Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [87]
"Ah, yes!" He clasped my forearm hard; a warrior's grip. His grin broadened, and I found myself returning it. "Well met to you, Prince Imriel!"
I found myself liking him.
I could not help it; there was something infectious about his joy. If I suffered from a lack of it, this Eamonn appeared to have a surfeit of it. And he was utterly heedless of its effect. I watched him greet Duc Barquiel with the same cheerful enthusiasm. It took Barquiel L'Envers aback, and that, too, cheered my heart. His D'Angeline was faulty, uttered with a peculiar lilt; Eamonn could not have cared less. Sidonie regarded him with mild shock, and Alais with alert interest.
When he met Phèdre, he insisted on dismounting, going to one knee and kissing her hand. "Dagda Mod" he exclaimed. "Now I see why the Dalriada went to war."
Phèdre laughed. "It was a long time ago, your highness."
"Ah, no." Climbing to his feet, Eamonn grinned at her. At close range, one could see his resemblance to Quintilius Rousse—the broad, rugged features that were at once homely and handsome. "Surely that must be a bard's lie, lady!"
We rode in procession to the Palace, while the chilled folk lining the streets cheered and attempted to throw rain-soaked flower petals that clung damply to their hands or fell limp on the cobblestones. Eamonn stared around him in open-mouthed wonder. I found myself riding beside him, and he turned to me. "This city… It's so big! All the houses!"
"You don't have cities in Alba and Eire?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Not like this."
Somewhere behind me, I heard the word barbarian muttered. I turned around to meet Barquiel L'Envers' bland expression.
"It was the Tiberians who began it," I said to Eamonn. "You put up a better fight than we did. They were building cities and roads in Terre d'Ange while the Cruithne were driving them back across the Straits."
It was true. It was also true that after the fall of Tiberium and the advent of Blessed Elua, the Master of the Straits had rendered Alba and Eire isolated for eight centuries, while D'Angeline civilization had flourished.
"Oh, we're great fighters, we are!" Eamonn agreed cheerfully. He patted the sword-hilt at his side and gave me a sidelong glance. His eyes were grey-green, and there was a trace of shrewdness in their mirth. "You don't wear a blade. Do you not fancy a good fight?"
I smiled. "It's not customary to carry a sword until one comes of age. But I know how to use one."
"He's the warrior, is he not?" He nodded toward Joscelin, who was riding nearby, ignoring the rain with his usual impervious Cassiline disdain. "The one they speak of."
"He is," I said. Whoever they were, it seemed a fair likelihood.
Eamonn scratched his chin. "Hard to reckon, pretty folk like you," he said in a dubious tone. "Do you think he might give me a bout?"
"He might," I said, adding, "and if he won't, I will."
Eamonn laughed aloud, though there was no malice in it. "Ah, boy! No offense to you, but I'd break you in two."
I sized him up. He had the advantage of height and reach on me—indeed, strapping as he was, he had the advantage of Joscelin—but I was willing to bet he didn't have the speed. "Care to wager?"
"Oh, aye." He grinned lazily. "That's a fine horse you ride."
"Not the horse," I said in alarm.
He laughed. "The crow's bigger than the cock, is it?"
I gritted my teeth, suddenly aware of Barquiel L'Envers' mocking gaze at my back. Eamonn's voice carried; surely he had heard the exchange. "All right, then," I said slowly. "The Bastard… my horse… against your tore."
"This?" Eamonn's eyes narrowed. He fingered the necklace that circled his throat, an intricate gold cable. "It is a sign of who I am. My lady mother set it around my neck with her own hands."
I raised my brows. "You spoke of cocks and crows?"
He paused, then loosed another full-throated laugh. "Dagda Mor! You have ballocks, Prince Imriel." Leaning over, he slapped me on the shoulder with enough force to make me regret my offer. "It is a wager."
So it was settled.
We made our way to the Palace,