Kushiel's Scion (17 page)
But Phèdre did not think he would do so, ever, and she knew him better than anyone. And in truth, the greater question was whether or not he would train a successor.
Hyacinthe spent ten long years in bleak isolation learning his trade. The Straits had another Master, once; for eight hundred years, in fact. It was a curse that bound him to it—the curse of Rahab, Lord of the Deep, one of the One God's angels. The curse passed to Hyacinthe, but it was broken now. Phèdre broke it with the Name of God, compelling Rahab to release him. Hyacinthe was no longer condemned to his lonely isle, shackled to an immortality of decrepitude.
Still, such power was a fearsome burden, more fearsome than ruler-ship. I didn't know the Master of the Straits well, but I'd seen the awful strain of it in his eyes. No one knew, not even Phèdre, if Hyacinthe would see fit to pass it on to another, or let the knowledge die with him. I suspect even Hyacinthe does not yet know.
Sometimes I thought it would be best if it passed from the world forever. Power is a dangerous tool to wield. In the wrong hands, it is deadly. What I saw in Drujan, I can never forget.
Then I thought about Phèdre, and the day she spoke the Name of God.
It is a thing I will never forget. No one who saw it will; how Hyacinthe made the waters bear her weight, and she stood upon them before the terrible, bright presence and spoke the Sacred Word. Her, I would trust with almost any power on earth, but there are few people born capable of making the choices Phèdre has made.
There were no easy answers, and I was glad the matter is not mine to decide.
Indeed, as the days lengthened and we made ready to depart for Montrève, I felt the simpler burdens I carried lighten. I visited Alais, and promised to bring her a puppy, as I had forgotten to do last year. I said my good-byes to Eugenie and the rest of the household staff.
"Ah, lad!" Eugenie embraced me, then took me by the shoulders and shook me. "You needn't be so happy to leave."
"I'm sorry," I said, feeling a moment's flicker of guilt. "It's just—"
"I know what it is." She patted my cheek. "Go on, it will do you a world of good to get away from those nattering nobles and breathe fresh country air. Put a few pounds on that skinny frame of yours, and come back!"
I laughed. "I will, Eugenie."
It was a lighthearted trip, unlike the one that had brought us to the City. We travelled at our leisure, staying at inns along the way. Phèdre liked to sit in the common room and listen, taking the tenor of ordinary D'Angeline folk from all walks of life. Invariably, someone would recognize her. The scarlet mote of Kushiel's Dart made it hard to hide her identity, and Joscelin was not exactly inconspicuous with his Cassiline arms. Then there were songs and poems, and the wine would flow freely into the small hours of the night.
I wondered, sometimes, what it must be like to be thus beloved.
Make no mistake, I did not begrudge either of them, not for a single heartbeat. I knew, better than anyone, the price of their heroism. Daršanga nearly destroyed them both; nearly destroyed all of us. In the City, some envied them and accused them of false modesty. It was no such thing. If Phèdre accepted praise with a quiet smile, or Joscelin shook his head and demurred at telling the story of his duel against the Cassiline traitor-assassin, it was because they were mindful of the true story that lies beneath the poems; the blood and toil and sacrifice. Still, I wondered.
They were my stories, too; some of them. But there was scant heroism in my role. I was abducted and sold into slavery; I was rescued, and stowed away on my rescuers' ship. For the most part, I was baggage.
Not everyone is meant to be a hero.
I did stab a man once, on Phèdre's behalf. It was in Saba, on the isle of Kapporeth, on the very doorstep of the Temple of the Holiest of Holies. I spilled blood on sacred ground. The Sabaeans would have killed me for it. It was Phèdre who intervened. She offered herself in my stead, and they accepted it. I remember sunlight gleaming on the bronze blade, and turning my head to see the door of the temple opening, and the tongueless priest framed in the dark doorway, clad in a robe of white linen.
I cried out, and the Sabaean captain stayed his hand. And Phèdre walked into the temple, and when she emerged, she held the Name of God, and the glory of it shone in her face.
I wondered, sometimes, what would have happened if the door had not opened. If I would have let it happen. If I would have had the courage and the swiftness to throw myself in front of the blade.
I wondered about a lot of things.
Well, that was what passed for lighthearted, at least for me. When we reached the borders of Montrève, I put such thoughts from my head. Remembering the lesson of the Longest Night, I gave myself over to rejoicing.
The estate of Montrève was beautiful. It lay upriver from the village and the manor was nestled in a green valley, surrounded by low mountains. The valley held gardens and a small olive grove. The lower slopes were terraced, and given over to chestnut orchards; the province of Siovale was famous for its chestnuts. A bit farther up, there was pasturage for the sheep that were Montrève's primary source of wealth, and a cluster of stone cots perched on a plateau for the shepherds who tended them.
