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

by Jacqueline Carey

  Unexpected tears stung my eyes. “Thank you, your highness.”

  “It’s nothing.” Thierry waved one hand in a dismissive gesture. “You’re welcome to stable her here if de Mereliot doesn’t have room in his.”

  “I’ve room,” Raphael said curtly.

  I ignored him, captivated by the gentle warmth in the filly’s dark eyes. “Does she have a name?”

  “D’Antilly’s Midnight Blossom,” Prince Thierry said cheerfully. I glanced sharply up at him, wondering if it were an oblique reference to my visit to Cereus House. He laughed. “I know, it’s a mouthful. What did you say her use-name was?” he asked the groom.

  “Blossom, your highness.”

  The filly pricked her ears.

  “A bit pedestrian.” Thierry shrugged. “Call her whatever you like, my lady. Her official name’s only for the pedigree records.”

  “Blossom.” When I said her name, the filly’s head swung back toward me, ears pricked. I smiled. “Blossom’s fine. She already knows it.” I handed the reins back to the groom, then cupped the filly’s velvety muzzle in my hands, blowing softly into her nostrils. She snuffed. For a moment, I was able to forget all my concerns and block out the rest of the world. I could sense her thoughts, curious and unafraid. “Hello, Blossom.”

  “Do bear-witches speak to animals?” a sweet, light voice inquired.

  Jehanne.

  I stiffened, then turned slowly. A new contingent of riders had entered the courtyard. Lianne Tremaine, the King’s Poet, was among them. I couldn’t read the intent on her sharp, curious face. The Queen was mounted on a pretty white mare. At the sight of her, another flush of heat washed over my skin. Her blue-grey eyes sparkled with what could be playfulness or malice. If Jehanne meant to humiliate me, I thought, she would do it now.

  “We do,” I made myself say. “It doesn’t mean they speak back to us.”

  She laughed. “Fairly said!” Her gaze settled on Raphael. “My lord de Mereliot, since his majesty has pressing business elsewhere and his highness has elected to escort Lady Moirin, mayhap you would do me the kindness of serving as my escort today?”

  Raphael bowed in the saddle, his voice both wry and sincere. “Your majesty, nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

  Jehanne smiled sweetly at him. “Oh, good.”

  I breathed a silent sigh of relief. It seemed I was reprieved, at least for the moment.

  The hunt resembled no form of hunting I’d ever experienced. It took place in a vast meadow—a portion, Thierry informed me, of the royal hunting preserves. There were servants to attend the lords and ladies, servants to set up silk pavilions on the outskirts of the meadows where we would enjoy a luncheon. Servants to handle the sleek coursing hounds in their braces, servants to scout ahead and beat the brush for prey.

  The feel of Blossom’s soft mouth beneath my reins, her gentle, willing gait beneath me, made me glad. The fresh, crisp air and the melancholy of the autumn grasses we trampled filled me with poignant pleasure.

  Still, I was miserable.

  Jehanne.

  Raphael.

  They rode side by side, conversing with heads inclined toward one another in a manner that spoke of long familiarity. Sunlight glinted on her silver-gilt coronet, picked out the bright streaks of gold in his tawny locks. They looked well together. I remembered her hair spread across the pillow, his curtaining my face. I was jealous of them both.

  “Tell me you’re not going to moon over him all day,” Prince Thierry said abruptly to me.

  “I’m sorry.” I gave him a guilty glance. “Was I?”

  “Yes.” He rode a handsome bay, his carriage upright. Ahead of us, Raphael leaned close and said somewhat and Jehanne’s laughter rose. Thierry’s mouth made a hard line. “She’s in a good mood.”

  And well she should be, I thought. Aloud, I asked, “Why do you dislike her so?”

  He bent a wry look at me. “Aside from the fact that I love and respect my father and Jehanne is a cuckolding bitch?”

  “There is that,” I admitted. “But is it not the D’Angeline way?”

  One of the prince’s companions chuckled. “Tell the truth, Thierry. The whole truth.”

  He flushed. “Go to hell!”

  The young man who had spoken nudged his mount and jogged alongside us. He had blue-black hair tied in myriad braids that fell in a cascade. “His highness dissembles,” he said affably. “He had designs on Jehanne himself. Only at fifteen, when his father found her the cure for his grief, Thierry was too young to be admitted to the Night Court. Isn’t it so?”

