Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [272]
I shook my head. "Not a-purpose. The curse—"
"I know." Eamonn leaned over to touch my arm. "Dagda Mor! I don't mean to blame you. You, of all people; you and Phèdre and Joscelin…" His voice trailed off. "And yet," he mused, "when all is said and done, we are still subject to the Master of the Straits."
I summoned a memory of Hyacinthe; Hyacinthe, whom Phèdre had named her one true friend. Didikani; a Tsingano half-breed, with a worn, beautiful face, black curls, and color-shifting eyes filled with lost knowledge won through the long, lonely years of his forced apprenticeship. I remembered how he had walked on the waves, clutching his folio of pages. The lost Book of Raziel. Speaking the charm that held him aloft on their surface.
Held Phèdre aloft.
And she had summoned Rahab and banished him, speaking the Name of God.
"A different Master," I said softly. "A better Master. The Straits are open, Eamonn, and he protects both our shores, Alba and Terre d'Ange alike; aye, even from the ambition of the Skaldi, who would raid your shores if they could. Should he put aside his knowledge? Banish it from human understanding? Do you say it is ill done?"
"No!" Eamonn hesitated, then repeated it. "No."
"Good," I said. "Because Elua knows, it was hard-won."
"I know." He put out his hand, and I clasped it. "I know it was, Imri. I just want you to understand, that's all."
I nodded. "And I am trying."
Come dawn, we were relieved of duty and made our way back to the villa. Once more, I stumbled to my chamber and threw myself down on my bed, where I slept the sleep of pure exhaustion.
I dreamed, though.
In my dreams, I held the two halves of Gallus Tadius' broken death-mask and sought to join them together. It seemed to me that all would be right if only I could make it whole. The siege would be lifted and Lucius restored to himself. Everyone would be happy and free. I couldn't do it, though. The wax was old and brittle, crumbling beneath my hands. The harder I tried, the faster it crumbled. And I knew, somehow, that there was a charm that would make it stop, that would make time run backward in its course until the mask was whole and Gilot was alive again and everything was right in the world, only I didn't know the words, the right words. It was somewhat I'd known a long time ago, a very long time ago, but I had lost it. Because I was too careless, because I was bad.
I woke myself mumbling.
"Imriel!" Eamonn's voice boomed in the bedchamber. I opened my eyes and squinted at him. He was standing before the window, sunlight making a fiery halo of his red-gold hair. "Wake up! I'm getting married today."
* * *
Chapter Fifty-Four
For a ceremony thrown together in haste, it was a touching affair.
Nothing was quite as it ought to be, of course; there simply wasn't time. It didn't matter, though. The bride was Skaldi, the groom was Dalriadan. Neither had family to stand for them, and neither cared aught for proper Caerdicci customs. It was the exchange of vows, spoken and witnessed, that mattered.
It took place in the atrium. By all rights, there should have been a procession from the bride's household to the groom. Since that wasn't feasible, the groom's "household" was established in the far end of the atrium. A young priest from the temple of Jupiter was in attendance—not the flamen dialis himself, but a priest nonetheless—and an altar had been set up there.
Flames danced in the gilded offering bowl that sat atop the altar, fueled by bundles of juniper twigs tied with red wool and laid carefully across a charcoal base. Beyond the atrium, a banquet table awaited in the dining room, laden with food