Kushiel's Dart (Phèdre's Trilogy #1)

by Jacqueline Carey

“Joscelin, you have to leave,” I murmured. “I can’t.” Low as it was, I could hear the agony in his voice. “I can’t leave you here.” “Damn your Cassiel to hell, then!” I hissed, eyes stinging. His chest rose and fell beneath my cheek. “He believed he was, you know,” Joscelin said in a low voice. He touched my hair lightly with one hand, stroking it. “I learned it all my life, but I never truly understood it until now.”

“We’ll … we should sleep close, for warmth.” There was an awkwardness in his tone. I raised my eyebrows at him. “After all we’ve been through, that embarrasses you?”

“Anafiel has promised, swearing upon my ring, and my heart is glad for it though neither Isabel nor Father are pleased. But who among us is whole? He is the wiser half of my sundered soul, and I can give my firstborn no greater gift than to pledge my devotion entire.” And then, “It is done, and witnessed by the priests of Elua.”

De Morhban released me, turning away to pluck a great silvery rose, mindful of its thorns. “You see this?” he asked, placing it in my hand and folding my fingers about the stem. “It exists nowhere else. My Namarrese-gardener bred it. Naamah’s Star, he calls it.” His hand was still around mine; he closed it, tightening my clutch on the stem. Thorns

“I cannot see it,” Hyacinthe whispered, arms blundering outward in the thick mists. “Phèdre, I cannot see our road.” I went to him, then; they left us alone, muttering. Joscelin watched silently, offering no comment. “You can, Hyacinthe. I know you can,” I said, taking his arm. “It’s only mist! What’s that to the veils of what-might-be?” “It is vrajna.” He shivered, cold beneath my grasp. “They were right, Manoj was right, this is no business for men.” Waves lapped at the sides of our ship, little waves, moving us nowhere. We were becalmed. The rowers had paused. “Prince of Travellers,” I said. “The Long Road will lead us home. Let it show the way.” Hyacinthe shivered again, his black gaze blurred and fearful. “No. You don’t understand. The Long Road goes on and on. There is no home for us, only the journey.”

uisghe

whisky!

I thought ruefully of the night, of the further wedge I’d driven between the quarreling Twins. “I’m not fit for diplomacy. I told the Queen as much.” “You’re adept at tongues.” One corner of Grainne’s mouth curled in a smile. She rose to regard herself in a small mirror, thrusting a jeweled pin in her glorious hair. “Anyway, I’ve given you the key to Eamonn.” “My lady?” The child’s poking was distracting me from my headache, but I failed to understand. “He could never bear for me to have aught that he lacked,” Grainne said complacently. “A horse, a sword, a brooch … whatever it was, Eamonn must have as much, or finer.” “You say he will go to war for me?” Her look was kindly condescending. “Left to choose, Eammon will not decide, neither yea nor nay, until Macha’s bull gives milk. For you alone … no. But it will gall him, to be denied what I have had. That is the key, Phèdre nó Delaunay.” She took care with my name, saying it slow, then smiled. “Though you are almost, almost worth a war.”

“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?”

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.

“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.

There, at the edge of the copse, where the young beech trees were leafing golden and a thin mist rose from the warm, moist ground, a black boar emerged. It was enormous. How long boars live, I do not know, but this one must have been ancient to have grown to such size. Its bulk loomed against the slender trees. It raised its black snout, scenting the air; its tusks could have harrowed a field. Someone made a faint sound of disbelief, and I recognized my own voice. I swear, I could smell its rank odor on the morning mist. The black boar glared through the grey dawn with small, fiery eyes. Six thousand and some Pictish and Eiran warriors stared back at it in awe-stricken silence. A shout arose; a single, choked shout. The mighty boar wheeled with a fearful grunt, heading back into the copse. It ran half-gaited and lame. Almost seven thousand throats, giving voice to a single cry. Drustan mab Necthana’s face, blue-marqued and savage, his black eyes shining as he drew his sword, his fierce shout rising over the vast wave of the army’s ululation. “Follow the Cullach Gorrym!” With a fearful din, they charged.

You summoned me, my lord. I am here. I will stay.” The Master of the Straits was silent. And I knew, then, that everything before had been but play.

His door was unlocked. Candle in hand, he glanced up sharply when I turned the handle and opened it; I caught him readying for bed, coatless, in a white shirt and dark breeches. He took one look at me, then another, staring hard. “I’m not Baudoin de Trevalion,” he said harshly. “I’ve no need of a farewell gift, Phèdre.” I closed the door behind me. “If it’s easier on you to be cruel,” I said softly, “I understand. I will go. But if it’s not … how do you want to remember it, Hyacinthe? On a battlefield outside Bryn Gorrydum, or here, like this?” For another long moment he stood staring, then gave his best sweeping bow, high spirit rising, flashing his white grin. “To the Queen of Courtesans!” In that moment, I loved him. “And the Prince of Travellers,” I said, inclining my head. Of what passed between us that night, I will not speak. It had no bearing on aught that happened before or after, and was of no concern to anyone save Hyacinthe and myself. Seldom enough have I had the luxury of bestowing my gift, Naamah’s art, where I chose. I chose that night, and I do not regret. We were awake when the sky began to grey in the east. “Go,” Hyacinthe said, kissing my brow, his voice unwontedly tender. “Before my heart breaks. Go.” I went.

“I saw a letter you wrote to Selig, in your own hand.” My voice was shaking. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.