Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [237]
If I exposed the truth, would it cauterize the wound as Master Piero said? Or would it merely breed another generation of blood feud? Somehow, I suspected the latter.
And beyond lay Alba. What I would find there, I could not guess. Alba was a different world; wilder and less civilized. I would be marrying a woman I scarce knew, and praying to Blessed Elua and his Companions that I could be kind and tender to her. That I could restrain my own dark desires and be a good husband. Dorelei had a laugh that made Alais smile.
Pray I did nothing to squelch that laughter.
Rejoice in the company of friends.
Love.
You will find it and lose it, again and again.
So Elua's priest had promised long ago. I drew my strength from cold comfort, and I loved without fear; my friends, Master Piero, Tiberium itself. I had grown to love the very city in all its decrepit grandeur. I had walked every inch of it by now. I knew it in the soles of my feet, in the sturdy muscles of my calves. Surely the finding mattered more than the losing.
It must be so.
Two days before we were due to depart for Lucca, we made our last excursion to the isle of Asclepius. The others had offered to come, and Anna had yearned to accompany us, but Gilot refused. He didn't want me to come, either, but I insisted. We made the trip alone. He sat in the barge, cradling his splinted hand in his lap.
"Are you afraid?" I asked him.
He shot me a dire glance. "What do you think?"
I kept my mouth shut, then.
At the temple, the priest removed the splint, his mouth down-turned and grave. He unwound what seemed like yards of linen bandages. Gilot watched fearfully as the wooden splints were removed and his naked hand was exposed. It looked strange; pallid and shrunken. The priest studied it.
"Make a fist," he ordered.
Gilot's hand twitched. "I can't."
"Try harder," the priest said ruthlessly.
He did; his thumb and forefinger described a circle. The other fingers barely moved. "What good am I?" Gilot murmured. "I'll not even be able to grip a sword."
The priest shrugged. "Just as well," he said. "If you get into a sword-fight, that bone-splinter in your chest is like to shift and kill you."
Cold comfort.
Gilot was quiet during our return trip. The priest had given him a salve—by the smell of it, it was much the same as the one Joscelin had used—and taught him a series of exercises to stretch and strengthen his hand. Still, it was clear that he'd never have the same use of it.
"I'm sorry," I said softly.
"I know." He stirred from his slough of despondency. "It's not your fault, Imri. You were trying to protect your friends, and I was trying to protect you. It's the only thing I've ever been good at. It's not your fault I wasn't good enough."
"That's not true!" I raised my voice. "Gilot, I could have died in that riot, but I didn't."
"Aye," he said. "No thanks to me. I got mobbed, Imri. Just like I did in that tavern where you picked a fight with the boatman. Do you remember?" He laughed, but there was a bitter edge to it. "Truly, when have I ever been of use? I've drawn my sword in your defense, but I've never been ruthless enough to use it. Joscelin wouldn't have hesitated. I did. Name of Elua, Lucius did more to save you that night than I did!"
I shook my head. "It wasn't just Lucius. There was someone else."
"I thought he was just a self-satisfied Caerdicci ass, with his clever tongue, and his 'your manservant this' and 'your manservant that,' but he kept a level head—" Gilot broke off his rant as my words penetrated. "What do you mean there was someone else?"
In all this time, we hadn't spoken much of that night. I still hadn't told him about Bernadette de Trevalion; in fact, I'd sworn Eamonn to secrecy. Gilot carried