Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [133]
There were shouts and cheers, and a scuffle for seats on the long benches that lined the table, which I daresay would have been less muted if not for Hyacinthe's presence. A few places of honor for the Cruarch's family and guests were reserved at the head of the table; the rest appeared to be claimed at will.
How does one measure the length of a meal without beginning or end? We sat for hours. It was simple, hearty fare, but there was so much of it I wanted to groan. I washed it down with mead until my head was swimming and my tongue felt coated with the sweetness of fermented honey.
The Albans ate and drank ceaselessly, loud and clamorous. Many of them eschewed utensils, making do with belt knives and hands, slipping tidbits to the dogs lounging under the table. I caught Alais doing the same, having brought the wolfhound Celeste with her. Celeste looked guilty; Alais looked delighted. Somewhere I could hear Eamonn's voice raised in argument. It made me laugh, despite the fact that my head was ringing.
"Welcome to Alba, Prince Imriel." Dorelei gave me a dimpled smile.
At the head of the table, Drustan leaned forward, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "We do have more …civilized …affairs," he offered in a low tone. "But I thought it best if this was held in the truest Alban tradition.”
"Boundless hospitality?" I asked, remembering Firdha's teaching.
He nodded. "Indeed.”
"I think it's lovely," Phèdre said in seemingly perfect sincerity.
Joscelin glanced sidelong at her. "You would say that.”
"I think," Hyacinthe murmured, "that I would only endure this for your foster-son's sake, Phèdre nó Delaunay.”
I spread my hands. "Please, my lord! I beg you, don't suffer on my account.”
It was lovely, though; in a noisy, clattering, sweltering, overstuffed way. Whether the folk seated at the table were enemies or rivals outside the hall's confines, all were friends and comrades within it. Such was the blessing of the Cruarch's boundless hospitality. When everyone had eaten and drunk their fill, a good many of the platters were cleared, and fewer full ones were brought. I felt I could breathe easier. Outside, the sun must have set, for some of the contained heat in the hall began to dissipate.
Pitchers of cool water went round, followed by jugs of uisghe.
Conor mac Grainne tuned his harp and began to play. For the second time that night, everyone fell silent; this time, to listen.
In the short time since I'd last seen him, his playing had grown stronger and deeper. Before, I'd thought he was good enough to play in any D'Angeline salon. Now I thought he was better than any harpist I'd heard, save for his father. There was no magic in it; no charm. Only skill and beauty.
Conor didn't sing tonight, but on the third tune he played, Breidaia lifted her voice unexpectedly, clear and sweet. On the second verse, Sibeal joined her; and on the third, Dorelei, shy and faltering at first, settling into clarity. Their three voices rose and fell in intricate, intertwining harmonies, weaving a song like threads on the loom of Conor's harping.
When it ended, he placed his hand on the strings of his harp, stilling them.
"Elua!" Phèdre's eyes were bright with tears. "I've not heard the like since…”
"…Since the night Moiread died," Hyacinthe finished.
"It is fitting," Drustan said quietly. Moiread had been his youngest sister, slain in the battle for Bryn Gorrydum; Eamonn's sister Mairead was her Eiran namesake. "It is fitting that we remember past sorrows, even as we celebrate present joys. My mother would have been pleased. I would that she had lived to see this day." He nodded toward the middle of the table, where Conor was seated. "Truly,