Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [31]
I read about how the bear was the size of three ordinary bears, how it tore the stake to which it was chained from the ground and slaughtered the Picts. How it clambered into the stands and slaughtered scores of spectators, and tore apart the Governor's box with its claws, then took the Governor by the scruff of the neck and shook him like a dog, nearly severing his head. It took Caledonius' men over an hour to slay it, though they shot it so full of arrows it bristled like a pin-cushion.
When it was done, they skinned it, and found a human body inside its pelt.
I shuddered. "Not a pretty tale.”
"No," Phèdre said thoughtfully. "The rest is all about Cinhil Ru and the uprising and there's naught in it that's not written elsewhere. Caledonius survived the battles and the retreat. He spent the rest of his days in a country villa outside Tiberium, eschewing war and politics. And to the end of his life, he had nightmares.”
"About the bear?" I asked.
She nodded. "It's all I could find.”
I debated whether or not to tell Alais the story. In the end, I decided not to. She'd already had one nightmare, and there was no need to feed her fancy with bloody tales. I thought about asking the ollamh about it, too. I daresay Firdha suspected—or mayhap she'd heard I'd been asking her honor guard about the Maghuin Dhonn—for she fixed me with a challenging stare at our next session, black eyes glittering.
"Did you have a question, Prince?" she asked.
I returned her gaze without blinking, until her knuckles whitened where she gripped her gilded oak branch. There were fault-lines. For all her lore, for all the hundreds upon hundreds of tales she knew, one unspoken truth could render so much a lie. I could say so, and humble her with it, earning her enmity in the bargain.
Or I could wait and ask Drustan mab Necthana, whose business it was to speak of such matters. There was no hurry. My wedding was months in the offing, and if the Cruarch truly wished for it to take place, he would deal honestly with me.
"No, Daughter of the Grove." I inclined my head, ceding the victory. "No question.”
"Good," she said dryly.
For once, I felt wise.
Chapter Seven
"NAME… OF… Elua!”
The feverish whisper of gossip surged through the crowd assembled in the Palace ballroom on the Longest Night: Sidonie de la Courcel, the Dauphine of Terre d'Ange, had usurped the costume of the Sun Prince.
I laughed aloud when I heard it. It was the last time in years, mayhap, that I would celebrate the Longest Night on D'Angeline soil, and I felt strangely lighthearted. Doubtless some of it was due to my own costume, for there was a certain freedom in being clad in rags—albeit rags of coarse, undyed silk—barefoot and unmasked, my hair unkempt and tangled. It was scandalous in its simplicity, and Favrielle herself had evinced a certain grim satisfaction with it.
But Sidonie had outdone me.
"Is it true?" Phèdre asked Ysandre, her eyes alight with mirth.
"Oh, yes." The Queen laughed. "Don't you think it meet?”
"Why not?" Phèdre raised a glass of cordial. "Joie!”
They drank; we all drank. The clear cordial burned a pleasant trail down my throat and made my skull expand. Ti-Philippe shook his head to clear it, and the absurdly unnecessary gilt-fringed parasol he held for Phèdre bobbed dangerously.
I steadied his arm. "Careful, chevalier.”
He gave me a lopsided grin. "Found an honest man yet?”
I held my silver lamp aloft. "Still searching.”
"Be careful with that, love." Phèdre kissed my cheek. Her gown was a shimmering column of crimson silk, draped with gold netting into which a thousand tiny mirrors were sewn, and she scintillated with every movement, casting myriad points of light around her. Opulence, indeed. It wasn't Favrielle's finest work, but it would serve.
"I will," I promised.
It was already hot and crowded in the ballroom, redolent with