command the elements, to reconcile that self with the Tsingano lad who'd told fortunes for coin in Night's Doorstep. My own struggles seemed small and insignificant beside his fate.



In the morning, the full complement of our men arrived, and we rode the rest of the way to Bryn Gorrydum.



If our initial reception had been a trifle cool, this one made up for it. Whatever reservations Albans might have about Dorelei's and my marriage, they held the Master of the Straits in high esteem. The Cruarch himself met us at the city's edge, accompanied by an honor guard. On Drustan's right was his heir Talorcan, and on his left…



“Imri!”



Alais' voice was filled with lilting joy. If she'd been at all wroth with me for her suspicions regarding Sidonie, she'd forgotten it. Indeed, she looked happier than I'd ever seen her. Her face was alight with it, her violet eyes sparkling.



I smiled with genuine pleasure. "Hello, villain. 'Tis good to see you.



We rode in procession through the city to the fortress. Alais chattered with boundless enthusiasm the whole while, telling me every detail of their journey across Terre d'Ange and the Straits and their arrival in Bryn Gorrydum. She barely spoke of home, and I didn't ask.



I'd been right about one thing I'd told her some time ago—the Albans loved her. There was no tribute the way there would have been in the City of Elua, no cheering and throwing of flower petals, but I could see it in the faces of folk lining the streets as we passed. They smiled at the sight of her, warm and indulgent, taking pride and pleasure in her obvious delight at being here in Alba.



I felt a little of that warmth spill over onto me, and I was glad of it.



When we reached Bryn Gorrydum's stony grey fortress, we found it full to the rafters. Our Alban nuptials would be a far smaller affair than the wedding in Terre d'Ange, but the Palace could house nigh unto a hundred peers without straining, and the City of Elua was vast. A small handful here in Bryn Gorrydum felt like many, many more. After the peaceful isolation of the Stormkeep, I felt ill at ease being confined with so many folk.



With her father's blessing, Alais took it upon herself to show us to our quarters, while Talorcan tended to Phèdre and Joscelin, and Drustan himself to Hyacinthe and Sibeal. There was a welcoming feast already under way in the great hall. As Alais escorted us through the narrow corridors to our rooms, the roar of it seemed to echo everywhere.



" 'Tis enough to make me miss Innisclan," Dorelei whispered.



"I know," I whispered back. "Me, too.”



I'd hoped for a chance to have a quiet word with Drustan, to tell him about the Maghuin Dhonn and all that had transpired since we left Terre d'Ange, but it was not to be, at least not that day. Our nuptials wouldn't take place until two days hence, but it seemed the celebrating had already begun in earnest, and we were expected to make an immediate appearance.



"Hurry, won't you?" Alais pleaded. "Everyone's here, and they're all waiting!”



"Everyone?" Dorelei cocked an amused brow at her.



"Everyone!" Alais repeated.



In Terre d'Ange, the fête wouldn't have properly begun until the guests of honor arrived, but this was nothing at all like a D'Angeline affair. For the first time, I truly felt the vast chasm that existed between life in Alba and home. Our initial arrival in Bryn Gorrydum had been quiet and uneventful, and the differences hadn't struck me as hard in Innisclan or Stormkeep, where we'd been the guests of old friends.



But this; this was an affair of state. It was raucous and informal, and if there was a protocol, I couldn't determine it. And if everyone was indeed awaiting us, there wasn't much evidence of it. From what I could see, they were already having a fine time.



The hall was crowded and sweltering in the late-summer heat. There was a long trestle table piled high with food. The sight of an enormous roast, glistening with fatty juices, made my stomach a bit queasy.



There were people standing and milling around the table, laughing, jesting, eating, and drinking. Dark Cruithne, and the more fair, ruddy folk of the Tarbh Cró and the Eidlach Or. Most of the men clustered around the table, while the women, of whom there were far fewer, seemed to be at the far end of the hall. There were children and dogs underfoot. Servants shoved their way through the throng, bearing platters of food and pitchers of drink.



"There's Eamonn!" Alais pointed across the hall, where his bright head was visible. "He and Brigitta arrived yesterday, and his younger brother, too!”



"Has my mother not arrived?" Dorelei asked.



"Oh, yes! I'm supposed to take you to her." Alais took Dorelei's hand and plunged into the crowd, leading her across the hall.



I began to follow, but I didn't get far before I was waylaid. Phèdre and Joscelin were yet to make an appearance, and my D'Angeline features stood out like a beacon.



"You're the young prince!" A stalwart blond fellow with impressive drooping mustaches clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Gwynek of Brea.”



"Imriel de la Courcel," I offered.



"Welcome!" He grinned beneath his mustaches. "Peder, come greet the young prince! And by all that's holy, bring the lad a drink.”



A taller version of Gwynek came over to introduce himself, thrusting a goblet of mead into my hand. By the time I'd won my way free, I'd met a dozen clan-lords of the Eidlach Or and the Tarbh Cró, all of whom were deemed important or influential enough to be invited to attend our nuptials.



They were friendly, but there was a testing edge to their friendliness; even with each other. Travelling the taisgaidh ways, quiet and undisturbed—save for Morwen's mischief—Alba had seemed a peaceful place. Now I remembered Drustan saying there was always feuding among the clans. It was easier to believe here. I could well imagine these men drinking together under the same roof in cheerful brotherhood, and going home to plot raids on one another.



I met a few of the Cruithne clan-lords, too. They were more somber and less effusive, gauging me with dark eyes. More than once, I caught lingering gazes studying my bare, unmarked face, wondering if this untried warrior was worthy of being made an honorary member of the Cullach Gorrym.



It was Eamonn who came to my rescue, shouldering his way through the crowd. "What a crush!" He gave me a lopsided grin, suggesting he'd had more than a few cups of mead. "It's worse than that riot in Tiberium, eh?”



"Or suppertime at Innisclan," I muttered.

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