Kushiel's Justice (Imriel's Trilogy #2) 00

"Did you know most Vralians believe an angel appeared to Micah ben Ximon in a dream and taught him to fight?" I asked Joscelin.

"So he said." He gave a half-smile. "And there I was, expecting to be hailed as his mentor. He asked for my silence on the matter, which is one of the reasons he agreed to aid us in securing your freedom. Unnecessary though it proved, I gave my word. You'll not see me draw my daggers in Vralia. I'll rely on my sword if I must.”

"Does it trouble you?" I asked.

Joscelin shook his head. "Not especially. I don't condone the lie, but it doesn't sound as though he started it himself. He just never refuted it, nor did anyone else who knew. Anyway, it's his business.”

I didn't tell him that I'd told the Yeshuite sailor Ravi that the myth was untrue, that I'd practiced the Cassiline forms in front of him and the crew. Still, my practicing on a shipwrecked shore—or behind the locked door of a gaol cell with only Kebek for an audience—wasn't quite the same as Joscelin revealing himself in all his prowess before Micah ben Ximon's men. I wondered if that particular truth would seep out, or if Ravi and the others would keep their silence and let the myth endure. When all was said and done, I doubted Joscelin would care either way. He had never been one to care about appearances or heroics or receiving accolades for his deeds. I daresay keeping Phèdre in one piece had kept him too busy; and then later, protecting me, too.

Maslin was quiet and withdrawn around him at first; around all of them. As he'd said, he wasn't a complete fool. For most of our acquaintance, he'd behaved very badly toward me, and having half of Montrève's household present reminded him of it. For a time, I wasn't sure if the tentative friendship we'd forged would endure, or vanish as Maslin sank back into envy and bitterness. But I hadn't reckoned on Phèdre, who had noticed the change between us and Maslin's withdrawal alike.

"You look so much like your father," she said to him one evening, when we were lodged in a small, smoky inn in a town whose name I can't recall. "I remember the first time I saw him.”

"Oh?" It was all Maslin said, but there was hunger in it.

"It was at the Longest Night fête at Cereus House," she said. "I was shy of my tenth birthday, but the Dowayne permitted me to attend, as I'd be a part of my lord Delaunay's household the following year and no longer eligible.”

That was the infamous fête at which Baudoin de Trevalion appeared as the Sun Prince, already plotting treason; and yet Phèdre managed to tell the story without a hint of censure, painting a vivid portrait of the affair—the madcap prince and his glittering entourage, Maslin's father Isidore d'Aiglemort foremost among them. She told other tales, too, and although all of us knew the shadow that would fall over d'Aiglemort's story in the end, somehow, she made it bearable and brought to life a time when Maslin's father was young and vibrant, the heroic leader of the Allies of Camlach and a darling of Terre d'Ange. If Maslin could have eaten her words with a spoon, I daresay he would have.

No one said aught to gainsay it. There was that which came after, yes. But in the end, Isidore d'Aiglemort gave his life to save his people.

I watched Maslin become easier in our presence that night. It was a kindness she was offering him, and he'd grown enough to accept it with grace and be grateful for it. I was glad for him.

It was another cold, bright day when we reached Vralgrad. The city threw open its gates to welcome its returning hero. Micah ben Ximon's bannermen carried their staves high. Yeshua's cross fluttered brilliantly under the hard blue sky, scarlet on white. In Terre d'Ange, Queen Ysandre would have been there herself to receive her royal commander, but there was only a company of royal guardsmen in their white and red brocade coats. Grand Prince Tadeuz Vral was in the temple, giving thanks to God and Yeshua ben Yosef for his victory. The streets were thronged with ordinary citizens clad in heavy winter attire, their breath rising in frosty gusts as they cheered and shouted.

They cheered us, too. After all, we were there with him.

It all felt very odd. I'd sooner have entered quietly with our small D'Angeline company. For good or ill, great events were stirring in Vralia, and they'd naught to do with us. I didn't even know what I thought about it. I'd liked Tadeuz Vral, which I hadn't expected. But then, I'd come to be fond of Kebek the Tatar, too. It didn't seem unreasonable to me that whoever ruled Vralia might come to some accommodation with the Tatars that didn't involve conquering them or forcing them to accept the Yeshuite faith. I might have liked Fedor Vral if I'd met him, too, but I hadn't. Vralia was a nation in the throes of transformation, and all it had been to me was the backdrop against which my own personal quest had played out.

