Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [112]
"Are you angry at me?" I asked, using the sword's reach to keep him at bay.
Joscelin sidled around, forcing me to turn so that the light of the lowering sun was in my eyes. "Angry, yes. At you, no.”
I squinted at his dark silhouette. "What would you have me do?”
He took an unexpected step, feinting low with his left-hand dagger. I parried awkwardly and cursed as his right-hand dagger descended, trapping my blade with the quillon. His left-hand dagger rose to prick the underside of my chin. "I'd have you be careful!”
A smattering of cheers and applause arose. Joscelin stepped back and gave his Cassiline bow. I sighed and sheathed my sword.
"Well done, indeed!" a strange, melodious voice said. "An art worthy of song.”
I turned slowly, the hair on the back of my neck prickling.
"Dagda Mor!" someone whispered.
The harpist stood on the far side of the yard, arms spread to show he bore no weapons, only his harp slung over his back in a leather case. He was a tall, rangy figure with strong, striking features, coarse black hair streaked with iron-grey.
"My lord Ferghus," Grainne emerged from the hall and inclined her head in greeting. "Be welcome to Innisclan.”
"Lady Grainne." He smiled easily, showing white teeth. "My thanks.”
Everyone in the yard was very quiet as the harpist Ferghus approached. Joscelin watched him warily, crossed daggers at the ready. Conor was there, his eyes wide with wonder and fearful apprehension. The harpist paused, laying a lean brown hand on his head.
"Well played, lad," he said.
"Thank you," Conor whispered.
Joscelin shifted when Ferghus drew near, blocking me. The harpist gave another easy smile, showing his empty palms. I touched Joscelin's arm and stepped out from behind him.
"So you're the one would be a Prince of Alba," the harpist said.
I offered my hand. "Imriel.”
He took it. "Ferghus.”
At close range, he didn't look dangerous; but he didn't look safe, either. There was a hint of something wild glinting in his black eyes, slanting the planes of his cheekbones. Like Morwen, the scent of forest loam and fermented berries clung to him. Untamed places, I thought. And though his jerkin and breeches were of roughspun brown cloth, he carried himself like a king.
"Will you dine with us, my lord?" Grainne asked calmly. "There's a matter I wish to discuss with you.”
"Shall I sing for my supper?" he asked. "As in days of old?”
Her red-gold brows rose slightly. "If you wish.”
Unexpectedly, Ferghus roared with laughter. "Ah, Grainne, Grainne! I've missed you, lass." He stepped toward her, touched her cheek with affection. "Too long, it's been." Something caught his eye. "Ah, and who's this?”
Grainne introduced Phèdre.
The harpist looked at her for a long, long moment. I couldn't see his face, but hers was unreadable. Joscelin and I exchanged a glance. In silent accord, we moved closer. But Ferghus offered no threat, only took a long breath.
"And so the harbingers of change are upon us once more," he said lightly. "With dancing blades and beauty to put the stars to shame. Twenty years ago, we failed to take heed, and the world turned upside down in your wake. What now, I wonder?”
"Is he always like this?" Phèdre asked Grainne.
The Lady of the Dalriada smiled. "More or less, yes.”
The harpist loosed another unexpected peal of laughter. "Oh, indeed! Well played, fair lady, well played." He bowed to Grainne. "And to you, my lady, I accept your offer of hospitality. I would dine in your hall this evening.”
So it was that Innisclan hosted a master bard of the Maghuin Dhonn.
It was a strange, constrained meal. To be fair, Ferghus was an exemplary guest. He ate and drank with gusto, complimenting the fare. There was nothing obvious about him that was extraordinary. He didn't even have the woad facial markings that Morwen bore and that rendered the Cruithne exotic to a D'Angeline eye. And yet strangeness