Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [85]
"Mine, too," she whispered.
"I know." I stooped to retrieve my breeches, tying them loosely. "Come here." I swept her off her feet, scooping her into my arms and carrying her to the bed.
How long it lasted, I couldn't say. An hour, mayhap, before there was a discreet knock at the door. It wasn't enough. It was never enough. I gazed at Sidonie, naked and disheveled, bruised geranium petals stuck to her damp skin, and heaved a sigh from the depths of my heart.
"I have to go." She climbed out of bed and began pulling on her clothing. "Will you write to me?”
"Yes." I plucked a crimson petal from her collarbone. "Will you?”
"Yes." Sidonie swallowed. "And in a year …?”
I nodded. "We'll see.”
She took my right hand and held it to her cheek. Planted a kiss in my palm, then folded my fingers and kissed the gold knot of a ring; soft and lingering, her breath warm against my knuckles. There were tears in her eyes. "Think of me?”
"Always," I said.
There was another knock at the door, more insistent. Sidonie swept her hair into a coil. I helped her pin it in place, adjusted the stays of her bodice. I tugged on my breeches and kissed her one last time before she went to open the door.
And then she left.
Sunlight flooded the little bedchamber. I sat on the edge of the bed, its covers tossed and tangled, turning the gold ring on my finger. I thought about what Elua's priest had said to me about love when I was fourteen years old, spending the Longest Night maintaining Blessed Elua's vigil with Joscelin, filled with a mixture of bitterness and hope and hero-worship.
You will find it and lose it, again and again. And with each finding and each loss, you will become more than before. What you make of it is yours to choose.
He hadn't told me how much it would hurt.
I wished he had.
Chapter Seventeen
On the morrow, we departed for Alba.
It seemed like half the City turned out to see us off. Everyone loves a gala procession. Of a surety, we were that. The Cruithne guards rode bare-chested, displaying their woad warrior's markings. The D'Angeline guards were resplendent in Courcel blue uniforms. The carriage-horses and wagon-mules had been caparisoned with silver head-plumes that bobbed with every step. No one was riding in the carriages, not on such a bright, fine day. Eamonn was grinning, the sunlight glinting on his red-gold hair, Brigitta beside him. Phèdre and Joscelin were there, the Queen's Champion and the realm's most famous courtesan.
And me; a Prince of the Blood, now a Prince of Alba. Riding alongside my wife. Somewhere in the multitude of trunks stowed aboard the wagons there was a truly disreputable shirt in gaudy Tsingano colors and a small leather volume of love letters.
I felt numb.
At the head of our procession rode the royal family, doing us the honor of escorting us to the gate of the City. Ysandre was merry, Drustan pleased. Alais wore a downcast expression. I couldn't bear to look at Sidonie. All I knew was that she sat very straight in the saddle, upright and unwavering.
We filed through the gate. Ysandre made a pretty speech about the Dalriada, and Drustan added a few words. The crowd cheered. A throng of well-wishers flooded through to bid us farewell, including most of Montrève's household. Eugènie and Clory embraced me and wept. Hugues gave me his wooden flute as a keepsake, insisting over my protests. Ti-Philippe listened, nodding, to last-minute instructions from Phèdre. Joscelin watched with amusement, his strong hands resting idle on the pommel of his saddle.
And then it was over.
Heralds atop the walls blew a fanfare on long trumpets. The Cruithne commander Urist raised a battle-horn to his lips and blew a long note in reply. The crowd cheered again. The Bastard pranced under me, reckoning the attention was all for him. Dorelei's eyes were bright, her gaze fixed on the western horizon. The Queen raised one hand in salute.
Urist blew another long blast, and our company began to move.
We were bound