Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [157]
I climbed out of the tub and scooped her into my arms, hoisting her effortlessly. "I'd best do this while I can, hadn't I?" I teased.
"Mmm." Dorelei twined her arms around my neck and kissed me. "Will you still love me when I'm fat and lazy and happy?”
"All the more," I promised, carrying her toward the bedchamber.
"Will you bring me honeycomb?" she asked.
"Every day," I said. "Didn't I tell you? I'm very good at climbing trees.”
Somewhere, there was a distant echo of loss. Trees. Sidonie's thigh flung over mine as we lay on our sides facing one another, still conjoined, her dark eyes limpid with pleasure; the aftermath of the most glorious, wondrous, terrifying intimacy I'd known.
I didn't think you liked climbing trees.
I don't.
I pushed the thought away and deposited Dorelei on our bed. She laughed breathlessly, reaching for me. I made love to her, tender and slow. I felt as though I were trying to hold all of Alba in my arms, trying to make love to the land itself.
For all the shadows that hung over it, for all that I ached somewhere behind my bindings, that night marked the beginning of the best times I spent at Clunderry, and they were among the best times of my life.
I'd won acceptance.
And I'd done it on my own merits; by conceiving of the cattle-raid, by venturing forth to lead it. By prevailing against the odds to win my freedom, by accepting the jest. There was a feast that night, and when Dorelei and I descended, hand in hand, to take part in it, the ensuing cheers were loud and sincere. Her face glowed, and I daresay mine did, too. For the first time, I truly felt we'd made a home here.
After the raid, Urist doubled the watch on our northern border, but there was no immediate retaliation forthcoming. Leodan of Briclaedh decided discretion was the wiser part of valor and sent a rider under a banner of truce with a polite message requesting the return of his cattle. We provided his man with generous hospitality and sent him back with a polite message of refusal.
"That's all right, then," Urist said in satisfaction. "He'll not try anything until after the harvest season. Too much to be done.”
And indeed, there was. The long summer was drawing to an end. Although the days were still warm, they were growing shorter and there was a chill to the night air. The hay had already been gathered, and every day the crofters were afield, swinging their long sickles and felling the wheat. It was bundled into sheaves and brought to the threshing barn, where it was beaten with flails. Afterward, the grain was winnowed from the straw and chaff, then carefully weighed under the reeves supervision. Each crofter retained a portion, while the lion's share belonged to Dorelei and me.
It was arduous work, and in the weeks that followed, I took part in all of it. I wasn't trying to curry favor with the crofters; it was a Siovalese tradition and I was genuinely curious about how they lived. Clunderry's wealth, such as it was, was built on their sweat and labor.
And too, I had an idea that some D'Angeline innovation might lighten their burden. Trevedic the reeve laughed as I stood outside the mill, sketching the shape of its sails, but it seemed slow and inefficient to me. And surely, I thought, there was a better way to thresh the grain in the first place. I'd tried my hand at that, too, and it was back-breaking work.
"You look like a peasant," Dorelei informed me when I returned to the castle stripped to the waist, dust and chaff plastered to my sweating skin.
I grinned at her. "Do you like it?”
She eyed me. "I'm not sure.”
I began writing a long letter to Joscelin, detailing the workings of the estate and asking his counsel on Siovalese engineering. I wished I'd paid attention the day he'd taken me to see Tibault de Toluard's hypocaust system for germinating early seeds, not to mention the inner workings of Montrève. I did know somewhat about it, but we'd never stayed there through harvest season—that was when we returned to the City.
The work didn't end with the harvest. Summer turned to autumn.