Kushiel's Justice (63 page)

“Nor do we wish it,” I said.

“What is your counsel?” he asked Rebbe Avraham.

“It is as I told you. I have spoken with the young man,” the Rebbe said. “He did but defend himself agains the Tarkovans and I have absolved him of that crime. As for Berlik, I believe he speaks the truth. No one could have found that man in the wilderness if he did not wish to be found. He found the death he desired.”

Tadeuz Vral frowned. “That is a sin.”

“Not yours nor mine, my lord.” Rebbe Avraham was speaking to Vral, but out of the corner of his eye he was watching Phèdre. He’d been doing so for a while. “Did you have aught to say, my lady?” he asked, switching to Habiru.

“Not yet.” Phèdre answered in Rus, slow and careful. After all, she’d had a good ten days since Tarkov to improve her skills. “I listen.” She tilted her head. A shaft of wintry sunlight fell across her face. The scarlet mote in her left eye floated, bright and vivid. She was Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, and she held the Name of God in her thoughts. Beside her, Joscelin shifted, fighting the urge to cross his arms and rest his hands on his dagger-hilts. Phèdre gave the Rebbe a disarming smile. “If there is need to speak of . . .” She switched to Habiru, her vocabulary failing her. “. . . to speak of
ransom
, I will negotiate on Queen Ysandre’s behalf, of course. Imriel is her kinsman and my foster-son.”

“Rebbe Avraham!” Tadeuz Vral said irritably. “Rus, if you please.”

“Indeed.” The Rebbe inclined his head to Phèdre, then faced his lord. “If you would have my counsel, it is this. Berlik of Alba came to Vralia bearing his sin. Let them depart and take it with them.”

“That’s all?” Vral sounded disappointed.

Rebbe Avraham shrugged. “It is what is best for Vralia.”

“You know, I wanted to
like
you,” Tadeuz Vral said to me. “I wish you hadn’t proved to be false.” I felt an unexpected pang of guilt. He took off his crown and rubbed his brow. “So be it. Outside this room, we will not speak of what transpired here. You will remain as our guests. You will bear witness to the oath-taking of a thousand new Yeshuites. When the ice breaks, you will go.” His voice turned fierce. “And you will tell your people, your Queen and your Cruarch, that Yeshua’s kingdom reigns in the north!”

I bowed; everyone else followed suit. “As my lord wills.”

With that, Tadeuz Vral left us. I translated what had passed for the others, speaking in D’Angeline. And now it was my turn to watch out of the corner of my eye as Rebbe Avraham descended from the dais and approached Phèdre.

“Shalom, Father,” she said softly.

“Child.” He reached out to touch her cheek. I reckoned Rebbe Avraham was old enough to call anyone “child” if he wished. “Even here in the north, the Children of Yisra-el pass tales from mouth to ear. Pilgrims come bearing them. Some years ago, one came to my ears. I have heard the tale of how the angel known as
Pride
was defeated when a D’Angeline woman spoke the Name of God, and the Master of the Straits was freed. I spent my youth in the Flatlands. I know his power. And I see knowledge that does not belong there in your eyes.”

Phèdre said nothing.

“You did not tell me,” the Rebbe said to me.

“Would it have mattered?” I asked, echoing Tadeuz Vral.

The Rebbe smiled. “I suppose not.”

“Did you expect me to invoke the aid of the Master of the Straits and threaten to bring heaven’s wrath down on Vralia if Prince Tadeuz had sought retribution against Imriel?” Phèdre asked mildly.

“I thought it was possible.” His voice was grave. “You have named the young man your son. I do not discount the ferocity of a mother’s love.”

“Ah, well.” She favored him with another sweet, disarming smile. “I would have negotiated first.”

S
IXTY-SIX

D
URING THE TIME
we spent in Vralgrad, waiting for the ice to break, I thought about love and ferocity.

I’d known, of course; I’d always known how much Phèdre loved me, and Joscelin, too; or at least I had for a long time. It hadn’t really been
me
they’d come for in Daršanga. It had been an idea of me. A child; Melisande’s child, but still a child, undeserving of his fate. By the time we’d reached Saba together, that had changed. We had become, however unlikely, a family. When Phèdre offered her life for mine on the temple threshold, she’d known exactly what she was doing and why.

