Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [311]
Elua, it had been almost a year.
The thought banished my impatience. A year ago, I had been in Clunderry, awaiting the birth of my first child. After the long winter, the world had seemed fresh and new, full of promise. The apple trees had been in bloom; I'd been pestering the master of the orchard about the proper way to capture the swarming honeybees. I remembered the uncanny sight of the skin on Dorelei's immense belly surging at the prodding of a restless hand or foot. Rubbing her swollen feet when they ached. Hours of idle discussion about what to name our son or daughter.
Aniel.
We'd settled on it the night…that night. My throat tightened at the memory, eyes stinging. Urist was right. I needed to do this and see it through to the end. I owed it to Dorelei and our lost child.
After weeks of frustratingly slow travel, we came at last to the port town of Westerhaven. It was another of those places invigorated by the opening of the Straits, a fishing village that had become a center of trade. The smell of the salt tang of the sea in the air and the sight of gulls circling made my heart beat faster.
Most of the Flatlanders we'd encountered in our journey were friendly and courteous, and Westerhaven was no exception. Phèdre—who had little difficulty with the guttural Flatlander dialect—stopped a man on the street, who directed us to a pleasant inn. We'd made camp whenever we could along the way to save our dwindling funds, but we reckoned we'd have to stay in town for a day or so in order to forge the connections we'd need to sell our mounts and book passage to Alba.
The innkeeper was a young fellow with ruddy cheeks and a shy wife. He beamed as a handful of us entered his establishment; Phèdre, Joscelin, and I, and Urist leaning on his walking-stick, his leg stiff from the day's ride.
"You come for the ship!" he said in cheerful, mangled Cruithne. "We have wonder.”
"What ship?" I asked.
He pointed obligingly in what I took to be the direction of the harbor. "The Cruarch's ship. Five days now. No trade, no visitors. Just waiting. Maybe no?" He shrugged apologetically. "D'Angeline and Alban together, I thought maybe so.”
I frowned. "The Cruarch's ship?”
The innkeeper nodded, flaxen hair flopping on his brow. "Red sail, black pig.”
"Do you mean to tell us," Phèdre asked in Cruithne, slowly and carefully, "that the flagship of the Cruarch of Alba is in the harbor?”
He smiled happily. "Yes! Just so.”
We exchanged glances. "I'll go," I said hurriedly.
I fairly dashed from the inn, mounting in a rush. The Bastard caught my mood, snorting as we plunged down the streets of Westerhaven, heading in the direction of the sea. Pedestrians scattered before us; I called out apologies in some tongue or another.
It was true.
Drustan's flagship was docked in the narrow harbor. The red sails were furled, but a pennant bearing the Black Boar of the Cullach Gorrym was flying from the topmast. I reined the Bastard to a halt. Fortunately, the harbor-master was nowhere in sight, and those sailors present looked more amused than not.
"Hey!" I shouted at the ship. "Are you bound for Bryn Gorrydum?”
There was some commotion aboard the ship. At length, a fellow who appeared to be the captain emerged; a southerner by the looks of him, one of the Eidlach Or. He shaded his eyes and peered at me. "Prince Imriel?”
"Yes!" I called. "There are others with me, too.”
Even at a distance, I could see his mouth twitch in a smile. "Aye, we've been awaiting you, your highness. Hold, I'll come down.”
I dismounted and waited, lashing the Bastard's reins to a piling. The captain descended and approached, striding along the dock, one hand extended in greeting. He had fair hair going grey, and a beard darker and curlier than the hair atop his head. His grip was hard, the palm of his hand leathery and firm.
"You've been awaiting us?" I asked, bewildered.
"Oh, aye." His smile deepened. "Some days now. Their ladyships had a true dream, they did.