Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [53]
"Eamonn?" I shook my head, feeling guilty. "No, not yet." Although he was my dearest friend in the world, I'd been too caught up in my own affairs to spare much thought for him. I fidgeted with the dagger-sheath strapped to my left leg. "Before he left for Skaldia, he promised he'd try to come for my wedding.”
"Here or in Alba?”
I shrugged. The rites would be held in both places. I was to wed Dorelei mab Breidaia in the D'Angeline fashion here in Terre d'Ange. At the summer's end, we would sail to Alba, where we would be wed in a Cruithne ritual for all of royal Alba to witness. Thus far, outside of my conversations with the Queen, I'd done a good job avoiding thinking about either. Even now, it gave me a horrible pang of loss and longing. "Here, I suppose. I didn't know about the other when last we spoke.”
"Imri.”
I looked up at Phèdre.
The scarlet mote of Kushiel's Dart floated on the iris of her left eye; a crimson petal on a forest pool. It was no accident that I'd lost my heart to a dark-eyed girl who was more than she seemed on the surface. Even as the belated realization dawned in my mind, I saw Phèdre smile ruefully, already knowing my thoughts. No girl, but a woman long grown; Kushiel's Chosen with the Name of God in her thoughts. I'd only ever surprised her once, growing up before either of us were ready for it.
"Do you know," Phèdre said lightly, "your mother possessed one trait in abundance that you lack. If you were minded to cultivate aught of Melisande Shahrizai, you could do worse.”
I gritted my teeth. "What is it?”
She tilted her head. "Patience.”
As winter eased into spring, Elua knows, I tried. It was hard. The days seemed to rush past, each one bringing a new harbinger of spring. Days grew warmer and windy. Blossoms appeared on fruit-bearing trees. Wisteria climbed the trellis in the inner courtyard where Joscelin and I sparred, clusters of green buds forming. Yellow blossoms opened on the thriving coronilla bushes, releasing honey-sweet fragrance into the damp air.
And Sidonie turned seventeen.
There was a fête, of course. I viewed its advent with a mix of dread and longing. It brought her one step closer to her majority, but every day that passed brought my impending marriage closer, too. If I could have held back time's passage with my bare hands, I would have that spring.
Sidonie's birthday dawned fair and clear, boding well for Ysandre's desire to hold the fête in the royal gardens. Silk pavilions were erected between the lilac trees, large enough to hold a number of couches, and braziers were set all around to drive off the evening's chill. This year, the Queen had contracted a number of adepts from Eglantine House to entertain; musicians, tumblers, and poets.
By the time the guests began to arrive, the first hint of twilight was in the air and servants were lighting the myriad glass lamps strung around the garden. Every pavilion held a table laden with food. The Eglantine adepts mingled with the guests, green and gold ribbons twined in their hair. Here and there, laughter or clapping arose in response to a ribald song or a tumbling display. One greeted us with a handspring and a standing somersault.
He came up grinning, ribbons askew in his curly brown hair. "Welcome, welcome, my lords and lady!”
Joscelin nudged Phèdre. "Think you could you still do that, love?”
She laughed. "With a good deal of practice, mayhap.”
"I know you," I said to the adept, picturing a satyr's mask shoved atop his curls. "The Longest Night, wasn't it?”
He nodded. "Still thoughtful, your highness?”
I glanced over at the royal pavilion, lit from beneath with so many torches that the Courcel blue silk seemed luminous in the twilight. "Unfortunately, yes.”
"Well, come visit me!" He took my hand in a hard, wiry clasp and winked. "Simon nó Eglantine. I'm very good