I hated travelling by carriage. It was fine for short excursions within the City, especially in winter, but in the warm spring weather, it was hot and stifling. D'Angeline roads are well laid, but no road is perfectly smooth, and I found myself jouncing on the carriage's stiff seats. At the end of the day, I was sore and aching.
I tried riding astride, but even when the Bastard behaved himself and paced sedately, I could feel the swaying motion of sitting upright in the saddle tugging at my healing wounds. One never thinks, until one is badly injured, about the myriad intricate ways in which the parts of one's body are connected.
It was frustrating, how slowly I healed. Girard had provided a store of salve and clean bandages. I couldn't even tend myself, but had to be helped, like an infant. It was a piece of luck that one of Urist's men, Cailan, was a wise-woman's son. He was a quiet, shy fellow with a gentle touch, although the others assured me he was a demon in battle. Every night, he unwound my bandages to wash my wounds and apply salve.
The first time he saw them, he gave a low whistle. "You're lucky to be alive, my lord.”
"So I'm told," I said.
They were healing, if not fast enough to suit me. The redness was fading, and there was no more yellow matter, only thick scabs. But Berlik's claws had cut deep. It was infuriating, how weak it made me. A week into our journey, I began practicing the Cassiline forms, slowly and carefully. Tentative as I was, the first time I made it through telling all the hours, I was panting and my legs trembled with helpless exhaustion. Still, I kept trying.
Slowly, slowly, it grew easier.
We avoided cities and villages in favor of making camp in the open. Urist and his men preferred it, and it suited me fine. I still felt raw and exposed, my grief too intimate to share with anyone who didn't understand it. On the road, we got a lot of odd looks from fellow travellers wondering why a member of House Trevalion was travelling with an escort of Cruithne, but no one bothered us. At least that was one good thing about the carriage. I could remain anonymous.
None of us spoke much on the journey.
They were good men, the men Urist had recruited. Most were veterans who had fought alongside him in the battle of Bryn Gorrydum; it was the younger ones who had elected to stay with Kinadius and search for Berlik. These were taciturn fellows, filled with quiet purpose, and their presence was a comfort.
I thought a great deal, jouncing in my carriage, about the vision Morwen had showed me in the stone circle. I thought about my son, Dorelei's and my son, and wondered what had befallen him to turn him so thoroughly against Alba. Her death? My death? I'd left, and I'd never come back. Having come so close, so heartbreakingly close, to being a father, I couldn't imagine I would ever abandon a child of my own blood so thoroughly.
Mayhap I'd died.
Mayhap Barquiel L'Envers finally got his wish.
And yet, it was his D'Angeline heritage our son had embraced. I'd never reckoned on that. Somehow, I'd been so sure he would be Alban, through and through. But he'd left Alba, gone to Terre d'Ange for many years. Mayhap I'd sent for him before I died. I wondered what had happened. Had he fallen in love and been thwarted? Had some D'Angeline peer deemed Melisande Shahrizai's half-breed grandson an unfit match? Had politics intervened? Had he seen his return to Alba to serve as Talorcan's heir as exile? Had it made him twisted and bitter?
Mayhap that was why my father's spirit had looked so very, very sad when he appeared to me at the Feast of the Dead. He was a man who'd grown bitter in exile. Mayhap he'd seen that the same fate would befall my son.
In the end, I would never know.
My unborn son was dead.
Dorelei was dead.
As we travelled across Terre d'Ange, those dreadful truths settled slowly into my bones. Gone. They were simply …gone. And nothing in the world I could do would bring them back. All I could do was offer them the solace of vengeance.
Without becoming a monster myself.
It was important, that. I wondered if it was one of the reasons Dorelei had extracted Urist's promise. If she had seen the potential in me. She had known me well enough to know I would dedicate myself to vengeance if anything happened to her. I wondered if she had sensed, dimly, her own fate hanging over her, shrouded behind my bindings and her silent dreams.
Or if she'd simply loved me that much, and truly wanted me to be happy. Dorelei hadn't been perfect. She had been too quick to dismiss all of the claims of the Maghuin Dhonn out of hand, too quick to reject their blessing. She'd been cranky toward the end, carrying our child. But on the balance, she'd been awfully good.
