Kushiel's Justice (22 page)

I didn’t answer.

Aodhan nodded to himself. “That’ll give the binding power, all right.”

“Can it be broken?” Conor asked.

“No.” The
ollamh
prodded at the nearest fish with one horny thumbnail, testing its doneness. “Not without the mannekin, I fear.” He glanced up at me. “You might bargain for it, or her Ladyship might. The Old Ones do love a bargain.”

“Such as . . . ?” I asked.

“Well, there’s
uisghe
.” Aodhan grinned. “They’re partial to strong spirits, they are. Or you could give them what they want and go home, which is a bargain they’re more like to accept.”

I watched him pluck the fish deftly from the skillet and pile them on a wooden platter. “Is that your counsel?”

“Don’t know just yet.” He proffered the platter. “Tell me why you’re here, lad.” Freeing one hand, he rapped his knuckles on the hard-packed earth. “Here in Alba.”

“The succession—” I began.

“No, no!” Aodhan waved his free hand dismissively. “I know all about the politics. Even hermits have ears. Why are
you
here?”

I took a piece of fish from the platter, juggling it from hand to hand. It was hot. Conor and the
ollamh
began to eat, picking flaky white flesh from the bones. “Because I believed it was the right thing to do,” I said slowly. “Because I’d given my word. Because I thought mayhap dedicating my life to ensuring a peaceful succession for Alba and Terre d’Ange was a way to atone for my mother’s sins.” I glanced at Conor. “It’s a long story.”

“Could you learn to love it here?” Aodhan pointed. “And mind, eat your fish, lad. ’Tis best when it’s hot.”

I obeyed, thinking. “Yes,” I said at length, swallowing. “Alba’s very beautiful.”

“You D’Angelines and your beauty.” Aodhan snorted, but I thought he was pleased with my answer nonetheless. He shoved another hunk of fish into his mouth, his braided beard waggling as he chewed. “Will you stay?”

I met his shrewd gaze. “I don’t know.”

“Well.” He nodded. “An honest answer. Eat, and I’ll give you mine.” He reached out and tapped a startled Conor in the center of his forehead. “And
you
mind, lad! Everything you hear today is under the
ollamh
’s seal of discretion. Breach it, and you’ll be sorry.”

“Yes, Master Aodhan,” he murmured.

We finished eating and washed our hands in the cool stream. Aodhan cleared his throat. “Here’s my thinking, young Imriel. You seem to have the makings of a good man in you, and Alba owes you a chance to prove it; aye, even old Alba. There’s naught I can do to break the binding, but there are protections I can lay over you if you’re willing.”

“Will I be safe, then?” I asked.

“Safe!” Another snort. “Nothing’s
safe
. But it will render the binding harmless so long as the protections are maintained. The rest is up to you.” He studied me. “Mind you, it comes at a price, and that’s whatever this great passion is with which the witch bound you.”

My heart gave a sudden leap of anguish. “Forever?”

“No, lad.” There was a note of sympathy in the
ollamh
’s voice. “Only for so long as you wear my charm. I cannot change your heart. Underneath, you’ll be the same. But whatever desire drove you to spill the seed that’s in the witch’s keeping . . .” He shrugged. “Waking or sleeping, you’ll no longer feel it.”

“And this Morwen won’t be able to summon me with it?” I asked.

Aodhan nodded. “Even so.”

I twisted Sidonie’s ring on my finger, then made myself stop, pushing away all thoughts of her. Mayhap it would be for the best. I took a deep breath and gathered my courage. “All right. If you’re willing, I’d be grateful.”

He wiped his damp hands on his tunic. “Let’s be about it, then.”

After our homely luncheon, it was strange to see Aodhan perform a formal ritual. He ducked into his cave several times, emerging with an array of items. The skillet was banished from the vicinity of the fire, which was stoked anew with branches of rowan and birch. He cast a handful of herbs on the flames, and a pungent smoke arose, smelling of camphor.

“Pennyroyal,” Aodhan said briefly. “Take off your boots and stand over there, lad.”

