Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [347]
Gilot.
True and not true.
It looked like him, like a Gilot carved of marble, bloodless and pale. His closed eyelids were smooth and serene, his mouth closed and somber. The priest drew a vial of oil from his vestments and smeared some on his brow, uttering the formal words of blessing. He kissed his fingertips and touched them lightly to Gilot's breast.
"Go forth in love," he said. "May you pass through the bright gate to the true Terre d'Ange-that-lies-beyond."
We replaced the heavy lid and I reclosed the latches. And then we picked up the casket and lowered it into the earth. Phèdre stooped and grasped a handful of soil. "Blessed Elua hold you in his hand, Gilot," she whispered, letting it trickle through her fingers.
I followed suit, and others after me. And then I took up a shovel and began filling in the grave. Others helped, and I let them, but I didn't relinquish my turn. It was something I needed to do. I had promised to bring him home.
I keep my promises, my mother had written.
So did I.
And then it was done. I set down my shovel and straightened, running my sleeve over my brow. I felt tired and sad, but lighter, too. A burden had passed from my keeping.
"You all right, your highness?" Romuald asked me a last time.
"Yes," I said. "I am."
We parted ways after the cemetery. Gerard was bound for the Palace to carry his mothers greetings to the Queen, and his men would accompany him. I thanked him for his kindness.
"Oh, anytime!" he said cheerfully. "Mind what Jeanne said and come visit, will you?" He laughed. "Watch out for candles, though!"
I flushed. "I will."
Romuald left us, too. Phèdre had offered him hospitality, but he had declined, stammering somewhat about an inn and friends in the City. He was ill at ease in her presence, awestruck and overwhelmed. I didn't blame him. Gilot had been like that at first. He used to stare at Phèdre when he thought no one was looking, blushing and tripping over himself to apologize when he was caught out at it. He'd gotten over it, though.
"You're welcome, highness," Romuald said when I thanked him for his service. "I couldn't risk have you turning up on her ladyship's doorstep looking every inch a ragged beggar, could I?"
I laughed. "I wouldn't have dared!"
"Oh, no?" He grinned at me, then dared a sidelong glance at Phèdre, who looked bemused. "Ah, well… I'm glad to have seen you home safely." He nodded in the direction of the cemetery. "And him."
I clasped his hand. "Do me a kindness. He left a woman behind in Tiberium, Anna Marzoni. She's a young widow, with a daughter. I've seen to it that they'll be provided for, but if you think on it, will you call on them when you return and make certain they want for naught?"
Romuald nodded. "Of course."
He rode away whistling. I watched him go, thinking he was a good man, a kind man. Gilot, who'd always rolled his eyes at Lucius, would have liked him. I wondered if Anna would find him beautiful. She would, I thought. She might even let herself care for him. Who could say? It was worth hoping, at any rate.
"Ah, love!" Phèdre's voice broke my reverie. "How you've grown!"
I smiled at her. "I'm just me."
She shook her head, but said nothing. There was time. Time to talk, time to tell her everything. Time to speak of Tiberium, of Master Piero, of Claudia Fulvia and the Unseen Guild. Of Bernadette de Trevalion and Ruggero Caccini. Of Lucca and Gallus Tadius, Canis and my mother, Eamonn and Brigitta. Time to speak to Joscelin, to tell him about the siege—the parts I didn't want Phèdre to know. To ask him how long it took before one stopped seeing one's dead in dreams.
"Are we ready to go home?" Ti-Philippe asked plaintively. In his haste, he'd ridden out without a cloak, and he was shivering in the cold air. "I'm perishing out here!"
Joscelin glanced at me. "Imri?"