Kushiel 03 - [Moirin 01] - Naamah's Kiss Page 12

  “Dressing me?” I echoed.

  “Child…” Caroline sighed. “Yes, dressing you. Oh, Blessed Elua have mercy, you’ll present them with a rare challenge, you will.” She steepled her fingers. “May I ask why you’re bound for the City of Elua? Have you kin there?”

  I shifted in my chair. “My father, mayhap. It seems he was a Priest of Naamah.”

  “How in the world—” She caught herself. “No mind. By the look of you, I believe it. Do you know where to find him?”

  I shook my head. “Not exactly. He told my mother that there is a temple in the City dedicated to star-crossed lovers. That they will know where to find him. Do you know it?”

  “As it happens, I do.” Caroline fetched a fresh sheet of paper and wrote in a steady hand, her head bowed. Light from the ornate lamp overhead made her coiled hair shine and picked out a marking I’d not noticed the other day, a cluster of yellow and green bryony indelibly inked on the nape of her neck, curling tendrils disappearing beneath the collar of her gown.

  “Are these warrior’s markings?” It seemed unlikely, but I couldn’t think what else they might be. Curious, I reached out and stroked her tattooed skin with my fingertips, letting them linger. Her skin was very soft and warm.

  Her head jerked up in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Warrior’s markings,” I repeated. “Like the Cullach Gorrym wear.”

  “Name of Elua, no.” Caroline stared at me, mildly disconcerted. Although I had withdrawn my hand, I could feel the bright lady’s gift stirring. “It’s Bryony House’s marque.”

  “Ah. Like on the doorway.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Bryony Associates is owned by Bryony House and guaranteed by the Dowayne’s treasury, but I assure you, it’s altogether different.”

  “Oh?” I said in an encouraging tone.

  “It’s a pleasure-house in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers. I was sworn to Naamah’s Service for seven years there.”

  “You were a priestess?” I asked.

  “An adept.” Caroline studied me. “Do you know what that means, Moirin?”

  “I know Naamah lay down with strangers for coin,” I said helpfully. “Is it something to do with that?”

  “It is.”

  “Well, then.”

  Caroline nó Bryony sighed and put her face in her hands and muttered something in unintelligible D’Angeline. I wanted to touch her skin again, and the fine tendrils of hair loose on the nape of her neck. But it made me think of Cillian telling me that it wasn’t appropriate to look at people’s sisters as though I wondered if they might taste good, and the sorrow thinking of him evoked made the urge go away, leaving only sadness behind. So I waited quietly until she lifted her head.

  “Do you even speak a word of D’Angeline?” she asked me.

  I nodded. “Un peu, oui. I’m not entirely ignorant, my lady.” I smiled sadly. “The Lord of the Dalriada’s son taught me.”

  “The Lord—” Her lips moved soundlessly. “Cillian mac Tiernan. That was you.”

  It made me uncomfortable to think about such a private grief being a topic of discussion. “What do they say of me?” I asked her.

  To her credit, Caroline held my gaze. “That Lord Tiernan’s son died ensorceled by a bear-witch’s daughter.”

  “Lord Tiernan’s son died on a cattle-raid,” I murmured. “To my great and everlasting sorrow. And I am guilty only of not loving him as much as he loved me.”

  “Is that why you seek to leave?” she asked gently.

  “It’s one reason I cannot stay.” I thought wistfully of the bright-and-dark glade and the compassion and regret in the Maghuin Dhonn’s wise, ageless eyes. “But no, my lady. I have passed through the stone doorway and met the Maghuin Dhonn Herself. It seems I have a destiny and I must cross the sea to find it.”

  Caroline nó Bryony gazed at me with parted lips, then gave herself a shake. “I nearly find myself believing it,” she said in a wondering tone. “And not nearly so convinced that the City of Elua will eat you alive.” She slid the paper with the address of the temple across her desk. “You’ll find the temple in the Tsingani quarter. And do heed my advice and seek out Benoit at the Atelier Favrielle. The D’Angeline peerage may be contemptuous of anyone they think rustic or provincial, but they’re mad for novelty. The right attire can mean the difference between the two.”