Once again, I obeyed.

I stood barefoot on the hard-packed earth while Aodhan drew a circle around me with a broom made of hazel twigs, then fetched a pouch full of salt and retraced his steps in the opposite direction, sprinkling salt along the circle. Sunlight filtered through the trees that lined the stream, shining on his bald brown pate. I felt foolish, but Conor watched with grave eyes.

The
ollamh
began to chant.

“The charm of Brigid ward thee; the charm of Danu save thee; the charm of Manannan shield thee; the charm of Aengus defend thee.”

His voice was deep and rolling and musical, and there was power in it. Any feeling of foolishness vanished. I felt the air shiver against my skin. The sunlight grew brighter and the tree-cast shadows darker and sharper. Aodhan circled me; once, twice, three times.

“To guard thee from thy back,”
he intoned, tying a length of red yarn first around my right wrist, then around my left.
“To preserve thee from thy front. From the crown of thy head and forehead.”
He stooped, tying a length of yarn around my right ankle.
“To the very sole of thy foot.”
He secured the last piece of yarn around my left ankle.

I stood without moving as he rose and knotted a leather thong around my neck.

“From all who seek to bind thee, be thou protected!”

His final words tolled like bell. Aodhan clapped his hands together, the sound so loud I jumped a little.

And I felt . . . different. Not bad, not good. A little numb. There was a quick pang of loss, but it was distant and far away. Somewhat had changed, somewhat had shifted. It was as though a thick wall had sprung to life inside me; dividing me against myself, protecting me from myself. Behind it, I felt calm and peaceful.

He grinned at me. “Well, that’s that, young Imriel. How do you feel?”

“All right,” I said. “I’m not sure. Is that bad?”

“No, no.” He shook his head. “Mind, you’ll have to keep it up. If any of the threads fray, they’ll need to be replaced by an
ollamh
. I reckon even a court bard can manage one of the old spells.” He tapped whatever it was that hung at my throat, strung on the leather thong. “That’s a croonie-stone. Don’t take it off.”

“All right.” I fingered it. A smooth stone, a hole in the center. Once again, a seal of protection hung around my neck; this one wrought by nature. At least this time I knew it was there, and why. “Is there aught else I should know?”

“Well, you might consider bargaining with the Old Ones. It’s always worth a try.” Aodhan took up the hazel-twig broom and busied himself with sweeping away the traces of his circle. He snorted. “And you might have a greater care where you spill your seed. Now get out of my way, will you?”

I moved. “How can I repay you for this, my lord?”

Aodhan glanced at me, then at Conor, sitting quiet and watchful. “The lad knows.”

I remembered what Conor had said about the Path of the Grove. “You want him to study with you.”

“The old ways, aye.” Aodhan swept briskly. “It’s in his blood.”

I looked from one to the other, marking a similarity in their brown skin, in the angle of their broad, high cheekbones, that transcended the disparity of age. Not Cruithne, not Dalriada. Other. I’d seen it last night by moonlight. “And yours?”

He smiled and didn’t answer. “Go on, now! You’ve bothered me long enough.”

We went.

T
WENTY-TWO

A
T DINNER THAT NIGHT
, I steeled myself and told the tale for a third time.

If I could have avoided it, I would have. But there was no way of explaining the lengths of red yarn knotted around my wrists, the pierced, sea-polished stone hanging at my throat. So I told it, leaving out the bit about the mannekin and spilled seed, and any mention of Conor’s parentage. We’d agreed, he and I, to keep one another’s secrets.

“Dagda Mor, Imri!” Eamonn exclaimed. “How do you manage to find trouble wherever you go?”

I smiled grimly. “Just lucky, I reckon.”

Joscelin looked thunderous. “This is not acceptable,” he said quietly to Grainne, his tone all the more fearsome for its calm. “What do you mean to do about it?”

“Joscelin.”
His name emerged more sharply than I’d intended. I sighed. “I’m sorry. But I am not . . . without blame . . . in the matter. And Alban law is clear. As I am unharmed, there is little recourse.” I raised my hands, displaying my yarn fetters. “Her Ladyship has provided good counsel nonetheless.”