And yet if Joscelin hadn't taught a young Yeshuite living in La Serenissima and forbidden to bear a sword how to fight in the Cassiline style, mayhap none of this would have come to pass.

Truly, the ways of the gods were mysterious and unknowable.

I was grateful when Micah ben Ximon headed for the great temple and dispatched us to the palace with a pair of royal guardsmen and a promise of hospitality. Grateful for the hospitality, grateful for the relative quietude. And most grateful of all to see Urist.

Tadeuz Vral had been generous. I daresay it was a lucky thing that the rumors from Tarkov had never reached his ears, or he might have rescinded his generosity. But they hadn't, and he hadn't. Urist was still esconced at the palace. He retained the same chamber that had been given us when we first arrived, although I found out later that he spent most of his time among the palace guards, dicing and following news of the war, picking up bits and pieces of Rus and teaching them to curse in Cruithne.

It must have worked well enough, for someone sent word to him. We had only just arrived in the great entry hall with its inlaid tile floor when he came limping out from a corridor, leaning on a walking-stick, a vast grin splitting his tattooed face. I was so glad to see him, gladder than I'd reckoned. When all was said and done, he was the only one who had been there at Clunderry when it happened. It made a difference, sharing the memory.

For a moment, we just stood there. I was carrying the battered leather bag with Berlik's skull, not daring trust it to any of the palace servants. Urist's dark eyes gleamed. "You did it.”

"I did," I said.

He gave a nod. "Thought you would." He clapped me on the shoulder with gruff affection. "On to Clunderry, eh?”

"My lord Urist—" Phèdre began in protest.

He cut her off. "Let him be a man, my lady, and do a man's duty.”

"Clunderry," I murmured. For the first time in a while, I thought about Dorelei lying slain. Her sightless eyes, her savaged belly covered with a blood-soaked cloak. I glanced at Phèdre's troubled face. "Urist is right. I need to see it through. Let's just hope Tadeuz Vral is inclined to let me go.”

"He'd best be," Joscelin said grimly.

Whatever else might have been true, the Grand Prince of Vralia wasn't inclined to grant us an audience that day; nor the following day, either. We were in the same state of limbo I'd felt in Tarkov; neither guests nor prisoners. We were given lodging and hospitality, but we were attended by guards at all times. When we were within our chambers, they waited outside the door. When we ventured out, they accompanied us.

On the fourth day, there was a buzz of excitement in the palace. I asked one of our guards what it was about and learned that the famous Rebbe Avraham ben David had arrived from Miroslas to serve as the High Counselor to the Grand Prince. There was a train of refugees making its way from Petrovik on foot, a thousand strong. They had pledged to vow themselves to the Yeshuite faith, and the Rebbe's first act would be to preside over the ceremony.

On the fifth day, Micah ben Ximon came for us.

"He will see you," he said briefly. "All of you. I would counsel you not to lie. I have not spoken of what happened at the border, as you were not involved. Otherwise, I have told him the entire truth insofar as I know it.”

"Are you in disfavor?" I asked.

His face was hard and set. "Not in any way his lordship can afford to show after the victory I won for him. But he is not pleased.”

Unlike our previous encounter, this was a formal audience. It took place in the throne room, a vast, vaulted space with checkered marble floors that gleamed in the wintry light pouring through the narrow windows. Tadeuz Vral was seated in his throne, and beside him stood Rebbe Avraham. The Rebbe looked grave and thoughtful. The Grand Prince looked grim. He was clad in heavy brocade robes trimmed with ermine, and atop his head he wore a conical gold crown studded with gems, also trimmed with fur. His expression didn't change much as we approached, except that his eyes widened at the sight of Phèdre.

"So," he said to me. "You are back.”

"Yes, my lord," I said. "To plead clemency.”

