Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [214]
But they had heard the other news, too.
News of Dorelei's terrible death, of magicians and bears and dire enchantments. Of the oath of vengeance I'd sworn, of the trail that had been found. Urist and his men rode grim-faced, surrounding me, countenances forbidding comment or question, and I was glad of it, since I'd no wish to speak to anyone. Still, it seemed to me that mayhap not all of the stares were condemning. In some, especially among the commonfolk, there was a measure of awe and sympathy.
It gave me hope. I cherished it, that hope.
We made camp that night near the edge of a forest in northern L'Agnace. I was stiff, my muscles unaccustomed to riding, but not as sore as I expected to be. The overcast sky had cleared before sunset, so we didn't bother with the tents. I lay wrapped in my bedroll, gazing at the stars. I went over in my mind the memory of every moment I'd spent with Sidonie in the past day. Every moment, great and small. I polished them like jewels, examining every facet.
And then I put them away, one by one, locking them away safely in my heart. Not buried, not denied. Safe. Hidden. Like as not, we had a long, dangerous journey ahead of us. I needed my wits. I couldn't afford to be distracted, mooning endlessly over my girl. And if there was anyone in the world who would understand, it was Sidonie, with her streak of cool pragmatism; Sidonie, who'd been careless only a fateful once.
I put away the memory of her farewell last of all.
Just come home.
I slept, and dreamed of vengeance.
Chapter Forty-Four
In the days that followed, we rode northward and passed through L'Agnace and Namarre and into Azzalle. Our journey was uneventful. My wounds continued to heal, my stiffness abated, and we made good time. Several days after crossing the Azzallese border, we found the bridge across the Rhenus River, and left Terre d'Ange behind. When we paid the bridge-keeper the toll and asked after a message, we found our first indication that our quest through the Flatlands wasn't going to be met with generous assistance.
"I am to be paid for the message by the fine D'Angeline lord." The bridge-keeper's eyes glinted with avarice. "So they promise, the Picts.”
"How much?" I asked.
The bridge-keeper sucked his teeth. "Gold ducat.”
I glanced at Deordivus. "Is that true?”
He shrugged. "What did he say? I can't make out a cursed word.”
It was true, the bridge-keeper had a thick accent. We had trade relations with the Flatlands, and along the border formed by the Rhenus River they spoke some D'Angeline, but farther inland they spoke a guttural dialect resembling Skaldic. The Flatlands weren't a proper nation, but a loose consortium of farms, villages, and small merchant-guilds. For years, they'd formed a buffer between Terre d'Ange and Skaldia, neither of us reckoning them worth a great deal of bother, except when the Skaldi sought to use them as one of the staging-points for invading Terre d'Ange. Phèdre and Joscelin had first met Ghislain nó Trevalion, then called Ghislain de Somerville, at one such battle.
I discussed the matter with Deordivus, and we determined that yes, Kinadius had promised the bridge-keeper payment, but a lesser sum. I gave the man a coin worth twenty-five silver centimes. He pocketed it and pointed northeast. "A Tsingani company come through, maybe two, three days, carrying a message from Picts. You meet them in Zoellen town, on the Issel River, at the inn with crowned goose sign. Or maybe they leave message there.”
"How far?" I asked.
He shrugged again. "Your horses? Maybe two, three days.”
So it began.
We followed the road north. The terrain wasn't truly flat here, not yet. In truth, except for the quality of the road, it didn't look much different from Terre d'Ange. It was the people who looked different, earthy and solid, without the unmistakable stamp of Elua or