Kushiel's Justice (Imriel's Trilogy #2) 00
"No!" Conor wrapped his arms around himself. His voice dropped to a whisper. "One of them was, once. He taught me…he taught me a song or two. Charms." His voice grew almost inaudible. "He said he was my father.”
"Your father!”
"Shhh!" He sounded miserable. "Please!”
"Name of Elua!" I raked a hand through my hair. "Is that a bad thing? To have one of the …Old Ones…for a father?”
"No. Yes." His voice cracked. "I don't know. It's scary.”
"Now that, I can believe." I glanced involuntarily over my shoulder. "Conor, listen. I've just had a very …strange …and unpleasant encounter. Right now, I think we should both go back inside, bar the door, and set one of those sleeping guards on it; and mayhap on me, for that matter. In the morning, I would like to have a long talk with your lady mother. And if you haven't, mayhap you should. Does that sound wise?”
He nodded. "Yes.”
"Good." Putting a hand on his shoulder, I steered him toward the door. "Let's go.”
Chapter Twenty-One
I awoke with the strong sense of being watched and opened my eyes to find Conor perched on the foot of my narrow bed. I grabbed my sword at my bedside and had it half drawn before I recognized him. The action sent him scrambling away from me in alarm."Elua!" I said in disgust. "You shouldn't startle a man like that.”
"I'm sorry." In the doorway, Conor hunched his narrow shoulders. "I didn't think you'd sleep so late.”
"Neither did I." After my encounter with Morwen, I hadn't thought I'd sleep at all. I had, though. I'd laid down beside Dorelei and fallen into a black pit of exhaustion. I glanced around and saw my wife was nowhere in sight. I didn't hear much noise from the hall, either. "Where is everyone?”
"Gone to look at a site to start a library. They're inspecting a lot of the books and moving them. Lady Phèdre was not happy when Brennan said he put some of them in an empty dovecote." He looked warily at me from beneath the thick fringe of his coarse black hair. "Can we talk to my mother now? You promised.”
I didn't think I'd made any promises, and I certainly hadn't intended to involve myself in his discussion with Grainne. What was between them was a private matter. I opened my mouth to say so, and saw the hunger beneath the wariness in his dark eyes. Betimes, 'tis easier to share a burden with a stranger than a loved one. And if there was anyone who knew about unwelcome parentage, it was me. I sighed and began dragging my clothes on. "Yes, all right.”
The hall of Innisclan was quiet and mostly empty. In the kitchen, a cheerful cook's assistant gave me bread and honey soaked in cow's milk to break my fast. Bear-witches or no, I'd spent too much time on short rations during the siege of Lucca to go hungry willingly. I ate it standing, my fingers dripping, mindful of Conor's impatient gaze.
"All right, all right!" I licked my fingers clean. "Let's go.”
The Lady Grainne granted our joint request for a private audience with bemusement. She led us into her private quarters, which included a small salon. At her invitation, I took a seat on a wooden chair covered with sheepskin dyed scarlet. Conor, standing, fidgeted.
"Do you want me to start?" I asked him.
"Yes, please," he mumbled.
Taking a deep breath, I told her the whole of the story. The pipes, the laughter, the bear-sound outside the tent. Brigid's Well, the charmed tune. Morwen's summons and the binding she'd laid on me.
At that, the Lady of the Dalriada stirred. "With what did she bind you?”
"Desire." I met her gaze squarely. "Seed spilled on taisgaidh soil. She had a mannekin molded of dirt and clay.”
She nodded. "I see.”
I related what Conor had told me; or began to. I hadn't gotten far before he interrupted.
"You said he was a bard!" he shouted at his mother, his voice cracking. "A wandering bard!”
"That he is." Grainne's tone was grave. "I did not lie.”
"Why didn't you tell me?”
"Ah, lad!" She smiled sadly. "I'm sorry. I thought you'd ask when the time came. Surely, you always knew you were different, just as Eamonn did. I didn't reckon on your father visiting you. I should have. They do like to play sly tricks, the Old Ones.”
"Last night was no mere trick," I said briefly.