I thought I had, but I hadn’t, not really.

I hadn’t grasped it wholly.

Women are wiser than men in such matters. I thought about Dorelei and our lost child; the son who would have become a monstrosity in Alba. I wondered if I would have loved him so much I would have done anything for him. Forgiven him any crime. The possibility, I thought, existed.

And I thought about Sidonie.

Alais was right, there was fierceness in her, however well hidden in public. And in me. I wanted her. I loved her. I knew that beyond any shadow of doubt. The thought of her losing her as I’d lost Dorelei made my blood run cold in my veins. And the thought of one day making a
child
together with her . . .

Ah, Elua!

It was terrifying.

When I thought about it, I understood why Phèdre had fallen apart at finding me safe. I thought about what Melisande had written to me, my blood mother. How she would have humbled herself and begged, paid any price to undo what was done to me.

You will wonder if I loved you. The answer is yes; a thousand times, yes.

I hadn’t wholly believed it when I read it. Enough to hurt, enough to reveal an ache within myself that I’d denied existed. But then, I hadn’t known how deep and fine love could truly cut. The love one feels as a child is altogether different. It may be fierce and overwhelming, but it lacks the acute awareness that comes with adulthood; the knowledge of choice and responsibility. Those things bear a keen edge.

Our days were mostly idle, waiting for the fête, if one might term it so, during which the captured rebels would be dedicated in Yeshua’s name. The mood in Vralgrad was merry despite the interminable cold. Tadeuz Vral kept his word. If there were stories that circulated around our presence here, they were only that; stories. No one spoke the truth. Many of the older folk of Habiru descent were immigrants. They knew of D’Angelines, but did not question our presence, reckoning it was politics. The Vralians made up their own tales, reckoning our presence was a sign from God, a blessing upon Tadeuz Vral’s victory. For that, I was grateful.

I went with Joscelin and Ti-Philippe to the wharf. I did my best to translate while they asked better questions than I would have conceived. We learned there were traders willing to carry our small party by sleigh to the mouth of the Volkov where it met the shores of the Eastern Sea. The trade-ships weren’t sailing yet, but there were seal-hunters willing to dare the ice floes. For a sufficient price, we might find a hunting-ship to carry us southward as far as Norstock.

In the meanwhile, we got to know the court of Tadeuz Vral. It wasn’t a court as D’Angelines would reckon it—there was no Hall of Games, no theatre, barely even a music salon—but it was growing lively. Nobles from other cities loyal to Grand Prince Tadeuz were pouring into the palace. Vralings, they called them; they were all related distantly by blood. Vralstag, Vralsturm . . . there were a dozen variants. Many of the lesser princes with daughters of marriageable age brought them.

As it happened, Tadeuz Vral was unwed. And while he didn’t seem minded to make a choice anytime soon, he clearly enjoyed entertaining the prospect.

Without vanity, I daresay I might have had my pick of them. The unwed girls flirted with the men among us; and so did some of their mothers. Yeshua’s edicts regarding celibacy and fidelity had not yet overridden simple human desire. Once or twice, I might have been tempted at another time, under different circumstances. Some of the Vralian women were quite lovely, forthright and direct, with straight, clean limbs and high-cheeked features. But in the end, I kept myself apart.

Maslin didn’t.

He embarked on a covert affair with a young woman named Katalena, whose parents would have throttled her if they’d known she was jeopardizing her chances for a marriage with the Grand Prince. From what I could gather on meeting her, she seemed a tempestuous girl, given to displays of high emotion. Maslin seemed pleased with himself to the point of smugness.

“Don’t you endanger our position here,” I warned him. “And don’t mislead her, either. It’s unfair.”

“Oh, I won’t,” he said airily. “Katya’s heard both sides of the story. She reckons at worst she’s a diplomat’s mistress.”

“You’re not a diplomat,” I pointed out to him.

“I might be.” Maslin looked pensive. “I do believe I’ve come to like it here. Do you suppose Tadeuz Vral would let me stay for a time?”

“Not if he knows you’re making love to his prospective bride,” I said.

