Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [318]
"Be at peace, Dorelei my love," I murmured. "Be at peace, my son.”
Somewhere in the distance, a harp sounded.
A ripple of disturbance ran through those assembled. I got to my feet, gazing at them. Conor mac Grainne's head was cocked and listening, but his harp-case lay untouched over his shoulder. It wasn't Conor who was playing. It was farther away, wilder, filled with aching sorrow and regret.
Talorcan stirred, glowering.
"No!" The word emerged from my lips unbidden. "All of Alba grieves," I said more gently. "Let it be so this evening.”
In the pause that followed, Sidonie's calm voice rose to fill the void. "Terre d'Ange grieves with Alba," she said. "Let it be so.”
The harp echoed, wild.
Everyone looked at Drustan. The Cruarch cast his gaze heavenward, then lowered it. He looked at me. I looked back unwavering. "All of Alba grieves this evening," Drustan said quietly. "Conor mac Grainne, will you give voice to this grief, as you gave voice to joy on the eve of the nuptials betwixt Imriel de la Courcel and Dorelei mab Breidaia?”
He knew, I thought.
Conor flushed. "I will, my lord.”
He unslung his harp-case and played for us; a sad, simple dirge. Or at least so it began. The longer Conor played, the more I heard in his playing. He played with eyes closed, his cheekbones bright with color. There was the tune he'd played for Drustan before, the twining harmonies evoking the death of his youngest sister, Moiread. There was the tune Ferghus had played for us, the song of the Maghuin Dhonn's last sacrifice. And there, too, slow and unrecognizable, was the Siovalese children's tune about the little brown goat.
The distant harp echoed it all.
It was strange, haunting and beautiful. I do not think there was any magic in it, save the magic of the harpists' skill. The harps called to one another, echoing over the woods and fields. One by one, the guests came forward to take part in the ritual.
I watched Sidonie make her offering, tipping the libation vessel. She stood for a moment, head bowed. I could see the burden of our shared guilt and sorrow weighing on her. But she gathered herself, stooping with deft grace to grasp a handful of soil and sprinkle it over Berlik's skull.
Bit by bit, the hole filled. The shadows deepened and the distant harp fell silent. Conor's fingers stilled on his harp-strings. Drustan nodded to him. He came forward to place the last handful of earth on Berlik's grave. The master gardener pressed and smoothed the earth, then set a piece of green sod, carefully preserved, over the place, tamping and watering it.
It was done.
Torches were lit. I let the procession turn and pass me by, lingering. Drustan gave me a curious look, but said nothing. I watched them wind toward the castle, then turned back toward the burial mound.
"Be at peace, Berlik," I said quietly. "Watch over them for me.”
The lines of the burial mound were blurred by the deepening twilight. The world had grown soft around the edges. I stood there, breathing the moist spring air, listening to the ordinary sounds of night in the countryside emerge; the last tentative chorus of birdsong, the chirping of crickets, the occasional cattle lowing in the pasture. I remembered the way Dorelei's laughter had sounded, ringing across the land she had loved.
I stooped and touched the earth of Clunderry a final time.
"Good-bye," I whispered.
Chapter Seventy-Two
If the ceremony had been sober and grave, the feast that followed was its opposite.
There had never been a proper wake for Dorelei in the usual Alban tradition. Her kin had been scattered, hunting Berlik; I'd lain at death's door. Tonight stood in its stead.
Clunderry's great hall—which wasn't terribly large—was filled to bursting. The