Kushiel's Scion (115 page)
The embalmers came with Gilot's body in a casket, having completed the long process of preservation. They had kept him safe during the floods, for which I was grateful. He was given a place of honor in the Tadeii mausoleum while Quentin LeClerc made arrangements to procure a wagon to transport the casket. I meant to keep my word and bring Gilot home.
Canis was buried in the Luccan graveyard. I commissioned a stele from a stonecarver's shop to mark the site, although it would be a long time before it was finished. The carver had been a member of Stone squadron. He'd reckoned the name would prove lucky for him, and I suppose it had, since he had survived. I didn't tell him why I wanted the stele and he didn't ask. He promised on the honor of the Red Scourge to see it installed properly. We clasped hands on the deal.
I visited Canis' gravesite.
There wasn't much to see; only a mound of raw earth, one of over a hundred, each marked with a crude identifier. For Canis, it was the javelin that had killed him, thrust into the damp soil. I stood there for a long time, not knowing what to say. A priest had performed the rites for all of the dead, but I didn't even know what gods Canis had prayed to.
Your mother sends her love.
My mother, my beautiful, treacherous mother. Canis had been her dog, her faithful hound. And he'd been good at his job. I'd even been fond of him for a time. I smiled a little, remembering the bright-eyed beggar in his stinking barrel.
"Peace, my friend," I said, pouring out wine from a flask I'd brought. "May your journey bring you wisdom."
Since I didn't know his country or his gods, I prayed to mine. I prayed as I had in the embassy garden, and although I had only wine to offer, I conjured the scent of incense in my mind and offered prayers—for wisdom and for healing, for strength and pride, justice and mercy, and love.
Always, love.
On our final night, the Tadeii held a dinner in our honor. I'd tried to demur, but like Eamonn's wedding, the notion brought Lady Beatrice too much pleasure to deny her. It was good to see her happy. Alone among the wives and mothers and sisters of Lucca, she had regained a son during the siege, and war had brought peace to the Tadeii household.
It was a small gathering. The Correggii were the only other guests. But it would be the first time that Lucius and Helena had met since everything had happened, and he was nervous. We spoke of it beforehand in the salon of the guest quarters.
"I tried to…" He swallowed. "I tried to force her into my bed, didn't I?"
"Gallus did."
Lucius shot me a look. "Wearing my face. Do you think she'll forget it?"
"No," I said honestly. "But you were there, too, Lucius. You were there all along. When you knew Gallus would have let her die, you bade me look out for her. Helena knew it. When Gallus tried to throttle me, she begged me not to hurt you."
"Gallus Tadius," he mused. "There was good in him along with the bad. But when all's said and done, he wasn't all that different from Valpetra, was he?"
"Not really." I thought about it. "But he was ours. And he gave himself for Lucca."
"He did do that." Lucius sighed. "Ah, Montrève! There's a part of me wants to hide away in your entourage and flee back to Tiberium, back to Master Piero. Let him help me make sense of this all. Or even continue on to Terre d'Ange with you." He grinned at me, raising his satyr's brows. "I might do well there, don't you think?"
I laughed. "Oh, yes."
"Mayhap I'll visit." His smile turned wistful, fading. "So what do I do about Helena?"
"Treat her gently," I said, remembering the day I had called upon her and what I had felt. "Treat her with kindness and respect. Earn her trust. She deserves it, Lucius. You were friends, once, and you've got six months to learn to be friends again. It's a good place to start."
He leaned forward, knotting his hands between his knees. The furrows that would never leave deepened on his brow. "What if she's with child?"
I gazed at him, at the shadow of Gallus Tadius. "Love the child."
"As simply as that?" he asked bitterly.
Kushiel's bronze wings stirred in my memory. "Yes."
Lucius held my gaze for a moment, then looked away. "You're a strange one, Imriel nó Montrève," he murmured. "Strange and beautiful and, I think, a little bit dangerous to know in your own peculiar way. I wish…" He shook his head.
