Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [116]
And Sidonie…
Ah, Elua! We hadn't been sure, either of us, that our feelings would last. Mayhap it was for the best if mine withered and died, smothered under a blanket of Alban sorcery. Mayhap my feelings for Dorelei would grow into the kind of passion for which I yearned.
So I told myself, anyway.
In the meanwhile, we continued to enjoy the hospitality of the Lady of the Dalriada, awaiting a response from the Old Ones. Several days passed. Eamonn and Joscelin were engaged in plans for the academy and library—like all Siovalese, Joscelin had a keen interest in architecture. Our bored escort of D'Angeline and Cruithne soldiers were pressed into service, digging trenches to lay the foundations for the library. Phèdre and Brigitta were content to explore the treasure trove of books we'd brought, having conceived an unlikely friendship on the course of our journey here.
And I, I spent a good deal of time with Dorelei.
By day, we rode for pleasure and for sport, hunting and shooting for the pot. She taught me to use the Cruithne short bow and we made a game of it, trying to outdo one another. Betimes, some of the Lady's children accompanied us; at other times, we ventured out alone. We grew easy with one another.
By night, we spun out our evenings with long meals in the hall of Innisclan, telling stories or playing music afterward. The Lady's clan was a high-spirited lot, and if there was any strangeness in the way they treated Conor, it soon passed. The protection the ollamh had placed on me held. When we retired to bed, there were no pipes, no laughter, no mysterious tug on my will. Indeed, save for the yarn fetters and the croonie-stone, my life held a semblance of normalcy.
And then the Maghuin Dhonn returned.
As with the harpist's visit, they appeared as the sun was growing low in the west, shortly after we'd sat down to dine. This time, we were alerted by shouts from our escort's encampment, sending us hurrying outside into the yard to see what transpired.
There were three of them. They came from the north, pacing unhurriedly over the green hills, their long shadows pointing eastward toward Terre d'Ange. I felt my heart stir within me as they drew near, filled with a mix of hope and uncertainty.
Urist's men turned out, wary and watchful, forming a double cordon through which the Maghuin Dhonn must pass. The Old Ones ignored them. I could smell their scent on the evening breeze, musk and loam and berries. The air felt dense and heavy with it.
Two of them, I knew; the harpist Ferghus and the woman Morwen. I didn't know the third. A man, a big man, half a head taller than the harpist. Like Morwen, he had eyes as pale as mist, framed by raking woad claws. Berlik, I guessed; both had mentioned the name. Although the evening was warm, he wore a bearskin robe, rendering him even bulkier.
In the yard, Grainne stepped forward, Brennan at her side. The rest of us arrayed ourselves cautiously. Dorelei moved closer to me, and Joscelin's hands rested on his dagger-hilts.
"Lady." The big man greeted Grainne. His voice was deep and husky. I couldn't place his age, but he had the most somber, sorrow-laden face I'd ever seen.
Grainne inclined her head. "My lord Berlik.”
"I have heard your offer," he slowly. "For six days, I have fasted and prayed. Some glimpses of what will be have been afforded me. Others have been denied." Berlik turned his head and his strange, pale gaze rested on me, palpable as a touch. The woad-marked flesh below his eyes sagged with weariness. He turned back to Grainne. "The trinket belongs to Morwen,