Kushiel's Justice
Page 42

"Lovely," I said.
He was right, of course.
The eating and drinking commenced immediately; in truth, it had never really ended, thanks to the Cruarch's boundless hospitality. If I'd thought last night was raucous, it was nothing to this one. Hyacinthe was not in attendance, for which I didn't blame him. Drustan presided over the early proceedings, then offered a toast in my honor and turned the affair over to Talorcan, retiring.
Once he'd left, the bragging began.
It took a more stylized form than I'd anticipated, beginning with verses of praise offered to one's absent lady-love, each man standing to declaim his own. As the night wore on and the uisghe circulated, the poems grew increasingly ribald and the bragging more pronounced. Conor mac Grainne, the youngest one present, listened with mortified delight, while his older brother teased him for squirming.
When his turn came, Eamonn rose. "Brigitta's eyes are blue as harebells," he said with pride. "Her hair is wind-tossed flax. The curve of her arse makes strong men weep, and her tongue is as sharp as her dagger.”
I glanced at Joscelin and cleared my throat. "You don't have to stay.”
He looked amused. "Oh, I know.”
When my own turn came, I didn't have it my heart to be ribald. After all, my wife's brother was present. I rose, feeling Talorcan's gaze resting on me. "Dorelei's heart is like a hidden well," I said, feeling awkward. "Deep and without fathom. And I am a shallow bucket, who only dreams of plumbing its depths.”
The ensuing cheers seemed earnest. I flushed and sat down.
Joscelin raised his brows. "Where did that come from?”
"Oh." I wiped my sweating palms on my knees. "We've been talking a lot, she and I.”
"My lord Joscelin!" Eamonn called. "Will you not honor your lady?”
To my surprise, Joscelin rose. "Phèdre—" he began, then halted. Sitting below him, I watched him smile to himself, quiet and private. "Phèdre yields with a willow's grace," he said softly. "And endures with the strength of mountains. Without her, life would be calm; and yet would lack all meaning.”
There was a little silence then.
"That's beautiful." My friend from the preceding night, Gwynek of Brea, leaned forward and thumped his cup on the table in a surfeit of maudlin drunkenness. "Beautiful!”
Joscelin nodded. "My thanks, my lord.”
The mood he'd instilled lasted all of a few moments before veering back toward ribaldry and boasting, which led directly to the fighting. It began good-naturedly enough with bouts of arm-wrestling, brawny clan-lords planting their elbows on the table and straining against one another. Harmless enough, I thought.
But then an argument broke out between two contestants; one of the Tarbh Cró and one of Talorcan's men, who accused him of cheating. The Cruithne folk of the Cullach Gorrym, I'd noted, tended to grow more volatile with drink. It wasn't long before they were on their feet, shoving one another. Someone began shouting, "Staves! Staves!" and other voices took up the cry until Talorcan smiled and gave his assent.
In short order, a pair of ashwood quarterstaves were produced, and the two commenced to batter at one another with considerable ferocity. Everyone shouted, cheering them on. When the Tarbh Cró went down with a glancing blow to the temple, eyes rolling back in his head, I winced; but his fellows merely laughed and dragged his limp body off the floor.
The Cruithne, whose name was Brude, grinned and spun his staff. "Anyone else?”
"I'll have a go!" my friend Gwynek called.
And so it went. Brude defeated Gwynek and another clan-lord before losing a bout that cost him bruised ribs and a broken, bleeding nose. He accepted defeat with good grace, sitting down to tilt his head and pinch his nose, while solicitous fellows poured uisghe down his throat.
"Has anyone ever died doing this?" I muttered to Eamonn.
"Oh, yes," he said, watching Brude's vanquisher take on a new opponent. "Many times.”
It was one of the Tarbh Cró who emerged as the best of the lot; a seasoned fighter named Goraidh. He had a weather-beaten face and reddish hair faded with silver, but he was strong and skilled and quick on his feet. With a sense of rueful inevitability, I watched him level his staff and point at me.
"Let's see what the young prince is made of!" he cried.
And of course, a roar of agreement ensued. Cups were pounded on the table, my name was shouted. I sighed and rose, hoping to emerge alive and intact. I'd a little experience with the quarterstaff—Hugues had taught me the rudiments—but not much. What a piece of irony it would be if I survived slave-traders, mad rulers, a murderous kinswoman, and sorcerous bear-witches, only to be brained on the eve of my wedding.
