Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [290]
"Yes." Phèdre nodded. "It was disheartening. Still, we kept going.”
It was strange to think about all of us on our separate quests at the same time, struggling with mishaps, misfortune, and misunderstanding. Halfway through Skaldia, winter had struck with a vengeance. Ti-Philippe had gotten desperately sick, a relapse of the ague he'd suffered after swimming in the canals of La Serenissima. It must have been, I thought, around the time that I was beginning to search the endless holdings of Miroslas, while Maslin's Tarkovan companions were realizing that they'd ridden the wrong direction in pursuit of me.
Ti-Philippe had recovered, but his illness had slowed their progress. Although he begged them to leave him, they hadn't dared. Not in Skaldia. By the time they reached Vralia, the siege in Petrovik had ended and the country was abuzz with Micah ben Ximon's name.
"So we went in search of him," Joscelin said. "We found him a few days ago on the road from Petrovik bound for Vralgrad.”
"And learned you'd been imprisoned as a spy, and he couldn't be bothered to spare a man to free you!" Phèdre's voice crackled with rare anger.
"Well, he was in the midst of a war," I said philosophically.
"He thought you were safe enough where you were," Joscelin said. "And that mayhap a few months in a gaol cell would cool your ardor for vengeance.”
"It did, in a way," I said.
"Did you …?" His voice trailed off.
"Yes." I rubbed my eyes. I'd forgotten, they wouldn't have understood all of what transpired in the guardhouse. I'd been speaking Rus when I spoke of Berlik. I hadn't done so badly after all, if I'd mastered—well, not mastered, but learned a bit of it—a tongue that Phèdre didn't know. "It wasn't what I thought it would be in the end. Not at all. But it's done. Maslin has his head," I added.
Joscelin stared. "His head.”
"Well, his skull." I cleared my throat. "To bury under Dorelei's feet so her spirit will rest easily. We had to boil it. It was supposed to be preserved in lime, but that was spoiled in the shipwreck. Urist said it would be all right this way.”
"His head," he repeated.
"It's an Alban custom," Phèdre murmured. "Remember Grainne?" And then, quite unexpectedly, she burst into tears.
"I'm sorry!" I said in alarm. "Please don't cry. I shouldn't have said anything about the head." I knelt beside her chair and put my arms around her. "I'm here, I'm all right. Everything is, or it will be.”
"I know." She drew a shuddering breath. "Oh, Blessed Elua! Lucca was bad enough, but at least I knew Denise Fleurais at the embassy was doing everything humanly possible to get you out of there. This …Imriel, if you'd died out here, all alone, or in Alba…I just, I just don't know what I would have done.”
"But he didn't, love," Joscelin said gently. "Look at him! We came all this way, and he didn't even need rescuing.”
"You look at him!" she cried. "He looks five years older and worn down to the bone. He lost a wife and a child and nearly got killed, and we weren't there for him!”
"I know," Joscelin said, stroking her hair. "Believe me, I know.”
I let Phèdre go and sat quietly on the floor, my arms around my knees. I didn't know what to say. I'd never seen her so thoroughly unstrung before, not even during the worst of Daršanga. It was unnerving. "You did rescue me," I said at length. "You rescued me ten years ago, and you rescue me every day of my life. Every skill I used to survive, the two of you taught me. Everything I know of hope and persistence in the face of despair, I learned from you. You taught me to love, and that love is reason enough and more to keep living.”
Phèdre wiped her eyes. "We should have been there.”
"I'm not a child," I said softly. "You can't protect me from the whole world, Phèdre.”
"I can try," she said.
I smiled. "Do I really look five years older?”
"You look like hell," Joscelin said. "And by the way, what shipwreck?”
I opened my mouth to reply. "No," Phèdre said. The old, familiar strength surfaced in her expression; stubborn, surprising, and resilient.