Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [113]
He was as different in his own way as we were.
D'Angelines.
The realization struck me at the table, as I glanced at Ferghus, at Phèdre and Joscelin. They, too, looked out of place there. I supposed I did, too.
"What a thing, eh?" The harpist caught my eye. "Earth's Oldest and Youngest dining at the same table.”
"So you claim, my lord," Dorelei murmured.
"Little sister of the Cullach Gorrym." His unblinking gaze fell on her. "Our blood flows in your veins, too." He splayed three fingers, touching his cheek below his right eye. "Where do you think your mother's line gets its gift?”
Dorelei turned pale, the woad dots that marked her own cheek standing out in contrast. "If it is true, it is also true that we never used it for ill.”
"Will you give insult in the Lady's own household?" Ferghus smiled his easy smile. "Ah, now! That's no way to bargain for your prince's freedom. Tell me, lass, do you love him? The pretty lad with the sea-blue eyes and another's name written on his heart?”
Her pallor turned to a violent flush.
"Ferghus…" Grainne began.
"You spoke of insult, my lord?" I interrupted, keeping my voice as light as his. "Then I do believe we are at quits, for you have just given insult to my lady wife." I smiled at him. "But mayhap we can mend our differences over a cup of uisghe, for there is the matter of another insult yet to be discussed.”
He tapped the table with lean, restless fingers. "Morwen, is it?”
"You know perfectly well it is," Grainne said to him.
Ferghus eyed her sidelong. "Fetch the uisghe, then. I've a fancy to play a tune first.”
She nodded at Conor and Caolinn, who ran to fetch a jug of uisghe and a tray of earthenware cups. Brennan poured while Ferghus removed his harp from its case and checked the tuning with loving care. The harp looked old, the wood smooth and polished through long handling. It was a simple, unadorned instrument, but the sweeping lines were wrought with exquisite beauty.
The harpist tossed back his cup of uisghe, so quickly my throat burned in sympathy. He closed his eyes and smacked his lips, then held his cup out to be refilled. He drank half of that, then settled the harp on his lap.
"Listen," he said to us, and began to play.
To describe perfection is an impossible thing. Ferghus played the harp the way a swallow takes wing, effortless and graceful. The first notes brought tears to my eyes. His playing was so beautiful, it made me want to laugh and weep all at once. My heart ached within my breast, pierced by the sheer loveliness of it.
And then he began to sing.
He sang well, although no better than any number of musicians I'd heard in the Queen's salon. It was his harping that uplifted the song and made it soar. It was so beautiful, it was hard to concentrate on the verses he sang. It was some long minutes before I realized I recognized the tale he was telling, or at least some version of it.
It was a story of the Maghuin Dhonn, and how they had suffered under the yoke of Tiberium. How they had tried to accommodate them, to assimilate them, as they had accommodated the folk of the Cullach Gorrym, the Tarbh Cró, the Eidlach Or, and the Fhalair Ban.
How they had failed.
How their people had sickened and died as the army of Tiberium occupied the land, taming it with stone roads, bringing strange diseases from faraway places. How they had dwindled and fled to the wild places, the last bastion left to them.
How they had prayed to their untamed gods and goddesses and to the Maghuin Dhonn herself, their diadh-anam, the lodestone of their existence. How the greatest magician among them, mighty Donnchadh, fasted and prayed. How he had drunk the sacred broth and gone alone to the Place of the Gates, and beheld a vision of the future.
How mighty Donnchadh had seen how it might be averted through great sacrifice, and how he had transformed himself into a living incarnation of the Maghuin Dhonn, the mighty Brown Bear. How he had suffered himself to be sold into