"Imri." Joscelin beckoned. "Watch how he cocks his head. I don't think he sees well out of his right eye.”
"Is that all the advice you've got for me?" I said glumly.
"Mind your footwork," he offered. "And try not to get killed.”
It was the Tarbh Cró, under the leadership of Maelcon the Usurper, who had slain Drustan's uncle, the old Cruarch, and driven Drustan into exile among the Dalriada. That fact did not escape my attention as I took the proffered staff in both hands and faced Goraidh.
He bared yellowing teeth in a battle-grin. "Shall we dance?”
I shrugged. "As you wish.”
Goraidh came at me, flicking a quick, testing blow with the left end of his staff. I parried it easily. With an agile twist of his wrists, he reversed the staff and swung low at my legs, forcing me to skip backward. Some of the watchers jeered.
Goraidh laughed. "Stand and fight, lad!”
I sidled to the left, watching his head turn. Joscelin was right. "Not likely! I want to keep my face pretty for my wife on our wedding night.”
That drew a good laugh; even Goraidh chuckled. He was still turning to face me, cocking his head to get a fix on me with his good left eye, when I circled farther to his left, deft and sliding, and jabbed him hard in the kidney.
Mind your footwork.
Goraidh grunted. I spun back the other way and caught him wrong-footed and unready. His mouth gaped as I swung at his unprotected head.
At the last instant, I pulled the blow short and settled for a solid tap. "Will you do my wife a kindness and concede?”
I wasn't sure, for a moment, how he'd react. His blue-grey eyes narrowed and he tightened his grip on the staff. I settled into a defensive stance, smiling and watchful.
For a mercy, Goraidh decided to roar with laughter. "All right, lad! Since the lady likes your pretty face so well, I'll leave it be." Lowering his staff, he reached out to tousle my hair with rough familiarity. "You're a slippery devil, but you're all right.”
Thus passed the eve of my second wedding. My bout with Goraidh garnered respect and friendliness, which manifested itself in the form of a great deal of uisghe. At some point, I recall Talorcan placing an ancient steel-plated leather helmet with a boar's tusks protruding from the cheekplates on my head and proclaiming me an honorary brother among the Cullach Gorrym. This required that I toast each man present. The last thing I recall, before the hall began to slide sideways in my vision, was someone asking plaintively, "Are you sure we can't give him his warrior's mark?”
In the morning, I awoke with a roiling belly and an aching head. There was no mirror in the guest chamber, and Dorelei was still sequestered with the women. I felt at my forehead, unable to determine whether the pain there was the aftereffects of drink, or a fresh tattoo. When Joscelin came to fetch me, he caught me peering at the flat side of my dagger, trying to get a glimpse of my reflection.
"Did they …?" I gesturing at my brow.
"No, I wouldn't let them." He grinned. "Talorcan insisted on challenging me to a bout over it.”
I squinted at Joscelin. "How is he?”
He laughed. "Sore.”
The wedding itself took place in a park in the center of the city; a place held in trust for the folk of Alba, taisgaidh land left to grow wild and undisturbed. Anyone who wished was free to attend, and by exchanging our vows there, Dorelei and I offered a symbolic pledge that our union was made for the sake of Alba itself.
'Twas all very, very different from our D'Angeline nuptials. By the time we arrived in our separate parties, male and female, my head was clearing. Dorelei and I smiled at one another. She wore a simple saffron kirtle and a wreath of yellow celandine on her black hair. I was clad in the old Alban style in a pair of dark breeches, bare-chested, wearing naught but a red cloak over my shoulders.
There were two ollamhs presiding; Firdha and a man named Colum. They stood erect and unsmiling, both of them holding gilded oak branches. Beyond them, in a circle, were all the invited guests. The women looked fresh and lovely; I noted that the men looked rather worse for the wear, and Talorcan was sporting a sling on his right arm. Beyond the invited guests were the commonfolk who had chosen to attend, of whom there were quite a few. I was pleased to find that the mood seemed one of festive curiosity.
