Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [141]
"You're family," Mavros said simply. He ruffled my short-cropped hair and grinned. "No matter what you look like."
So it was done, and the worst of it over; save for the last. It would not be so hard, I thought, to bid farewell to Sidonie as it had been to Alais, whom I loved dearly, without complication or reservation. No harder, perhaps, than confronting the Queen. Of a surety, it would not be as hard as it would be to leave Phèdre and Joscelin, who were the stars by which I set the compass of my soul, uneasy though it was.
That part was true.
Still, it was hard; harder than I anticipated, and for reasons I hadn't.
I spent the day prior to our meeting immersed in the final arrangements. There was so much to be done! Ti-Philippe had taken the travel arrangments in hand, having long experience with such matters, and I was glad for it. I pored over letters Eamonn had sent me, written in his painstaking scrawl. The earlier missives were filled with complaints about the tedium of mastering the Caerdicci tongue; the latest held a glowing account of being accepted to study with a philosopher he admired. I filed away letters of reference Phèdre had given me, written by her and by other tutors with whom I had studied. I wrote letters to the seneschals of my estates, instructing them to heed Phèdre's authority in my absence should need arise. I packed and unpacked my things half a dozen times. We would be travelling light, Gilot and I, with only whatever a pair of pack-horses could carry and no attendants.
It had sparked considerable dissent.
Mavros was right; it was dangerous. Joscelin had argued against it at considerable length, reckoning he had a better chance of convincing me. I refused, putting my foot down for the first time since I had gained my majority.
"How many times did you and Phèdre make such journeys alone?" I asked him.
"That was different!" he said, frustrated.
"Why?" I asked. "Because you were there?"
"You're a Prince of the Blood," he reminded me. "You have enemies and a responsibility to the Crown."
"I know," I said. "That's part of what I'm trying to escape."
In the end, seeing I wouldn't be swayed, he capitulated. We went to the armorers' district together, yet another final chore to be done. With Joscelin's counsel, I had commissioned a sword upon turning eighteen, and I was anxious that it be finished. I had spoken to the master smith two days prior, and he had assured me it would be ready.
It was a handsome blade. After much debate, I had opted for a nobleman's sword such as any member of the gentry might carry. It was shorter and slimmer than the warrior's longsword Joscelin wore, designed to be worn on the belt and not slung over the shoulder in a baldric. When all was said and done, I was not a Cassiline Brother or the Queen's Champion, and to outfit myself as such would only invite ridicule or outright challenge.
A nobleman's sword was another matter.
Joscelin examined it, drawing it in one fluid motion. It chimed faintly as it cleared the scabbard. The workmanship was plain, the hilt wrapped in leather, the pommel unadorned. The edges were honed to a blue glint. He studied the glimmering patterns in the blade, indicated the metal had been folded many times.
"Well crafted," he said.
The master smith was a laconic Camaeline with dense black eyebrows, and he knew an expert when he heard one. He nodded at a thick post, sturdy and notched. "Try it."
Joscelin handed me the sword. The hilt was longer than the average nobleman's blade, the tang wider and heavier. It could be wielded with a one- or a two-handed grip. Facing the post, I gripped the hilt in both hands and moved through the first of the Cassiline forms, telling the hours, getting a feel for the blade's balance. I told the hour of noon, shifting to attack and defend each of the sphere's four quadrants. The blade cut cleanly through the air.
It felt good.
I saw Joscelin's lips curve. The master