Kushiel's Justice (31 page)

“They’re wonderful,” I said honestly.

“They were meant to be finished earlier.” She took my right hand, turning it over and kissing my knuckles. “But mayhap they’ll help keep you safe.”

I cupped her cheek. “Thank you.”

“Oh, well.” She gave her dimpled smile. “I’ve watched you and Joscelin spar. He said you’ve never had a pair of your own. A proper pair.”

“No.” I shook my head. “I found a pair in Lucca, an old rusted pair. They saved my life. But I never . . .” I thought about it. “I don’t know. I suppose it would have felt presumptuous. After all, I’m not a Cassiline.”

“I don’t care about that.” Dorelei leaned forward and kissed my lips, taking my other hand and placing it on her belly. “I just want you to come home to me, that’s all.”

I kissed her back. “I will.”

That night, I gained a measure of insight regarding why men wage war for foolish causes. For all that women’s wisdom runs deeper, they are tender and ardent on the eve of sending their men into battle. With the spectre of bloodshed hanging over us, Dorelei and I made love that night, and it had a poignancy I’d never felt before.

And in the morning, I went forth to raid cattle.

T
HIRTY

W
E LAY ON OUR BELLIES
in the hazel copse, gazing down into the valley.

The slanting rays of the setting sun warmed the grey stone of Briclaedh Castle. It was smaller than Clunderry, but the pasturage that surrounded it was richer.

“Leodan of Briclaedh must have two hundred head of cattle,” Kinadius said admiringly. “How many do we try for?”

Urist glanced at me, his eyes like polished stones.

“Twenty,” I said. “Settle for no less than ten.”

Urist grunted his approval.

It was, I thought, one of the most unforgivably idiotic ventures I’d ever undertaken; and that was saying somewhat. There were far easier ways to acquire ten head of cattle. The glow of Dorelei’s ardor had faded on the first day’s ride. Now I was merely hot and sticky with sweat, and I had hazel twigs tangled in my hair.

But I was in command of this folly. And so I narrowed my eyes and studied the lay of the land. It would have been a simpler business in the late autumn, when the cattle were herded into pastures abutting the keep, close to the byres and hay-barns. Now they were still spread out far and wide, gleaning the hillsides.

“How many of Leodan’s men are like to respond?” I asked Urist.

“On short notice?” He shrugged. “A score.”

I lifted my gaze to the keep’s towers. “Sentries on duty?”

“Of course.” Urist’s teeth gleamed. “But ’tis a half-moon tonight.”

I shaded my eyes and gazed southward. “All right, then. A pair of men on each of the first two gates; one to open and close, one to guard his back. A dozen to drive the cattle and ride herd on them. I’m not doing this for naught.”

“That leaves . . .” Urist counted on his fingers. “Fourteen to fight?”

I bared my own teeth in a smile. “Afraid, are you?”

“No,” he said stubbornly.

“Good.” I clapped his shoulder. “Let’s regroup and await nightfall.”

Like Clunderry, Briclaedh’s estates lay alongside
taisgaidh
land. We’d made our camp in a clearing that afternoon. We’d had a devil of a time making our way through the thick undergrowth and getting there unseen, but under Urist’s guidance, we’d managed it. The woods felt stifling and oppressive, and the horses were restless and stamping. Still, no one came. Unlike Clunderry, it seemed Briclaedh’s folk weren’t eager to venture into the sacred places; or mayhap it was simply that Briclaedh’s garrison commander hadn’t thought to post a reward for sighting strangers the way Urist had.

I gave the men my orders. There was no quarrelling; they merely nodded, and the dozen assigned as cattle drovers began cutting hazel switches.

Dusk came early in the dense woods. We led the horses in a single file to the verge of the copse, wincing at every crackling step. There, we waited for the twilight to fade over the valley.

It was a clear night. The waxing half-moon hung over the eastern horizon, growing brighter as the sky darkened, an array of stars emerging. Warm squares of golden light marked the windows of Briclaedh Castle and its outlying buildings. Across the gentle, rolling hills, cattle settled for the evening, legs tucked beneath them, dark, dim lumps under the night sky.

“Ready?” I asked in a low voice.

There were murmurs of assent.

“Let’s go, then.”

We moved out from the shadows of the copse, riding slow and fanning out across the hill as we descended into the valley. There was no fence on the
taisgaidh
side of Briclaedh, and it was my hope that we were far enough from the castle sentries to pass undetected into the pasturage.

It worked, too. I sent the two teams of gatekeepers riding hastily toward the south, searching for gates rendered near-invisible by darkness. The rest of us waited, horses milling, while cattle lifted their heads and gazed at us with incurious eyes. I checked the Bastard’s reins to be sure they were knotted together, a trick Urist had taught me.

In the distance, a torch kindled; then another, nearer.

The gatekeepers were in place.

