Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [310]
"Don't even think it!" Urist's voice, unexpectedly fierce. "It marks you as a Prince of Alba and the lord of Clunderry. If you've managed to keep it this long, you're not giving it away, not now.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but Kinadius, and even Brun, were nodding in accord.
"We'll find another way," Phèdre said to them. "Don't worry.”
Joscelin eyed her. "You're not planning to…?”
"No, of course not." She smiled ruefully. "And any mind, I'd like to think my asking price would be far in excess of passage across the Straits for a mere eight folk and their train. But then, mayhap that's vanity speaking, ignorant of the ravages of time and travel.”
"No." Kinadius flushed. "It's not, my lady.”
She smiled at him, and his flush deepened. "Well, we'll find a way. We can always sell the horses, if we can find a buyer. It would be a good deal wiser than paying cargo fees for them.”
"Not the Bastard," I said in alarm.
Phèdre laughed. "No, love. Not the Bastard.”
We set forth on our journey, and for all of Adelmar of the Frisii's forbearance, it was a blessed relief to know that we'd crossed from Skaldia into the Flatlands. Once we passed that point, I daresay all of us breathed easier for it. We followed the pilgrims' route along the banks of the Voorwijk, as we had done at the outset, passing the town of Zoellen and continuing westward. This time, there would be no turning south toward Terre d'Ange. Still, I felt a tug at my heart each time we passed a crossroads.
"You're sure?" Phèdre asked, noticing.
The leather bag containing Berlik's skull hung from my saddle.
“I’m sure.”
I thought about Phèdre and Joscelin as we travelled together. As unlikely a pair as they were, they had been together for a long time. It had been over twenty years since they fled Skaldia with a wild tale of treachery and impending invasion on their lips. Still, age sat lightly on them, as it does on many D'Angelines. A gift, mayhap, of Blessed Elua and his Companions. Betimes, when she was merry and glad—when we spotted the first crocuses peeking through the melting snow—Phèdre scarce looked old enough to be anyone's foster-mother, her face bright and fresh. At other times, I could see the weight of wisdom and experience on her; beauty of a different kind, deeper and richer. And Joscelin. …Joscelin was Joscelin. Aside from the fact that the faint lines bracketing his mouth and crinkling the corners of his eyes when he gave his wry half-smile had grown more pronounced, he looked no different than he had when I'd first seen him in the Mahrkagir's festal hall.
And the way that they looked at each other was the same.
I wanted that.
I'd never thought about aging; never thought about growing old with anyone. It seemed so much of my life had been a scramble to survive. Now, for the first time, I did. I thought about Sidonie. And the thought of her—of us—growing old together filled me with infinite tenderness. I wanted it, I wanted it all. All the ardent beginnings and the confused between-times and the bittersweet dregs.
All of the aches and sorrows, all of the soaring joys.
All of it.
I kept my thoughts to myself; it wouldn't be seemly to be doting on her while I was engaged in the business of avenging Dorelei. And I didn't want to dishonor Dorelei's memory. Still, the thoughts were there.
It made me impatient, though. Our progress was slow. Several of the mounts and two pack-horses we'd been able to procure in Skaldia were elderly beasts, past their prime and lacking in stamina. There was no point in trying to push them, and we lacked the coin to trade for better. Betimes, I admit, I longed to clap my heels to the Bastard's flanks and take flight. I could have gained days on the others. But it was an ungrateful thought—and a wholly self-absorbed one—so I struggled to suppress it.
Our course veered southward. Here, there was no mistaking the fact that it was well and truly spring. The days grew warmer and longer, and the last lingering traces of snow vanished. We passed field after field, farmers walking behind