  Thierry shoved at him. “Goddamned Shahrizai!”

  “Love to you, too, cousin.” The other blew him a kiss, then winked at me and gave a courtly bow from his saddle. “Lady Moirin, we’ve not met. I’m Balthasar Shahrizai, and if you should ever wish to sample life’s more piquant pleasures, I’d be honored to be your guide.”

  “Ah… thank you,” I said uncertainly.

  He cocked his head at me. “Do your people practice the art of algolagnia?”

  “Algo…” I gave up. “I’m sorry. It’s not a word I know.”

  “It’s from the Hellene,” Balthasar said. “Algos, meaning pain, and lagnia, meaning lust.” His expression was candid and pleasant. “The art and practice of finding pleasure in pain.”

  I blinked. “Are you quite serious?”

  “Quite.” Although his expression didn’t change, something predatory surfaced behind his eyes. I could feel his gift coiling around him. It had very sharp edges. “Don’t dismiss it until you’ve tried it, my lady.”

  “I’ll think on it,” I said.

  Thierry sighed. “Balthasar, go away.”

  At that moment, one of the beaters flushed a hare. Three of the handlers slipped their hounds from their braces. The hare dashed frantically across the meadow as the dogs gave chase, vying with one another to drive the hare toward their master. A footservant handed Thierry a loaded crossbow, an elegant weapon with decorative pearl inlay.

  I unslung my bow from my shoulder and nocked an arrow, but when the hare raced past us, I didn’t have the heart to shoot. I could sense its panic.

  Thierry’s shot went wide and someone else made the kill. “Ah, well.” He handed his crossbow back to the servant to be reloaded, then looked at me and laughed. “What in Elua’s name is that?”

  “What?” I lowered my bow.

  He nodded at it. “It’s very… rustic. Forgive me, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll see you’re given a proper lady’s bow.”

  “Why?” My fingers tightened on the resilient yew-wood. “This is a perfectly good bow. My uncle Mabon made it for me.”

  “Ah.” Thierry sobered. “I see. Were you very close to him?”

  “No,” I said slowly. “Not exactly.” How could I explain how it was among the Maghuin Dhonn? I’d met Mabon only twice—but he was kin. I remembered hunting with him in the park in Bryn Gorrydum where he’d summoned the twilight in rolling waves, making it dance like the tunes he played on his silver pipe. He’d told me not to let the D’Angelines mock me for not knowing their ways. “It reminds me of home.”

  “Then you must keep it.” Thierry leaned over and touched my arm. “I think it’s charming. And I promise, I’ll not tease you for not knowing how to hunt.”

  I eyed him. “I know how to hunt.”

  He smiled indulgently. “Not in the D’Angeline manner.”

  I bit my tongue on my irritation. It was true. And I didn’t much care for the D’Angeline manner of hunting. No one was here because they needed to fill their supper-pot. It was sport, pure and simple. They wagered on the dogs, wagered on one another’s prowess. Footmen loaded crossbows for the lords and hunted for spent bolts. The ladies wielded pretty, gilded short bows, mostly conscious of the fact that they made a delightful picture when they drew and took aim in the saddle.

  To be sure, Jehanne did.

  But the more frantic and terrified the hare, the more difficult the chase,
the better the sport was reckoned.

  By the time Prince Thierry made his kill on the fourth hare flushed, the sun was high overhead. “I’m blooded!” he called in a good-natured voice. “Shall we pause and enjoy a repast?”

  From across the meadow came a chorus of agreement.

  The silk pavilions beckoned. As we converged at a brisk trot, I rode beside Thierry and did my best not to moon over the fact that Raphael was saying something even more amusing to Jehanne, his head bent toward hers. Her laughter rose in a bright spiral. Even without seeing it, I could picture the graceful line of her white throat, his engaging smile. Things I had recently kissed.

  And then Thierry’s horse stepped into a hole and stumbled hard. Thrown from the saddle, he pitched over its head with a shout.

  “Elua!”

  The bay shied. Beneath me, Blossom shied, too. In a sick flash of memory, I saw Cillian dead on the litter and his dented skull. But there was something else, too. Something other than Thierry’s fall was spooking the horses.