  “They sound a shallow folk,” I observed.

  She began to protest, then smiled with self-deprecating charm. “We can be, yes. Shallow and vain and insular. Also, proud, valorous, and great-hearted. I hope you will find somewhat to love in us.”

  “I already have,” I assured her.

  She laughed. “Elua have mercy on the City, Moirin of the Maghuin Dhonn.”

  Two days later, I set sail for Terre d’Ange.

  It was the single most terrifying thing I’d ever done in my young life. Up until the moment came, I hadn’t truly contemplated the enormity of what I was doing. There was a part of me still numb from Cillian’s death, and another part lulled and reassured by the assistance of Caroline nó Bryony and her confidence in me. But when I saw the Heart of Gold bobbing at anchor in the harbor and the wide sea stretching beyond it, it struck me with a vengeance.

  Alba was my home. I was born and bred here. All that I knew and loved was here, all that was dear and familiar. And I was about to leave it. My mouth went dry, my limbs went cold and tingling, and I found it hard to breathe.

  “Moirin?” My mother searched my face. “You’re white as a ghost.”

  My mother. Stone and sea, how could I leave my mother?

  I opened my mouth, but no words came.

  “You don’t have to do this,” my mother said fiercely. She turned to Oengus. “She doesn’t, does she?”

  He bowed his head. “I cannot say.”

  I thought about staying, leaving this city of stone and its bustling harbor, fleeing to the comfort and solitude of the forest. My heart leapt at the thought; but deep inside me, the spark of my diadh-anam guttered. I saw once more the Maghuin Dhonn turn from me with sorrow and regret, the slow, rolling surge of Her gait and the earth trembling beneath Her mighty paws as She walked away, this time forever.

  And that loss ached even more than the one I faced.

  “I have to go.” I forced the words out. “I wish I didn’t, but I do. I’m sorry. Please, if you love me, don’t speak against this.”

  “I’ll fetch the captain, shall I?” Mabon murmured. I was so grateful to him for understanding, all I could do was nod.

  Captain Josephe Renniel was a tall, lean man with pale red-gold hair tied in a braid and wrinkles fanning from the corners of his blue-grey eyes. He managed to survey the four of us with considerable equanimity.

  “Lady Moirin, I take it?” He spoke in slow, deliberate D’Angeline and bowed, then offered me his arm. “Will you come aboard?”

  I took a deep breath, willing my racing heart to slow. “May I say good-bye to them?”

  He nodded gravely. “Of course, my lady.”

  I hugged Oengus and Mabon. For as little as I’d seen of them throughout my life, it didn’t matter. They were my folk, they were kin.

  My mother.

  Her tears were damp on my skin where her cheek pressed hard against mine. I closed my eyes for a long time. When I opened them and gazed over her shoulder, I saw sympathy in the captain’s gaze. My mother squeezed my arms.

  “Tell that man that if harm comes to you in his care, I will call down the curse of stone and sea and sky upon him,” she said in a low, savage voice. “Until the very earth disdains his touch and every man’s hand is against him!”

  “Fainche,” Oengus murmured.

  She gave me a shake, eyes glittering. “Tell him!”

  I turned to the captain and inclined my head. “My mother offers her prayers for a safe journey and smooth passage,” I said in faltering D’Angeline.

  Captain Renniel no longer looked sympathetic. He looked pale
. He had understood her tone, if not her words. “I am always grateful for a mother’s prayers.”

  “He promises I will be safe,” I said to my mother.

  Mollified, she wiped her eyes. “Only come home to me one day, will you, my heart?”

  “I will.” I paused. “Ah… where might that be?”

  It made her smile through her tears. “You know, I’m not sure myself. Our cave will be very empty without you. But wherever I’m bound, I’ll leave word at Clunderry. They’ve respect for their wild kin there.”

  “I’ll find you,” I promised.

  And then there was nothing more to be said. The eastern sky was pink and growing brighter. Captain Renniel offered to have my trunks brought aboard and looked askance at me when I told him I didn’t have any, only my bulging satchel and the bow and quiver over my shoulder. Still, he gave me his arm and escorted me up the ramp and onto the ship. D’Angeline sailors watched us with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. The wooden deck moved subtly beneath my feet.