"What?" I asked.
He looked back at me. "Oh, perhaps that my sister hadn't gotten to you first."
Fiercely and unexpectedly, I flushed a hot red to the roots of my hair.
Lucius gave a wry laugh. "One thing about Gallus Tadius, he was no fool. He saw things I didn't." He regarded me with rueful affection, then rose and extended his hand. "Come on. I imagine our guests are waiting."
By the time we arrived, they were all assembled in the dining room, reclining on couches. All of us exchanged formal greetings. Lucius bowed low over Helena's hand. Her fingers trembled in his grasp, but he whispered somewhat to her as he straightened, and I saw her expression soften. They would be all right, I thought. Both had been used cruelly by hard men in different ways, but both had survived. In time, they would be all right.
So we drank and dined and strove to make pleasant conversation, although it was hard to talk about anything but the siege. It was still too fresh in all our minds. If the evening could be counted a success, I reckon it was due to Eamonn. He overrode every awkward pause and silence with cheerful anecdotes, his sunny good nature on full display. He told stories of his childhood in Alba, and stories of his courtship of Brigitta that made everyone laugh. He even told stories of the siege that made it bearable. He charmed them all, men and women alike. I knew he was doing it a-purpose, and I loved him for it. As always, Prince Barbarus had more tact and shrewdness than anyone credited him.
I was glad, so glad, he was alive and well. And I was glad when it was over.
We said our farewells in the atrium. Helena took both my hands in hers, and her fingers were warm and didn't tremble at all. She gazed at me without fear, her blue eyes wide and candid.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For what you did, and for what you said to me. I will always remember it."
I bowed. "Be well, my lady."
Her fingers tightened on mine. In Terre d'Ange, I would have given her the kiss of parting without hesitation. But this was Lucca, and she was Domenico Martelli's widow and Lucius' betrothed. I returned the pressure of her fingers, then let her go.
After the Correggii had departed, I found Lucius eyeing me oddly. "You didn't…"
I shook my head. "No."
He blew out his breath in a sigh. "Good."
On the morrow, there were more farewells to be said. Quentin LeClerc and a score of his men gathered in the villa's courtyard to escort us. They had procured a mule-drawn supply wagon, and Gilot's casket was loaded ceremoniously into it.
There wasn't much else. Eamonn and I had travelled light, expecting to spend no more than a few days in Lucca. After enduring weeks of the siege, most of our clothing wasn't fit to salvage. I was clad in what would have been my wedding finery, a velvet jacket and breeches in Courcel blue, trimmed with silver; Eamonn had been reduced to rough-spun woolens.
We bade farewell to Publius Tadius and Lady Beatrice in the villa. He shook our hands solemnly and thanked us for our service to Lucca and the Tadeii. She enfolded us both in a warm, heartfelt embrace.
"You be good to that wild girl of yours," she said to Eamonn, rising on tiptoe to take his face in her plump hands. "Remember your vows."
"I will, my lady," he promised.
Lucius walked into the courtyard with us. LeClerc and his men were waiting, holding our mounts. The Bastard was restive and stamping, his hooves ringing on the paving-stones, snorting plumes of frost. It was a bright, crisp day, with only a few wispy clouds in the blue sky. Lucius stood beside the wagon and laid his hand on Gilot's casket.
"Lucca owes him a debt," he murmured. "I won't forget."
I nodded. "Thank you."
He turned to Eamonn, smiling slightly. "Prince Barbarus."
Eamonn grinned. "Lucius Tadius."
They clasped one another's hands, strong grips vying to make the other wince. Neither did. They parted with a laugh, and Lucius turned to me. In the clear daylight, his face was as open as a book. "Good-bye, Montrève."
I hugged him, hard and fierce, feeling him stiffen, then relax and return my embrace. I held him tight enough that I could feel his heart beating in his breast, strong and steady. Turning my head, I kissed his cheek. "Good-bye, Lucius."
