Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [101]
I grinned at him. "Not according to the innkeeper's daughter!"
"Lewd bugger!" He laughed and threw a pillow at me. "Ah now, you know what I mean. But this Maslin of yours, he doesn't. He reckons the world's cheated him, and it's left a hole in his heart. He's trying to fill it somehow, but nothing ever fits. It's not your fault."
"Whose, then?" I asked.
"No one's." Eamonn shrugged. "Life isn't fair, Imri. You of all people ought to understand. Still, we can but try to do good. And you did. What he's done with it is up to him."
I tossed his pillow back to him. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is." He tucked the pillow under his head, stretching and sighing. "Oh, Imri! You should come to Tiberium with me in the spring. Think of what a time we'd have."
"I can't," I said. "Not until I turn eighteen."
"Ah well, you could," he said slyly. "If we were clever about it."
We had talked about what a grand adventure it would be. I'd even given it thought. It was hard always being surrounded by intrigue, encumbered by a net of safeguards. I'd give a lot to be like Eamonn, feckless and unfettered. Even if the Queen sent a company of guardsmen to haul me back to Terre d'Ange, it would be a glorious escape.
I couldn't do it.
It came back to the same thing: Phèdre and Joscelin. I couldn't betray their trust. It wasn't just a matter of all we had been through together. I remembered that day in the throne room when I was formally adopted into their fosterage. I remembered Queen Ysandre's outrage and genuine disbelief at the request, and how Phèdre had held forth the Companion's Star in silence, claiming a boon the Queen herself had promised long ago. I'd had no idea the stakes would be so high. What had I known of Court? Until then, I'd never been aught but a goatherd or a slave.
"I can't, truly," I said to Eamonn. "It's a matter of honor."
"Oh, honor!" he said. "All right, then. Next year, mayhap, you'll join me."
"Mayhap."
The lamp on the nightstand between us gave a final sputter and died. Near me, I heard Eamonn settle into sleep, his breathing growing heavy and slow. I lay awake with my eyes open onto darkness, envying him.
Afterward, I made it a point to avoid Maslin. Most of the time, it was easy. To be sure, he wasn't eager to seek out my company, either. Still, there were times when it was unavoidable. And despite Eamonn's words, which I knew to be sensible and true, I often felt obscurely guilty in his presence.
Other times, I was angry at him.
Those were the times that frightened me. I found myself studying him, gauging his fault-lines, imagining the perfect way in which to drive a wedge into them that would crack his pride asunder. It wouldn't be hard to do. With a few well-chosen, well-timed words—a careless mention of my own generosity, say, and how I had granted Lombelon to him while he stood before me with dung under his nails—I could humiliate him before the Court. He would hate me for it, but no one would ever forget it.
I didn't, of course. But I thought about it.
The only good thing about Maslin's presence was that it restored a piece of common ground between Alais and me. She didn't like him.
We discussed it during a hunting party in late autumn. It was one of those invigorating days when the air was crisp and bright, cold enough to see one's breath. We rode to hawk and hound, and everyone turned out in fine new warm attire; velvet gowns and padded doublets, sweeping cloaks trimmed with ermine and marten.
I rode with Alais, who had had little chance to go a-hunting with Celeste. It was a scene of merry pageantry as the party spread out across the meadow. Patient cadgers carried the birds of prey for the gentry, transferring them to gauntleted arms. The beaters and bird-dogs plunged into the brush, seeking to flush quarry. Wineskins and flasks were passed back and forth, laughter and wagers were traded. Alais and I set ourselves apart. Celeste was the only coursing hound present, but I