Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [68]
It was small wonder, I suppose, that I had trouble with the Queen's kin.
All except Alais.
She would love the Bastard, I thought. Perhaps we could go on a hunting excursion together. I could teach Celeste to course hares, as we did in Montrève. At eleven, Alais was old enough to begin learning such pastimes.
"Imriel."
The sound of Phèdre's voice made me startle. Curled into the corner of her couch, she regarded me with bright amusement, then nodded toward the door.
"Go," she said. "Off to the stables with you. You're not fit for conversation."
Not needing to be told twice, I went.
In the stables, I found the Bastard stamping and tossing in his new stall, churning the sweet-smelling straw. Gilot hung on the half-door of the stall, watching and admiring, while the stable-keeper Benoit cursed and wrapped a bandage around his left hand.
"Careful, highness," he said. "He's a hellion."
I approached the door. The Bastard ceased his stamping and stood, eyeing me. Gilot nudged me with his elbow. "Want to go for a ride?"
"Just the two of us?" I knew Phèdre and Joscelin would disapprove.
Gilot shrugged. "A quick one, eh? Just to try his paces."
I took on look at the Bastard, who pricked his ears at me. "All right. Let's do it."
He was docile enough while being saddled, but when I swung astride him and took up the reins, I could feel him quivering with tension. Gilot rode a tall, rangy bay gelding that he favored. We jogged into the courtyard. With a dubious look on his face, Benoit opened the gates.
"Go!" Gilot shouted.
I gave the Bastard his head. He sprang forward, bursting off his haunches, hooves clattering on the paving-stones. I laughed like an idiot, exhilarated. It was a foolish thing to do; I knew it, and knew it at the time. And yet it was thrilling. Together, Gilot and I raced like madmen through the City of Elua, reckless and swift. For all his unruly temperament, the Bastard had a gait as smooth as silk. Gilot's bay mount caught a taste of the Bastard's fervor, and together they were like swallows on the wing. We crossed the arched bridge over the Aviline River, heading for Night's Doorstep. Pedestrians scattered before us and carriage-horses reared in their traces, alarmed.
Here and there, people shouted, waving to us.
I heard my name. "Im-ri-el! Prince Imriel!"
It felt good, bringing a fierce grin to my lips.
In Night's Doorstep, we halted. Gilot's mount was lathered and blown. The Bastard arched his neck and pranced, huffing. He was not even tired. The spotted horses of Aragon were known for their endurance.
"Come on." Gilot raked a hand through wind-tangled brown curls, then patted the money-pouch that hung from his belt. "We need to breathe them a spell; or at least I do. I'll stand you a round at the Cockerel, Imri."
"You said a short ride," I reminded him.
"I know." He grinned at me. "But you looked like you needed a bit of an escape, and I've heard the Lady Phèdre herself say none of her household would ever come to harm at the Cockerel. If you're scared, we can head back."
It stung my pride. "I'm not scared?"
"Come on, then."
Inside the Cockerel, there was a great deal of shouting. I whispered a word to Gilot, promising restitution, and he stood a round for the inn. Here they remember Hyacinthe, the Prince of Travellers, who became the Master of the Straits.
"Ah, my prince!" A barrel-shaped man came toward me, weeping openly, arms outstretched. "You came! You remember!"
"Emile," I said, exhaling his name as he embraced me hard. "Yes, of course."
"A gadjo pearl," he said, taking my chin in his thick fingers. "A gadjo pearl!"
A foaming tankard of ale was placed before me. I drank it down and wiped my lips. Afterward, more came. I was not sure who purchased it; Emile, mayhap. It was strong ale, and more than I was wont to drink. We toasted Hyacinthe, and Emile coaxed me to tell the story of the breaking of his curse to a rapt audience. After that, the story of the fete that Phèdre threw in Night's Doorstep to celebrate his return was rehashed