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

by Jacqueline Carey

  I shrugged. “Because the Maghuin Dhonn Herself has chosen a destiny for me. What it is, I’ve not the slightest idea. Only that I’m meant to seek it.”

  The lad’s blue eyes glowed. “Take me with you!” he breathed. “Don’t you see? If the captain will release me, I could swear myself into your service like Philippe Dumont and Phèdre nó Delaunay!”

  It seemed unlikely, but I supposed there were worse things than a garrulous young companion if that was what fate willed for me. I consulted my diadh-anam and saw in memory the visage of Herself turning away in sorrow and regret. Whatever his ancestry, he was no more meant to accompany me than my mother had been.

  “No,” I said gently, touching his sun-gilded hair. “I don’t think so, Damien. I’m sorry.”

  He pulled away from me. “It’s not fair!”

  I watched his retreating back. “No, it’s not.”

  We made harbor at the port of Bourdes, navigating the estuary. A great statue of Shemhazai stood on the bank of the wide river-mouth gazing westward, an open book in one hand. I’m sure it was very fine and impressive, but it wasn’t what pleased me the most. I stood in the prow of the Heart of Gold and breathed in the scent of soil and green growing things.

  Vines.

  This was D’Angeline wine country, terraced and tamed. It was rich, though. I could taste the air on my tongue, taste the pride in the burgeoning grape-clusters, a faint silvery sheen on every fruit. I was sorry when we sailed past the outlying islands and the inland fields to put in at harbor and enter the city proper.

  Stone and sea, it was vast.

  Bigger than Bryn Gorrydum, bigger than anything I’d seen.

  I tried to find Damien to bid him farewell, but he’d made himself scarce. So instead I accepted Captain Renniel’s offer of assistance. He led me through the streets of Bourdes, carrying my satchel while I carried the new bow and quiver Mabon had made me over my shoulder. The streets were wider than in Alba and filled with the clatter of hooves. This, too, made my head ache.

  We found the stagecoach post.

  “City of Elua?” The man behind the counter glanced up, then gave me a startled second look. “Departs on the morrow, an hour past dawn. The fare’s five ducats or twenty silver centimes.”

  I counted out the money and he gave me a chit.

  Captain Renniel escorted me to the adjacent inn and negotiated for a night’s stay. After I’d paid in advance, I thanked him, wondering in secret if I might be able to steal out and pass the night in the stables. Appealing as the notion was, I supposed I needed to work harder at being at ease indoors.

  “Moirin.” He laid his hands on my shoulders. “Are you sure?”

  I wasn’t.

  “Aye,” I said steadily. “Very sure, my lord captain.”

  “Elua have mercy.” His tone was rueful. “The gods be with you, child—yours and ours. At least I may tell Caroline I’ve done all I might. She took an odd fancy to you.”

  “I liked her, too,” I said honestly. “Very much. And if you think on it, my lord, please tell Damien farewell for me. Whatever you might think of his tales, he didn’t shun me and he made the journey easier to bear.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  He went.

  I was alone again.

  SEVENTEEN

  On the morrow, I presented myself at the stagecoach post. An attendant took my chit and slung my bag into the coach, stowing it beneath the seat. The driver, a young man with black hair and darker eyes than I’d seen on any D’Angeline, gave me a courteous nod.

  “May I introduce myself to your horses?” I asked him. They were beautiful animals, four matching bays with glossy coats.

  The driver looked startled. “If you wish.”

  I approached the lead pair and blew softly in their nostrils. They lowered their noble heads and lipped at my hair. It tickled, making me laugh for the first time since I’d left home. Their warm presence was familiar and reassuring.

  “That’s a Tsingani trick. My grandfather taught it to me.” The driver squinted at me. “Have you Tsingani blood?”

  “No.” I stroked the nearest bay’s neck. “I know they like to get one’s scent, that’s all.”

  “So they do.” That was all he offered. We waited a few more minutes to see if any last passengers would arrive, but none did. I was ushered into the stagecoach and the attendant made a show of closing the heavy curtains. As soon as he turned his back, I opened them. The driver flicked his whip and we were off, jolting over the cobbled streets of Bourdes.