Maslin made a dismissive gesture. “He doesn’t. And he won’t. Katya’s not a fool. She’d throw me over to marry him if it came to it, but it might not.” He cocked his head. “You know, there are half a dozen girls trying to throw themselves at you. Have you not noticed?”

I shrugged. “I’m not interested.”

“Why?” He looked genuinely curious. “Are you keeping chaste?”

I hadn’t thought about it in those terms. “Mayhap.”

“I didn’t think you were such a Cassiline.” Maslin grinned. “I hope you’re not expecting Sidonie to return the favor. Because I will tell you in all honesty, my friend, I strongly doubt it.”

A memory struck me; Sidonie sitting upright in our borrowed bed and shaking out her love-tangled locks, smiling sidelong at me, amused at my slowness to perceive what should have been obvious.
Anyway, Amarante doesn’t sleep here very often
. No apology, no hint of self-consciousness. She had leaned down to kiss me, the tips of her breasts brushing my chest, her sun-shot hair falling around my face.

Elua knows why, but that was the first time I’d felt truly at peace with myself and who I was. Who we were, Sidonie and I, apart and together.

It was the first time I’d told her I loved her.

“That makes you smile?” Maslin observed wryly.

“In its own way,” I said.

“Gods above,” he said in wonderment. “You
do
love her.”

I laughed.

Of a surety, it was true; I hadn’t gone so long without love since I’d been sixteen years old and and gave my virginity to an adept of Balm House. But I hadn’t been keeping chaste a-purpose. Some of it was due to a desire to honor Dorelei’s memory. It hadn’t been a year since her death. She’d extracted a promise from Urist and sent me to Sidonie’s side for love’s sake. Anything else would feel like a betrayal. And in truth, I didn’t
want
anyone else. Not here, not now. Elua knows, that might change one day. It wasn’t that I was immune to the promptings of desire; far from it. But I wanted more.

And whatever Maslin might say, I didn’t think Sidonie was engaging in dalliance, either. I knew my girl. If she was engaged in a contest of wills with her mother, there was no way she was going to provide Ysandre any fodder with which to question the depth and seriousness of her feelings for me. There was Amarante, of course; but that was different. Amarante had been with her for a long time, longer than I had. And without impulsive anger firing her blood, I daresay even Ysandre would be circumspect about speaking ill of the daughter of the High Priestess of Naamah. I hoped so, anyway.

Elua, I wanted to go home.

The pilgrims came on foot, trickling into Vralgrad, straining the city to bursting. They didn’t look overjoyed to be there. They looked sullen, tired, and defeated. I pitied them, although I had to own, I was grateful when the date for their oath-taking drew nigh.

It was a grand show of pageantry. Tadeuz Vral was no fool. He meant to dazzle them, as well as us, with a show of might and majesty; both his and Yeshua’s.

The ceremony was held in the new temple, the one with the gilded domes and spires. We were given what was ostensibly a place of honor in the wings at the foot of the dais, alongside the lesser princes of the realm and their families.

The temple itself was vast and splendid, most notable on the interior for its frescoes. They were so new the colors fairly sang, bright and vivid. The style was simple and direct, but rendered with strong lines and flat expanses of color. On the side wall to the right were images from the life of Yeshua ben Yosef as depicted in the Brit Khadasha, and on the left, images of noble soldiers I guessed were meant to represent the Hundred Martyrs, along with a few others I didn’t recognize.

Largest of all was the image of Yeshua on the wall behind the altar itself.

As in Miroslav, there was a cross hanging there, although this one was gilded and shone brightly in the filtered winter light. Above it, his feet nearly resting atop the vertical beam, was Yeshua. He dwarfed the instrument of his mortal death and loomed above us, his head stretching toward the vaulted ceiling. In one hand, he held a book. In the other, he held a naked sword. He had a neatly trimmed beard and hot, staring eyes. His expression was stern and challenging.

He did not look like a god one might call a friend.

Atop the dais, Rebbe Avraham stood waiting. His simple black robes were gone, replaced by stiff garments glittering with gems and gold stitching. His face was solemn and unreadable. There were a pair of priests flanking him, only slightly less ornately attired. One looked to be Habiru; the other, Vralian. Grand Prince Tadeuz Vral stood a step below him, still elevated above the masses. He was dressed in a plain soldier’s livery, except it was adorned with a heavy, gem-encrusted sash of gilded leather from which an ornamental scabbard hung. His chin was raised, and beneath his fur-trimmed crown his strong-boned face was as stern as Yeshua’s.

