Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [117]
Someone drew a sharp breath. I swallowed hard against a intense surge of disappointment, mingled with a tinge of treacherous relief. Glancing at the woman Morwen, I saw no triumph in her face, only a strange, careful gravity. The leather bag that had hung around her throat before was missing.
"Do you deny the insult?" Grainne asked.
"I do not." Berlik shook his head, stirring shaggy black locks. "I bear an offer in turn. Do you forgive the insult, I will swear that no member of the Maghuin Dhonn will harm so much as a hair on the lad's head, anywhere on the length and breadth of Alba's soil.”
Grainne was silent a moment. "By what oath?”
"By stone and sea and sky," he murmured, "and all that they encompass. By the sacred troth that binds me to my diadh-anam.”
"And the Maghuin Dhonn have so consented?" she asked the other two.
"We have, Grainne," Ferghus said. All the lightness had fled his voice. "Not a hair on his head, not a scratch on his skin. Not by any means.”
"I don't understand." Grainne took a step closer to them, searching their faces, and Morwen's last of all. "Why? If you mean Imriel nó harm, why not surrender the trinket?”
"I cannot." Morwen looked small and diminutive before the Lady of the Dalriada, but she raised her chin to meet the Lady's eyes, steady and uncowed. "It is he who means us harm. This may be our sole protection against it.”
"What?" I raised my voice in protest, pricked by the comment. "I intend nothing of the kind! Or at least I damnably well wouldn't if you'd leave me be.”
Morwen fixed me with her moon-pale gaze. "You do not know what will come to pass.”
"This is absurd," Joscelin said flatly. "Lady, I do not mean to gainsay your rule, but—”
"Ah, no!" The harpist Ferghus raised a warning hand. "Do not think it, warrior. We are three and unarmed, but we are not powerless." There was an edge to his easy smile. "You would buy our lives at certain cost. Meanwhile, the trinket lies elsewhere, hidden. You do not know who will claim it if we fall. Be wise, and accept our oath.”
"Prince Imriel," Grainne said. "What will you?”
Dorelei's fingers dug into my elbow, but there was no guidance in her grip, only fear. I frowned and looked at Berlik. He stood patient and unmoving, his massive head bowed a little. I pried Dorelei's fingers loose from my arm and walked forward to confront him. Beneath his shadow, the scent of loam and berries was stronger, mingled with the rank odor of his bearskin robe. I had to crane my neck to see his sad, heavy face.
"What she said is a lie," I said to him.
"No." There was sorrow in his pale, shadowed eyes. "It may or not be many things, but it is not a lie.”
"A riddle?" I asked.
Berlik shrugged. "Truth is a riddle.”
I touched my sword-hilt. "Your kinswoman has somewhat I might claim as my own. What if I offered challenge for it? Would you answer for her?”
His voice dropped to a low rumble, so low no one else could hear it. "Look down.”
I glanced down. The sleeves of his bearskin robe ended in shaggy paws, fierce black claws protruding slightly. Berlik's vast shoulders shifted. The claws flexed and curved. I looked back up at him.
"You do not wish to do that," he said in the same low voice.
"Nor do I wish to be bound, my lord," I said.
"Things are not always what they seem." Raising one hand—if that was what it was—Berlik touched the croonie-stone at my throat. A single claw clicked against polished stone. "Accept our oath. You may be grateful for it.”
There was no lie in his eyes, only sadness. Or madness? I couldn't tell. Strangely, I almost found myself drawn to him, or at least wishing to speak further with him. But he said nothing else, only watched me silently.
I sighed, stepping back from him. "So be it.”
Grainne nodded. "Then swear, my lord Berlik.”
The bearskin robe rippled as he raised his hands; a man's hands, large, but ordinary. At breast-height, he clasped his left hand into a fist, folding the other atop it. "By stone and sea and sky, and all that they encompass, I swear this.