  Once we were clear of the city, it was better. The horses’ hooves didn’t make such a clatter without stone walls to bounce the sound back, and the motion of the coach wasn’t so different from the swaying of a ship. We travelled along a river at a good clip. I put my head out the window to feel the wind on my face and gazed at the surrounding countryside.

  The vineyards stretched forever in endless rows of green. Truly, Terre d’Ange was a rich country. I thought about the modest row of vines Lord Tiernan was cultivating and wondered if they’d bear a good harvest this year. They’d thrived since he’d had them moved as I’d told him to do.

  I missed Cillian.

  I wondered what he’d have made of this business of a destiny. He’d loved tales of magic and adventure as much as the boy Damien had. I wondered if Cillian would have offered to defy his father and come with me. I wondered if the Maghuin Dhonn Herself would have permitted it.

  And in a guilty corner of my heart, I wondered if I would have wanted him to. Here and now, it seemed a wondrous notion and I would have given anything to have his company, but that was only because I was alone and far from home.

  I’d never know.

  That was the truth of it. I could drive myself mad wondering, but I would never, ever know. So I made myself stop wondering and settled for simply missing him.

  The coach halted for the night in a smaller city. At the post station, the driver merely pointed to the inn across the street. I watched with envy as he set about unhitching the horses with a stable-lad’s assistance. I’d sooner help him with the horses and spend the night in the stable than pass another night in another small, cramped room. But remembering the stern look Caroline nó Bryony had given me, I sighed and went to seek lodging.

  I drew more curious glances here than I had in Bourdes, a port city with a large number of foreigners. At least D’Angelines were a well-mannered folk. They looked, but they didn’t stare and didn’t intrude. In the common room, I was served a delicious meal of roasted capon flavored with an unfamiliar fragrant, piney herb. When I asked, the woman who had brought my meal told me it was called rosemary.

  “Rosemary,” I repeated, inhaling deeply to memorize the scent and taste.

  The woman gave me an odd look. According to Captain Renniel, D’Angelines took great pride and pleasure in all the finer things in life. Why they should find it strange that someone would visibly savor one of them, I couldn’t imagine. At least I was managing to acquit myself well eating with a fork and knife.

  After dining, I retired to my rented chamber.

  I lasted half the night. I’d spent the entire day confined in the stagecoach. Even with the window, it had been oppressive. Reasoning that it was unfair that I be expected to change all at once, I cloaked myself in twilight and stole out of the inn.

  In the stable, the coach-horses were drowsing, rear legs cocked, heads low and nodding. I let go the twilight and stood for a moment, breathing in their warm odor and the scent of hay, feeling more at peace.

  Something stirred behind me.

  I whirled. In a pile of straw, the driver sat up, naked from the waist upward. He had a blanket beneath him and straw in his tousled black curls. Through a chink in the wall, moonlight silvered his face. It was soft and vulnerable with sleep, unable to hide his feelings. And all of a sudden, desire was a presence in the stable with us—uninvited, yet not wholly unexpected.

  “You,” he whispered.

  “
Me,” I agreed.

  I went to him without thinking. If I’d thought, I’d have hesitated. There was Cillian’s death and guilt.

  Better not to think.

  Cillian was dead, and the stagecoach driver was alive. His lips were warm, not cold. I lay down in the straw and stretched my length against him, running my hands over his ribcage. He rolled me over and kissed me more deeply.

  Stone and sea, it felt good.

  I was alive too—young and alive. It was different. He was different. A different taste, a different scent. And yet it was the same and familiar. The mix of languor and the urgency, the rising tide of desire. I helped the driver remove my green woolen dress, yearning to feel his warm bare skin against mine. When he lowered his head to my breast to suckle, I cupped his head and tangled my fingers in his hair, encouraging him. When his knee nudged between my thighs, I parted them willingly for him.

  “Elua!” His hips rose and fell. “I can’t stop!”

  “Don’t,” I murmured.

  For a long time, he didn’t. When he did, I was content. I lay with his weight atop me, stroking his curls. With an effort, he lifted his head, dark eyes glinting. “I could be dismissed from my post for this.”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t.” I touched his face. “What’s your name?”