"No. No, it wasn't." The Lady Grainne rose and paced the room. "It concerns me.”
"You!" I raised my brows.
"Do they mean to harm Prince Imriel?" Conor asked, sounding ill. "Can they?”
She didn't answer right away. "It is no secret that the Old Ones spoke against his marriage to Dorelei mab Breidaia. Still, it is done, and I do not think they will break their long truce with the Dalriada. But I do not like this business of the binding charm, either." Her grey-green gaze touched on me. "That was careless of you.”
"Name of Elua!" I spread my hands. "How was I to know? Fine. What now, my lady? I'm not minded to abandon Dorelei, turn tail, and flee to Terre d'Ange on a bear-witch's threat, but I'll not be at this Morwen's beck and call, either, wondering if I'm about to be lured into ambush. And I'm asking you, because you seem to be the only person in Alba with any experience in dealing with the Old Ones." I glanced at Conor. "Indeed, rather more than I reckoned.”
"Ah, well." Surprisingly, Grainne smiled. "Love and desire are curious things, are they not? Still, I am not the only one. And this magic lies beyond my purview.”
"Aodhan would know," Conor murmured.
"Have you spoken to him?" his mother asked.
He nodded without meeting her eyes. "I told him about the …the man who taught me the charmed songs. He said unless I wished to study the Path of the Grove, it would be dangerous to use them.”
"This Aodhan is an ollamh?" I asked.
"He is," Grainne said thoughtfully. "But he is of the Dalriada, and he has dealt with the Old Ones for many long years. Understand," she added, "in Eire, the Old Ones befriended us. And unlike the Cruithne, we never quarrelled with them, neither there nor here in Alba. They taught us many things about herb-lore and the sacred places, aye, and magic, too.”
"Shapeshifting?" I asked.
"The old tales say so." Conor shivered. "I asked Aodhan about it. He said it was true. He said it is wild magic, and we lost it when we began to tame places. Nothing is to be had for nothing.”
I frowned. "I see.”
"Well, no one ever tamed the Old Ones," Grainne said. "And old Aodhan is none too tame himself. If anyone will know the wisest course, he will. Will you take Imriel to see him?" she asked Conor.
He straightened his shoulders. "I will.
The Lady Grainne consented to make excuses to the others for us, and it was agreed that the matter would not be discussed until we had the ollamh's counsel. I reckoned there was no merit in it. At best, it would only sow concern; at worst, I feared Joscelin's reaction. When it came to my safety, he was unyielding. I wouldn't put it past him to organize our D'Angeline guards into a war party and ride forth to confront the Old Ones. And while there was a part of me that would like to do that very thing, the truth was, I was a Prince of Alba by right of marriage now, and I had to be mindful of Alban law, which unfortunately made no provision for being enchanted against one's will.
It was, however, clear that breaking a host's truce of long standing was a violation of the laws of hospitality. I had been ensorceled and embarrassed, but I was unharmed. I did not have cause to bring a blood-feud to Grainne's doorstep. She had the right to claim insult from Morwen, but I doubted she'd have much luck with that.
It was a piece of irony. Firdha had crammed my head with ten thousand bits of law and lore, none of which applied. I hoped I'd have more luck with this Aodhan.
"Shouldn't we arrange for an escort?" I asked Conor as he led me to the stable. Our company had set up an encampment in an open field not far from the hall. I could see our men, Cruithne and D'Angeline alike, bored and idle, dicing and gossiping.
He shook his head. "Aodhan won't show himself if we do.”
"I see," I said, although I didn't.
He gave me a considering look. "It's safe, you know.”
"I'm glad you think so," I said wryly.
We caught sight of the others as we rode forth from Innisclan, or at least the men. Eamonn and his bright-headed brother Brennan, pacing off a possible building site with Joscelin's keen Siovalese assistance. Eamonn, seeing me riding beside Conor, lifted one hand in salute. I waved. No one thought it odd. After all, I'd promised to have a word with the lad.
"How far is it to Aodhan's?" I asked Conor.
"Oh, only an hour or so," he said. "Or mayhap two.”