The ceremony began with a lengthy invocation of Alba's deities, great and small, belonging to all the Four Folk; gods and goddesses of the moon and sun; of fire and healing, smithcraft and cattle; horses, wells, springs and rivers; of battle and poetry; of wild things, growing things, of abundance and plenty. On and on the list went—Lug, Saolas, Nerthus, Macha, Brigid, Aengus, Bel, Manannan, Hengest, Danu, Crom, Aine, Cailleach…
I knew the names, or most of them. Religion in Alba was at once complex and simple, a mixture of deities, ancestors, and earth spirits. There were no temples, only sacred places. Of those, there were thousands. I had to own, though I understood the lore, I didn't yet grasp the faith in my flesh and bones. But mayhap it would come in time. For our child's sake, I would try.
After the deities, the ollamhs invoked the blessing of the diadh-anams, the guiding spirits of the Four Folk; the Black Boar, the Red Bull, the Golden Stag, and the White Horse. The sun was hot overhead, and I felt sweat trickle along my brow. It was the only thing, I thought, that these two wedding ceremonies had in common.
It seemed like a very long time ago that I'd stood beside Dorelei in the Palace gardens, sweltering and heartsick in my high-collared doublet.
When the ollamhs had done with their invocations, they beckoned. Dorelei and I came forward and presented ourselves to them, bowing deeply. "Dorelei mab Breidaia, Imriel de la Courcel. Shall you plight your troth to one another?" Firdha asked.
"Daughter of the Grove, for a year and a day, we shall," Dorelei answered firmly. There was a little murmur among the onlookers at her words, not necessarily disapproving. We had discussed this at length, she and I. Albans practiced two forms of marriage; one binding, one less so. If, after a year and a day, we chose to part, the matter would be ended, at least as far as Alba was concerned.
Firdha nodded. "So be it. Join your hands.”
We faced one another. I crossed my wrists, clasping Dorelei's hands in mine. We stood and smiled at one another as first Firdha, then Colum, twined our wrists together with red yarn, adding to the layers that already bound mine, invoking another lengthy series of blessings for health, happiness, and fertility.
The ollamh Colum tapped my shoulder with his golden oak branch. "Speak your vows.”
"By stone and sea and sky, and all that they encompass, for a year and a day, I pledge myself to you, and you alone," I said softly.
Dorelei's hands tightened on mine, slippery with sweat. Her dark eyes were raised to meet my gaze. The first time we'd wed, I'd been the one felt the sting of sacrifice.
This time, it was she.
For so long as our lives were bound together, for so long as I was bound by Aodhan's charms, her dreams would be silent. What that meant to Dorelei, I couldn't even begin to imagine. I was humbled by it. "By stone and sea and sky, and all that they encompass…" Her throat moved as she swallowed. "I pledge myself to you, and you alone.”
There were cheers then, surprisingly hearty. The ollamhs invoked a final blessing, and then Dorelei and I walked around the circle together, side by side, our wrists still conjoined. When we reached Drustan, we found the Cruarch smiling.
"Rejoice, daughter of my sister," he said to Dorelei; and to me, placing a thick gold torc around my nearly bare neck, "Be welcome, Prince of Alba.”
More cheers.
I felt humbled by them and bowed my head. "I will try to be worthy, my lord.”
Drustan's eyes glinted. "I know.”
When we had completed the circle, we returned to the center. The ollamhs unbound our wrists and presented us with the lengths of red yarn; Firdha's to Dorelei, Colum's to me. They were luck-charms now, meant to be saved for the birth of our first child. With these threads, we would tie off the birth-cord that bound mother to babe, preparing it to be severed.
"Ward them well," Firdha said.
Dorelei and I glanced at one another. "We will," I promised.
So we were wed a second time, and the second was better than the first; far better. As I glanced around the circle of folk who surrounded us, I saw only love and good wishes. No one had wept at our D'Angeline nuptials, but now I saw Phèdre's eyes bright with tears; and many others, too. Alais was weeping openly, as was Dorelei's mother, Breidaia. Eamonn and Brigitta had clasped hands, gazing at one another and remembering their own nuptials in besieged Lucca. Even Joscelin's stoic look appeared a bit put-on, and I caught sight of the Master of the Straits grinning at him.
"What happens now?" I whispered to Dorelei.