Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [98]
Clattering to the ground, Eamonn fell onto his back.
I grimaced at the impact, and tried to memorize the sequence Joscelin had used to get inside his guard so effortlessly.
Joscelin lowered one knee on Eamonn's chest, both daggers at his throat. He looked mildly down at his conquest. "Are you satisfied, Prince of the Dalriada?"
"Dagda Mor!" Eamonn gasped, laughing. "Oh, aye! Let me up!"
Altogether, we gave Phèdre a fearful headache.
There were other times, though. Eamonn was sincere in his desire to study at the University of Tiberium. And in truth, he had a keen intellect, albeit limited in its tutoring. So it was that Phèdre found ways to teach us both. Of her own accord, she taught Eamonn the rudiments of the Caerdicci language. And once it was done, she discerned those elements of scholarship that most interested Eamonn—the dissertations of the philosophers—and set us both to studying them, working to translate their theses from Caerdicci into D'Angeline, and thence to discussing them.
For Eamonn, it came hard. He stewed over his translations, mumbling to himself in a mix of D'Angeline and Eiran, struggling with the Caerdicci. I grew envious, watching the way Phèdre hovered over him, murmuring advice, guiding and aiding him. Yet once he grasped the ideas at stake, his mind ran apace of mine, overtaking it. And for some perverse reason, it galled me to see him grapple so eagerly with the questions that haunted me in my darkest hours.
"What does it mean to be good, Imri?" Eamonn's grey-green eyes glowed. "You and I, we have cause to wonder! What is the pursuit of goodness? Is it pleasure? Is it honor? Is it justice? Where does the true essence of goodness lie?"
"I don't know," I muttered, wishing I did.
"Well, then!" Eamonn clapped his hands. "That's what we must determine, isn't it?"
"I suppose," I muttered.
"These are fine questions to ask," Phèdre said gently to me. "Philosophers have debated them for many centuries."
I glared at her. "Is that what your beloved Anafiel Delaunay learned at the University?" I asked in retort. "For it seems to me he learned somewhat more. Yet not even you can say where he learned the arts of covertcy."
"No." Her dark eyes were clear, save for the floating mote of Kushiel's Dart. "He kept his secrets. And he died too young." Her mouth quirked. "How could he have guessed? To me, he ever seemed a man grown, and wise with it. And yet, I realize now, he was scarce older than I am now when he bought my marque. He must have believed he would live forever."
"He used you grievously," I commented. "Was that goodness at work?"
Phèdre's gaze deepened. "Anafiel Delaunay didn't shape my nature, he merely turned it to a purpose. Even so, I think he did not do it lightly. He had a sense of what would be needful," she mused. "The question is, who taught it to him?"
"Someone in Tiberium," Eamonn observed helpfully. "I will ask when I go there in the spring."
Phèdre laughed. "I hope you find an answer!"
I didn't like to think about Eamonn leaving next spring. Already, I knew I would miss him. And I envied his freedom. Although he would not gain his majority until this winter, the Dalriada reckoned him a man grown. He had no obligations or responsibilities. His mother was content to send him off with a fistful of gold, free to wander the world, trusting him to make his way back home, older and wiser.
By contrast, I chafed at my own restraints.
Outside of Montrève, I wasn't allowed to go anywhere without an armed escort. In the early days, with assassination attempts in Khebbel-im-Akkad fresh in my mind, it had seemed a sensible precaution. Now it seemed unnecessary. After all, no one in Terre