Tadeuz Vral gave a sharp bark of laughter. "You accepted my friendship and my coin, and lied to my face! 'Behold,'" he quoted. " 'He travaileth with iniquity, and hath conceived mischief, and brought forth falsehood. His mischief shall return upon his own head, and his violent dealing shall come down upon his own pate.' Is it not so written?" he demanded, turning to the Rebbe.

"It is," Rebbe Avraham said quietly.

"You see?" Prince Tadeuz said to me. "'God judgeth the righteous, and God is angry with the wicked every day' You have slain three men under the mantle of my rulership. Why should I grant you clemency?”

I glanced at the others with me; at Urist, who had gauged my merits and found me worthy of loyalty, who had come to love Dorelei as a daughter, though he'd never said so in as many words. At Maslin, who had come in anger and envy, only to begin learning how to love. At Ti-Philippe and Hugues, stalwart, insistent, and loyal to the marrow. At Joscelin and Phèdre, the bedrock on which my existence rested. There were faint worry-lines etched between Phèdre's brows, but she held her tongue, trusting me to answer for myself. My heart ached with fondness.

"As this is your kingdom, I must answer to you, my lord," I said to Tadeuz Vral. "But I am Elua's child. I will not answer to your God.”

His face flushed. "Well, it is against my law to slay a pilgrim!”

"Nor was he," I said steadily. "Not at the end.”

"And yet you hunted him believing it to be so," Tadeuz Vral said. "Would it have mattered if it were true?”

There were a great many things I might have said.

In the end, I spoke only the truth. "I don't know.”

"An honest answer." The Grand Prince seemed somewhat mollified. He propped his chin on one hand and contemplated us. "You are a small problem, but a vexing one. Micah tells me that the truth is more dangerous than the lie; that you are persons of some import, and perhaps I would be better served by discretion than righteousness." He paused. "I find it hard to believe that persons of true significance and power would travel in such a manner, but Micah has lived beyond Vralia's borders, while I know nothing else. And I do not wish to make an enemy of Terre d'Ange and Alba.”

"Nor do we wish it," I said.

"What is your counsel?" he asked Rebbe Avraham.

"It is as I told you. I have spoken with the young man," the Rebbe said. "He did but defend himself against the Tarkovans and I have absolved him of that crime. As for Berlik, I believe he speaks the truth. No one could have found that man in the wilderness if he did not wish to be found. He found the death he desired.”

Tadeuz Vral frowned. "That is a sin.”

"Not yours nor mine, my lord." Rebbe Avraham was speaking to Vral, but out of the corner of his eye he was watching Phèdre. He'd been doing so for a while. "Did you have aught to say, my lady?" he asked, switching to Habiru.

"Not yet." Phèdre answered in Rus, slow and careful. After all, she'd had a good ten days since Tarkov to improve her skills. "I listen." She tilted her head. A shaft of wintry sunlight fell across her face. The scarlet mote in her left eye floated, bright and vivid. She was Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, and she held the Name of God in her thoughts. Beside her, Joscelin shifted, fighting the urge to cross his arms and rest his hands on his dagger-hilts. Phèdre gave the Rebbe a disarming smile. "If there is need to speak of…" She switched to Habiru, her vocabulary failing her. "…to speak of ransom, I will negotiate on Queen Ysandre's behalf, of course. Imriel is her kinsman and my foster-son.”

"Rebbe Avraham!" Tadeuz Vral said irritably. "Rus, if you please.”

"Indeed." The Rebbe inclined his head to Phèdre, then faced his lord. "If you would have my counsel, it is this. Berlik of Alba came to Vralia bearing his sin. Let them depart and take it with them.”

"That's all?" Vral sounded disappointed.

Rebbe Avraham shrugged. "It is what is best for Vralia.”

"You know, I wanted to like you," Tadeuz Vral said to me. "I wish you hadn't proved to be false." I felt an unexpected pang of guilt. He took off his crown and rubbed his brow. "So be it. Outside this room, we will not speak of what transpired here. You will remain as our guests. You will bear witness to the oath-taking of a thousand new Yeshuites. When the ice breaks, you will go." His voice turned fierce. "And you will tell your people, your Queen and your Cruarch, that Yeshua's kingdom reigns in the north!”

I bowed; everyone else followed suit. "As my lord wills.”