I watched her pace the length of her private receiving-chamber, a scarlet flush on the lines of her cheekbones. Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d'Ange, did not like being thwarted in her plans.
She fetched up before me. "Why, Imriel?" she asked, frustrated.
"Why?"
"Because," I said softly. "Dorelei mab Breidaia seems like a nice girl, your majesty; sweet and kind. And I'm not nice." I shook my head, weightless and shorn. "I'm not nice at all. She deserves better."
"Imriel." The Queen drew herself up. "A kingdom rides on this."
"What is a kingdom?" I asked philosophically. "Blessed Elua himself cared naught for thrones or the concerns of mortal politics." Beholding her expression, I laughed. "Have you heard those words before? Yes, your majesty. It seems, in the end, I am my mother's son after all. Will you not bid me good riddance?"
"No." Ysandre paused. Something surfaced in her gaze, courageous and indomitable. "No," she repeated. "That I will not do. Whatever your choices, you are a member of House Courcel, now and always."
I bowed to her. "Nonetheless, I am going."
I said my farewells to those who mattered. Foremost among them was Alais. She tried very hard to ignore me, kneeling on the marble floors of her chambers and hugging Celeste, who bore it with worried patience.
"Don't go," she pleaded. "Don't leave me, please!"
"I'm sorry, villain." I crouched before her, trying to get her to look at me. "I have to."
She averted her head stubbornly. "You were supposed to be my brother!"
"And so I am, in my heart." I touched her hot tearstained cheek. "Have you decided to consent to the betrothal?"
Alais nodded. "I couldn't think of a reason not to," she said in a small voice. "But I thought you'd be coming too, Imri."
"Oh, Alais! I am sorry." Shifting to my knees, I gathered her in my arms. She relented and flung herself against me, dampening my neck with tears, her narrow shoulders shaking. I held her, swallowing against the lump in my throat. With Alais, I was my better self; my best self. I would miss her. "I'll come back," I whispered into her tangled hair. "I promise I will."
She drew away, sniffling. "Swear it!"
I raised my hand. "In Blessed Elua's name, I swear it."
Although I did not bother to speak with any of my former friends from among the young courtiers, I did pay a visit to Mavros, calling upon him at his father's domicile. Mavros merely nodded when I told him, calm and unsurprised. After the scene with Alais, I was grateful for it.
"When will you leave?" he asked.
"In three days' time," I said. "There's a merchant ship sailing out of Marsilikos. I mean to book passage."
"Alone?" he asked.
"I'd like to." I smiled crookedly, trying not to tear my healing mouth. "And I'd be within my rights, too. There's naught anyone could do about it since I've gained my majority. But no. Gilot is coming to Tiberium with me. He's not been good for aught else since he got his heart broken, so he reckoned he might as well. And I didn't have the heart to argue."
"Good." Mavros raised his brows at me. "Like it or no, you do have enemies, Imriel. An entourage would be better, but at least two are stronger than one." He paused. "Will you see Sidonie before you leave?"
I shrugged. "Why? There's no merit in it."
He merely regarded me.
"All right!" I scowled at him. "No. I couldn't think of a way. A discreet way."
Mavros chuckled, beckoning to a servant. "Paper and pen," he said, and then to me, "You're not very good at this, are you? We'll send a note to her attendant. Naamah's folk live for this sort of thing. You know the one. What's her name? The priestess' daughter, the one with the luscious lips that make you think about how they'd look wrapped around your shaft."
I flushed. "Amarante of Namarre."
He snapped his fingers. "Amarante! That's the one."
I argued; he coaxed. In the end, I conceded. Whatever else one might say of the Shahrizai, they are persuasive. We drafted a note to be sent under his aegis to Amarante for Sidonie, inviting her to a private meeting on the afternoon before my departure.
"So, we have the when," Mavros said, his pen poised. "Where?"
I thought about it. "The place where I first smiled at her."
He looked skeptical. "It's a bit vague. You think she'll remember?"
