Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [241]
It was evening before Micah ben Ximon called on us.
In my mind, he was still the young man in the stories I'd heard. It was absurd, of course. I'd been a babe in swaddling clothes when Joscelin had taught Micah ben Ximon to fight with Cassiline daggers. The man who entered our quarters was nearing forty. He had the olive complexion of the Habiru, a neatly trimmed black beard, intense dark eyes, and the air of a man accustomed to being obeyed. How not? He was Tadeuz Vral's warlord.
"So," ben Ximon said without preamble, speaking Habiru. He must have learned from the chirurgeon that I spoke it. "I was told you know me. I think this is untrue.”
It seemed the message had gotten garbled somewhere in translation. "Not you, my lord," I replied. "I know Joscelin Verreuil." I raised my brows. "Best known in Vral, it seems, as the angel who appeared to you in a vision?”
Ben Ximon gave a startled laugh. "Joscelin?" His expression shifted into a complicated look I couldn't decipher. "How?”
"He's my foster-father," I said simply. It wasn't true, strictly speaking, since Phèdre and Joscelin had never wed. But it was true enough.
Micah ben Ximon stared at me. When the guards had asked my name, I'd given it as Imriel nó Montrève. His lips moved, sounding it out. His eyes widened. "You're her son," he said slowly, switching unexpectedly to Caerdicci.
"Phèdre's?" I nodded. "Yes.”
"No." His mouth twisted wryly. "Prince Benedicte's D'Angeline bride. I saw her unveiled in the Temple of Asherat that day. We didn't leave La Serenissima until six months after it happened. I spent half my life there. I remember her face. I remember the name of her babe, who went missing that day. You have emerged from a past I would forget, bearing both. And you are telling me lies.”
Urist glanced from one of us to the other, trying to read our tones.
I sighed. "My lord, my full name is Imriel nó Montrève de la Courcel, and I have not lied to you. I was born to Melisande Shahrizai and Benedicte de la Courcel. I was adopted into the household of Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève and her consort, Joscelin Verreuil. It is a very, very long story. But it is a true one.”
"Tell me," Micah ben Ximon said shortly.
I told him.
He was a good listener. He sat silent, staring at the ceiling, evincing no signs of impatience. When I had finished explaining how my mother had dispatched me to the Sanctuary of Elua, how I had been abducted by slave-traders and ended in Drujan, how Phèdre and Joscelin had rescued and adopted me, he let out a long, weary sigh. "So how is it, Prince Imriel de la Courcel, that you come to be in Vralia, seeking the life of a Yeshuite pilgrim?”
"I beg your pardon?" I asked, startled.
"Don't." Ben Ximon held out one hand, forestalling me. "If you've not lied to me yet, I pray you, do not start. It is clear that your tattooed companion hails from Alba. There was a skirmish on the southern border of Vralia some ten days ago, along the pilgrims' route. It seems a small party of Albans were hunting a pilgrim, asking questions. My men dispatched several of them and sent the rest packing. You are fortunate that I was able to keep the matter quiet. Tadeuz Vral has ties to Skaldia and hopes of trading with Alba. I did not want him to hear of it. I've posted a heavy guard along the border lest others follow.”
I felt sick. "What has that to do with me?”
"I don't know." His dark gaze was steady. "Tell me.”
I was silent for a long moment. "The man they were hunting killed my wife.”
"I see." He looked away. "You are sure of this?”
"Yes," I said.
Micah ben Ximon rose and walked across the room, hands clasped behind his back. I explained to Urist in a low voice what we had discussed. Urist winced at the news of Alban deaths.
"It is a dangerous thing to bring a dream to life," ben Ximon said without turning around. "Here in Vralia, I have watched my deepest, dearest hopes take shape. And I am not entirely sure I like the shape they have taken.”
"The cross and not the khai?" I asked.
"Yes." He turned to face me.