Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [167]
I hoped so. I hoped death had brought wisdom to him.
"Mayhap," I said to Dorelei. "I hope so.”
Still, I wished he hadn't looked so sad.
Upon our return to Clunderry, the great bonfire was burning much, much lower. The fires were rekindled in the hearths, the oven-embers uncovered, the lamps and torches and candles were relit, and at last we feasted. Hungry though I was, I hovered over Dorelei first to ensure that the long walk hadn't overtaxed her and she ate well. I'd tried to persuade her not to take part in the ritual, but she'd pointed out that she was perfectly fit, and there were women among the crofters further along in their pregnancies than she was walking in the procession.
We stayed awake until the small hours of the night, sharing memories of our dead, and tales of those glimpsed along the paths, our tongues loosened by uisghe and the strangeness of the night.
I learned a great deal about the members of my household that night, and I daresay they could say the same of me. D'Angeline politics were distant and of little interest to most Albans, especially here in the countryside. The history of my parentage came as somewhat of a novelty to them.
"I'd a brother was a traitor," Urist offered unexpectedly. "Remember, my lord?”
Drustan nodded quietly. "I do.”
"What happened?" I asked.
"He chose to side with Maelcon the Usurper." Urist gazed into the depths of his cup. "I killed him myself in the battle of Bryn Gorrydum. He'd been sore wounded, but I finished the job. I pray for his forgiveness every day." He looked up. "I saw him on the paths, once. I think he wanted me to know he understood.”
"Mayhap he wanted your forgiveness," I said.
"Do you think that's what your father sought?" Urist asked shrewdly.
"I don't know." I frowned. "Mayhap.”
The memory stayed with me for many days, long after Drustan and his men had departed. The enormity of my mother's crimes had always overshadowed my father's; he'd never even been convicted of treason, having died before he could stand trial. And my mother's living presence had always overshadowed his absence. Even having vanished, she remained a presence in my life. I'd felt it at the Palace, and I'd felt it in Caerdicca Unitas, where her man Canis had saved my life. Here in Alba, beyond the reach of the long arm of the Unseen Guild, 'twas the first time I'd truly felt free of it.
But my father…I'd never given him much consideration.
As the weeks passed and late autumn gave way to winter in Clunderry, I found myself thinking a great deal about the past, looking for clues to the future. My father's children from his first marriage, Thérèse and Marie-Celeste, had turned their back on their D'Angeline heritage and flung themselves into marriage and intrigue in La Serenissima. I hoped that wouldn't happen with Dorelei's and my child.
Still, I thought, if it did, I would try to bear it with grace and understanding. I wouldn't disdain him—or her—for the choice. I hoped our child would embrace both sides of its heritage, but I'd not shove any false notions of D'Angeline superiority down its throat.
I wondered if my father had done that with his half-Caerdicci children, making them feel inadequate. I suspected mayhap it was so. To be sure, Alais and Sidonie had experienced a measure of the same prejudice from many of the realm's peers. Sidonie was capable of meeting it with withering contempt, but Alais…it had hurt her.
And even Sidonie…
I remembered the first time we'd made love. I'd told her, afterward, that I liked her black eyes, the way they didn't match the rest of her. I remembered what she'd said. You don't mind?
And so I meditated on my father's spectral visit and resolved, over the course of the winter, to take it as a warning and learn from his mistakes. If Dorelei's and my child emerged with jet-black hair and eyes, toast-brown skin, dimpled cheeks, and a predilection for poetry, cattle-raids, and uisghe, I'd love it not a whit less.
I told her that one night as we lay in bed. I was rubbing flaxseed oil on her belly,