Kushiel's Dart (88 page)

"You . . . fight... for family," he said to Joscelin. "Brother."

Drustan held out his hand. Joscelin shook his head, eyes on the bier. "Your sister is dead, my King," he said in his flawless Caerdicci, learned at his father's knee. "Do me no honor. I failed you."

Shifting, Drustan met my eyes and nodded. I rose smoothly and went to join them, kneeling and bowing my head. "Thousands died this day and I could not save them," Drustan said in Cruithne, looking at Joscelin and not me. "I, born Cruarch, to give my life for my people. Do you say right was not done this day, Prince of Swords?"

I translated it all, even the title. Joscelin turned his gaze on Drustan. "My King, it is your birthright you have taken, and the death of your kin you avenged. It was rightfully done. It is I who have failed in my trust."

I translated for Drustan, adding somewhat about Cassiline vows. The Cruarch looked thoughtful and rubbed his misformed foot unselfconsciously, working at the cramped ligaments. Then he said, "You have sworn no vow to the Cullach Gorrym. Our lives we risked to regain Alba, Do not demean my sister's death in taking it from her."

Joscelin started at his words, when I spoke them. I swear, the arrogance of Cassilines, even outcasts—especially outcasts—is beyond my compass. It dawned on him though, slow and gradual, that Drustan was telling him he was overstepping the bounds of his responsibility. And even more slowly, that it might be true. Having said his piece, Drustan merely continued to look evenly at Joscelin, holding out his hand, blue-whorled and strong.

"Brother," Joscelin said in Caerdicci, and clasped Drustan's hand. "If you will have me."

No need to translate that; Drustan understood and grinned, standing and pulling Joscelin with him, embracing him.

"There you are!" A woman's voice ran out in Eiran; I looked up to see Grainne, Eamonn a step behind her. Not a cut on them, either one. It must be true that they fought like tigers. I didn't doubt it. "Ah, little sister," Grainne said sorrowing, gazing at Moiread. Plucking a jeweled dagger from her kirtle, she seized a lock of her own red-gold hair, cutting it. Approaching the bier, she laid it carefully beneath Moiread's folded hands. "We avenged you, little sister, do not doubt it, a hundred times over."

Eamonn followed suit, his hair paler than his twin's, still streaked with traces of lime. He touched Moiread's cold hands gently. "Be at peace with it, little sister. We will sing of your valor."

"Folk need to see you," Grainne said to Drustan in her direct way, eyes on a level with his. "To share your grief, to share the victory. They followed the Cullach Gorrym and fought well for you this day."

Drustan nodded. "I will come."

"And you." Grainne looked at me, still kneeling, and smiled. "You come as the Swan's emmissary, you ask the Cullach Gorrym to follow you. They need to see."

"I'm coming," I said, and stood, small beside the Twins. Joscelin gave his smooth Cassiline bow, not quite meeting my eyes. I glanced at Hy-acinthe. Our eyes met in a small silence, the old familiarity and the new.

"I will stay," he said softly. "Let the dreamers and the seers keep watch. It is what we do."

SEVENTY-FOUR

The next day we marched into Bryn Gorrydum.

It was a small city, which surprised me; I recognized the underpinnings of Tiberian stonework. We intersected with a mighty river and marched along its banks, toward a bay, for the city lay on the eastern shore of Alba. Commonfolk turned out and cheered. Maelcon had not been loved. When we reached the fortress proper, we found the gates open and the door lowered, the garrison turned out to surrender arms.

They had heard. And they gave us Foclaidha.

Maelcon's mother.

Later we learned that it was not only the defeat of Maelcon's forces that put the fear of the Cullach Gorrym into the followers of the Red Bull, but the numbers of commonfolk, especially within the fortress itself, servants who had escaped the slaughter of Maelcon's betrayal, whose black eyes gleamed to hear the news of the Cruarch's return.

Discretion is the greater part of valor; the Tarbh Cro surrendered.

So it was that Drustan mab Necthana took his throne.

Down came the standard of the Red Bull; the Black Boar flew once more from the peaks of Bryn Gorrydum. The Cruarch's sister, Moiread, was buried in state. The head of Maelcon the Usurper was nailed above the gates of Bryn Gorrydum. Drustan had not spoken in jest.

