Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [18]
Come spring, my bride would arrive. Come summer, I'd be wed. And come fall, I'd depart Terre d'Ange for Alba, a country still wild and half civilized. I didn't fear it. Already, I'd travelled farther in my life; much farther. But I was D'Angeline, and the blood of Blessed Elua and Kushiel ran in my veins. However damaged I might be, even a stunted tree may seek the sunlight. And in Terre d'Ange, that meant love in all its forms.
Whatever lay between Sidonie and me, it was not to be. It was a foolish infatuation, the lure of the forbidden. Nothing more.
And I wanted more.
So much more.
"Next time," I promised. I stretched out my hands, warming them at the hearth. I thought about Claudia Fulvia, who had driven me half mad with desire in Tiberium. I thought about her brother, too; Lucius, who had kissed me on the eve of battle. And I thought about Emmeline nó Balm who had been my first, and all the girls and women I'd known, and Jeanne de Mereliot, who had welcomed me home with love and healing. "All of them," I said recklessly. "All the Houses of the Night Court. I want to visit them all ere I'm wed.”
Mavros grinned. "All of them?”
"Well." With the weals of my visit to Kushiel's temple still healing, I amended my boast. "All save one.”
Chapter Four
In the weeks that followed, the good news was that Bernadette de Trevalion made an unexpected decision to return to Azzalle for the winter, taking her son Bertran with her. I didn't blame her, though I wondered what she told Bertran and Ghislain. Once they had gone, it seemed easer to breathe at the Palace.
The bad news was that I spent less time than I might have wished in the Houses of the Night Court, and a good deal more immersed in foreign cultures.
One, of course, was Alba's.
The matter of succession in Alba had been a point of contention for as long as I could remember. Now, at last, it was settled in a manner pleasing to everyone. In accordance with matrilineal tradition, Drustan mab Necthana had named his nephew Talorcan his heir. I was to wed Dorelei, Talorcan's sister, and our children in turn would be named Talorcan's heirs.
And Alais had consented to wed Talorcan to satisfy the demands of concerned peers that Terre d'Ange might wield influence in Alba in every generation. Although she would not rule nor her children inherit, one day she would be a Cruarch's wife.
Since the agreement was made, Alais had been appointed a Cruithne tutor that she might learn more about the country, and we agreed that I would benefit from taking part in her lessons.
The tutor's name was Firdha, and although she was small, she was imposing. When I first encountered her, she cut a fierce and upright figure, standing in the center of the well-lit study that had once served as the royal nursery. Her iron-grey hair was as thick and coarse as a mare's tail, caught at the nape of her neck by an elaborate pin, and her eyes were like polished black stones. In one hand, she held a golden staff in the likeness of an oak branch.
Behind her back, Alais mouthed the word "bow" at me.
"Bannaght, my lady," I said, bowing deeply.
Her black eyes flashed. "Daughter of the Grove.”
I straightened. "Your pardon, my lady?”
"Firdha is an ollamh," Alais informed me. "A bard of the highest rank. That's the proper greeting. Even my father uses it," she added. "An ollamh is the king's equal.”
"And my superior, I take it?" I asked. There was the faintest glint of amusement in the bard's eyes. I bowed a second time. "Bannaght, Daughter of the Grove.”
Firdha inclined her head. "Greetings, Prince.”
So my studies began. There were no books, no scrolls. Alba had no written tradition. Everything worth knowing was committed to memory. Firdha had studied for twelve years to gain her rank, and she knew hundreds upon hundreds of tales—a vast history of Alba and Eire, encompassing all manner of lore and law.
The islands were a strange place. Once, I daresay, our people wouldn't have found them so. We share a distant ancestry