  I clamped my thighs around the filly, nocking an arrow without thinking. “Hold!”

  She shivered and held.

  It was a viper. It had been sunning itself on a low, flat rock. Now it coiled, ready to strike, its thick body ochre-red and marked with black. It raised its wedge-shaped head and tasted the air with a forked, black tongue. I breathed in the same air and tasted its fear. Like the hares, it was frightened by this invasion.

  Unlike the hares, the viper had recourse.

  Amid cries of alarm, Prince Thierry scrambled backward, eyes wide with fear. At his movement, the viper lunged.

  “Oh, hell!” I swore and shot.

  My arrow pierced the viper clean through. It caught it midlunge, pinning its writhing body to the earth.

  The Master of the Hunt came at a dead run, yanking a big knife from a sheath at his belt. With one swift blow, he lopped off the snake’s head. Its headless body continued to squirm unnervingly. The huntsman extended his hand to Thierry. “Are you all right, your highness?”

  “Yes.” The prince rose, his gaze on my face. “Thanks to Moirin.”

  Others came to take in the scene. Jehanne took one look at the dead viper and went white. She rounded on the huntsman in a perfect fury. “Messire Gabon, this is unacceptable. Is it not part of your duties to see that the royal hunting grounds are tended? Were they not combed this morning?”

  “Aye, but—”

  Her voice dripped poison. “Do you find your duties too onerous? Well, then—”

  “Leave off, Jehanne,” Thierry interrupted her. “The man can’t be expected to account for every stray snake.”

  It did nothing to abate her anger. “He most assuredly can! You’d make excuses for the wretch when you came within a hair’s breadth of dying?”

  He scoffed. “As though you wouldn’t rejoice to have me out of the way!”

  “And leave your father without an heir?” Her delicate nostrils flared. “Your argument would carry more weight if I’d given him one of my own blood. Mayhap it’s escaped your notice that I haven’t yet?”

  “Because you’re too vain to disfigure your perfect body!” Thierry shouted at her. “It doesn’t mean you wouldn’t gladly see me dead!”

  “Oh, I’m sure the sainted Moirin would have worked some miracle to bring you back from death’s doorstep,” Jehanne said in a cold voice. Her gaze moved on to me. What had passed between us only yesterday, whether genuine or false, might never have been. It seemed quite impossible to believe that I had ever seen that beautiful face soft with pleasure. “You shot the viper?”

  I nodded. “Aye, your majesty.”

  She gave me a curt nod. “House Courcel is in your debt. You”—she pointed at the Master of the Hunt—“are dismissed from your post.”

  The man bowed without comment, his face heavy.

  Beneath the silk pavilions, we endured a repast that would have been pleasant under other circumstances. Everyone wanted to hear about how I’d shot the viper midstrike. Thierry, recovered from his scare, told them, laughing, how he’d made fun of my bow and teased me about being unable to hunt. I smiled reluctantly. My rustic, unadorned bow of yew-wood and sinew was passed around and admired.

  But the Queen’s mood cast a pall over everything. I understood better that day why people spoke of her temper in awed terms. It radiated out of her like a cold fire, withering everything in its path. Raphael danced attendance on her, doing his best to coax her into better spirits to no avail.

  There was talk of famous hunting accidents going back into history. It seemed Prince Imriel de la Courcel had saved his cousin the Dauphine from a boar, which had been the start of the realm’s most notorious romance of the day. The details of the story were argued and Lianne Tremaine was consulted.

  “Half-true,” the King’s Poet said. “As I recall the tale, her horse bolted, and it was Prince Imriel who went after her. Someone else killed the boar. But that was where it began.” She gave Thierry and me one of her quick, foxy smiles. “Mayhap you’ll follow in their footsteps and give me a great, epic romance to capture in verse.”

  Thierry grinned. “Mayhap we will.”

  “Does your diadh-anam say so, Moirin?” Queen Jehanne asked coolly.

  I flushed. “My diadh-anam is disconcerted by the day’s events,” I offered, striving for diplomacy.

  She looked away. “I see.”

