Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [280]
It took a good deal longer than that, of course.
Hours.
I had to return to the fire to warm myself. "You play well," Maslin murmured. "I didn't know.”
I hugged my knees, shivering. "I practiced a lot in the past year. Dorelei liked it.”
He gave me a curious glance, eyes reflecting firelight. "You really did care for her.”
"Very much," I said. "You would have liked her, Maslin. She wasn't simple, but she was uncomplicated. She deserved better from me. She taught me a lot. And if there was any way I could undo this and give her back her life, I would. No matter what the price.”
"I knew her a little from Court." He watched the kettle. "She had a nice laugh.”
My throat tightened. "She did.”
A log in the fire shifted. The kettle lurched. A little water spilled, hissing onto the embers. The aroma emanating from the simmering pot smelled like stew. The bile rose past the lump in my throat, choking me.
"Go," Maslin said, pointing.
Once more, I went.
I know what he did that night; what had to be done. Once Berlik's head had thawed and his flesh softened, Maslin had to fish it from the pot. Carve the flesh from the bone, remove the scalp and its coarse, shaggy hair. Prod within the nasal cavities with a sharpened stick, trying to loosen the brains housed within. All that I'd avoided, he did. Once he went to vomit, walking away from the campfire, returning and wiping his mouth. Twice he set the head aside and dumped the contents of the pot some distance from our site to begin anew, melting fresh snow.
It was a long night, longer than most.
In the end, it didn't smell like stew. It didn't smell like much of anything except hot iron and scorched water. When it reached that point, I returned permanently from my vigil beneath the tree and slept restlessly beside the campfire.
By daybreak, the water in the pot had boiled away and there was nothing left of Berlik's skull but clean bone, eyeless and grinning as it never had alive. Maslin, who looked bleary-eyed, had done a good job. I told him so and thanked him again.
"It was easier for me," he said in a tired voice. "I never knew him.”
When we struck camp that morning, we returned Berlik's skull to the leather bag and left the cooking-pot behind. It was a lucky thing we had a spare, since I wasn't sure I could have borne using it again. I laid it on its side, thinking that mayhap some woodland creature would someday use it for a nesting place. It was the sort of thing, I thought, that would have pleased Berlik. I didn't know how I knew that, but I did.
Maslin watched me with bemusement. "You're a very odd young man, Imriel de la Courcel.”
"I've been accused of worse," I said.
He laughed. "True.”
We rode in companionable silence that day. After the first few hours, the horses began pricking their ears and quickening their pace. They had a better sense of direction than I did, and like my long-bolted mount, Miroslas was the last warm stable they remembered. I kept an eye on the mountain-peak, but I gave my mount its head. When the shadows began to grow long, a suggestion of blue dusk arising beneath the trees, we took a chance and pushed onward a little longer.
We reached Mirsolas a bit before nightfall.
The sight of it was as unexpected as the first time, a hidden gem tucked away in the woods. Indeed, with the warm glow of lamplight shining from its windows, casting squares of yellow on the heavy snow, it looked more welcoming than I could have imagined.
"You're sure about this?" Maslin asked. He was shivering a little and his tone suggested he hoped very much that I was. It was late to retreat and make camp.
"I'm sure," I said.
We must have been spotted, for one of the silent brothers was there to receive us at the door. He looked to be Habiru, and he inclined his head when I greeted him in that tongue, although he made no reply.
At his gesture, Maslin and I stabled our grateful mounts, helping ourselves to feed and water. To my pleasure, I discovered that the horse I'd stolen in Tarkov had indeed returned safely as Maslin had said, though