Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [321]
Still, my quest was over.
I crawled into bed and slept.
We stayed another day at Clunderry to bid farewell to those guests who had come to take part in the ceremony. In the wake of yesterday's strong emotion, everyone seemed purged and calm, like the world after a storm has passed. I did my part, thanking all of them for their kindness. I found myself acutely aware of Sidonie's presence. My wrists and ankles itched with the memory of my old bindings.
The Dalriada lingered the longest, for which I was grateful. I'd scarce had a chance to talk with Eamonn.
"Can you not stay another night?" I asked him.
Eamonn shook his head with regret. "I've got to supervise the building of the library. I shouldn't have taken the time as it was, but I needed to see with my own eyes that you were alive and well.”
"And to express your mother's sorrow," Brigitta reminded him.
"Aye," he said. "That, too.”
I embraced them both. "Come visit when your library's built.”
They smiled at one another. "We'll try," Eamonn said. "Seems we might be busy. Quite a few prospective pupils have expressed an interest.”
"You could come visit us," Brigitta suggested. I glanced at Sidonie without thinking. She was talking with young Conor and her aunt Breidaia, but she turned her head to meet my gaze. A spark leapt between us.
"Seems you might be busy yourself," Eamonn said. "Just…try to stay out of trouble for once, will you?”
I smiled ruefully. "I'll try.”
Our last night at Clunderry was a quiet one. With most of the guests and their entourages gone, there was more space. I did sleep alone that night in the chamber Dorelei and I had shared, and it was empty and lonely, but the memories weren't as painful as they would have been the previous night, on the heels of all those tales. The ache of guilt and sorrow was still there. It would always be there. It was the nature of loss.
We left on the morrow, another bright spring day. I turned in the saddle many times as we rode away, glancing back at Clunderry, until it had vanished wholly from sight. Sidonie fell in beside me, her personal guard trailing us.
"Do you think you'll come back one day?" she asked me.
"I'd like to," I said. "Mayhap for the Feast of the Dead.”
She nodded. "In the hope of seeing her?”
"Yes," I said. "But not soon.”
"No," she murmured. "I imagine it would hurt too much.”
We didn't speak much for a long time afterward, although there was a great deal to be said. All of our conversation since I'd arrived in Alba had been constrained by propriety. We had a world of talking to do. I had told her about Maslin's role in saving me, but not about the many conversations we'd had, the friendship we'd managed to forge. A thousand thoughts that had crossed my mind during my travels. And I wanted to hear every blessed thing that had befallen her since I left.
But it could wait. Right now, the silence felt good.
For once—for always, I prayed—we had time ahead of us. Whatever his thoughts on the matter, Drustan didn't seem inclined to interfere between us, at least not here and now. No one did. Throughout the day, a tacit acknowledgment of our relationship seemed to emerge.
And at night…
We made camp in a meadow alongside the narrow road we were following, although camp was a poor term for it. It was a procession of state with the Cruarch of Alba and the Dauphine of Terre d'Ange, and whenever we halted for the night, what sprang up was less a campsite than a small city of tents, dominated by two larger pavilions. Drustan's was wrought of crimson silk, flying the Black Boar from its center pole, and he shared it with the immediate members of his household. Sidonie's was Courcel blue, flying the silver swan of our house and the lily and stars of Elua and his Companions.
The wagons in our train even carried a table that could be cunningly disassembled, ornate stools on which to sit, and fine linens and utensils, along with a plethora of supplies. There were two skilled cooks and