Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [94]
At that, Charles and I rolled our eyes at one another in a rare moment of accord. I saw less of him this summer; in part because at sixteen, he was old enough to ride regularly with the Montrèvan border patrol headed by his older brother Denis, and in part because of Eamonn. Mostly, it was because our lives had gone in differing directions, furthering the process that had begun when the Shahrizai visited. But we could still agree on the fact that Katherine and Gilot were deadly cloying together.
Even so, Katherine had the right of it. The young women of Montrève and its surroundings liked Eamonn mac Grainne, and he cut a glad swathe through them—housemaids, crofter's daughters, villagers. They seemed to regard bedding him a grand lark.
I learned why.
It was on a day when we rode into the village. Eamonn had a fancy to visit Shemhazai's temple there. It was a small one, but they are all marvels of engineering. Gilot, Hugues and Ti-Philippe accompanied us, but they let us enter alone. The priestess tending it was clad in simple grey robes. She bowed, offering us bowls of incense in exchange for a tribute of coin.
Taking them, we approached the altar.
The figure of Shemhazai was scarce taller than a man, cunningly wrought of gilded metal. An empty bowl lay at its feet. It stood in a niche, head bowed, studying a tablet it held in its left hand. As we approached, it began to move.
"Dagda Mor!" Eamonn gasped.
I chuckled.
Shemhazai's right hand, grasping a stylus, rose. It moved over the tablet. His head lifted, facing us with his austere, unseeing gaze. The tablet spun slowly in his gilded palm, rotating outward so we could read the words written on it.
All Knowledge is Worth Having.
Somewhere below us there was a whispering sound, and a flame erupted in the empty bowl at the figure's feet. Repressing a brief shudder at the memory of the firepits of Drujan, I knelt in homage, then rose to pour my incense in a stream. Sweet-smelling smoke trickled upward. Eamonn followed suit, eyeing the figure warily.
As we retreated, the tablet rotated once more. Shemhazai lowered his right hand and bowed his head, settling once more into a pose of contemplation.
"May you find wisdom in knowledge," the priestess said, offering the formal blessing.
Remembering my own upbringing in the Sanctuary of Elua, I bowed to her. "Our thanks to you, sister."
Outside, in the bright light of day, Eamonn shook himself. "You people!" he exclaimed. "What are you to make such a thing? It seems almost you mock your own gods!"
"It is the gods themselves who taught us," Ti-Philippe murmured.
Eamonn squinted at him. "There is another thing I do not understand. You call them gods. And yet I have heard that others claim they were merely the One God's servants; the One God of the Yeshuites. Is it not so?"
"Not Elua." Hugues' face was set in unwontedly stubborn lines. "Never Blessed Elua! And the others, who became somewhat more, did but follow him."
"Out of love," Gilot added. "That is the promise of Elua's precept. Through love, we become greater. We become more."
I said nothing.
Eamonn looked at me and sighed. "Is there not a tavern in this town?"
There was. It was a tavern and inn, called the Golden Fleece. It was one of those names beloved of D'Angelines, referencing alike the wealth of Montrève and an ancient Hellene tale. It was there that we went to quaff a cup of wine, and there that I beheld Eamonn in action.
Let me be clear; it was the innkeeper's daughter who chose him. She perched on his knee, flirting, wrapping her arms around his neck. Eamonn embraced her, seeking refuge in that which was solid and knowable. He jiggled his knee and lowered his head, burrowing his face between her breasts, inhaling deeply of her scent.
"What else?" he asked me, raising his head. "Eh, Imriel? What else matters?"
"All knowledge is worth having," I said; echoing Phèdre, echoing Anafiel Delaunay, echoing Elua's Companion Shemhazai.
"Mayhap," Eamonn said. He smiled at his companion, the innkeeper's daughter. "Pretty Jeannette, I am a