Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [95]
She giggled and whispered in his ear.
His smile broadened. "Ah, well! That, I understand."
He called for more wine then. After several cups, my head was spinning. I watched the innkeeper's daughter Jeannette lead Eamonn away. They disappeared to the upstairs of the Golden Fleece, returning some time later with grins on their faces.
"Why him?" I asked Jeannette as we took our leave. Unsteady on my feet, I gestured vaguely in Eamonn's direction. "I mean… I just wonder, that's all."
"Because he is happy." She smiled up at Eamonn, touching his cheek. "It's nice."
He beamed down at her.
"Is that enough?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"For a moment's pleasure, aye." Her gaze rested on me, filled with womanly shrewdness. "Ah, highness! I could dash my heart to pieces against your brooding beauty; and make no mistake, I have thought upon it. I daresay a great many young women do, and there will be many more. Each one will think mayhap she will be the one to pierce your mystery to the core, the one to open your proud, secret heart."
She shook her head. "I am a simple woman, and I will not delude myself. This I can remember, and smile."
"Oh," I said.
"I will always smile at the thought of you," Eamonn promised her cheerfully.
The innkeepers daughter winked at him. "I daresay you will!"
Eamonn whistled all the way back to the manor, periodically breaking into snatches of Eiran song in a resonant, tuneful voice. Whatever unease he had felt at beholding the simulacrum at the Temple of Shemhazai, it had wholly departed.
Blessed Elua, I thought, would have approved.
"Brooding beauty!" Eamonn broke off his singing to laugh aloud. "It is true, is it not?" He eyed me affectionately. "One day, you will have to tell me why."
"I will," I said. "One day."
And I did.
I had spoken to Eamonn of my mother. Somehow, it was easier with him. He knew little of Melisande's treachery; it was not a story that had stirred the Dalriada, having naught to do with them. It made him blessedly objective, and easier for me to accept his sincere, untainted sympathy.
I had not spoken of Daršanga.
He knew, of course. It was common Court gossip that I had been abducted and sold into slavery. What that meant—truly meant—no one knew. None of us had spoken openly of those horrors.
It was in the high lake meadow that I told him, the one I had visited with Roshana and Katherine last summer. It seemed a long time ago. We rode there together, Eamonn and I, scaling the mountains' heights. As I had guessed, he loved it. We tethered our mounts, and he greeted the lake with an exuberant shout, stripping off his clothing and plunging into its translucent depths.
I followed suit.
It was cold; so cold! We trod water and splashed one another; laughing as our teeth chattered and our lips turned blue. And when we could stand it no more, we hauled ourselves onto the slate lip and sprawled there, basking in the warmth of the sun-drenched stone.
"What is that!" Eamonn asked, pointing at the pale scar on my left buttock. "Dagda Mor! It looks like a cattle-mark."
In the warm sun, I shivered. "It is. Or something like it."
"This is the thing you do not speak of, is it not?" Eamonn grew quiet, watching me with his grey-green eyes, damp hair plastered over his brow. "We are like brothers, you and I. I will never betray your trust. If you can bear to say it, I can bear to hear it, Imriel."
And so I did.
Taking my courage in both hands, I told him about Daršanga. Not all of it; not the worst, in some ways. Only Phèdre knows that, and it is her secret to keep. But I told him about Jagun of the Kereyit Tartars, who set his brand on me. I told him of the ka-Magi, who kept death on a leash like a hound. And I told him about their anointed ruler the Mahrkagir in all his awful madness, and