Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [76]
Owing to their backgrounds, they knew a bit of my history; unlike my Shahrizai kin, they did not press me on the dark and painful aspects of it.
They were more interested in the adventures.
I hadn't given thought to the fact that it made me exotic in their eyes. Colette and Julien had grown up with the story: How I had deceived Lord Amaury Trente in the harbor at Tyre, bribing a street lad to take my place, while I stowed away on Phèdre and Joscelin's ship. I winced to hear of his fury at the deception, but they found it amusing; a parent's foible.
"You did it out of love!" Colette exclaimed. "He shouldn't have been that mad, should he? Tell us about Meroe and the oliphaunts."
So I did. I told them about our voyage down the mighty Nahar River, and the crocodile temple of the god Sebek. I told them about the terrible desert crossing, and the splendor of Meroe, where Queen Zanadakhete granted us passage across Jebe-Barkal. I told them about the strangeness of Saba, a realm forgotten by time, where the soldiers wore armor of worn bronze older than Terre d'Ange itself.
Some parts, I kept to myself. I did not think they would marvel at Kaneka's village of Debeho, which was a collection of mud huts. It was special to me, a haven of happiness and kindness, but I did not think these fine young D'Angeline lords and ladies would understand. And I did not tell them about the day Joscelin and I caught the giant fish, which was special to me for other reasons.
But I told them other stories, and the women gazed at me with wide-eyed awe while the men looked envious. They knew the stories, of course; nearly everyone does. Thelesis de Mornay set a portion of them to verse before she died, and her onetime apprentice Gilles Lamiz, who was named the Queen's Poet after her, has crafted many others. Still, Jebe-Barkal was little more than a distant rumor to most D'Angelines, and it was different to hear such things from someone who could say, Oh yes, I was there.
They wanted to hear tales of Phèdre and Joscelin, too. Owing to their exploits, it had become somewhat of a fashion among the young gentry to be enamored of one or both of them. At first it set me on edge to hear it, but I grew accustomed to it. In truth, it probably did me some good. It was romantic fancy, nothing more, and I came to accept this.
So I told them those stories, too; not Daršanga, but the others. How Phèdre coerced the Pharoah of Menekhet into aiding us, how we rowed an entire night across the Lake of Tears, how Joscelin fought single-handedly against the army of Saba.
That one set Colette Trente to sighing. "Is it true he's never taken a lover other than her?" she asked, gazing wistfully at Joscelin. "Man or woman? Never?"
I shrugged. "Insofar as I know."
"He's a Cassiline Brother," Marguerite reminded her. "He broke all his vows for Lady Phèdre, and now he's bound not to love anyone else, so long as he lives."
They sighed in unison at the terrible, wonderful romance of it.
"Lucky him," Bertran said.
"Lucky her," Julien added.
It made me laugh. I told Joscelin about it later for the sheer amusement of seeing his blank stare in response.
"Name of Elua!" he said. "Why me?"
We were sparring in the inner courtyard, and I paused to look at him. Phèdre once said that Joscelin was as careless of his beauty as a spendthrift of his coin, and it was true. It was more than true. Whatever else a childhood spent in the Cassiline Brotherhood did to him, it rendered him almost wholly insensible of his own appearance.
"Because," I said gravely, "you are a figure of great and terrible romance."
Joscelin rolled his eyes. "And