“If anything happens to you—” he began.

“It won’t.” Conor, flushing, spoke up. “Master Aodhan is very wise.”

“Still,” Phèdre murmured. “I am troubled.” Her dark gaze rested on me, seeing things no one else saw. The scarlet mote of Kushiel’s Dart floated on her left iris, a promise of things that never would be. It didn’t seem to bother me as it used to. “What will you, love?”

I set my jaw. “I’ll not flee, if that’s what you mean.”

Beneath the table, Dorelei’s hand groped for mine, finding it and clutching hard. I squeezed back, stealing a glance at her lowered profile.

“You are content, then?” Phèdre asked softly. “To let matters stand?”

“I am, for the most part.” I took a deep breath. “The
ollamh
said Alba owed me a chance to prove I was a good man. I mean to take it.” I turned to Grainne. “My lady, Aodhan also said that the Old Ones love a bargain. How might such a thing be accomplished?”

“Chance and luck, usually,” the Lady of the Dalriada said wryly. “Encounters with the Old Ones are subject to their whims. Still, Morwen has insulted my hospitality, and I am nothing loath to bargain on such a basis.”

“How do we reach them?” I asked. “I don’t suppose they’ve fixed lodgings.”

She looked at Conor and didn’t answer.

Conor looked at the table. “He taught me a song to summon him if I had need,” he whispered. “The harpist.”

“What harpist?” Mairead asked.

His skinny throat worked. “A . . . a man I met. One of them.”

“One of the Old Ones!” His sister punched his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Brennan gave his mother an odd look. “I remember a harpist.”

“So do I.” Eamonn frowned. “At least, I think I do.”

“Should I summon him?” Conor asked the Lady, lifting his head.

“The choice is yours,” Grainne said gently.

He sat for a time without moving, then rose from the dinner table and fetched his harp. Without a word, Conor unbarred the door to the hall and walked out into the soft blue twilight. A moment later, we heard the first notes arising; a wild, mischievous flurry that softened into a plaintive, teasing air. The Lady’s other children stared at one another, openmouthed.

“His father was one of
them
?” Eamonn asked, dumbstruck.

“Ah, well.” Grainne smiled. “And who are you to stare, my wandering son, with your Skaldic bride? He’s like to keep the old ways, even as you bring the new. ’Tis a fine balance.”

“Eamonn.” Brigitta laid a hand on his arm, a look of profound bewilderment on her face. “Will you explain all of this to me later? Slowly? In Caerdicci?”

“I’ll try,” he said, sounding none too sure.

Outside the hall, the music continued. I got up from the table and stood outside the door to listen. One by one, the others followed. We all stood together, watching and listening.

Conor was a solitary figure, vague in the dim light. He looked small and lonely, head bowed over the harp he held. But his fingers danced on the strings, and the notes rang out, clear and carrying, over the distant green hills. The last note fell with a sustained, dying echo. When he turned around and walked back to us, his dark eyes were shining.

“How did you know?” he asked his mother.

“Oh, he tried to teach me, too.” She smiled again. “Only I never learned to play the harp. We’ll see what happens, shall we?”

After that, it seemed there was little to say; or mayhap what there was to say was too big for words. We made for a quiet and thoughtful lot. As the evening wore on, it became apparent that Conor’s father was not going to manifest immediately. Joscelin excused himself early, and Phèdre went with him.

I knew he was unhappy with what had transpired, and I didn’t blame him. I was none too pleased with it myself. Still, I thought I’d done the best I could, under the circumstances. Morwen was right, Blessed Elua had no place here; not yet, anyway. But mayhap if I could come to love Alba, that would change.

In bed that night, Dorelei examined the charms of protection the
ollamh
had placed on me; the red yarn, the croonie-stone.

“My D’Angeline prince,” she murmured. “Who would have thought?”

“You’ve been quiet through all this,” I observed.

She toyed with the croonie-stone. “It scares me.”

“What part of it?” I asked gently.

