Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [88]
"You what?" Phèdre was dismayed. "Imri, that's no way to treat a royal guest."
"He wanted to!" I said, defending myself.
"Phèdre." Joscelin was trying not to laugh. "He's a young man. That's what they do."
"Yes, and it's foolish and unnecessary!" she said, adding to me, "And it's a discourtesy, too, wagering that horse in a bet. It was a gift of state from the House of Aragon."
I already felt remorse over letting myself be goaded into risking the Bastard, and her words pricked me. "You're only saying that because of Nicola," I retorted.
Phèdre drew a sharp breath, then let it out in a sigh, throwing up her hands in surrender. "I leave this to your auspices," she said to Joscelin. "Since it is men's business."
He gave her his Cassiline bow, nearly sober-faced. "And I shall handle it accordingly, love." When she had gone, he turned back to me.
"Well?" I asked, still defensive.
"Oh, you're in trouble," Joscelin said, grinning openly. "He's a big lad, and I've seen the Dalriada fight. They're fierce, all right, and handy with a blade. You've come a long way in your training, Imri, but even I've lost on occasion. Remember what I told you about Waldemar Selig?"
"Am I going to lose the Bastard?" The thought made me feel awful.
"Mayhap." His expression softened. "There's nothing wrong with being proud of hard-won skills, Imriel; but it is a mistake to be ruled by pride. It's a hard lesson to learn. Believe me, I know."
"How did you learn it?" I asked in a small voice.
"I had a cursed anguissette inform me that Blessed Elua was better served by a courtesan than a Cassiline Brother," Joscelin said dryly.
"And it was true." He tousled my hair. "Come on, let's spar. You're going to need the practice."
It was my hope that our wager would remain a private thing; one, perhaps, that could be played out at Montrève. It was a vain hope. Eamonn had spoken openly of it at Court; and why not? He had no way of knowing it would be received as a novelty. Outside of martial Camlach and the training-fields of the Cassiline Brotherhood, noble-born D'Angelines seldom dueled with one another for sport.
Certainly not at Court, where grudges were played out by seducing one another's lovers or circulating cutting poems.
So the story got about, and nothing would do but that it be made into the centerpiece of a fete. I daresay Ysandre was no more pleased about it than Phèdre, but she acquiesced to the Court's eagerness for spectacle. And, too, there was a symbolic component to it. I was a Prince of the Blood, the only pure-blooded D'Angeline scion of House Courcel. Like her own daughters, Eamonn mac Grainne was of mixed heritage.
Betimes I wondered who the Queen wished to see victorious.
A date for our bout was fixed. It was to take place on the Palace grounds, followed by a picnic on the greensward. I found myself hoping for rain, but no; the day dawned fair and bright, promising a hint of warmth. There would be no delay.
For the first time since Balm House, dread made a lump in my belly. I curried the Bastard myself that morning. He was in high spirits, eager and restless. On the ride to the Palace, the lump in my belly made its way to my throat. "I'm sorry," I whispered, leaning forward in the saddle. His spotted ears flicked backward in response. "I'm so sorry."
Phèdre glanced at me and shook her head.
There was a considerable crowd assembled on the greensward; almost all the young gentry, and the Queen and Cruarch themselves. The grounds had been made festive, with a dais and chairs for select guests. Cheers greeted us as I rode the Bastard onto the field, where he would be held as my stake in the wager. He pricked his ears and pranced as though on parade.
"Cousin!" Mavros Shahrizai hailed me. He crossed over to us with his easy feline grace and put one hand on the Bastard's bridle, a glint of amusement in his dark blue gaze. "As a kinsman, I'd be honored to