Slowly, slowly, my thoughts turned to Sidonie.
It hurt; Elua, it hurt! Alone in my carriage, I stared at the gold knot on my finger and clenched my fist. It felt awful and horrible and disloyal, and…ah, Elua! It felt like life and hope, a bright, shining thread wrapped around my heart, as hard and tight as the knots I'd tied around her wrists on her birthday. I'd been sheltered from my love for her for so long, but the closer I got, the more intense the yearning grew.
I missed her.
I wanted her.
I didn't deserve her.
A year. I gazed out the carriage window as we passed burgeoning fields of sunflowers and lavender. Could it truly be only a year ago that Sidonie had turned seventeen? Elua, but that was young! Still, she never seemed as young as she was, even as a girl. And now, her natal day must have passed. I'd missed it. I daresay I'd missed my own. I'd lost track of days. Weeks. Somewhere, I thought, I must have turned twenty years of age. And Sidonie would have turned eighteen, gaining her majority.
I wondered if it would matter.
I couldn't think about it for long. It hurt too much.
I didn't realize how close we were when we made camp the last night, and it came almost as a surprise to see the white walls of the City of Elua shining before us in the early morning light. My last homecoming had been joyous. This one wouldn't be. Outside the gates, Urist called a halt, ranging alongside the carriage. He leaned down in the saddle, peering into the window.
"What will you, my lord?" he asked. "Shall I alert the Palace?”
"No," I said. "No, I'd rather enter quietly.”
There was no queue at the gate this time, no Tsingano lads idling, waiting for news. I watched Urist speak to a yawning guard, leaning on his spear. I watched the guard's eyes widen. He came over to the carriage window and bowed. "Forgive me, your highness. We didn't know when you were arriving. Shall I send word to her majesty?”
"Is my foster-mother in residence?" I asked. I knew there had been no word of their return by the time I left Alba, but I wasn't sure what had transpired while we were on the road.
He shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Lady Phèdre and Messire Verreuil are abroad.”
"No, don't bother, then. I'll go directly to the Palace.”
The guard nodded. "Very sorry for your loss, your highness.”
My throat tightened. "Thank you.”
I closed my eyes and leaned back against the cushions as we entered the City of Elua, listening to the sounds of the city waking. Domnach was driving the carriage, he had a light, steady hand on the reins, and our passage was smoother than usual on the well-tended streets. I felt strange and weightless, filled with emotions I couldn't begin to name. I listened to the calls of vendors as we passed the market, to the hoofbeats of my escort, to the murmur of Cruithne voices. A few people called out inquiries as we passed, wondering at the sight of the Bastard and his distinctive markings, following the carriage on a lead-line.
The ostler at the Palace knew him. "That's Prince Imriel's horse. His highness isn't…?”"Dead?" Urist asked bluntly. "No.”
Domnach leapt down from the driver's seat and opened the door for me. I got out slowly, dreading the sight of the pitying, wondering stares.
"Prince Imriel." The footman on duty had come into the courtyard. He greeted me with a bow. "Welcome home, your highness. I am sorry it is during a time of grief." Servants of the Palace are known for their composure and exquisite manners, but his brows rose a little at the sight of me, clad in loose-fitting Alban garb, a gold torc around my throat. "How may I serve you, your highness? Are you …well?”
"I'm fine," I said wearily.
"For a man torn apart by a bear," Urist added.
The footman's brows twitched. "Yes…I, um. Yes. We heard. I'll send for the Queen's chirurgeon.”
"Later," I said.
"Very good." He inclined his head. "I'll alert her majesty. Shall I tell her you're in your quarters?”
I stared at the open door of the Palace behind him, at the two Palace Guardsmen flanking it, upright and splendid in their Courcel blue livery, at the gleaming marble beyond. I hadn't been sure what I'd do when I arrived until this very moment. "If you like.”
He blinked at me, uncomprehending. I walked past him, walked into the Palace. Urist and his men fell in behind me.
