Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [168]
"I never thought you wouldn't," Dorelei said in surprise.
"No?" I smoothed more oil over her taut skin, watching it gleam. Dorelei said she could feel the babe moving, but I couldn't, not yet. Another month, the older women assured me. "I worry, that's all.”
"You shouldn't." She smiled at me. "You may be insufferably self-absorbed, but you do have a good heart, Imriel.”
I hoped it was true. I'd wondered before in my life what manner of person I'd have become if I'd grown up as the goat herding orphan I'd believed I was. But I'd never thought to wonder what I'd be like if I'd grown to manhood as the son of Melisande Shahrizai and Benedicte de la Courcel, shaped by my mother's machinations and my father's bitterness.
Very different, I suspected.
Ambitious.
Arrogant.
Mayhap ruthless.
No one, I thought, was all good or all bad. I'd learned that in Lucca. And if I had goodness in me that hadn't been destroyed by Daršanga— the stunted tree reaching for sunlight—almost all of it was owed to Phèdre and Joscelin's influence in my life. I owed them so much I could never repay. But mayhap I could do it by giving my own child what they had given me; deep, abiding, unconditional love.
Impending fatherhood made me thoughtful and reflective, and no doubt a great deal of it was due to my own troubled heritage. But in truth, there wasn't much else to do. The harvest was gathered, and we'd slaughtered the pigs after the Feast of the Dead. The meat was salted and curing. The cattle hovered close to their byres, rendering a raid unlikely.
There were no sightings of the Maghuin Dhonn; none at all.
Mayhap, I thought, that like the Brown Bear that was their diadh-anam, the Old Ones slept through the winter.
To be sure, this was the time of year when everyone stayed indoors and gathered around the hearth to stay warm, telling tales and making music to amuse themselves. It should have been dull, but it wasn't. Wrapped in my bindings, I was content with the slow, measured pace of life, rendered miraculous by the growing life in Dorelei's womb.
It felt strange not to celebrate the Longest Night, though.
It didn't pass unmarked in Alba, but their rituals were different. They do not celebrate the night itself, but the following day, bidding farewell to the old year and ushering in the new with the Day of Misrule, when all is rendered topsy-turvy and the lords and ladies dance attendance on their servants.
I was privy to all the plans, and I fully intended to play my role. But on the Longest Night itself, I found myself uneasy, itching and restless. It didn't help that Alais entertained the household with an interminable, detailed description of how the Longest Night was celebrated in Terre d'Ange; all the sparkling joie, sumptuous glamour, and elegant, intricate costumes. It was the first time I'd heard her speak of home with such fond animation, and the Cruithne listened in fascination, begging for further tales of glittering excess.
"Do you remember Eamonn and his hammer, Imri?" she asked. "When he was the Skaldic thunder-god?”
"Oh, yes," I said. "I remember.”
"You were a scandal that year, Eamonn and House Montrève!" Alais laughed. "But Sidonie topped you last year, didn't she?”
"Your sister?" Kinadius asked.
Alais nodded. "She came as the Sun Princess. 'Tis hard to explain.”
My throat tightened. Of a sudden, it felt as though the red yarn around my wrists and ankles was cutting my circulation. I rose, my hands and feet feeling hot and uncomfortable. Dorelei's head rose at my abrupt movement. I took a deep breath. "You know, Alais, it is the Longest Night. Someone should keep Elua's vigil.”
I didn't wait for her response. I sketched a brief bow in Dorelei's direction, not meeting her eyes, and blundered for the door, borrowing a cloak as I exited the castle, the gate opened by a startled guardsman.
Outside, it was cold.
A light snow had fallen, and it was cold enough that it creaked beneath my boots. I trudged toward the frozen lake and Elua's shrine. The sky was clear and the stars