Beyond that, the mountains were wild. Forests of spruce and oak grew there, and there were unexpected meadows filled with flowers. There was a spring-fed lake, round and perfect, that Joscelin and I found my first summer, and there were caves, too. Although Montrève was a small holding by some standards, it was large enough to contain secrets.
There was an escort to meet us. We had been spotted on the road, which was as it ought to be. Denis Friote, the oldest of Purnell and Richeline's clan, was leading them. And among them, to my surprise, was Charles, his younger brother.
"Charles!" I shouted his name.
"Imriel, hey!" He rode over to me, grinning. Leaning over in the saddle, he thumped my shoulder with his fist. "Well met, your highness. What have you been up to? You're skin and bone."
I thumped him back. "Nothing you'd understand, I reckon."
"Oh, aye, the secret doings of nobility." He nodded, brown curls bouncing on his brow, and ran his thumb over the hilt of his sword in a casual gesture. "I'm perishing with envy." He paused, eyeing the daggers at my belt. "Those are nice, though."
"These?" I asked carelessly, and saw Joscelin's head turn slightly, one corner of his mouth lifting in amusement. "They are, aren't they?" I added with haste. "So, you're riding with the guard now?"
"Sometimes." Charles shrugged, then burst out laughing. "Ah, Denis let me come, he knew I was pining after it. Otherwise, they say I've got to wait until next year. But it's good to see you, Imri."
"And you." I thumped him a second time, his shoulder solid and meaty under my fist. Charles, too, had grown in the past year. "How are you? How is the clan?" I paused. "Katherine, and the others?"
He grinned. "Come and find out."
Chapter Ten
We found Montrève in fine fettle, as always. The chestnuts were thriving, the high pastures were lush and green, the sheep grazed in placid good health, lambs gamboling at their side. Every surface and every item within the manor house had been dusted and polished and waxed to a fine gleam. The stables and the kennels and the mews were immaculate. All the accounts, as always, were in order.
And Katherine Friote was infuriating.
For a start, it was the way she hugged me. She ran into the front courtyard and flung both arms around me as I dismounted, crying, "Imriel!" I held her in return, breathing in the scent of her hair, like new-mown hay. "I'm so glad you're here," she whispered, her breath warm against my ear. "I've missed you."
"And you." My words came huskily.
Then she let me go, and looked me up and down. "Name of Elua!" she exclaimed. "You're thin as a lathe. What do you get up to in that City?"
I drew myself up. "Actually—"
With a friendly smile, Katherine thumped me on the shoulder. "It's good to see you, Imri," she said, then turned to give a nice curtsy to Phèdre and Joscelin. "Welcome, my lady, my lord," she said, and gazing past them, simpered. "Hello, Messire Gilot."
Gilot coughed and avoided my eye. "Demoiselle Friote."
And that was that.
During the days that followed, Phèdre gave me leave to run wild, sensing my need for freedom after the constraints of the City and court. As long as I remained within the generous boundaries of the area patrolled by Denis Friote and the guard, I was free to wander.
I spent most of my time with Charles. He and Katherine and I had become fast friends during my first summer at Montrève, being the closest in age. At thirteen, Katherine had been willing to spend hours in the mews, listening to Ronald Agout, the old falconer, or tussling with the puppies in the kennels. She still had a little white scar on one hand where a hound-bitch snapped at her.
But now she was sixteen, and a young woman. It was beneath her dignity to play children's games. This, Katherine made abundantly clear.
She regarded Charles with the amused condescension of an older sister. By virtue of my status, I warranted a measure of respect, but only a small one. It was not that I minded, exactly—one of the things I cherished about Montrève was that my status as a Prince of the Blood was held in light regard—but I wanted her to see me as more than an old playmate yet to grow up.
I wanted her to see me as… what?
Not a man, exactly; but not a boy, either. I wanted Katherine to look at me as someone worthy of regard in my own right. It didn't have to be the way she looked at Gilot, which was downright foolish, but… well, perhaps a little bit.
I told her the story of Joscelin's and my vigil on the Longest Night and my dramatic illness that followed it, but women have a pragmatic streak when it comes to such things. Katherine merely cast an acerbic eye over me and said, "Boys and their folly! I hope Lady Phèdre had his hide for it."
Charles, at least, was properly impressed.
We had measured ourselves against one another, standing back-to-back in the stables. I was the taller by a good two inches, though I daresay he outweighed me. I envied his solid frame, the breadth of his shoulders. Colts' Years, Joscelin had said, but Charles was as sturdy as a plowhorse.
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