“All of it.” Dorelei raised her eyes to mine. “Tell me, was she beautiful?”

“Morwen?” I shook my head. “No.”

“And yet she bound you so easily.” She wound a lock of my hair around her fingers. “They
are
dangerous, you know. The Maghuin Dhonn. They’re wild and unpredictable, and one can never be sure what they want. It’s funny.” She gave a faint smile. “If I lost you to . . . your D’Angeline, whoever she is . . . at least I’d understand. You love her. This, this is just malice.”

“Dorelei.” I caught her hand and laid it flat on my chest. “Look at me, wrapped all around in the
ollamh
’s charms. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m glad,” she said simply. “Imriel, when this is over, can we leave? I like Eamonn very much, truly, and all his family. But I miss my own.”

“Shall we return to Bryn Gorrydum?” I asked. “Or take up residence at Clunderry?”

“We don’t have to do either, yet.” Dorelei laid her head on my shoulder, and I shifted to accommodate her weight, sliding my arm around her. “We could go to Master Hyacinthe’s Stormkeep with Phèdre and Joscelin.”

I stroked her hair. “Well, it’s like to be the safest place in all of Alba, that’s for sure.”

“True.” She smiled drowsily against my shoulder. “And mayhap my aunt Sibeal will know why my dreams have been silent since we wed.”

To that, I had no reply.

I held her close with one arm and continued stroking her hair, humming softly, until I felt her body slacken in sleep, her breathing deepening. And somewhere along the way, I fell asleep myself; a deep, dreamless sleep, unhaunted by the sound of pipes or a woman’s laughter.

On the morrow, the day dawned bright and clear, and seemingly free of harpists. I arose feeling more refreshed by my night’s sleep than I’d felt in ages. Before I dressed, I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling for the croonie-stone at my throat and checking my wrists and ankles, making sure the bits of red yarn were securely knotted.

Dorelei watched me with a dimpled smile. “You’re like a parcel I can’t unwrap.”

“Consider it mere adornment,” I suggested.

Her smile deepened. “All right.”

We made love, laughing and hushing one another when the sounds from the great hall intruded. Innisclan was not built for privacy. I thought about what Aodhan had said, and understood for the first time that learning to love Alba and learning to love Dorelei were one and the same.

I didn’t think of Sidonie.

For the first time, she seemed far, far away. On the far side of the Straits that divided our lands, on the far side of the charms of protection that bound me. I had given myself over to Alba, and Aodhan rendered me proof against my own innermost desire. Even the dark surge of Kushiel’s bloodline seemed far away, tied to my feelings for Sidonie.

“That was nice,” Dorelei murmured.

I made a sound of agreement deep in my throat.

“Do you think we made a child?” She rolled over in the narrow bed, lacing my fingers in hers and laying my hand on her belly. “I’d like to.”

“Would you?” I squirmed downward to plant a kiss on the soft brown flesh below her navel. “Well, then. I reckon we should keep trying.”

“Imriel . . .”
She breathed my name.

I spread her thighs and plied her with my tongue until she shuddered and writhed and tugged at my hair. She tasted of the sea and smelled of fresh-baked bread. I slithered up her body, my wrists and ankles bound with red yarn. I entered her, the croonie-stone hanging between us as I hovered above her on propped arms.

“Now,” Dorelei whispered. “Now!”

I arched my back and spent my seed in her, obedient.

Her face was soft with pleasure. “That was nice,” she said, echoing her own words.

“Indeed.” I kissed my wife. “We should get up. I promised Eamonn I’d make an offering at his uncle’s burial mound.”

The household of Innisclan was still in a subdued mood, digesting the news of Conor’s paternity and waiting in an apprehensive hush to see what would come of his summons. At Dorelei’s suggestion, we paid a visit to the encampment where our men were idling to warn Urist that one of the Maghuin Dhonn might be approaching.

He spat on the ground and made a gesture to avert evil. “By the Boar! What did you go and do
that
for?”

“There’ll be no trouble on the Lady’s grounds,” I said firmly. “Not from this quarter.”

