"Silly?" I suggested, offering her my arm.
"No." Her small, dark face was very serious. "You look beautiful.”
It was a beautiful gathering; we D'Angelines are a pretty folk, as my friend Eamonn was wont to say, conveniently forgetting that he was half D'Angeline himself. I wished he was here with me, but he was off on a quest of his own, pursuing the Skaldic bride he'd wed and lost, taken away by her disapproving kindred.
The fête was held in one of the Palace's smaller banquet halls, with no more than a few dozen peers in attendance. At one end, a long dining table was laid with white linens and gilded plates, awaiting our pleasure. At the other end, where people were milling and talking, a fire roared in the tall hearth and there were couches set about for sitting and conversing.
I paid my respects to Queen Ysandre, who was holding court before the hearth. She waved off my bow and rose to give me the kiss of greeting.
"Well met, young cousin," she said with a smile. "Tonight we rejoice to have you home and safe.”
"My thanks, my lady," I said politely.
Ysandre de la Courcel was tall and slender, with an elegant, clean-cut profile that looked well on the side of a coin. Alais looked nothing like her, except for the violet hue of her eyes. I wondered where Sidonie was. I hadn't seen her yet.
Phèdre and Joscelin were following in our wake, and I moved aside to let them greet the Queen, marking how Ysandre relaxed in their presence, her demeanor warming. I had been taught to observe such things.
"Imriel de la Courcel!" a light voice remarked. I turned to see Julien Trente. He had been a friend once. He was one of those who had apologized, and I had resolved to set my lingering resentment aside.
"Julien." I clasped his hand. "How goes the Game of Courtship?”
"Well enough." He studied my face. "You've been having adventures, I hear. Will we be hearing tales of derring-do tonight, I hope?”
"I hope not," I said.
"Such false modesty!" Another voice, warm and teasing. Mavros Shahrizai slid an arm over my shoulders. "It's unbecoming, cousin." He gave me an affectionate squeeze, then greeted Alais with a deep bow. "Well met, your highness. I'll wager you know a few of our reticent prince's secrets, don't you? Imriel's often spoken of your friendship.”
Alais glowed under his attention. It made me smile, albeit sadly. Too few of the peers of the realm paid heed to Alais, and now that her betrothal to the Alban prince Talorcan—her Cruithne cousin and the brother of my own bride-to-be—had been announced, I doubted it would change for the better.
"Imriel." Bertran de Trevalion hailed me cautiously. "Well met.”
I clasped his hand. "Bertran.”
He took a deep breath. "I understand …my mother said you had a very good talk the other day and certain matters were made clear. And I'm…if I wronged you, I'm sorry for it.”
"Yes, we did. And yes, you did." I glanced over at Bernadette. She stood beside her husband Ghislain, who was deep in conversation with Joscelin. They had fought together during the Skaldi invasion. I used to wish I'd been born earlier, in an era that called for heroism. After Lucca, I felt differently. "Thank you, Bertran.”
"You're welcome," he mumbled. "I am sorry, Imri.”
To my relief, he made a hasty retreat. Bernadette looked in my direction once. There was a combination of apprehension and guilt written on her face. I gave her a brief nod of acknowledgment.
"Here, cousin." Mavros slid a goblet of red wine into my hand. "Mayhap this will help remove that look that says you'd rather be elsewhere.”
"My thanks." I took a sip and felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. I glanced over at the door and met Sidonie's eyes as she entered the hall.
"What—?" Mavros followed my gaze. "Ah. Still?”
"No." I shrugged. "It's just…”
"An itch begging to be scratched, is it?" he mused. "You've got to watch out for the brittle ones, Imri. It's not always pretty when they break.”
"Shut up, please," I muttered.
Mavros raised his hands. "As you wish, your highness.”
I liked Mavros, I truly did. Our relationship had been uneasy at first, but I'd come to terms with my Shahrizai kin. House Shahrizai was loyal to family above all else and he'd stood by me without flinching when I was under suspicion. But why on earth I'd told him about my furtive feelings for Sidonie—which I barely understood myself—I cannot fathom.
