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

Kushiel's Scion (Imriel's Trilogy #1) Page 102

And when all was said and done, the worst danger I'd faced had come from a man I barely knew. A stranger, bound to me by ties as narrow as the edge of my sword. A woman's terror, a missing hand. I'd created an enemy for myself far more determined than those I'd inherited from my mother's legacy.

And Canis had saved me from them all.

At the base of the Esquiline Hill, I drew rein and gazed back at the city. There had been the riot, of course; and the footpad in the alley the night I'd wandered the streets of Tiberium alone. The dead man outside the insula, his throat slit. Canis, trembling with fear, telling a tale of quarreling thieves. I'd taken pity on him, given him my cloak.

"I'm an idiot," I said aloud.

The Bastard snorted in agreement, pricking his ears toward the embassy.

The Guild had known about Bernadette de Trevalion. Surely, my mother must have known, too. But she had withheld her hand from seeking vengeance, content merely to protect me. Or was it the only thing it lay in her power to do?

I didn't know.

I might never know.

And yet, if I had other enemies I couldn't put a name to, enemies known to her, I didn't doubt she would seek to protect me. It was a strange thought. I stared out at the darkened city, sprawling across Tiberium's hills. Light spilled from the wealthier homes; the poor quarters were dim. I wondered if my mother was out there somewhere, or if she was elsewhere, far, far away. I never had succeeded in identifying Canis' accent.

I raised one hand. "Kushiel's mercy on you, Mother."

A shudder ran through me, a memory of bronze wings. There was a taste of blood in my mouth. The Bastard shifted restlessly beneath me, pebbles rattling under his hooves. I turned his head back toward the embassy and we began to climb.

It was quiet when we arrived.

Since it suited my mood, I was glad. After the visit to Anna's, I craved it. Lady Denise was entertaining Eamonn and a noted Master of Skaldic studies in the dining hall. I begged off on the invitation to join them and retired to my chambers.

All my things were there; mine and Gilot's. It didn't amount to much. We'd travelled light, he and I. I went through his things. Two shirts, one neatly mended. A pair of breeches. Nothing anyone would want to keep for remembrance. There was only his sword, and that lay in his casket with him.

I thought, briefly, of retrieving the blade for Anna; and then I thought better of it.

My own possessions were scarcely more notable. I stowed a few of the less disgraceful items of clothing in my bags, preparing for the morrow's departure. There wasn't much else. My sword, my daggers. A whetting stone, and the flint striking kit given me long ago in Jebe-Barkal. A pair of waterskins. The letter written by Ruggero Caccini.

Letters.

As Lady Denise had said, two had arrived while I was gone. One was thin and bore the crest of House Courcel. That one I'd cracked open and read last night. It was from Ysandre, a gracefully worded acknowledgment of thanks on behalf of Queen and Cruarch alike for my decision to return to Terre d'Ange and wed Dorelei mab Breidaia.

The other letter was thick and the seal of House Montrève was stamped on it. I hadn't opened it. It would have been written before they heard the news from Lucca; only word that I was coming home. I could envision Phèdre in her study, dipping her pen in the inkwell, her brows drawing together in a faint frown as her hand flew over the page. Joscelin leaning over her shoulder, offering a wry comment as she shared some bit of gossip he deemed too trivial to interest me.

I was afraid I'd devour it too fast. Better to save it.

"Imri?" Eamonn poked his head in the door, startling me.

"Come in," I said.

There was a fireplace in my chambers, with a pair of chairs set before it. One of Lady Denise's servants had laid a crackling fire in the fireplace, though I'd let it burn low. They'd brought a light meal and a decanter of brandy, too. I poked at the fire and poured brandy for us.

"Here," I said, handing it to him.

"Ah!" He drank deep, then sank into one of the chairs. "That's good." He held up his glass. "Joie."

I smiled and echoed his toast. "Joie."

We sat for a time in companionable silence. Eamonn gazed at the fire, his head nodding a little. I wondered how much wine he'd drunk at dinner. Then he caught himself and gave a prodigious yawn, jaws cracking. "Dagda Mod I still feel short of sleep."

"Night patrol," I agreed. "Too many nights."