Urist eyed me dourly, jerking his chin toward the bindings of red yarn around my wrists. “There already has been by the look of you.”

“Just promise me you’ll offer no offense,” Dorelei pleaded.

He folded his arms. “I do. Unless he gives cause.”

With that, we had to be content. Afterward, we visited the mound where Eamonn’s uncle was buried. It was a simple grass-covered dome ringed round the base with a wall of stones. I was surprised to find there were no markers, nothing more elaborate.

“Why would it be needful?” Eamonn asked. “We know where he is.”

We climbed the gentle slope to the apex, where his uncle’s head was entombed, facing toward the east where he’d fought the battle in which he died, far away across the Straits. Bringing forth a silver flask, Eamonn poured a libation of
uisghe
onto the ground. He handed it around and we all followed suit. Dorelei looked grave as a priestess, the amber liquid sparkling as she poured. Brigitta closed her eyes when her turn came, her lips moving in a silent prayer. It must be passing strange for her, I thought. For all any of us knew, it was one of her own kinsman had slain him.

When it was done, Eamonn sighed. “Rest easy in the Fair Lands, Uncle! May your spirit guard and protect us.”

“Do you think he is pleased?” Brigitta asked.

“I do.” Eamonn smiled at her. “If I could not bring him the heads of his enemies, at least I’ve conquered Skaldia in a different way.”

Brigitta made to strike him with her open palm and he dodged, laughing. They chased one another down the side of the burial mound. Below, in the open meadow, Eamonn caught her about the waist and bore her to the ground. Brigitta landed atop him. She thumped his chest with the heel of his hand, then kissed him. They made a pretty picture, entwined amid the buttercup and clover blossoming in the meadow. I felt a pang of envy, but it was distant and muted.

“What are you thinking?” Dorelei asked curiously.

“I’m thinking his uncle wouldn’t have minded,” I said, taking her hand. “And that peace is a good deal more pleasant than war.”

The balance of the day passed uneventfully. Joscelin was engaged in helping Eamonn draft plans for his academy, but I spoke to Phèdre about accompanying them to visit Hyacinthe, explaining Dorelei’s longing to see her own family, and she agreed readily.

“Poor child, I don’t blame her. This must not be easy on her.” Phèdre studied me. “What of you?”

I shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“You seem . . .” She drew her brows together in consternation, at a rare loss for words. “I don’t know, love. You’re taking this very calmly.”

I thought about it. “Do you remember what Joscelin said after we left Saba? When I was upset because you looked the way you did in Daršanga?” Phèdre shook her head. “It was later that night, when you thought I was asleep. You asked if it bothered him. He said you walking around with the Name of God in your head was just one more damned thing to get used to.”

“Elua!” She gave a startled laugh. “I’d forgotten that.”

“Well, that’s how I feel.” I touched the croonie-stone. “The Maghuin Dhonn, this . . . it’s just all one more damned thing to get used to.” I glanced toward the east, toward the distant Straits and faraway Terre d’Ange. “In a way, they may have done me a favor. You see, whatever it is that the
ollamh
did, I’m protected from my own desires.” I lowered my voice. “Or at least my feelings for Sidonie.”

Phèdre was silent for a long moment. “I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.”

“No?” I shrugged again. “Neither am I. But at the moment, I don’t have a great deal of choice. So if a curse turns out to carry an unexpected blessing, I may as well enjoy it.”

We might have spoken further, but at that moment Mairead and Caolinn appeared. Like Joscelin, I’d kept up the practice of telling the hours on our journey, much to the bemusement of our Alban escort. The Lady’s children had heard tales of our peculiar discipline and the Cassiline fighting-style and had come to beg me to importune Joscelin for a joint demonstration.

So I went to fetch him and he agreed, albeit with grumbling. Before supper was served, we put on a good show for them in the yard before the hall, in large part because Joscelin began to press me a good deal harder than was his wont. Having left our wood practice-blades in Terre d’Ange, we were sparring with real steel, his daggers against my sword. We’d done it before, but Joscelin was usually more careful.