Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [335]
All my things were there; mine and Gilot's. It didn't amount to much. We'd travelled light, he and I. I went through his things. Two shirts, one neatly mended. A pair of breeches. Nothing anyone would want to keep for remembrance. There was only his sword, and that lay in his casket with him.
I thought, briefly, of retrieving the blade for Anna; and then I thought better of it.
My own possessions were scarcely more notable. I stowed a few of the less disgraceful items of clothing in my bags, preparing for the morrow's departure. There wasn't much else. My sword, my daggers. A whetting stone, and the flint striking kit given me long ago in Jebe-Barkal. A pair of waterskins. The letter written by Ruggero Caccini.
Letters.
As Lady Denise had said, two had arrived while I was gone. One was thin and bore the crest of House Courcel. That one I'd cracked open and read last night. It was from Ysandre, a gracefully worded acknowledgment of thanks on behalf of Queen and Cruarch alike for my decision to return to Terre d'Ange and wed Dorelei mab Breidaia.
The other letter was thick and the seal of House Montrève was stamped on it. I hadn't opened it. It would have been written before they heard the news from Lucca; only word that I was coming home. I could envision Phèdre in her study, dipping her pen in the inkwell, her brows drawing together in a faint frown as her hand flew over the page. Joscelin leaning over her shoulder, offering a wry comment as she shared some bit of gossip he deemed too trivial to interest me.
I was afraid I'd devour it too fast. Better to save it.
"Imri?" Eamonn poked his head in the door, startling me.
"Come in," I said.
There was a fireplace in my chambers, with a pair of chairs set before it. One of Lady Denise's servants had laid a crackling fire in the fireplace, though I'd let it burn low. They'd brought a light meal and a decanter of brandy, too. I poked at the fire and poured brandy for us.
"Here," I said, handing it to him.
"Ah!" He drank deep, then sank into one of the chairs. "That's good." He held up his glass. "Joie."
I smiled and echoed his toast. "Joie."
We sat for a time in companionable silence. Eamonn gazed at the fire, his head nodding a little. I wondered how much wine he'd drunk at dinner. Then he caught himself and gave a prodigious yawn, jaws cracking. "Dagda Mod I still feel short of sleep."
"Night patrol," I agreed. "Too many nights."
"Aye." He chuckled. "'Here's the thing, lads...'"We both laughed, remembering Gallus Tadius. Eamonn rubbed his chin. "Here's to the madman, eh?" he said, hoisting his glass again, and we both drank. "So." Eamonn set down his glass. "You mean to go home."
I nodded. "On the morrow. And you to Skaldia?"
"Aye. " He regarded me steadily, no longer sleepy. "Come with me?"
Because it was Eamonn asking, and because I loved him, I thought about it. I thought about the tales Joscelin had told me of Skaldia in winter, of cold so intense it froze the sap in the trees until they made loud cracking sounds, of a world blanketed in whiteness beneath the blue dome of the sky. Of wolves and ravens and battles fought on a stretched hide. Of a people who were harsh in some ways and kind in others. And I thought about Eamonn and I wandering into the midst of it, huddling over campfires, depending on the kindness of our former enemies as we sought Brigitta's steading.
It would be an adventure.
It stirred my blood, a little. But then my gaze fell on Phèdre's letter, filled with what was surely gladness and hope at the news of my return. Like the poor princeps of Tiberium, I had my own dutiful prison to return to. Unlike his, mine was built on a foundation of love. I shook my head. "I can't."
"Ah, well." Eamonn refilled his glass. "I had to ask. "
"Are you scared?"
"Some. "Another man might have lied; Eamonn didn't bother. He gave me his steady look. "The Skaldi have no reason to love the Dalriada. I don't know what I'll find. She's worth it, though."
I raised my glass. "To Brigitta. "
"To Brigitta.