  “Theo.”

  One of the horses whickered and snorted in its stall, rustling then settling back into sleep. A black cat crouched through a sliver of moonlight, stalking unseen prey. It paused to lift its head and stare at us, green eyes luminous and eerie.

  “Kin of yours?” Theo inquired.

  I laughed. “Not that I know of.”

  “It was a jest.” He looked at me with frank curiosity. “Lady… who are you? What are you?”

  I yawned. “Not much of a lady for a start. This isn’t the sort of thing one’s supposed to do, is it? Bed one’s coach-driver in a stable?”

  Theo smiled. “Not in a stable, no. Is it a secret?”

  “No.” The thong on which my mother’s signet ring was strung had gotten tangled around my neck. I sat up and untwisted it, then shook straw out of my hair. “I’m Moirin.” I thought about how Caroline had addressed me. It seemed right. “Moirin of the Maghuin Dhonn.”

  “Oh!” He stared.

  “It’s all right,” I said wryly. “I’ll not be changing into a bear—or a cat. Nor putting any manner of curse or enchantment on you. I was lonely and I couldn’t sleep, that’s all. I didn’t even think to find you here, just the horses.”

  “The horses like you,” Theo said uncertainly, reassuring himself that I couldn’t be all that dangerous.

  “I like horses.” I yawned again. “And I nearly think I could sleep now. Do you mind if I stay?”

  “A bear-witch.” He wasn’t ready to let it go yet. “With D’Angeline blood?”

  “Aye.” I shrugged into my dress. “Do you mind? I won’t even ask to share your blanket. I’ve one in my pack.”

  He thought about it, a slow smile spreading over his face. “A bear-witch and me. No. I don’t mind.”

  I fetched my blanket. “Good.”

  In the morning, I woke to find Theo splashing at the horse trough, scrubbing himself with a rag and a bit of soap. He gave me a shy, wondering smile and offered to share his soap, as well as journeycake and cheese from his own satchel.

  “Or I could buy you a meal at the inn,” I suggested. “I ate a capon with the most delicious herb there last night. Rosemary. Do you know it?”

  He laughed. “Yes, of course. All right, then.”

  The morning’s meal was just as delicious, eggs whipped and baked in a manner Theo told me was called an omelette. There was goats’ cheese melted into it and it was scattered with another shredded herb unfamiliar to me. I sniffed at it when the platter was set before me.

  “Basil,” the serving woman said in response to my inquiring glance.

  “Basil,” I echoed. She shook her head and walked away.

  “I take it the—” Theo lowered his voice. “The Maghuin Dhonn aren’t much for cooking.”

  “Oh, my mother’s a right skilled cook,” I assured him. “It’s only that these are herbs that don’t grow wild in Alba—or at least not where we lived.”

  He looked askance at me. “You lived in the wild?”

  “Aye,” I said wistfully. “But I’m learning.” I took a bite of my omelette. The melted cheese was pungent and so hot it almost scalded my tongue and the basil was unfamiliar and delightful. “This helps.”

  As we dined, I could see Theo grow more at ease in my company, deciding by daylight that mayhap a bear-witch wasn’t entirely as fearsome and mysterious as legend would have it—or at least not one so easily pleased by a simple dish of cooked eggs. I felt strange after what had passed between us last night, but not as guilty as I might have thought. Life called to life. Somewhere, the bright lady smiled. Theo seemed a decent enough fellow, and his black hair and dark eyes reminded me of home and family in a nice way. By the time we returned to the post station, I thought mayhap the remainder of the journey might be more tolerable than I’d reckoned.

  I was wrong.

  There were two new passengers joining us, D’Angeline ladies of middle years. They were overdressed, overcoiffed, and overperfumed, chattering together in voluble tones. My heart sank when I saw them.

  “Oh, my!” One of them lifted a magnifying glass on a stick to her eyes and peered at me through it. “Wherever are you from, my dear?”

  “Alba,” I murmured.

  “She must be a half-breed,” the other whispered in the overly audible tones of the hard of hearing.