I nodded to the drovers. “Go.”

There is no quiet way to stage a cattle-raid. The drovers spread out across the hills and began yelling and shouting, swinging their hazel switches. Cattle bawled and lowed, lumbering to their feet in their awkward way, hindquarters first. The drovers shouted back and forth to one another, rounding up as many head of cattle as they could find and driving them toward the first gate in a massive, pounding press of confusion, all of which went on for far too long.

“Fun, eh?” Urist grinned.

I pointed toward the castle. “Here they come.”

Dark figures came pelting over the fields. Urist had guessed wrongly. There were no more than a dozen mounted warriors, clinging bareback to saddleless horses; but there were dozens more following on foot, a swift-moving stream only a few moments behind. My heart began to pound in my chest.

“Take the riders!” I shouted. “Take the riders, and head for the gates!”

And then they were on us, and we clashed.

Within a heartbeat, the melee was a complete mess. Briclaedh’s men were whooping, uttering wild war-cries; so were Clunderry’s. Tattooed Cruithne faces were everywhere, and in the faint light I was hard put to tell friend from foe. ’Twas a stroke of dubious luck that my unmarked face made me a clear target. I didn’t have to worry about striking a blow against one of Clunderry’s men; I was surrounded by Briclaedh’s. Dropping the Bastard’s knotted reins, I guided him with my knees, turning in a tight circle and laying about me on both sides, sword in my right hand.

“D’Angeline!” Leodan mab Nonna came alongside me; I knew him by his thick brows, which met over his nose. We locked swords, swaying. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Claiming insult,” I grunted. “Not a proper warrior, am I?”

In the moonlight, I saw him smile fiercely. “Ah, well.”

Wind whistled on my other side. Trusting to training, good hearing, and blind luck, I swung my left arm in an arc and felt a blow glance off my vambrace.

“Don’t kill him!” Leodan shouted in alarm. “Hostage, hostage!”

I dug my heels into the Bastard’s sides and he plunged free. Somewhere in the midst of pandemonium, I swear I heard Urist snicker. Half of Leodan’s men were injured or unhorsed; the other half were pursuing Clunderry’s fleeing riders. Urist was among them; I must have imagined the snicker. The first wave of Briclaedh’s foot-racing warriors arrived, panting, to find me alone and abandoned.

Leodan mab Nonna raised his heavy brows. “Take him.”

Once more, I turned the Bastard in a circle, swearing with fury. There were too many of them, and now that I knew they meant to take me alive, I was loathe to strike killing blows. I flailed at the Cruithne with the flat of my blade while they ducked and dodged, tattooed faces grinned up at me, tattooed hands reaching to grab at my legs, my sword-belt, my left arm, dragging me from the saddle.

The Bastard squealed. I kicked my feet free of the stirrups and let them take me. I landed on my back atop two men and used the unexpected momentum to tear free of their grip, somersaulting backward and coming up in a crouch, sword at the ready, facing a semicircle of unmounted men.

“Nice trick.” Leodan glanced away, distracted. “The horse, lads, the horse! I want that spotted horse, too.”

They all looked, and so did I. Unlike Urist and his men, the Bastard hadn’t deserted me. He stood with legs splayed and ears flat, snaking his neck and snapping at the Briclaedh warrior who was attempting to grab his bridle.

“Oh, the hell you do!” I growled.

Without thinking, I shoved my sword into its scabbard, turned my back on my assailants, and charged the fellow attempting to catch the Bastard. I tackled him around the waist and brought him down with a thud. We rolled around in the mire of the cow pasture, grappling with one another. I’d learned to wrestle in Siovale. I came up on top and punched him hard in the mouth, feeling his teeth break the skin of my knuckles. He gaped at me, bloody-mouthed.

Most of Leodan’s men were hooting and laughing, jeering at their comrade, paying scant heed to me. The rest were chasing the Bastard, arms spread wide, trying to form a circle to enclose him. He evaded them with short dashes, snorting with alarm.

D’Angelines may be vain, but even we admit that the Tsingani are the best horse-breeders and -trainers in the world; and the Bastard was Tsingani-bred and -trained. He might be a bastard, but he was
my
Bastard. I got to my feet, stuck two fingers smeared with cow-dung in my mouth, and whistled sharply.

The Bastard’s ears pricked.

“Oh, hell,” Leodan muttered.

Bursting past his would-be captors, the Bastard came at a canter. He barely slowed for me, but it was enough. I reached up to grab the pommel, swinging myself astride by main force. Leodan’s men were scattered, unmounted and unprepared. I settled myself in the saddle and turned the Bastard’s head toward the south, grinning at the lord of Briclaedh. “My thanks for the cattle.”

He roared; I didn’t wait to hear what.

I clapped my heels to the Bastard’s flanks, and his gait moved smoothly from a canter to a full-out gallop. Together, we raced across the dark pasture.

