Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [76]
At least with Eamonn there was no awkwardness. "Breidaia's little girl!" he exclaimed, hugging her. "Look at you, all grown up. I'm sorry we missed the wedding.”
"Never mind that," Alais said impatiently. "Tell us what happened!”
I was dying to hear it, too, but it was clear they were both travel-worn and weary. "Mayhap you might extend the Queen's hospitality to them?" I suggested gently to Alais. "I suspect Prince Eamonn and his wife would be grateful for it.”
"Oh!" She flushed again. "Yes, of course.”
By the time Ysandre and Drustan arrived to proffer their greetings, Alais had summoned the Master of Chambers. Quarters had been located for Eamonn and Brigitta and Palace servants had gone ahead to drawing them a much-needed bath. They would have moved their baggage, too, but there was none.
"Name of Elua!" Ysandre murmured, bemused. "The last time anyone emerged from Skaldia and turned up on my doorstep looking like this…" She shook her head, and I knew she was thinking of Phèdre and Joscelin, who had escaped from slavery to bring word of an impending invasion. I was glad Brigitta didn't catch the reference. She was none too fond of D'Angelines as it was.
"Oh, we were robbed, that's all," Eamonn said cheerfully. "Still, here we are!”
An hour later, we heard their tale over our interrupted luncheon. Neither the Queen nor Cruarch were able to attend, but I sent word to the townhouse, and Phèdre and Joscelin came posthaste. They'd grown fond of Eamonn during the time he fostered with us and the feeling was amply reciprocated. Eamonn let out another shout, sweeping Phèdre off her feet in a glad embrace, setting her down to clasp Joscelin's hand with a broad grin.
"This is my lady Phèdre," Eamonn said to Brigitta. "She taught me to speak and write Caerdicci. And my lord Joscelin." He laughed. "He taught me I'm not as clever with a sword as I think!”
"Well met, my lady," Phèdre said graciously to Brigitta, speaking in fluent Skaldi. "We're so very pleased to have Prince Eamonn returned safely, and you with him.”
Brigitta nodded curtly; staring at her, staring at Joscelin with his Cassiline daggers and the longsword at his back. I thought of Erich, the young Skaldi man in the zenana. Phèdre had spoken to him in his mother tongue, too. And although he'd given no indication of it for weeks on end, he had known exactly who she was. He'd known her by that and by the scarlet mote in her eye. I remembered what he'd said. The defeated always remember. He'd been six years old when it happened. I hadn't even been conceived. Nor had Brigitta, but she'd grown up with the same stories.
"Eamonn," I said in D'Angeline. "Did you ever happen to mention to Brigitta exactly who Phèdre and Joscelin are, and their history with a certain Skaldic warlord?”
"Well, of course!" He blinked at me. "Oh, that. No.”
I sighed. Everywhere I turned, it seemed I was hemmed in by the past. Heroism on one side, treachery on the other. "Oh, hell! No mind. Tell us what happened, will you?”
"May we eat first?" Eamonn asked plaintively. "I'm perishing.”
Between bites of a warmed-over roast with piquant sauce and large chunks of bread, he got out most of the story. Being Eamonn, he made it funny, although I daresay little of it was at the time. Armed with the map Brigitta had drawn for him and copies of maps in the archives at the University, he'd gone in search of her father's steading amid the tribes of the Manni in southern Skaldia.
"I nearly made it, too," he said, cramming another hunk of bread in his mouth.
Eamonn was telling the story in Caerdicci, and I'd been translating for Dorelei. "You didn't encounter any …hostility?" I asked delicately at his pause.
He shook his head, mouth full, and Brigitta answered for him.