  The first tut-tutted. “Such a pretty thing! So exotic.” She fiddled with a lock of my hair and sniffed. “But you simply must do something with your hair, my dear.”

  I glanced around for Theo, but he was making adjustments to the harness and avoiding my gaze. I sighed. “Aye, my lady,” I agreed. “No doubt I must.”

  In short order we were bundled into the coach.

  The ladies—widowed sisters come from visiting a third sister and her family, introduced themselves as Florette d’Aubert and Lydia Postel—insisted on drawing the curtains to cut the wind’s chill. They settled into the seat facing me, their stiff, voluminous skirts spreading to crowd the space between us. The scent of their perfume permeated the coach.

  “Now.” Florette smoothed her skirts. “Moirin, is it?”

  “Aye, my lady.” I’d given my name as Moirin mac Fainche, reckoning it wiser not to mention the Maghuin Dhonn to these two.

  She lifted one finger in admonishment. “Don’t say aye, dear. Only vulgar common people say aye.”

  “Yes, my lady,” I said obediently.

  “I can’t make out what she’s saying!” Lydia complained in a harsh whisper. “Her accent is atrocious!”

  I cleared my throat and mimicked Florette’s tone. “Yes, my lady!”

  “Much better.” Florette d’Aubert folded her hands in her lap. “Now,” she said firmly. “Tell us all about yourself, dear. Who are your people? How did you come to be born in Alba? How did you come to Terre d’Ange? Where are you bound? Have you kin in the City of Elua?”

  I shrugged.

  “Don’t shrug, child!” she said sharply. “It’s rude.”

  “Forgive me,” I said in my best polite voice.

  Lydia Postel cocked her head. “Eh?”

  “Forgive me!” I repeated more loudly. “I’m a stranger here and un-tutored in your ways. Mayhap you and your sister would do me the kindness of telling me about your lives that I might learn from you.”

  They did.

  By the time we paused at midday to water the horses, I’d learned all there was to know and more about the lives of Florette d’Aubert and Lydia Postel. I’d learned that the former had grave misgivings about the manner in which their sister was raising her children, while the latter was a staunch advocate of the old tradition that gave the father the upper hand, though both were chi
ldless themselves. I’d learned that Florette’s husband had concealed a wagering habit from her and left her with debts she quite resented. And I’d learned that they were perishing of curiosity to hear what the latest gossip was in the City of Elua, where the doings of the Royal Court were paramount.

  It seemed King Daniel de la Courcel had remarried after his first wife had died, leaving him with a sole son and heir. The merits of his new bride were a matter of contention.

  “Jehanne,” Lydia muttered.

  “Jehanne,” Florette agreed. “The men of House Courcel do not choose wisely when they remarry.”

  The new Queen, they informed me, was young, frivolous, and fickle. She cared nothing for politics, only for parties. She conducted notorious affairs under her long-suffering husband’s nose, ruthlessly promoting her favorites at Court.

  “What did his majesty expect?” Florette sniffed. “Marrying an adept of the Night Court!”

  “I thought it was a sacred calling,” I said, puzzled. “Am I mistaken?”

  “No, no.” She pursed her lips. “Of course there’s great honor to be found in Naamah’s Service. But it’s a question of propriety, dear. If there’s a measure of truth to the old tales, even Phèdre nó Delaunay never sought to rise above her station.”

  “If the old tales are true, I imagine she was too busy saving the world,” I offered diplomatically.

  They ignored my comment and carried on with a gleeful litany of the Queen’s sins. I thought personally that Jehanne de la Courcel sounded rather fun and a good deal more interesting than anyone either of these two had met, but I kept the thought to myself and concentrated on not throwing myself out of the stagecoach.

  Much to my dismay, the ladies insisted that I accompany them to dine that evening when we halted at the next waypost. They tried to insist that we share a room to conserve our funds, but at that I drew the line.

  “I come from a line of very solitary folk,” I said firmly and jingled the purse tied around my waist. “Besides, I’m not lacking for coin.”

  Florette tut-tutted at me. “Put that away, child! Never say such a thing in a public place. It’s dangerous—and vulgar, too.” She peered at me through her magnifying glass. “A solitary folk? Who did you say your people were again?”