We do not call them barbarians entirely without reason.

Seated on the throne, he heard Foclaidha's petition.

As a guest of honor, I was privileged to attend; a privilege I'd gladly have foregone. I stood, watching. It seemed a thousand years ago that I had stood in the Hall of Audience where Lyonette de Trevalion stood trial, Alcuin and I straining to catch a glimpse of the proceedings. Now I stood at the left hand of the throne of Alba, my Cassiline companion attendant, struggling to keep my features expressionless as I represented the Queen of Terre d'Ange. If I had felt a fraud bestowing knighthood on Quintilius Rousse's men, it was nothing to this.

I could not help but think, if Ysandre de la Courcel knew we would succeed thus far, she would never have chosen to send me. A whore's unwanted get, I remembered, the Dowayne's voice echoing in my memory.

But send me she had, and if I was a whore's unwanted get, I was Anafiel Delaunay's chosen pupil too, and
he
had deemed me worthy of his name, when my own parents sold my right to carry theirs. And this woman who stood before Drustan's throne, tall and unrepentant, had caused not only the bloodshed to which I'd born witness yesterday and that which had stained these halls, but the deaths I'd witnessed decreed that other day, when I stood on tiptoe in the Hall of Audience.

Baudoin de Trevalion, who'd given me my first kiss. He'd taken the luck of it with him; I'd been his parting gift.

From Melisande, who brought to light letters, written to Lyonette de Trevalion, from this woman.

Who stood before Drustan's throne.

The Tsingani are right; it is a Long Road.

Drustan let her speak, and she spoke well, impassioned, of the passing of the old ways, of the need to join the new, where son succeeded father. No betrayal, but a noble cause, she said in ringing tones, to sweep away the cobwebs of superstition that said no one may know a child's father, to acknowledge the sovereignty of paternity. A tall woman, Foclaidha, with red hair and the whorls of a Cruithne warrior tattooed on her cheeks. I heard later that she killed four men by her own hand when the garrison came for her.

The Lioness of Azzalle had been overpowering too, although she'd never held a sword. It had made Baudoin wild and daring and a little mad. I wondered if Maelcon had been the same.

It was a good speech, and there were men who would have listened, inspired to overturn the bonds of matrilinealism, to raise up the children of their blood and seed, making them heirs to all they owned, all they claimed.

Not Earth's eldest children.

Four sets of identical dark eyes watched, as they listened: Drustan, Necthana, Breidaia, Sibeal. It should have been five. I wondered, did we follow the old ways once? Elua's wandering put an end to it, if we did; our bloodlines we trace through mother and father alike, back to the shining linkages of the past, to Elua and his Companions, when they walked the earth. Our lineage we bear stamped on our faces, in our souls.

Isolated by the Master of the Straits, in Alba it is different. They trace heritage through the mother, beyond question, proof born in blood and tears. Necthana's children had different fathers; warriors, dreamers.
Love as thou wilt
. Blessed Elua too was Earth's Child, Her last-begotten, conceived in Her dark womb of blood and tears.

Having listened, Drustan bent his head toward the Twins, at his right hand. "What say the Dalriada?"

Eamonn drew a deep breath. "Drustan Cru, you know our hearts and our minds. Your uncle was our friend. In Eire, we do not suffer a blood-traitor to live." Grainne nodded in accord, unwontedly somber. They keep the old ways too, I thought, remembering her son Brennan; who was his father? I'd never asked. Elua knew, the next born might be Rousse's get.

Drustan looked at me. "What says Terre d'Ange?"

I hadn't been expecting it, though I don't know why. It is how such things are done, in the eyes of all assembled. I remembered Parliament voting at the trial of House Trevalion, the Lioness of Azzalle and Ysandre de la Courcel's cool face, her down-turned thumb signalling death. "My lord," I said to Drustan, my voice sounding as if it belonged to someone else. "Foclaidha of the Brugantü conspired against the Crown. It has been proven. We do not bid for clemency."

There was a buzz around the hall; not everyone there had known who I was, had heard Cruithne from my lips. Drustan ignored it, looking fixedly at Foclaidha.

"For your treachery," he said, "you will die. For the blood ties between us, I grant it will be swift."