It was still quiet this early. We'd risen before the dawn; Urist liked to travel light and swift. There were servants moving efficiently from the kitchens to various quarters, carrying covered trays from beneath which the aroma of food seeped. They shot startled glances in our direction. There were a few very late, very drunk revelers in the Hall of Games who didn't notice our passage. Most of the salons were empty. Our footsteps echoed in the marble halls.
At the foot of the sweeping staircase that led to the royal quarters, I put my hand on the polished mahogany railing and paused, gazing upward at the gilded fretting on the balcony above. She was up there.
Urist stood at my shoulder. "Not going to your own room, are you?”
"No." I turned to face him squarely "Our paths part here for a day or so. The Master of Chambers should be about shortly to see you're given proper lodging, I'm sure the footman will have summoned him." I extended my hand. "I'll send word in short order regarding our return to Azzalle. Urist, I cannot thank you enough for your service.”
He folded his arms, ignoring my hand. "Like to be trouble, is there?”
"I've no idea," I said honestly.
He shrugged. "Then we'll guard your back until you do.”
I gazed at him. I could see the fault-line; the old, old guilt over his brother's death. I could see loyalty, pride, and stubbornness. Urist bore my scrutiny unflinching, and every man of Clunderry's garrison present stood behind him, silent and unmoving.
"All right." My eyes stung. "Thank you.”
It seemed to take a long time to climb the wide marble staircase. I could feel the exertion straining my wounds; or mayhap it was my heart pounding in my breast as though to burst free of my ribcage. My chest ached. All the weight of the world it seemed I'd set down when my bindings were cut had returned, trebled.
Grief. Guilt. Longing.
There was a maidservant slipping through the door to Sidonie's chambers, carrying an empty tray. She paused to flirt with the guard on duty. I saw the guard's face change as he saw us approach, my Cruithne and I. He looked dumbstruck. He looked even more dumbstruck when I walked past him and knocked on the door.
"Prince …Prince Imriel?" he stammered. "You can't…her highness…”
Urist interposed himself between us.
I opened the door to Sidonie's chambers.
It struck me hard. Amarante was there in the salon, coming to answer my knock. The blood drained from her face. She took a sharp breath, shook her head, and pointed wordlessly.
I walked through the salon.
Sidonie was standing in her sunlit dressing chamber. Her honey-gold hair was coiled in a coronet, a few locks loose on her shoulders. Her gown was a pale gold satin brocade. The stays hadn't been laced yet, trailing down her back.
Our eyes met.
Hers filled with tears, black and shining.
Ah, Elua.
I walked to her in a daze. My legs gave way beneath me. I sank to my knees, pressing my face against her, wrapping my arms around her waist. Her arms enfolded me, holding me tight and hard, hands clasping my head. We stayed that way for a long, long time. There was noise in the hallway, voices. Cruithne and D'Angeline. I didn't care. Nothing else mattered.
"Oh, Imriel!" Sidonie's voice, breaking. "I am so, so sorry.”
I lifted my face to gaze at her. "I know.”
Tears, streaming down her cheeks. "I keep thinking …if we had been honest, if I'd been braver…It wouldn't have happened.”
"I know," I whispered. "I do, too. But it's not your fault. You couldn't have known, no one could. We were trying to do the right thing, the sensible thing.”
She touched my tear-damp face. "I wish we hadn't.”
My heart swelled and ached all at once. This was love, in all its fierce, awful glory, tinged forever with sorrow and regret. "So do I. Oh gods, Sidonie! So do I.”
The voices in the hallway hadn't gone away; they'd grown closer, or at least two of them had. One was Amarante's, sounding uncommonly harried. I knew the other one, too. A cool voice rising to a sharp, irritated note, unaccustomed to being thwarted.
Sidonie raised her head and breathed a single word. "Mother.”
"Name of Elua! One would think—" Ysandre de la Courcel halted in the doorway and beheld the scene confronting her. For a moment, her face was utterly blank with shock. "No. This is unacceptable.”
Behind her, Amarante shook her head in a helpless gesture. I let my arms fall from Sidonie's waist. Sidonie released me slowly. I sank down to sit on my heels.