One of her attendants accompanied her: Amarante of Namarre, whose mother was the head of Naamah's Order. They bowed their heads together, whispering as they strolled.
“Imri!”
I nearly jumped at Phèdre's call. She approached me with a strange woman in tow. I frowned, trying to place her. Not D'Angeline, neither young nor old. There was an olive cast to her skin that could have belonged to any one of half a dozen nations, and her gown was plain and somber, though well-made. Phèdre's face was alight with anticipation.
The woman bowed her head. "Shalom, your highness.”
Her accent and the sound of her voice made me think of stars, a vast field of stars, hanging over an endless lake. Habiru. She had greeted me in Habiru. "Morit?" I whispered incredulously, dredging the name from my memory.
She smiled. "You remember.”
"Name of Elua!" I found myself laughing. "How not?”
I learned that there were a dozen of them, an entire delegation of Sabaeans sent to Terre d'Ange to study among the Yeshuites here; and too, to study D'Angeline theology. Only Morit had been invited to attend the fête tonight, owing to the service she had done us, but Phèdre had met the others.
I forgot about everything else, listening avidly as Morit described the chaos our visit had sown in Saba, a land forgotten by time. It was far away, far south even of distant Jebe-Barkal, and the descendants of the Habiru Tribe of Dân who had lived there for isolated centuries practiced customs that scarce existed elsewhere.
They had not known of Yeshua ben Yosef, whom their brethren elsewhere had acknowledged as the mashiach, their savior, after he was slain by the Tiberians.
And of a surety, they had not known of Blessed Elua, who was conceived in Earth's womb, engendered by the mingled blood and tears of Yeshua and Mary of Magdala, who loved him. Earth-begotten Elua, claimed by no god, who made Terre d'Ange his home.
At the time, I'd been too young—and too haunted—to imagine what it must have been like to have all of one's beliefs turned upside down, to learn one's people had moved on to hold new truths, new beliefs. To find that the world was so different. But since then, I'd stood atop a building in flooded Lucca and watched Gallus Tadius open a portal onto the underworld and send the floodwaters straight to hell, just as he'd promised.
It must, I imagined, have felt somewhat the same.
"What now?" I asked Morit. "Will your people become Yeshuites, do you think?”
"Or D'Angelines?" She looked thoughtful. "No. I do not think so. But perhaps some Yeshuites will become Habiru again." I wanted to speak more with her, but the call to dine came and she was seated too far away to allow for conversation. "We will speak later," Morit promised. "Lady Phèdre has been very gracious.”
I had been given a place of honor next to Sidonie, who sat at her mother's right hand.
"Cousin Imriel," she said in her cool, measured tone. "We're so pleased to have you here with us tonight.”
I kissed her proffered cheek. "Are you indeed?”
"Of course." A faint smile curved her lips. Unlike Alais, Sidonie resembled the Queen. The same fair skin, the same fine-cut features.
There was a time she had feared me, and there was a time I had found her unbearable. And then there had come a hunting accident, and I'd flung myself atop her in the woods, thinking to protect her. The danger turned out to be imagined, but in the space of a few heartbeats, everything had changed. Now the danger lay between the two of us.
There was desultory small talk at the table while course after course was served: veal tarts, suckling pig, stewed cabbage and quinces, and more. I applied myself to my food and ate with a good will, conscious of Sidonie's amused gaze.
"Did they not feed you in Tiberium?" she asked.
"In Tiberium, yes." I wiped my mouth with a linen serviette. "In Lucca, no.”
"Tell us about Lucca, Imriel." There was a conciliatory note in Bertran de Trevalion's voice. "We're all eager to hear about your heroics.”
I gave him a long look. "I survived a siege, that's all. There were no heroics.”
Across the table, Alais said, "But what about when you cut off—”
"My lord Bertram" Sidonie's clear voice carried over her sister's. She glanced at her mother, who made a gesture of acquiescence. "My lords and ladies, fear not that you will lack for tales of heroism this evening. In honor of our cousin's safe return, and in honor of our admired Sabaean guest, Gilles Lamiz has composed a new tale, a familiar one from an unfamiliar perspective.”