At least it was a pleasant ride. For most of it, we rode along a ridge that paralleled the sea, picking our way amidst the occasional boulder. It was a fine day, sunlight sparkling on the water, a light breeze lifting wavelets. I glanced often at the empty water and thought about how the Master of the Straits warded Alba's coast, and what it might mean if he ceased to do so.
Along the way, I sought to draw out Conor. "Are you wroth with your mother?”
He hunched his shoulders. "No," he said in a voice that meant Yes.
"I would be," I said. "Do you know, something very like happened to me.”
He looked at me warily. "Truly?”
So I told him, then, how I had come to find out who I was. How I'd thought myself an orphan and been raised in the Sanctuary of Elua, how I'd been stolen from it. How I'd been rescued from a terrible place, and how I had learned, from the inadvertent words of a soldier, that I was the son of Benedicte de la Courcel and Melisande Shahrizai.
"What did you do?" Conor asked, wide-eyed.
I shrugged. "Sulked.”
He colored. "No, really.”
"It's true," I said. "I was angry at Phèdre for not having told me.”
Conor rode in silence for a while, thinking. "Well, but it's not the same, is it?" he said at length. "She's not your mother.”
"No, she's not," I agreed. A memory; her wrist in my grasp, a leap in her pulse. Kushiel's Chosen. I ignored it. "But it's a little bit the same, Conor. And I forgave her because I knew she loved me." I leaned over in the saddle and nudged him. "It could be worse, you know. Better one of the Old Ones than the realm's greatest traitor.”
He sneaked a sidelong glance at me. "You think?”
"Oh, yes," I said. "I do.”
At a place where a narrow stream emptied into the sea, we departed from the high ridge and turned inland. We followed the stream's course as it burbled over mossy rocks and miniature falls. The underbrush grew thick and dense, until we were forced to dismount and hobble the Bastard and Conor's shaggy pony, continuing on foot. At one point, we entered a thicket of blackberries so dense it forced us to crawl.
"Are you sure about this?" I asked, swatting at bracken.
He held a finger to his lips. "Shhh!”
I hushed and listened, pitching my ears to hear intently as Phèdre had taught me. Somewhere, there was humming; a man's voice, deep and resonant. Conor clambered to his feet, thorns plucking at his woolen tunic. "Master Aodhan!" he called. "It's me, Conor! I've brought a friend, at my mother's request. Is that all right?”
The humming broke, then resumed.
"I'm thinking it's fine." I squirmed out from under the brambly canes. "Come on.”
At a place where the stream widened and deepened enough to pool and eddy, we found the ollamh of the Dalriada engrossed in fishing. Aodhan was perched on a moss-covered rock, casting his line carefully on the waters. At first glance, he was an unprepossessing figure: a nut-brown man with a bald pate and a white beard knotted in tangled braids.
"What will you, my sons?" he called.
I bowed. "We come seeking your wisdom, Son of the Grove.”
"Wisdom!" He snorted. "Better you'd come for fish. Today's a lucky day, it seems." As if to illustrate, he began winding in his line, a fine speckled trout thrashing on the hook. "Well, come on down, then.”
Conor and I descended the embankment while the ollamh freed his trout from the hook. He placed it in a partially submerged willow creel and tied the lid shut, then rose to greet us.
"Conor, lad!" He gripped the boy's shoulders with sturdy, weathered hands and grinned at him. "Finally got up the courage to speak to your mother, did you?”
The boy blinked. "How did you know?”
"Ah, it's written on your face, lad. At your age, everything is." The ollamh turned to me. "And you wear your heritage stamped on yours. The D'Angeline prince, is it?”
"Imriel de la Courcel." I accorded him another bow. "Well met, Son of the Grove.”
Another snort. "I'm a hermit, not a court bard. Call me Aodhan.”
I smiled. "Imriel.”
"Well met, then." Aodhan shook my hand. His felt as tough as old leather. He searched my face, his deep-set hazel eyes small and bright beneath bushy white brows. "You've scarce arrived among the Dalriada, young Imriel. What trouble have you gotten into that concerns the Lady Grainne enough to send you to seek out an old hermit's advice?”