I shrugged again. "If she doesn't, then I'm right, aren't I? There's no merit in it."
Mavros shook his head, dipping his pen in the inkwell. "As you will," he said, finishing the letter and signing it with a flourish. "You don't make it easy for people to care for you, cousin."
"No," I said. "I suppose not."
We said our farewells, and he embraced me for the first time, hard and firm. I was glad, I realized, to call him kin.
"Thank you," I said. "For everything. For this"—I gestured at the sealed letter—"for everything you've tried to do. I appreciate it, truly. And tell… tell Roshana good-bye for me."
"You're family," Mavros said simply. He ruffled my short-cropped hair and grinned. "No matter what you look like."
So it was done, and the worst of it over; save for the last. It would not be so hard, I thought, to bid farewell to Sidonie as it had been to Alais, whom I loved dearly, without complication or reservation. No harder, perhaps, than confronting the Queen. Of a surety, it would not be as hard as it would be to leave Phèdre and Joscelin, who were the stars by which I set the compass of my soul, uneasy though it was.
That part was true.
Still, it was hard; harder than I anticipated, and for reasons I hadn't.
I spent the day prior to our meeting immersed in the final arrangements. There was so much to be done! Ti-Philippe had taken the travel arrangments in hand, having long experience with such matters, and I was glad for it. I pored over letters Eamonn had sent me, written in his painstaking scrawl. The earlier missives were filled with complaints about the tedium of mastering the Caerdicci tongue; the latest held a glowing account of being accepted to study with a philosopher he admired. I filed away letters of reference Phèdre had given me, written by her and by other tutors with whom I had studied. I wrote letters to the seneschals of my estates, instructing them to heed Phèdre's authority in my absence should need arise. I packed and unpacked my things half a dozen times. We would be travelling light, Gilot and I, with only whatever a pair of pack-horses could carry and no attendants.
It had sparked considerable dissent.
Mavros was right; it was dangerous. Joscelin had argued against it at considerable length, reckoning he had a better chance of convincing me. I refused, putting my foot down for the first time since I had gained my majority.
"How many times did you and Phèdre make such journeys alone?" I asked him.
"That was different!" he said, frustrated.
"Why?" I asked. "Because you were there?"
"You're a Prince of the Blood," he reminded me. "You have enemies and a responsibility to the Crown."
"I know," I said. "That's part of what I'm trying to escape."
In the end, seeing I wouldn't be swayed, he capitulated. We went to the armorers' district together, yet another final chore to be done. With Joscelin's counsel, I had commissioned a sword upon turning eighteen, and I was anxious that it be finished. I had spoken to the master smith two days prior, and he had assured me it would be ready.
It was a handsome blade. After much debate, I had opted for a nobleman's sword such as any member of the gentry might carry. It was shorter and slimmer than the warrior's longsword Joscelin wore, designed to be worn on the belt and not slung over the shoulder in a baldric. When all was said and done, I was not a Cassiline Brother or the Queen's Champion, and to outfit myself as such would only invite ridicule or outright challenge.
A nobleman's sword was another matter.
Joscelin examined it, drawing it in one fluid motion. It chimed faintly as it cleared the scabbard. The workmanship was plain, the hilt wrapped in leather, the pommel unadorned. The edges were honed to a blue glint. He studied the glimmering patterns in the blade, indicated the metal had been folded many times.
"Well crafted," he said.
The master smith was a laconic Camaeline with dense black eyebrows, and he knew an expert when he heard one. He nodded at a thick post, sturdy and notched. "Try it."
Joscelin handed me the sword. The hilt was longer than the average nobleman's blade, the tang wider and heavier. It could be wielded with a one- or a two-handed grip. Facing the post, I gripped the hilt in both hands and moved through the first of the Cassiline forms, telling the hours, getting a feel for the blade's balance. I told the hour of noon, shifting to attack and defend each of the sphere's four quadrants. The blade cut cleanly through the air.
It felt good.