Thus we took our leave.
The Bastard took all my attention, sidling and chomping at the bit. It wasn't until we reached the gate onto the Tadeii grounds that I had him under control. I turned back in the saddle. Lucius was still standing in the courtyard. I raised my hand, and he did the same. And then we entered the street, and I lost sight of him.
We passed swiftly through Lucca. Despite the damage, it was bustling and lively. It seemed strange to see it thus. I'd only known it as a city under siege. Now, only the ruined bell-tower stood as a stark reminder, a hollow shell pointing toward the heavens, its scorched walls hinting at what lay beneath it.
An earthen pit.
A portal to hell.
At the gatehouse, we found the portcullis raised, the drawbridge lowered. The sentries on duty saluted as we swept through. "Captain Barbarus!" one of them called, and Eamonn waved in acknowledgment. He'd ventured into the city early yesterday to bid farewell to all the surviving members of Barbarus squadron he could locate. I felt a twinge of guilt at having failed to do the same, but only a twinge. We had been brothers in arms, and strangers out of them. The moment had already passed.
Our mounts' hooves clattered over the drawbridge, the wheels of the wagon creaking. There was a whiff of stagnant water from the moat, and then we were past and and through, and the walls of Lucca were behind us.
I drew a deep breath, tasting freedom.
The rest of LeClerc's men were waiting on the outskirts of the Tiberian encampment, and fell in alongside us as we passed. Marcus Cornelius and his company would remain in the city for a few weeks until Lucca could be adequately secured. Although the speed of Tiberian foot-soldiers was still legendary, we could travel quicker without them.
We rode alongside the fire-razed, flood-sodden fields, the twisted stumps of the ancient olive grove visible in the distance. One of the guards lifted his voice in song; a L'Agnacite hymn to Anael, who taught us husbandry and to be good stewards of the land. Several other clear D'Angeline voices joined in, and I felt tears sting my eyes at the beauty of it.
"Pretty," Eamonn commented.
"Yes." It made me yearn for home. I gazed at Gilot's casket, jolting along in the wagon, thinking how he'd never really wanted to leave Terre d'Ange. "It is."
Beyond the fields, the road began to wind into the mountains. I called out to Quentin LeClerc before we entered the gorge. Our company halted, and I turned for a last look at Lucca.
It looked peaceful and pleasant, save for the stark fields surrounding it. None of the damage was visible, not even the crumbling gap on the far side of the city. The red-tiled buildings were warm and beckoning, the mighty oaks rose up from the vast wall, spreading their crowns, a few russet leaves clinging to the branches. No unwitting traveller could guess what had transpired there.
I sat in the saddle and remembered it all. The smoke rising from the bell-tower, the mundus manes. The cracked death-mask, and Gallus Tadius. Arrows singing from the trees, blood spouting from the stump of Valpetra's wrist. Gilot. Nights of patrol, the firestorm and Deccus Fulvius atop the wall.
Rain, and endless drilling.
Helena.
The breaking dams, the flood. The cracked mask and the maelstrom, the bottomless pit sheeting with obsidian water.
The battle, and Valpetra.
Canis.
The defeated living carrying their dead; the victorious living burying theirs. A hundred graves covered with raw earth.
Remember this.
No one spoke. After a time, Eamonn leaned over touched my shoulder. I looked into his grey-green eyes, knowing he shared the same memories. There were others there, too. A wedding celebrated in joy, a bittersweet farewell.
"Are you ready?" he asked. "I've got a wife to find."
"I'm ready."
I turned the Bastard, who snorted and surged forward. Quentin LeClerc gave the order and our company continued, passing beyond the first curve of the gorge. Gilot's wagon lurched and rattled. The road climbed upward, mountains rising around us. Above us, beneath the blue sky, the banners of Terre d'Ange snapped in the breeze.
Behind us, Lucca disappeared.
In the distance, Tiberium waited.
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