Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [187]
"That's what I thought," Alais said.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Alais' words gave me a reason to live.
I wanted vengeance.
I'd known hatred before. In Daršanga, I'd hated to the depths of my young soul. I'd hated the mad Mahrkagir and his terrible Âka-Magi, and Jagun the Tatar warlord who had seared my flesh with a burning brand, marking me like cattle. I'd hated them with sick, helpless loathing, and I'd gloated over their deaths.
This was different.
It was a pure, clean, righteous fury, cleansing as fire. Life was distilled to a simple purpose. I was a man, not a child. I was not helpless. I would heal and regain my strength. I would hunt down Berlik and kill him, and then I would bring his skull back to Clunderry to be buried at Dorelei's feet for all eternity.
It had seemed like a barbaric custom, once. Now I understood it.
I became a model patient. Since I would not be allowed to travel until the chirurgeon Girard said I was ready, I heeded every word of advice that he gave me. I suffered my bandages to be changed, my wounds bathed and salved. I ate everything I was given, drank every tonic. I slept when he told me to rest, my conscience soothed by the clarity of my purpose. When he allowed me to get up and walk about, I did. When he told me not to overexert myself, I didn't.
I resolved to make myself as cold and hard as a blade, keen and ruthless.
Alais came every day to keep me company. She told me how the hunt for Berlik was progressing. Mostly, it wasn't. There was no sign of him in Alba, and the Maghuin Dhonn who had been found professed a terrified innocence. She told me that Drustan had imprisoned several of them and put them several to hard questioning, but he hadn't killed anyone yet. She told me that Drustan had written to Bernadette de Trevalion to bid her spread word throughout Azzalle to search for a bear with pale eyes, or a man with bear-claws tattooed on his face. I thought what a grim piece of irony it would be if the woman who'd tried to have me killed for the sake of stale vengeance became the agent of Kushiel's justice.
Days passed.
Bit by bit, my body healed.
It was Urist, of all people, who tempered my resolve. He paid me a visit, bringing with him my daggers and vambraces, which he had retrieved from the stone circle when Talorcan had ordered him to fetch Morwen's body. My throat tightened at the sight of the vambraces, remembering Dorelei buckling them on my arms that terrible night, but I didn't weep. I told him that once we were on D'Angeline soil, I meant to begin hunting for Berlik. I asked for his aid; for the sake of Dorelei, for the honor of Clunderry.
I thought he'd give it unstinting, but then, I thought he'd have ridden with Talorcan, too. Instead, Urist gave me a long look. "I'll do it on one condition. You're to return to the City of Elua first.”
"And lose weeks?" I scowled. "Name of Elua! Why?”
"There's no proof that bear-witch bastard's crossed the Straits. And you're not going to be fit to ride for at least a month, anyway," he said. "I talked to that D'Angeline healer. He said he'll consent to allow you to travel in another day or two, so long as you do it as an invalid. Litter or carriage.”
"That's not an answer," I observed.
"True." Urist sat upright in the bedchamber's single chair, hands on his knees, facing me. He'd sat just so the night we'd talked about the cattle-raid on Briclaedh, only he looked older and wearier. "My lord, your wife was a sweet lass. And no matter what anyone says, her blood's on both our hands, isn't it?”
It was a relief to hear someone acknowledge it. "Yes," I said. "It is.”
"Guilt's a hard burden to bear," he mused. "Take it from a man who killed his own brother, traitor though he was. Believe me, I want vengeance for the lass as much as you do." He smiled ruefully beneath his worn, blurred warrior's tattoos. "When all's said and done, you weren't a bad husband to her, nor a bad lord to Clunderry, either. She loved you. She knew you, too;