Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [42]
For my part, I was glad to be well out of it.
We attended the welcoming festivities for the Cruarch at the Palace, the last of our courtly obligations. I didn't mind overmuch, as I was pleased to see Drustan. Since it was not a formal audience, he gave Phedre the kiss of greeting and hailed Joscelin as a brother. Me, he greeted as an equal, gripping my arm in a strong clasp. I was startled to realize we were of a height.
Drustan noted it, too. His teeth flashed in a grin, unexpectedly white in the mask of blue woad. "You've grown, young Prince."
"So I'm told," I said, feeling awkward. Somehow, it didn't seem right that I should be as tall as the Cruarch of Alba. But Drustan's presence was greater than his stature. One forgot it, as one forgot that his clubfoot makes him half a cripple.
"Don't know what to do with it yet, do you?" He laughed, patting my shoulder. "Never fear, you'll make sense of it."
"I hope so," I said, meaning it.
"You will, lad." There was an unexpected gentleness in his eyes; dark eyes, warm and compassionate, so like and unlike Sidonie's. "Never doubt it." Drustan turned to Phèdre. "Phèdre nó Delaunay, I bear greetings to you from Grainne mac Conor, and somewhat more."
"Oh?" Phèdre smiled, one of her small, inward-looking smiles. "How fares the Lady of the Dalriada?"
"Grainne is well, as ever." Drustan smiled back at her. For reasons unknown to me, Joscelin rolled his eyes. "She sends her affections. Also, she is minded to send her second son to be fostered in Terre d'Ange for a time. Ysandre has agreed to welcome him to the Palace. Still, it is in Grainne's thoughts that you might open your home to him. I have spoken to her of your household, and she is much intrigued."
"Her second son," Phèdre murmured. "Is he—"
"Quintilius Rousse's son," Drustan said, pronouncing the words with care. "So Grainne says, yes."
"Why us?" Joscelin asked bluntly. "Why not the Admiral's folk?"
Drustan turned his dark, masked gaze on him. They were not equals, not in a physical sense. Joscelin stood head and shoulders above the Cruarch of Alba. But Drustan shifted his weight onto his good leg and tilted his head, not in the least intimidated. He was accustomed to carrying the burden of rulership and all its attendant responsibilities. "Because you are two of the best people she has ever met, my brother," he said calmly. "That is Grainne's reasoning."
At that, Joscelin flushed.
"Also." Drustan's smile returned, crinkling his eyes. "Admiral Rousse has no family, only a fleet to command. It is impractical."
Phèdre gave me an inquiring look. I shrugged, feeling at once curious and dismayed. "As long as it's not this summer."
"No," Drustan agreed. "Not this summer, but perhaps next. Will you consider it?"
"Grainne's second son," Phèdre mused aloud. "How is he called?"
"Eamonn," Drustan said.
I felt the word drop like a stone into the pool of conversation. All of them looked at one another. I knew the stories. Eamonn mac Conor had been Grainne's twin brother; together, they were Lord and Lady of the Dalriada. He had died on the field of Troyes-le-Mont.
"Yes," Phèdre said. "Of course."
Although I chafed at it, I raised no word of protest. I knew that Phèdre carried a burden of guilt for his death. She was the Queen's ambassador in a desperate time, and it was she who convinced the Lord and Lady of the Dalriada to go to war. If fostering this second Eamonn would help alleviate it, I would suffer his presence.
"Well," Joscelin said philosophically. "At least he's likely to be less trouble than the Shahrizai."
Drustan chuckled. "Do not be certain of it."
Afterward, he and Phèdre spoke at greater length; mostly, I think, about Hyacinthe. The Master of the Straits was wed to Sibeal, Drustan's younger sister. They had a child—a girl, born over a year ago—and Sibeal carried another in her womb. It was a matter that could further complicate