Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [142]
And ah, Elua! For the first time I knew beyond question that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Sidonie de la Courcel.
I sat there for a long time, reading and rereading her letter in its entirety, the croonie-stone in my hand, laughing quietly to myself, tears in my eyes. I could have read it over for hours. All too vividly, I could picture Sidonie writing it; the expression on her face, hovering between self-mockery and earnestness. She wrote quickly and neatly, each letter of each word formed with swift, exacting precision. For no reason at all, that fact made my heart swell and ache.
I loved her.
And upstairs, my twice-wed wife was sleeping, our child growing inside her.
And I loved her, too.
I hadn't lied to Dorelei. It wasn't the same, it wasn't anywhere near the same. And yet even now I felt it. I read Sidonie's letter for the dozenth time, lingering over it. And then I bowed my head and prayed to Blessed Elua, holding the leather thong on which the croonie-stone was strung in both hands. Swiftly, fearful that hesitation would weaken my resolve, I forced it over my head.
Stone clinked against gold, settling against my throat.
My feelings dimmed.
My bonds itched and burned.
Elbows propped on the Cruarch's table, I rested my head in my hands and breathed slowly willing everything to subside.
And slowly, slowly, it did.
It was still there, walled away. Nothing had changed. Nothing would change. Until the day I died, by whatever unfathomable forces govern the mortal heart, I would adore my cool, haughty, funny, passionate, surprising cousin Sidonie beyond all reason.
But I was a husband, too, and soon to be a father. And I had sworn a vow this very day; a vow I'd meant. For a year and a day, I'd pledged myself. I'd sworn it by the same oath that the Maghuin Dhonn had sworn to do me no harm. Blessed Elua might forgive me for breaking it for love's sake; I was not certain the myriad gods and goddesses, and Alba herself, would do the same.
I folded away the letter and went upstairs to lie awake in my nuptial bed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
All throughout the following day, guests departed amid a flurry of well-wishes.
Hyacinthe and Sibeal were among the first to leave. "My gift to you is a promise to Phèdre and Joscelin," the Master of the Straits said to me. "Inasmuch as I may, I will keep watch over Clunderry in the sea-mirror; and the Maghuin Dhonn, too. If I see aught amiss, I will send swift word to you and Drustan alike.”
"My thanks, my lord. It is a great kindness." Feeling awkward, I touched the croonie-stone at my throat, remembering the day he'd shown us the sea-mirror and the way he'd looked at me afterward. "Master Hyacinthe …may I ask you a question?”
He smiled a little. "You may.”
"Did you ever speak the dromonde for me?" I asked.
Hyacinthe didn't answer right away. He looked thoughtfully at me, shadows shifting like slow currents in his dark eyes. "I saw somewhat, once," he said at length. "A glimpse.”
I cleared my throat. "Was it harmful to Alba? Or Dorelei?”
"No," he said, slow and puzzled. "You were alone, and it was snowing. You were kneeling beneath a tree, holding a sword.”
It was Dorelei's dream, the only one she'd had of me. I remembered her telling me, back in Terre d'Ange, as I'd slid into a drunken slumber. A shiver brushed my spine. "Thank you.”
He smiled wryly. "For what it's worth, you're welcome. As Phèdre might well tell you, the dromonde can be a vague business, muddled as a dream and filled with odd portents. It may mean somewhat altogether different than it seems. But have a care this winter nonetheless. Sibeal's counting