Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [86]
"No," I said honestly. "I just wondered."
Laying down the tangled straps of his baldric, Joscelin touched the back of my hand. "I'm a poor model for you, I know. I'm sorry, Imri. I can only be what I am. But I am pleased for you, truly."
I hugged him then, hard and fierce. "Thank you," I whispered. "And it's not true. You are the best model there ever was, ever."
"You're welcome," Joscelin said, bemused.
I thought a great deal about love in those days; and a great deal about lovemaking. Over and over again, I relived my night with Emmeline, poring over every detail of it. The awful desire that plagued me was not gone, but it had changed. I knew myself to be capable of giving and receiving pleasure; Naamah's gift in its purest form. The hurdle I'd built in my mind was nowhere near as high or vast as I'd imagined it, and the terrible uncertainty of sheer inexperience was gone. I still had desires I was unready to confront, but I wasn't scared of the act of love itself anymore.
This, too, is sacred.
If nothing else had changed, I might have flung myself into the Game of Courtship. At sixteen, I had reached the age where it began in earnest, and although I could not envision marriage, I could well envision the rituals of courtship and the pairings that accompanied it. But that spring brought another change, borne across the Straits on the Cruarch's flagship.
It brought Eamonn mac Grainne.
I had nearly forgotten Drustan's request, made almost a year ago. When Phèdre made mention of it, I found myself torn between curiosity and annoyance. I wondered what he would be like, this Prince of the Dalriada whose mother had fought like a tigress on the battlefield, all the while carrying him in her womb. At the same time, I dreaded the thought of bringing a stranger into our midst when I was at ease with myself and the world.
Still, it was a matter of honor, and I meant to welcome him with all due courtesy. There would be time to take this Eamonn's measure before he became a part of our household. Our departure for Montrève would be delayed until Admiral Rousse returned from a posting to Illyria some weeks hence, and until that time, Eamonn would be Ysandre's guest at Court.
The Cruarch's reception at the gates of the City was lavish this year. Ysandre meant to demonstrate that Terre d'Ange had not forgotten its debt of gratitude to the Dalriada. Unfortunately, the weather was foul, spitting down a cold rain. Hordes of D'Angelines milled about shivering, festive spring attire plastered to their skin. A squadron of the Royal Army stood at attention, rain dripping from their parade armor. Barquiel L'Envers, commanding them, bore a look of profound distaste, which I found heartening.
Usually, the Alban contingent looked splendid, riding bare-chested beneath their cloaks, displaying their intricate woad tattoos, silver tores flashing at their throats. Today, they were huddled under their cloaks, hoods drawn tight, looking sodden and miserable.
All except two.
One was Drustan mab Necthana, who knew the importance of making a kingly impression. He sat upright in the saddle, hood thrown back, already searching to meet his wife's gaze. And the other…
"That must be Eamonn," Phèdre murmured.
I would have known him at a guess. Among the dark Cruithne, he shone like a torch, half a head taller than the rest of the company. Rain beaded on his bright coppery hair and cascaded from his broad shoulders. He didn't seem to notice, gazing around him with frank delight.
When the herald bawled his name after Drustan's, he flashed a wide grin.
They made their way through the gates and the formal greetings were exchanged. Ysandre made a pretty speech welcoming Eamonn mac Grainne, and then introduced the members of her household.
"Well met, Prince Eamonn," I said to him when it came my turn, leaning over in the saddle