The Queen's Poet entered the hall to a round of applause and bowed deeply. "I am indebted to the Lady Morit for this tale," he said, then began.
"My thanks," I whispered to Sidonie.
She nodded without looking at me.
Gilles Lamiz told the story of how Phèdre and Joscelin and I had gone to Saba, seeking the Name of God. Only this time, he told it from the perspective of the Sabaean women; how they had marveled at the news we brought, how they had debated whether or not our appearance among them was an omen. How they had decided among themselves to aid us, and Morit had taught us to read the stars and chart a course across the Lake of Tears to find the hidden temple.
I rubbed my palms, remembering the blisters. We had rowed for hours that night, hours and hours. Mostly Joscelin, but Phèdre and I had taken turns, too.
He didn't tell the part about the temple and what had transpired there. No one truly knew except Phèdre and the tongueless priest who tended it. But he told of our return, and how the light had shown from her face and the Sabaeans had known that the Covenant of Wisdom was restored.
"Thus did the words of Moishe bear fruit, a fruit at once wondrous and bitter, for we were restored in the world, though a stranger led the way; and yet did he not bid us to aid the stranger among us? For we were strangers ourselves in the land of the Pharaohs, and their hearts are known to us," he concluded.
The applause that followed was thoughtful, and I was glad to hear it. D'Angelines are a proud folk, but we can be insular. It was brought home to me in Caerdicca Unitas that we think too seldom about our role in the broader world.
That has changed under Ysandre's rule, but change comes slow. There are still those who look askance at Sidonie and mutter about a Pictish half-breed heir.
I stole a glance at her, thinking about the unfettered laughter she had loosed in the woods. It was the only time, I think, I had truly heard her laugh. Brittle, Mavros said. I didn't believe it.
She raised her brows slightly. They were a burnished gold, almost bronze; darker than her hair. The same shape as mine, the same shape I'd seen in my father's portrait. Cruithne eyes, Pictish eyes, black and unreadable. I could read most people's eyes. But my sixteen-year-old cousin had been raised from birth to inherit a nation and keep her thoughts to herself, and I could not read hers.
"Did you like it?" she asked.
"Very much," I said.
Her smile came and went. Dark currents, stirring. "I'm glad.”
Ysandre ended the dinner with a pretty speech welcoming me home and reaffirming her gratitude for my decision to wed Dorelei mab Breidaia and ensure a peaceable succession in matrilineal Alba. I made a little speech of thanks, which Phèdre had insisted I prepare. And then cordial was served and we were given leave to depart or mingle, according to our pleasure.
We stayed, of course. I was the guest of honor and it would have been an insult to leave before the Queen did, and she was still conversing. Morit left, and the members of House Trevalion, too; as early as protocol would allow. For that, I was grateful.
Alais and Sidonie left. I watched them go, Sidonie holding her younger sister's hand. Her lady-in-waiting went with them.
"Ye gods!" Mavros flung himself down on the couch beside me. "My bollocks ache. I'd like to get that priestess' daughter alone in a room for a few hours.”
"You waste your time, my friend," Julien Trente advised him, leaning against the couch. "She's loyal to the Dauphine.”
Mavros gave him a slow, smoldering look. "Well, I'd not mind trying." He slapped my knee. "Come, Imri! Let's take ourselves off to the Night Court and ease our aches with Naamah's sweet succor." He gauged my expression. "Not Valerian House, no fear. I've somewhat lighter in mind.”
"You go." I nodded at Ysandre. "I'm honor-bound.”
"What of you, young lord Trente?" Mavros cocked a brow at him.
Julien blushed. "I'm game.”
"Good." Mavros swung himself upright. He gazed down at me with an odd mixture of predatory affection and concern. "Next time, mayhap?”
Come spring, my bride would arrive. Come summer, I'd be wed. And come fall, I'd depart Terre d'Ange for Alba, a country still wild and half civilized. I didn't fear it. Already, I'd travelled farther in my life; much farther. But I was D'Angeline, and the blood of Blessed Elua and Kushiel ran in my veins. However damaged I might be, even a stunted tree may seek the sunlight. And in Terre d'Ange, that meant love in all its forms.