There was an abandoned torch burning at the first gate, the butt-end wedged in a crevice in the cobbled stone fence. The gate itself stood open, and we passed through it without slowing. It seemed like a great deal of time had passed, too much time, but midway across the second pasture, I caught up with the others.

Our drovers were anxiously herding cattle through the second gate, while Urist and his warriors held Leodan’s remaining outnumbered horsemen in an uneasy standoff.

I slowed the Bastard to a walk. “Hello, lads.”

Someone whooped.

Urist gave me a wary smile. “You’re here.”

“No thanks to you.” I eyed him. “Let’s get these cattle home, shall we?”

He made a fist, pressing it to his brow, then his heart. “Aye, my lord.”

I should have been angry—I
was
angry—but at the same time, I understood. This was Alba. I’d needed to prove myself to my allies as surely as my enemies. I gazed at Urist and saw him, truly saw him. He was a proud man, and he needed to serve a lord he could admire. Drustan was one such; even serving the
ollamh
Firdha had been an honor, albeit one he hadn’t sought. He was no fool—he’d known Leodan of Briclaedh wouldn’t want to kill me and risk the wrath of Terre d’Ange. Still, he’d been willing to take the chance of humiliating me.

I could call him on it and earn his resentment.

Or I could accept the jest and keep his respect.

I chose the latter.

After all, we’d prevailed; and if no one had earned his warrior’s mark in the process, no one had died, either. That pleased me. So we sent Leodan’s last men packing—I daresay they were glad enough of the excuse—and hustled Briclaedh’s cattle through the second gate, closing it behind us.

Urist didn’t think there would be further pursuit, or at least not that night. We were armed and moving swiftly in the near-dark. If Leodan meant to retaliate, he would wait. But as a precaution, I ordered Kinadius and a sensible veteran named Timor to lag behind and keep watch. The rest of us hurried onward, herding our reluctant charges. By daybreak, we’d have crossed Clunderry’s northern border.

Despite the foolishness of it all, I had to own, I felt good. My blood was singing in my veins; I felt more alive than I had in weeks. At Kinadius’ prompting, I told the story of how I’d foiled Leodan’s attempts to take me hostage, giving all the credit to the Bastard. I forgave their role in it and enjoyed their laughter and admiration, listening idly as they began to invent poems to describe the night’s adventure.

I wondered what Sidonie would make of it.

Like as not, she’d think it was ridiculous; and she would be right, of course. Still, I thought, she was a woman. She would give me a warrior’s welcome. I could nearly see her face, torn between disparagement and desire. Desire would win, of course. Ah, Elua! I dreamed about it as we rode, letting the Bastard dawdle, letting the others set the pace. Coming to her bedchamber, rank with sweat and besmirched with mire and cow-dung.

It wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t.

Sidonie might laugh; she would laugh. The thought of it made my heart soar. But if I pressed her, if I laid my filthy hands on her and undid her stays, laying her bare, her black eyes would turn soft and blurred. My fingers would leave marks on her creamy skin. Her mouth would seek mine, begging wordlessly, her thighs would open . . .

“Imriel.”

Morwen’s voice roused me from my waking dream.

I was in the woods.

Alone.

Icewater trickled down my spine. “What?” I whispered. “What is it?”

Moonlight scarce penetrated the dense foliage. I could make out Morwen’s pale eyes, the shape of her hand lifting as she clutched the leather bag at her throat. “You summoned me.”

“No,” I croaked. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did.” Her fingers tightened. I groaned. “Dismount.”

I obeyed helplessly. The Bastard eyed me wonderingly as I sank to my knees. Morwen approached, as grave as a priestess. She took my left hand in hers and undid the buckles on my vambrace. “See?”

The red yarn had gotten tangled in the straps. It must have snapped when Leodan’s men dragged me from the saddle.

I closed my eyes. “No.”

“I can give you what you want, Imriel.” Morwen moved closer, crouching, showing me the leather bag. The scent of her, rank and overripe, surrounded me. “You sought to make a bargain. I am offering one.” With her other hand, she reached out to stroke my groin. “Give me a child.”

The mingling of disgust and acute desire was excruciating, and in a horrible way, far too close to the waking fantasy I’d conceived. I tried to ward her off, but my arms seemed to weigh two hundred pounds apiece. I couldn’t even lift them. “Why?” I whispered.

“I’ve seen her.” Morwen’s pupils dilated, black circles rimmed by pale grey. “I’ve seen our daughter, Imriel. A child of two worlds, a child of two folk. She will walk the old ways and the new and preserve the balance between them. She will be a magician, a powerful magician.” Her fingers fumbled at my breeches, picking at the laces. She drew a sharp breath. “Mayhap even powerful enough to unlock the secrets of the Master of the Straits!”