  I was no longer on Alban soil.

  I swallowed against the surge of terror that thought instilled in me. The captain offered to show me to my berth, but I shook my head. I wanted to keep my mother in sight until the last possible moment. She and Oengus and Mabon looked so wild, lost, and out of place standing there on the quay.

  And so he showed me to a place in the rear of the ship where I might stand out of the way, then went about his business. Orders were given. A great rotating device was cranked, raising a mighty chain and a dripping anchor. Sailors scurried around, ignoring me for the moment. Sails were hoisted. The Heart of Gold turned its prow toward the open sea. The shore fell away behind us.

  My mother raised her hand in farewell.

  I raised mine.

  The sails filled and grew taut with snapping, rippling sounds. The ship picked up speed, the rolling motion of it growing more pronounced as we made for the open entrance to the harbor. The sun cleared the horizon, sparkling on the waves. Overhead, gulls wheeled with raucous cries. When I could no longer pick out my mother’s figure on the shore, I lowered my arm.

  I was off to seek my destiny.

  SIXTEEN

  The first night, I thought I might die of loneliness.

  Captain Renniel invited me to dine in his quarters, but I was too heart-sick and the constant motion of the waves made my stomach feel queasy. And too, it wasn’t his presence I yearned for.

  I wanted my mother.

  And somehow, I felt it would be worse and more lonely to be alone with a stranger than alone all by myself. So I turned down his invitation. I tried to make myself sleep in the narrow berth I’d been given, but it was impossible. Although the walls were wood and not stone, it was tiny and windowless and cramped, and I felt so stifled my skin crawled. For a mercy, the captain had heeded Caroline nó Bryony’s warning and told me where I could sleep on the deck if I wasn’t comfortable indoors.

  It was chilly at night on the open waters. I wrapped myself in my blanket and leaned against the wall of the forecastle, watching faint clouds scud across the stars. It wasn’t just my mother I missed. All my life, I’d been grounded by the earth and surrounded by wilderness. Even in Bryn Gorrydum there had been the park, left to grow untamed, a green presence murmuring on the edge of my awareness, filled with the quick, flickering spirits of the small creatures that dwelled there.

  Here there was nothing.

  It wasn’t true, I suppose. In the daytime there were birds and surely there were fish in the sea. But I couldn’t feel them the way I could sense trees and shrubs and flowers, squirrels and deer and foxes.

  I’d never felt more bereft and forlorn.

  It all seemed very unfair. I’d never asked for a destiny. I wasn’t some great magician from days of yore. I had only such modest gifts as were left to the Maghuin Dhonn, and a tiny ability to coax plants to grow.

  I couldn’t even take solace in bitterness and rail against my fate. Stone and sea, I wanted to! But every time my thoughts wandered in that direction, I remembered the vast sorrow in Her eyes and I knew, sure as the spark within me, that She would not have sent one of Her children across the sea unless it were truly needful.

  Why, I couldn’t imagine.

  So instead I took what meager comfort there was to be found in self-pity. Alone on the open sea on a ship full of strangers from a strange land, I wept myself quietly to sleep.

  I woke to early-morning sunlight and a knot of sailors watching me.

  They startled when I opened my eyes, jumping backward and whispering amongst themselves. If they hadn’t been staring at me, I would have called the twilight, but I was pinned by their gazes. I settled for giving them my mother’s best glare.

  They jumped back another step, pushing and shoving one another. All but one, a slight, golden-haired lad who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. He elbowed his way through the gaggle.

  “She’s just a girl!” he scoffed. “She won’t bite.” He squatted a few feet in front of me, his expression less certain than his words. “You won’t, will you? You’re not going to… change?”

  “What?” I wasn’t sure I understood him.

  “Change,” he said. “Into a bear.”

  “Oh.” I rubbed my eyes. “No. I think that would be a very foolish thing to do on a ship, don’t you?”

  He grinned. “Aye, indeed. It’s true, though, isn’t it? You’re a bear-witch?”

  “I’m of the folk of the Maghuin Dhonn,” I said.