I saw Joscelin's lips curve. The master smith's brows twitched.
Stepping forward, I finished with an attack on the midpoint, sweeping the blade in a high, arching parry to my right and swinging it in a level blow, hard and straight. It bit deep into the heavy wood. I felt the shock of it clean up both arms to my shoulders. The blade belled, clear and true.
In the depths of the smithy, an apprentice let out a whistle.
"Nicely done," said the smith.
"My thanks," I grunted, struggling to wrench the blade out of the post.
The scabbard fit nicely on my rhinoceros-hide belt, which was shiny with wear, but still as sturdy as the day Ras Lijasu gave it to me. It was on its last notch, but it fit. The Ras had been right, there was room to grow in it. Joscelin eyed it as we left the armorers' district. "We can get you a new belt."
I shook my head. "I don't want a new one."
We purchased one item in the leather district, though; a leg sheath to hold a second dagger, for with the addition of a sword, only the right-hand dagger fit on the belt. Joscelin knelt in the marketplace, strapping it to my left calf. When he was done, between the scabbard at my side and the dagger alongside my leg, I felt strange and a little stiff.
"It's an awkward draw," Joscelin commented.
I tried it. The first time, the pommel of my new sword drove into my ribs. The second time, I adjusted, coming out of a quick crouch with both daggers in my hands. Out of habit, I tossed my head, forgetting my hair was too short to obscure my vision. "Smooth enough, with practice."
Joscelin sighed. "Speed's not everything."
"No," I said. "But be honest, Joscelin. I'm better with the sword than the daggers, I always have been. If I need to go for them, I'm already in trouble. Besides," I added, "I haven't sworn an oath to draw my sword only to kill."
"Good," he said grimly. "Because I want you to draw it at need."
"I will," I promised.
"Better yet," he said, "stay out of trouble."
I grinned at him. "I'll try."
Under other circumstances, I daresay I would have swaggered a bit. Most young men do, upon getting their first sword. But I didn't have the heart for it. This was no courtly accessory; it was a weapon. And Tiberium was an eminently civilized city, but there was a long journey before I reached it.
And one farewell to make before the last one.
I rode out the following day to keep my appointment with Sidonie, unsure whether or not she would show. It was the second time I exercised my independence, for I went alone. No one knew but Mavros and Amarante, and I trusted him to keep my secrets. I trusted her, too. Priestesses' daughters have closed mouths. I knew, having grown up in a sanctuary.
The Queen's Guard admitted me onto the Palace grounds without a fuss, and I made for the royal apple orchard. The Bastard was in fine fettle, arching his speckled neck and snorting, picking up his forelegs in his odd, prancing gait.
I wondered if he sensed the journey to come.
We entered an aisle of trees, their gnarled limbs dense and leafy, bearing a myriad of tiny green apples. I glanced around as I rode, spotting Amarante at the end of another aisle. She stood, her hands folded, sunlight gleaming on her apricot-colored hair. As I rode closer, I could see her smiling. Her eyes were the color of green apples.
"Prince Imriel," she said. "You look quite the hero."
I laid one hand on the hilt of my new sword. "Defender against deer, savior of dogs." Amarante laughed.
"So Sidonie knew the place," I said softly. "Did she come?"
"I came." She stepped out from behind a tree. Her sun-dappled face was somber and unreadable. "I don't have long. I told my guardsmen we wanted a private stroll. They'll come looking for us if we don't return soon."
I dismounted and looped the Bastard's reins over a tree branch. "Thank you."
She smiled ruefully. "I thought I owed you as much. Although you've well-nigh broken Alais' heart, and Mother's not pleased." Sidonie turned to Amarante, touching her sleeve. "Will you give us a moment?"
"Of course." The priestess' daughter inclined her head.
We both watched her withdraw, then Sidonie sighed. "Why?" she asked me.
"Many reasons," I said. "The foremost of which is me."
She looked at me sidelong. "Yes, I heard. You told Mother you weren't nice."