What I expected, I don't know, again. Somewhat else. Truly, I'd not put thought to this day, to prepare myself for it. Lyonette accepted poison, drinking it off at one draught and laughing. Baudoin chose to fall on his sword. Is it more civilized, that way? No. In the end, it is the same; death at the root. All the ritual in the world does not change that. And yet I was shocked when two of Drustan's Cruithne seized Foclaidha's arms and forced her to her knees, when Drustan himself rose from the throne, drawing his sword.

It flashed, once. He'd honed it keen for this day, and there is a great deal of strength in the folk of the Cullach Gorrym, for all that they are not as tall as those who came later. Clean through, he severed her neck.

Foclaidha's head rolled a little, eyes still open.

Her body fell heavily to the flagstones of the hall of Bryn Gorrydum, blood pooling at the neck.

I caught my breath in my teeth, repressing a squeak, Elua be thanked.

Joscelin's hand closed on my elbow, bone-grindingly tight, and I was glad he was there. At the throne, Necthana and her daughters looked at the headless body of Foclaidha of the Brugantü, grim satisfaction on their dark, serene faces. To their right, the Twins grinned with fierce vindication.

"Let it end here," Drustan said softly, cleaning his sword and sheathing it. "Those who will swear fealty, may live. The lands of the Brugantü, I declare forfeit, and give unto the keeping of the Sigovae and Votadae, who alone among the Tarbh Cro kept faith with the Cullach Gorrym."

There was cheering at that, from those wild northern Picti who'd ridden to join Drustan's army. A wise choice, it transpired; a popular choice, on Drustan's part. It restored honor to the folk of the Red Bull.

The Black Boar reigned in Alba.

All exiles carry a map within them that points the way homeward. I looked to the east, the open windows of the hall of Bryn Gorrydum carrying the scent of rain, and a salt breeze from the sea, that mingled with the coppery odor of fresh-spilled blood. A warm breeze, summery. How many months had we been on the road, at sea? In Terre d'Ange, there would be flowers blooming, fruit trees bearing. I heard in my mind Thelesis de Mornay singing
The Exile's Lament. The bee is in the lavender; the honey fills the comb
. The Skaldi would be massing, moving, crossing the Camae-lines, fording the Rhenus River.

While we waged a war, summer had come.

The affairs of state that remained would not be settled in a day. Days on end, it took, while Drustan heard petitions from tribal lords and com-monfolk alike, dispossessed by Maelcon the Usurper, and restored to them their rights and lands. Nor was he idle on our behalf during this time, but it took some doing, to rally an army willing to dare the crossing, to convince them it was in the interest of Alba to defend D'Angeline soil. And of course, with the kingdom new-settled under its rightful leader, it was needful that sufficient numbers remain to enforce Drustan's rule, held in his absence by Necthana.

In the end, it was determined that some three thousand foot-soldiers and four hundred horse would make the crossing. To my surprise, Eamonn and Grainne and half the Dalriada would be among them. The others would return west to Innisclan, bearing word of victory, and bidding Rousse's waiting sailors to turn the ship homeward.

"I have come this far," Eamonn said stubbornly. "If the harpists in Tea Muir sing of our deeds, they will not sing of how Eamonn mac Conor of the Dalriada ran home rather than get his feet wet!"

Grainne his sister gave her lazy smile. "And I am minded to see the land that breeds such folk," she said, her grey-green eyes glancing at Quintilius Rousse, who coughed to hide his blush. She looked at me and winked, then; I repressed a smile. One could not help but like the Twins.

Elder Brother's blessing or no, the crossing would be difficult, especially with the horses. Poring over maps, Rousse and Drustan decided it would be best done if we marched south, to the point where the Straits were narrowest. It would take us through the lands of the Eidlach Or, who had proved loyal; they would cheer Drustan's triumph. Elua willing, we would make landfall in northern Azzalle, in Trevalion, where we could make contact with Ghislain de Somerville, and perhaps the former Due de Trevalion, if Marc's recall from exile had been successful.

If not for the fears that gnawed at me like a canker, it would have been a pleasant journey. Alba is a fair, green isle, and bountiful. It was an old Tiberian road along which we marched now, in a long, snaking train; along the eastern coast and to the south, those were the areas in which the armies of Tiberium had gained a solid foothold until Cinhil Ru united the tribes and pushed them back across the sea.