Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [243]
"I know the feeling," I murmured.
"And now I hope I may be proud of it." He rose. "The men who were killed, the Albans …my men challenged them, and they fought. I'm sorry. Were they companions of yours?”
"Yes." I relayed his words to Urist, who gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. I daresay the news made the same sick lump in his belly that it did in mine, but neither of us were in a position to do aught about it. "They took their chances.”
"As will you." Ben Ximon tilted his head. "Is it worth the price?”
"We chose this freely," I said. "My wife didn't.”
He sighed. "I wish you luck.”
The meeting left me restless and impatient. My course was set. I knew where I was bound; the village of Kargad, along the Ulsk River, a tributary of the Volkov. That was where Adelmar had told me the pilgrims with whom Berlik was travelling were headed. I would find them and lie to them. Tell them I was sent by his kinswoman, Morwen. That, too, was true enough in its own way. It was her meddling that had set this long nightmare in motion.
And then I would find him, and kill him.
So long as he didn't kill me first.
Urist and I sorted through our baggage. I picked out the warmest and sturdiest of the clothing Tadeuz Vral's servants had brought. My sword-belt and blades, my flint striker. The better of the two hunting bows, and four steel-tipped arrows Urist had hoarded. My vambraces. The croonie-stone for remembrance. A blanket. A waterskin. Hugues' wooden flute. An assortment of D'Angeline and Vralian coinage.
"And this." Urist rummaged in his packs and handed me a leather drawstring bag, stiff with dried saltwater. "Here.”
I eyed it. "What's this?”
"To carry his head," he said. "It was full of lime powder, but it dissolved in the shipwreck. I saved the bag.”
I stowed it in my pack. "My thanks.”
"Boil it down to the bone," Urist said. "Otherwise it will stink. It's all right, the skull will be enough. The lime would have done as much.”
"Good to know," I said.
"So who do you think was killed?" he asked.
"I wish I knew," I said softly.
"So do I." Amid the bounty the palace servants had provided us, there was a small stoppered jug of somewhat they called starka, a rye spirit flavored with fruits and spices. Urist found a pair of cups and poured for us. "They were men of honor," he said. "May their spirits rest easily. May all the gods and goddesses of Alba welcome them home.”
We drank.
Urist set down his cup. "I don't like this," he said somberly. "Any of it. A zealous prince with a head full of odd beliefs, with no care for our honor. A strange place, a hostile place, and you all alone. That was never meant to be.”
You were all alone, kneeling in a snowstorm, beneath a barren tree…
"I'm not so sure of that," I said.
"Still." Urist balled one hand into a fist and thumped the outside of his stiff, braced leg. "I would that I were going with you.”
"So do I." I took another swig of starka. It burned. "Believe me, I do. Urist, if I get caught, promise me you'll do the same as Micah ben Ximon. Promise me you'll disavow all knowledge of my purpose here.”
He grunted. "I'm done with making promises.”
I refilled our cups. "Please?”
Urist gave me a long, dour look. "Just get the bastard's head, my prince.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Before I departed Vralgrad, I had an audience with the Grand Prince Tadeuz Vral.
I rather liked him.
I hadn't expected that.
The summons came in the morning. It was a hasty affair—he was, as Micah ben Ximon had indicated, primarily concerned with his brother's escape. But he had heard the news and made time to meet with me in his chambers while he broke his fast.
"Sit," he said when I was ushered into his presence. "Eat.”
I sat.
Tadeuz Vral studied me curiously. I studied him back. He was clean-shaven, with the same rugged bones I'd come to associate with Vralians, the skin stretched taut over the cheeks. Brown hair, lively