Somewhere in a distant tower, a resonant horn blew.

The doors at the far end of the temple opened. The two priests flanking the Rebbe began to sing a hymn of praise; first in Habiru, then in Rus, one echoing the other. A company of Vralian soldiers strode into the temple, led by Micah ben Ximon, who stopped to stand below Tadeuz Vral. At ben Ximon’s signal, his men divided and formed an aisle.

The pilgrims entered in a long line.

All of them, whatever their stature, had been given a crude garment of undyed sackcloth to wear over their attire. I watched them enter; watched expressions of surly rebellion give way to careful neutrality in the presence of Tadeuz Vral. When the first reached the dais and sank to his knees, the cantors ceased to sing. A living, breathing silence fell over the temple. Rebbe Avraham ben David stood very still, his grey head bowed.

He had doubts; I knew he did. He had spoken of them to me. And I knew, too, that he had spoken with Phèdre after our audience with Prince Tadeuz, yearning to hear the tale of the woman who had been given the Name of God in distant Saba by a priest of the Lost Tribe of the Habiru. I glanced at her. She was watching the Rebbe, her eyes dark and somber. When he lifted his head with gathering resolve, she looked away. Joscelin, who knew her best, slid his arm around her waist.

“We are gathered here today to give praise to Adonai and his son Yeshua for the victory they have granted us,” the Rebbe said in a strong, firm voice. “And to welcome our new brothers and sisters into the fold of true faith.”

So it began.

One by one, each of the pilgrims approached the altar. Each knelt and swore faith, repeated the words Avraham ben David gave them. Each bowed his or her head to Tadeuz Vral and pledged loyalty, kissing the point of his extended sword.

It went on for a long, long time. There were a thousand pilgrims. When each was done, the Vralian soldiers directed them wordlessly to kneel in the temple, awaiting the finish. I didn’t envy them. I grew restless from standing for so long, my feet aching. It must have been worse to kneel on the cold marble floor. Still, they did it.

They were the defeated; they had no choice.

The others must have grown weary, too. Of a surety, the Vralian nobility grew bored and tempted to whisper among themselves. I caught Micah ben Ximon shifting, and one of the priests yawned a few times. But the Rebbe’s voice never faltered. One by one, he accepted their oaths, treating each with as much solemnity as though it was the first. As for Tadeuz Vral, he stood straight-backed and tall, holding his sword extended. It never wavered. His face was suffused with a complex mixture of humility and rapture.

I nearly envied him.

It must be a glorious thing, I thought, to be so
sure
. Sure of one’s rightness and rectitude; sure of one’s place in the world. It was not so different in a way than what I had first envied in Maslin. And yet it was, for others’ lives hung in the balance. I thought about the fur-trader Jergens making an offering to the
vodyanoi
, fearful and furtive. Should such things pass from the world to serve one god’s glory? Could faith be compelled at the point of a sword?

I thought of the vision Morwen had shown me.

Homes torched, people dragged from them. The Maghuin Dhonn hunted like animals, eyes stretched wide with terror, their magics failing. The oak groves ablaze, teams of oxen dragging down the stone circles. Stone, ancient stone, crashing and falling. D’Angeline architects swarming. A world broken and remade in a new image.

My son’s face.

There were no sureties in this world.

There in the temple, I stooped and touched the floor, spreading my fingers against the cool marble. Somewhere far beneath it, there was soil and living earth. “Blessed Elua hold me in your hand,” I murmured. “May your wisdom ever guide me.”

I felt it, then. A surge of assurance, beating like wings in my heart. Not Kushiel, but Elua; Blessed Elua. I was his scion, too. His mantle descended on me as I straightened. I felt so many things; regret, sorrow, hope. There was such beauty in the world, but there was such cruelty, too. Such folly and madness. I did not understand the whole of what had passed between Berlik and me, and I did not pretend to understand all of what passed here today. But for the sake of Vralia and its people, I prayed that love and compassion would temper ambition and the urge for glory.