"Aye." He chuckled. "'Here's the thing, lads...'"We both laughed, remembering Gallus Tadius. Eamonn rubbed his chin. "Here's to the madman, eh?" he said, hoisting his glass again, and we both drank. "So." Eamonn set down his glass. "You mean to go home."

I nodded. "On the morrow. And you to Skaldia?"

"Aye. " He regarded me steadily, no longer sleepy. "Come with me?"

Because it was Eamonn asking, and because I loved him, I thought about it. I thought about the tales Joscelin had told me of Skaldia in winter, of cold so intense it froze the sap in the trees until they made loud cracking sounds, of a world blanketed in whiteness beneath the blue dome of the sky. Of wolves and ravens and battles fought on a stretched hide. Of a people who were harsh in some ways and kind in others. And I thought about Eamonn and I wandering into the midst of it, huddling over campfires, depending on the kindness of our former enemies as we sought Brigitta's steading.

It would be an adventure.

It stirred my blood, a little. But then my gaze fell on Phèdre's letter, filled with what was surely gladness and hope at the news of my return. Like the poor princeps of Tiberium, I had my own dutiful prison to return to. Unlike his, mine was built on a foundation of love. I shook my head. "I can't."

"Ah, well." Eamonn refilled his glass. "I had to ask. "

"Are you scared?"

"Some. "Another man might have lied; Eamonn didn't bother. He gave me his steady look. "The Skaldi have no reason to love the Dalriada. I don't know what I'll find. She's worth it, though."

I raised my glass. "To Brigitta. "

"To Brigitta. "Eamonn drank. "Shall we toast your betrothed-to-be?" He read my expression and understood. "Ah, it's too soon, isn't it? You barely even know the lass. How about Claudia Fulvia?" I sputtered mid-sip and Eamonn grinned at me. "To Claudia, then."

"To Claudia," I agreed. "May the gods protect her from herself."

Eamonn laughed. "To the long-suffering Deccus Fulvius!"

"Oh, yes. " I drank. "May he never know what is better left to ignorance. "

Other toasts followed as we refilled our glasses and tried to outdo one another. We drank to Lucius for his courage and to the valor of the Red Scourge. We drank to our fallen companions and toasted the living. I toasted Eamonn for his leadership of Barbarus squadron, and he toasted me for saving his life. We drank to Master Piero for his wise teaching, and then we drank to wisdom itself and to all the virtues we could think of, making a muddled job of it.

By that time, the decanter was nearly empty and we were both more than a bit drunk. After the short rations in Lucca, neither of us had a head for drink anymore. I poured the last of the brandy into our glasses.

"To Gilot," I murmured.

"Gilot," Eamonn echoed.

Silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. A charred log settled, sending up a burst of sparks, and Eamonn heaved himself to his feet.

"To bed, "he said, swaying. "You're off in the morning?"

"Early, yes."

"All right." He knuckled his eyes. "I'll see you then."

I almost wished he would stay, that we were sharing a bedchamber as we had in Phèdre's townhouse. For once, I wouldn't have minded his snoring. But we weren't overgrown boys any more, exchanging confidences in the dark. We were grown men who had fought in and survived the siege of Lucca. We were royal guests of the D'Angeline embassy, entitled to the privilege of privacy. I closed the door behind him and climbed into bed.

I'd thought to lay awake for hours that night, staring at the darkness and remembering the stricken look on Anna Marzoni's face, but the brandy had done its work. I fell asleep almost the instant my head touched the pillow, and slept soundly until a servant came to wake me at daybreak.

It was time to go home.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

All was in readiness.

An honor guard of four men would escort me to the City of Elua. I'd argued against it, but Lady Denise was adamant. When I learned they were drawing lots for the privilege—which was less about my royal personage than it was the chance to return home—I'd ceded the point.

We assembled an hour after dawn and rode in procession to the wharf. Gilot's casket had been fitted with brass rings. Sturdy poles were thrust through the rings, and four embassy guardsmen carried it on their shoulders. Eamonn and I rode on either side of the casket, exchanging glances, bleary-eyed and rueful.

I hated the thought of saying good-bye to him.

