Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [293]
They cheered us, too. After all, we were there with him.
It all felt very odd. I'd sooner have entered quietly with our small D'Angeline company. For good or ill, great events were stirring in Vralia, and they'd naught to do with us. I didn't even know what I thought about it. I'd liked Tadeuz Vral, which I hadn't expected. But then, I'd come to be fond of Kebek the Tatar, too. It didn't seem unreasonable to me that whoever ruled Vralia might come to some accommodation with the Tatars that didn't involve conquering them or forcing them to accept the Yeshuite faith. I might have liked Fedor Vral if I'd met him, too, but I hadn't. Vralia was a nation in the throes of transformation, and all it had been to me was the backdrop against which my own personal quest had played out.
And yet if Joscelin hadn't taught a young Yeshuite living in La Serenissima and forbidden to bear a sword how to fight in the Cassiline style, mayhap none of this would have come to pass.
Truly, the ways of the gods were mysterious and unknowable.
I was grateful when Micah ben Ximon headed for the great temple and dispatched us to the palace with a pair of royal guardsmen and a promise of hospitality. Grateful for the hospitality, grateful for the relative quietude. And most grateful of all to see Urist.
Tadeuz Vral had been generous. I daresay it was a lucky thing that the rumors from Tarkov had never reached his ears, or he might have rescinded his generosity. But they hadn't, and he hadn't. Urist was still esconced at the palace. He retained the same chamber that had been given us when we first arrived, although I found out later that he spent most of his time among the palace guards, dicing and following news of the war, picking up bits and pieces of Rus and teaching them to curse in Cruithne.
It must have worked well enough, for someone sent word to him. We had only just arrived in the great entry hall with its inlaid tile floor when he came limping out from a corridor, leaning on a walking-stick, a vast grin splitting his tattooed face. I was so glad to see him, gladder than I'd reckoned. When all was said and done, he was the only one who had been there at Clunderry when it happened. It made a difference, sharing the memory.
For a moment, we just stood there. I was carrying the battered leather bag with Berlik's skull, not daring trust it to any of the palace servants. Urist's dark eyes gleamed. "You did it.”
"I did," I said.
He gave a nod. "Thought you would." He clapped me on the shoulder with gruff affection. "On to Clunderry, eh?”
"My lord Urist—" Phèdre began in protest.
He cut her off. "Let him be a man, my lady, and do a man's duty.”
"Clunderry," I murmured. For the first time in a while, I thought about Dorelei lying slain. Her sightless eyes, her savaged belly covered with a blood-soaked cloak. I glanced at Phèdre's troubled face. "Urist is right. I need to see it through. Let's just hope Tadeuz Vral is inclined to let me go.”
"He'd best be," Joscelin said grimly.
Whatever else might have been true, the Grand Prince of Vralia wasn't inclined to grant us an audience that day; nor the following day, either. We were in the same state of limbo I'd felt in Tarkov; neither guests nor prisoners. We were given lodging and hospitality, but we were attended by guards at all times. When we were within our chambers, they waited outside the door. When we ventured out, they accompanied us.
On the fourth