Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter 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?"

He gave me a speculative look. "Some of them would, yes. Your warrior’s skill has fired their hearts." He inclined his head to Joscelin, who smiled politely, not understanding. "But Grainne will not do this. Bold as an eagle she may be, but even she cannot cut the bond between them." Resting his reins on the pommel of his saddle, he looked back to the east, homeward and beyond, to the distant shores of Terre d’Ange, and his voice changed. "I dreamed of a bond, once. Two kingdoms, side by side, in open and free alliance. Two thrones, bound with the silken thread of love, and not the chains of necessity." He smiled a little. "So we said, in my very bad Caerdicci, that I have not voiced even to you, and her Cruithne, which was little better. But we understood one another. That is what we dreamed, Ysandre de la Courcel and I. Does she still?"

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, Phèdre. 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.

"Tell them tomorrow," I said to him when the Dalriada had apologized and gone. "Not in council, but after, when they’re feasting in the hall. Tell them what you have decided."

He looked at me and nodded. "I will do as you wish."

So it was that it happened on the sixth day.

As on the others, nothing was decided, the Twins at odds. Still, they honored the laws of hospitality, fêting their guests. It was in the hall, before the roaring fire, that Drustan rose to address Grainne and Eamonn.

"My lords of the Dalriada," he said, bowing. "You have given shelter to me and my people, and I am ever grateful. But I have sworn a pledge." He held up his right hand, firelight gleaming from the gold of Rolande’s signet. "I must honor it, or die trying. A usurper sits upon my uncle’s throne, mine by right, my father-slaying cousin, Maelcon. On the morrow, I ride east, to reclaim that which is mine. And if I live, we cross the Straits."

Pandemonium erupted in the hall, noisy and familiar. I waited, then made my way to the Twins' thrones.

"My lords," I said, kneeling. "We thank you for your hospitality. Prince Drustan has spoken. We will depart on the morrow, carrying his words to our Queen."

Grainne gave me a regal nod and turned away, concealing an amused glint in her grey-green eyes. She knew what I was about to try; she’d given me the key. I stood and made my curtsy, with all the grace of Cereus House, and turned to leave.

"Wait," Eamonn protested, following to catch my shoulder. "You need not depart in such haste, my lady! At least…at least drink with me, will you not? You have not…you cannot…" He shot an evil glance at his sister. "We are alike, she and I, born of one womb! You cannot favor one over the other!"

"My lord!" I shook off his hand. "I am the Queen’s ambassador! Would you treat me so?"

"I have never forced any woman!" Snatching his hand back, he glared at me. "But how can you choose so? It is not right!"

I shrugged. "My lord," I said mildly, "as you desire D’Angelines for our beauty, so do we admire aught in others, boldness and daring. Such, your sister possesses."

"And you say I do not?" Eamonn was working himself into a fury, features wild and distorted. "You say I lack courage?"

A small crowd was beginning to gather. Joscelin worked through it unobtrusively, making his way to my side.

Feeling his reassuring presence at my shoulder, I looked at Eamonn and shrugged again, keeping my face expressionless. "I do not say it, my lord. Your actions speak for me."

"Rather louder than you imagined, Eamonn." That was Grainne’s voice, sharp and mocking; it drew laughter. He turned to glare at her, his face near purple with anger, hands fisting at his sides. She looked back at him, her face a cool reflection of his, red-gold brows arched. "You have made your bed; do you cry now, that you lie in it alone?"

"If it is daring you want," he said through grinding teeth, "I will show you daring!" Thrusting one fist into the air, he cried out. "The Dalriada ride to war, at the side of Drustan mab Necthana!"

Cheers erupted; if there were groans, they were swept aside in the wave of jubilation. Eamonn pumped his fist, shouting, wholly caught up in it. For a moment, I think, he forgot about me; I had been a catalyst to this deep rivalry between the Twins, no more. But he remembered, and turned to me with bright eyes, grinning.

"What do you say to that, D’Angeline?" he asked, catching my arms. "Was that daring enough?"

A horse, a sword, a brooch…it was a boy’s glee, at a victory won. It made me smile, despite myself. "Yes, my lord," I said, meaning it. "It is enough."

At my side, Joscelin heaved a sigh.

Thus did it come to pass that I bedded the Twins, Lords of the Dalriada. Eamonn kept his grin for days, going about the business of preparing for war with it plastered on his face, foolish and blissful. I daresay I served him better than I had his sister, having been considerably more sober. Although Grainne had no complaints, to be sure; she caught me in the hall one day and slid a gold bracelet over my arm, rich with the fine, intricate knotwork they do.

"For luck," she said, amused. "This goddess you serve, she is a powerful one."

I hoped so.

We were riding to war.