  It was ridiculous to feel hurt, but I was—by both her frigid manner and Raphael’s utter disregard. So I sat and tried to be pleasant while the others teased Prince Thierry for playing the role of the damsel in distress in our budding epic. He endured it cheerfully. I wished I did feel my diadh-anam quicken for him. I liked him well enough. One might suppose it would be a worthy destiny for one of the Maghuin Dhonn to capture the heart of the heir to Terre d’Ange. It might mean great things for my people. But the spark inside me was quiet.

  For a mercy, it was decided that the remainder of the hunt was to be canceled after we dined. Thierry professed himself sore from his fall and suggested an excursion to Balm House.

  “The adepts there are among the best masseurs in the world.” He smiled at me. “Will you allow me to treat you? It will be my first act of thanks for your saving my life.”

  Miserable as I was, the idea didn’t appeal. I fidgeted with my bow. “Viper bites aren’t necessarily fatal, you know.”

  “They can be.” Thierry nudged me. “Say yes.”

  “Mayhap Moirin has yet to recover from her visit to Cereus House yesterday,” Lianne Tremaine drawled. “How was your assignation?”

  Hot blood scalded my face. “Oh…” I glanced involuntarily at Jehanne. A hint of a cruel smile curved her lips. “Fine.”

  Lianne pressed me. “Oh, come! Who did you have?”

  If I could have sunk into the earth, I would have. “Forgive me, but I’m not accustomed to speaking freely about such matters,” I said in desperation. “It’s not done among the Maghuin Dhonn.”

  The King’s Poet looked puzzled. “But you’re the one told me yourself that—” She caught herself before humiliating me outright by informing the entire hunting party that Raphael de Mereliot had told me I had a lot to learn in bed.

  “Oh, leave her be!” Thierry put an arm around my shoulders. “Moirin’s been busy saving lives and limbs. I reckon we can give her a few days’ grace to accustom herself to D’Angeline ways.”

  “Visiting Cereus House makes for an ambitious start,” Balthasar Shahrizai observed. His vivid blue eyes studied me keenly, the sharp edges of his gift probing. “What made you choose it?”

  Once again, my gaze slid toward Jehanne.

  “Ah yes, of course.” Balthasar smiled and said something in a foreign tongue. The others laughed.

  Thierry’s face darkened. “Enough,” he said shortly. “Let’s be off.”

  As we rode back toward the palace, I asked him what Balthasar had said.

  “Nothing of import.” He grimaced. “A Caerdicci
proverb about two women competing for the same man.”

  “Oh.” At least Balthasar had misunderstood my glance. In a way, he wasn’t wrong. I had chosen Cereus House because Jehanne had trained there. “Thierry, do you really think she wishes you dead?”

  “Jehanne?” He didn’t answer right away. “No, I suppose not.”

  “Then why is she so angry at me for killing the viper?” I asked.

  Thierry gave a short laugh. “Moirin, she’s not angry at you for saving my life. She’s angry because it made you the center of attention. In her world, Jehanne is the sun and the rest of us are but humble planets orbiting around her.”

  “Oh.” It didn’t make me feel better. I didn’t want to be the center of attention. In fact, I didn’t have the slightest idea what I wanted anymore. All I knew was that I was a wretched knot of conflicting desires. I wished I’d never gotten caught up in this mess, wished I didn’t feel bound to Raphael, wished I’d never let Jehanne seduce me. I wished there was one person in this bedamned realm I could truly trust, so I could at least talk openly with another living soul without finding my confidence betrayed.

  I wished my mother were here.

  The thought made me so homesick, I nearly wept. I would have given up every gown and bauble Raphael had given me and Thierrry’s lovely filly for five minutes of my mother’s counsel. The meadow swam in my gaze. With one surreptitious hand, I rubbed my eyes hard enough that I saw red streaks behind my eyelids.

  When I opened my eyes, I still saw a splash of red.

  On the far side of the meadow, two men were coming toward us, one mounted and one on foot. It was the latter that made the red splash. He was tall and graceful, and he wore robes of crimson silk.

  My heart beat faster.

  “That’s the Duc de Barthelme,” Thierry said in a wondering tone. “What’s he doing out here with a Priest of Naamah?”

  “Looking for me, I hope,” I whispered.

  Ahead of me, I saw Raphael say something to Jehanne, then check his mount. She glanced back at me, her expression thawing visibly. She drew rein on her pretty white mare and gestured to me.