  “I’m descended from the Chevalier Philippe Dumont,” he informed me with considerable self-importance, then looked disappointed when I pled ignorance. “Surely you must know of him! He was the last of Phèdre’s Boys. He went with her and Joscelin Verreuil into Vralia to fetch Prince Imriel and the bear-witch’s head.”

  “I know the story,” I said softly.

  “Damien!” Captain Renniel’s voice cracked. The lad leapt up and scurried away, and the rest of the sailors dispersed. “My apologies, my lady.” The captain offered a bow. “Pay the lad no heed. Every sailor born within a hundred leagues of Montrève claims descent from Philippe Dumont.”

  I shrugged off my blanket and stretched my stiff limbs. “Was he very famous?”

  “Among sailors, yes.” The captain eyed me. “Would you care to break your fast?”

  I assessed the state of my belly. It didn’t seem to be roiling with aught save hunger. I tried standing. The swaying motion of the ship was more tolerable today. Glancing around, I saw that Alba’s shoreline was clean out of sight. There was only the distant shore of Terre d’Ange on our left, looking rocky and inhospitable. My heart ached anew.

  Captain Renniel followed my gaze. “That’s Kusheth province,” he said. “You’ll find the landscape more friendly in Siovale province, where we’re bound.”

  “Siovale.” I remembered that each of Elua’s Companions had staked out a territory of their own, save one. “Shemhazai’s folk, aye?”

  “Quite right.” He nodded. “If you’d care to join me, I’d be happy to tell you aught you might wish to know about Terre d’Ange.”

  I didn’t want to. Trying to understand D’Angeline spoken by those to whom it was their native tongue made my head ache, and I’d sooner be left on my own with a bit of plain bread in a quiet patch of sunlight. But I had a bedamned destiny to find, and Old Nemed had said the seeking might be more important than the finding. Skulking around the ship and wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to help.

  So I made myself smile at Captain Renniel. “It would be my pleasure.”

  By the time we made port in Bourdes two days later, I’d learned a great deal more about the history and culture of Terre d’Ange and the worst of my loneliness had abated. I’d also learned a fair amount about the storied life of the Chevalier Philippe Dumont, courtesy of the boy Damien, who seemed most insistent that I appreciate his famous ancestor.

  To be honest, I didn’t mind, since he was one of the only sailors who didn’t eye m
e askance and mutter under his breath about bear-witches. Sailors, it seemed, were a superstitious lot. And as it happened, I wasn’t wholly unfamiliar with some of the tales he told; it was only that I knew them from the other side of history. Cillian had been particularly fond of the story about how the Dalriada had helped overthrow Maelcon the Usurper to restore Drustan mab Necthana to the Cruarch’s throne, then crossed the Straits to help drive an invading Skaldi army out of Terre d’Ange. And then there was a complicated tale of treachery and pirates, the tale of how the Master of the Straits was freed from a curse, and of course, the infamous tale of Berlik and Morwen of the Maghuin Dhonn.

  I wasn’t entirely clear on the role this Philippe had played, but it seemed he’d been there at nearly every turn, and that was enough for Damien.

  “All the good stories are old stories,” he said wistfully after finishing one. “Nothing exciting like that happens anymore.”

  “What about the new land discovered across the western sea?” I suggested. Cillian’s tales of cities in the jungle and folk dressed all in feathers and jade had certainly sounded exciting.

  Damien scowled. “Terra Nova? King Daniel’s content to let others explore it.”

  “Oh?”

  He lowered his voice. “They say there are fortunes to be made, too. But he’s not even sent a delegation. The Aragonians are setting up trade in the south, Vralians and Gotlanders and the like in the north. Even your Cruarch’s talking about the prospect of establishing permanent trade posts between the two. We’re doing naught but twiddle our thumbs.”

  The words boggled me. “Doing what?”

  He demonstrated. “It’s just an expression, my lady. It means we’re idle.”

  “Oh, aye.” I thought about it. “Terre d’Ange is a wealthy country in its own right, is it not? Mayhap there’s wisdom in being content with what one already has. Would that I’d appreciated it more ere I lost it.”

  That intrigued him. “What did you lose?”

  I gazed at the open sea behind us. “Everything.”

  “Why?”