There was a barge awaiting us at the wharf. It was reserved for our usage, flying the banner of Elua and his Companions. I lingered on the docks while Lady Denises guardsmen oversaw the loading of the horses, our goods, Gilot's casket.

Then it was done, and there was no excuse for further delay. I bowed to Denise Fleurais. "Thank you, my lady, for all you have done. May Elua bless and keep you."

Lady Denise bowed in reply, then gave me the kiss of parting. "Be well and be safe, Imriel de la Courcel," she said. "I need no other thanks."

Eamonn.

He had dismounted and given one of the guards his reins. We gazed awkwardly at one another. "Here." He thrust a packet of letters toward me. "For my mother, mostly. There's one for my father, too, if he ever comes to port." He gave a lopsided grin. "Didn't want to forget this time."

I took them and tucked them inside my doublet. "I'll make sure they're received."

"Good." Eamonn cleared his throat. "So."

"You've got everything you need?" I asked him.

He nodded. "Nearly. I'll leave within a day or two. Mayhap I can beat the snow."

"Good." I drew a breath. "I'll miss you."

"Ah, Imri!" Eamonn grabbed me in a bone-cracking hug, then held me by the shoulders. "Try to stay out of trouble until I get back," he said gruffly. "Don't let anyone kill you. And try not to brood so damnably much, will you?"

"I'll try." I blinked back tears and laughed. "Come home safe?"

"I'll try," he promised.

All we could do was try. I boarded the barge and the barge-captain gave the order to shove off. We swung away from the wharf and the oarsmen began to stroke. In a few short minutes, we were on our way, travelling down the wide expanse of the Tiber. The figures on the shore began to dwindle. I stood at the aft end of the barge, watching until I could no longer see the glint of the autumn sun on Eamonn's bright hair.

"You all right, your highness?" one of the guards asked; Romuald, who'd ridden twice to Lucca and warned me about the dam. He was the one who'd laughed at me at the embassy gates the day I'd arrived with a stinking satchel full of incense. I was glad he'd drawn one of the lots.

"Yes," I said. "I will be."

Our journey to Ostia was swift and uneventful. We were travelling with the current and there was little traffic on the river this late in the season. As the seven hills of Tiberium fell away behind us, I stood beside Gilot's casket, remembering. There was the bridge we'd passed under before, the worn figure of Janus maintaining his vigil, his two faces gazing in opposite directions. Last time, a finger of foreboding had touched me as we glided beneath the bridge's shadow. This time, I saluted him, thinking of the split halves of a wax mask falling into the floodwaters. The man with two faces. Alais had been right, I'd met him after all.

Was he a friend?

One of him was.

As Lady Denise had promised, there was a ship awaiting us in Ostia. It was a Tiberian ship, and its captain had been paid handsomely to make the late crossing. He was a short, rotund man named Oppius da Lippi, good-natured and merry.

"You're the D'Angeline prince's party?" he shouted from the deck as we made our way across the quai. When one of the guards answered in the affirmative, he nodded so enthusiastically that his chins quivered. "Come aboard, come aboard!"

All his men were in good spirits. I watched in bemusement as they loaded our gear and horses quickly aboard the ship, laughing and dodging as the Bastard balked on the ramp, snapping at his would-be handlers.

"Here." I took the reins. The Bastard eyed me with profound mistrust, but he suffered me to lead him aboard. Once he was safely esconced in a narrow stall in the dark hold, he settled down, and I returned abovedeck.

"A right bastard, eh, sir?" asked a cheerful sailor.

I smiled. "You might say so." They were loading Gilot's casket and I was worried that they'd handle it carelessly, but they treated it with the respect due a dead hero, at least until the casket was safely stowed away below.

"Your highness!" Captain Oppius approached me with a florid bow. "Welcome aboard the Aeolia! 'Tis the first time she's carried royalty, but I promise you, she's up to the task. Cradle you on the bosom of Ocean, she will, as safe as a babe at the teat."

"My thanks, lord captain." I extended my hand. "Call me Imriel."

"Imriel!" He pumped my hand, beaming with delight. "Not one to stand on ceremony, eh? Wise, very wise! Makes for a more pleasant journey, and a good thing, too, since we're like to run into a few rough patches. Call me Oppius. Do you dice?"