Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [92]
Eamonn and I spoke of such matters.
He was endlessly curious about Terre d'Ange, and eager to meet his father; although he attached less weight to it than I would have reckoned. I suppose it shouldn't have surprised me, since I had little interest in my own. I learned Eamonn was one of five children born to Grainne mac Conor, the Lady of the Dalriada. All of them had different fathers, save his two younger sisters. He was the restless one among them, not content to stay bound by Alba's shores.
"It is my father's blood, my mother says," he told me. "He is a wanderer, too."
"It must run in the family," I said. "They say his grandfather was Tiberian."
"Ah, yes!" Eamonn beamed. "I plan to go there, to Tiberium. It is something no other Dalriada has ever done. Is it not a center of learning?"
"The University is," I said. "Eamonn, do you speak Caerdicci?"
"No," he said cheerfully. "I was hoping you would teach me."
Word came that Admiral Rousse's flagship had made port at Marsilikos. Messengers were sent to meet the Admiral, who blazed a path up Eisheth's Way to the City of Elua, riding hard to meet his half-Eiran son.
That, too, was a spectacle.
"Elua's Balls!" Quintilius Rousse roared, grabbing Eamonn by both shoulders. "You've a look of your mother, lad! You're one to make a man proud, you are. By the seven hells, that was a magnificent woman, eh?"
"Oh, she still is, Father!" Eamonn grinned.
"No doubt." Quintilius Rousse swatted Eamonn on the back, staggering him. "No doubt, lad!" He winked at Phèdre. "Right, my lady?"
Phèdre smiled. "The Lord and Lady of the Dalriada were magnificent alike."
"Ah, Eamonn." Rousse grew pensive. "A fine man, your uncle. I mourned his loss. I hope you're honored to be his namesake, lad."
"Oh, yes," he said earnestly. "I am."
There was a lengthy fete that night to celebrate their reunion, and one unlike most Court affairs. There were more of Drustan's Cruithne present than usual, and Ysandre had invited a number of men from Rousse's old crew; sailors who had risen to appointments of their own.
Phèdre's Boys.
It was a raucous night. Sidonie and Alais, who attended the supper, were dismissed early. I felt sorry for Alais, who dragged her feet, departing reluctantly. Sidonie's expression was cool and unfathomable, and I supposed she was glad to go. For my part, I was glad to stay.
They were all survivors, and some things only survivors may share. They did, that night, reliving the experience and retelling the stories—the battle of Bryn Gorrydum, the crossing of the Straits, the battle of Troyes-le-Mont. Eamonn and I both listened in fascination, catching one another's eye, nodding in understanding. In different ways, this was our common heritage.
Toward the end of the evening, Drustan ordered a keg of uisghe breached. It was a strong, fiery drink, and even though I sipped it with care, it made my head spin. I heard laughter as it circulated, and then impassioned toasts drunk to the fallen dead—to Eamonn mac Conor, to Drustan's sister Moiread, to Remy and Fortun, two of Phèdre's Boys who lost their lives in La Serenissima, thanks to my mother's treachery. And after those and many others, too many to count, I heard the D'Angeline voices of Phèdre's Boys raised in a marching-chant.
"Man or woman, we don't care; give us twins, we'll take the pair!"
In the grip of a sudden, unwelcome understanding, I squinted at Phèdre. Her face, lovely and alight with memory, swam in my vision.
"Did you bed his…" I gestured vaguely at Eamonn. "What, both of them?"
Phèdre glanced at Joscelin, who shrugged. "It's a peculiar form of diplomacy," he said. "But oddly effective in its own way."
"I'm sorry, love," Phèdre apologized to me. "I thought you knew."
"No." I seized the pitcher of uisghe as it passed, pouring a cup and draining it. "Is there a list I should consult? Mayhap in the Royal