Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [292]
Micah ben Ximon didn't look as though he felt himself a hero.
For our part, we drew the sort of wondering stares that D'Angelines in distant, isolated lands do; and mayhap that, too, would work itself into the tale.
"Did you know most Vralians believe an angel appeared to Micah ben Ximon in a dream and taught him to fight?" I asked Joscelin.
"So he said." He gave a half-smile. "And there I was, expecting to be hailed as his mentor. He asked for my silence on the matter, which is one of the reasons he agreed to aid us in securing your freedom. Unnecessary though it proved, I gave my word. You'll not see me draw my daggers in Vralia. I'll rely on my sword if I must.”
"Does it trouble you?" I asked.
Joscelin shook his head. "Not especially. I don't condone the lie, but it doesn't sound as though he started it himself. He just never refuted it, nor did anyone else who knew. Anyway, it's his business.”
I didn't tell him that I'd told the Yeshuite sailor Ravi that the myth was untrue, that I'd practiced the Cassiline forms in front of him and the crew. Still, my practicing on a shipwrecked shore—or behind the locked door of a gaol cell with only Kebek for an audience—wasn't quite the same as Joscelin revealing himself in all his prowess before Micah ben Ximon's men. I wondered if that particular truth would seep out, or if Ravi and the others would keep their silence and let the myth endure. When all was said and done, I doubted Joscelin would care either way. He had never been one to care about appearances or heroics or receiving accolades for his deeds. I daresay keeping Phèdre in one piece had kept him too busy; and then later, protecting me, too.
Maslin was quiet and withdrawn around him at first; around all of them. As he'd said, he wasn't a complete fool. For most of our acquaintance, he'd behaved very badly toward me, and having half of Montrève's household present reminded him of it. For a time, I wasn't sure if the tentative friendship we'd forged would endure, or vanish as Maslin sank back into envy and bitterness. But I hadn't reckoned on Phèdre, who had noticed the change between us and Maslin's withdrawal alike.
"You look so much like your father," she said to him one evening, when we were lodged in a small, smoky inn in a town whose name I can't recall. "I remember the first time I saw him.”
"Oh?" It was all Maslin said, but there was hunger in it.
"It was at the Longest Night fête at Cereus House," she said. "I was shy of my tenth birthday, but the Dowayne permitted me to attend, as I'd be a part of my lord Delaunay's household the following year and no longer eligible.”
That was the infamous fête at which Baudoin de Trevalion appeared as the Sun Prince, already plotting treason; and yet Phèdre managed to tell the story without a hint of censure, painting a vivid portrait of the affair—the madcap prince and his glittering entourage, Maslin's father Isidore d'Aiglemort foremost among them. She told other tales, too, and although all of us knew the shadow that would fall over d'Aiglemort's story in the end, somehow, she made it bearable and brought to life a time when Maslin's father was young and vibrant, the heroic leader of the Allies of Camlach and a darling of Terre d'Ange. If Maslin could have eaten her words with a spoon, I daresay he would have.
No one said aught to gainsay it. There was that which came after, yes. But in the end, Isidore d'Aiglemort gave his life to save his people.
I watched Maslin become easier in our presence that night. It was a kindness she was offering him, and he'd grown enough to accept it with grace and be grateful for it. I was glad for him.
It was another cold, bright day