Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [136]
I glanced at Joscelin and cleared my throat. "You don't have to stay.”
He looked amused. "Oh, I know.”
When my own turn came, I didn't have it my heart to be ribald. After all, my wife's brother was present. I rose, feeling Talorcan's gaze resting on me. "Dorelei's heart is like a hidden well," I said, feeling awkward. "Deep and without fathom. And I am a shallow bucket, who only dreams of plumbing its depths.”
The ensuing cheers seemed earnest. I flushed and sat down.
Joscelin raised his brows. "Where did that come from?”
"Oh." I wiped my sweating palms on my knees. "We've been talking a lot, she and I.”
"My lord Joscelin!" Eamonn called. "Will you not honor your lady?”
To my surprise, Joscelin rose. "Phèdre—" he began, then halted. Sitting below him, I watched him smile to himself, quiet and private. "Phèdre yields with a willow's grace," he said softly. "And endures with the strength of mountains. Without her, life would be calm; and yet would lack all meaning.”
There was a little silence then.
"That's beautiful." My friend from the preceding night, Gwynek of Brea, leaned forward and thumped his cup on the table in a surfeit of maudlin drunkenness. "Beautiful!”
Joscelin nodded. "My thanks, my lord.”
The mood he'd instilled lasted all of a few moments before veering back toward ribaldry and boasting, which led directly to the fighting. It began good-naturedly enough with bouts of arm-wrestling, brawny clan-lords planting their elbows on the table and straining against one another. Harmless enough, I thought.
But then an argument broke out between two contestants; one of the Tarbh Cró and one of Talorcan's men, who accused him of cheating. The Cruithne folk of the Cullach Gorrym, I'd noted, tended to grow more volatile with drink. It wasn't long before they were on their feet, shoving one another. Someone began shouting, "Staves! Staves!" and other voices took up the cry until Talorcan smiled and gave his assent.
In short order, a pair of ashwood quarterstaves were produced, and the two commenced to batter at one another with considerable ferocity. Everyone shouted, cheering them on. When the Tarbh Cró went down with a glancing blow to the temple, eyes rolling back in his head, I winced; but his fellows merely laughed and dragged his limp body off the floor.
The Cruithne, whose name was Brude, grinned and spun his staff. "Anyone else?”
"I'll have a go!" my friend Gwynek called.
And so it went. Brude defeated Gwynek and another clan-lord before losing a bout that cost him bruised ribs and a broken, bleeding nose. He accepted defeat with good grace, sitting down to tilt his head and pinch his nose, while solicitous fellows poured uisghe down his throat.
"Has anyone ever died doing this?" I muttered to Eamonn.
"Oh, yes," he said, watching Brude's vanquisher take on a new opponent. "Many times.”
It was one of the Tarbh Cró who emerged as the best of the lot; a seasoned fighter named Goraidh. He had a weather-beaten face and reddish hair faded with silver, but he was strong and skilled and quick on his feet. With a sense of rueful inevitability, I watched him level his staff and point at me.
"Let's see what the young prince is made of!" he cried.
And of course, a roar of agreement ensued. Cups were pounded on the table, my name was shouted. I sighed and rose, hoping to emerge alive and intact. I'd a little experience with the quarterstaff—Hugues had taught me the rudiments—but not much. What a piece of irony it would be if I survived slave-traders, mad rulers, a murderous kinswoman, and sorcerous bear-witches, only to be brained on the eve of my wedding.
"Imri." Joscelin beckoned. "Watch how he cocks his head. I don't think he sees well out of his right eye.”
"Is that all the advice you've got for me?" I said glumly.
"Mind your footwork," he offered. "And try not to get killed.”
It was the Tarbh Cró, under the leadership of Maelcon the Usurper, who had slain Drustan's uncle, the old Cruarch, and driven Drustan into exile among the Dalriada. That fact did not