Kushiel's Dart

come to see Drustan, " Moiread said, and I understood the Eiran words, picking them out one by one in her liquid accent, piecing them together after she had spoken. " They seek audience with the Cruarch ."
    Eamonn frowned, but Grainne stood up, her grey-green eyes alight. She was a tall woman, and striking by their standards; her features were cruder than ours, but her hair and her eyes were quite lovely, and her generous mouth that smiled at us. She wore a sword at her waist, and I gauged her to be not too much older than Joscelin, in her late twenties, no more.
    " Tell them they are welcome , " she said. " And fetch your brother ."
    "My lady," I said haltingly, lifting my head, the half-familiar words twisting my tongue. "I understand, I think."
    She gave me her sharp gaze, red-gold brows arching. Eamonn muttered on his throne; I caught only a word of it. Trouble . He was tall, like his sister, but his hair had a paler hue, his eyes a muddier tinge.
    So that is how it is, I thought. To the others, I said in D'Angeline, "They are sending for the Cruarch."
    We heard him before we saw him; a halting gait, among other steps. I had forgotten that. I heard Delaunay's voice in my memory, light and amused. And Ysandre de la Courcel, flower of the realm, shall teach a clubfoot barbarian Prince to dance the gavotte .
    Drustan mab Necthana, Prince of the Picti, the deposed Cruarch of Alba, entered the hall.
    He had with him an older woman and two younger, as well as Moi-read, who could only be his mother and sisters, and a handful of warriors as well. They were cut from the same cloth, all of them, slender and dark, a handsbreadth shorter at least than the Twins. But Delaunay trained me to observe, and I noted well how the Dalriada fell back, creating a space for the Picti.
    Truly, he bore their sign, in blue woad-marque, bisecting his brow, swirling on his cheeks, outlandish and barbarian. But it was not entirely displeasing, and his eyes gazed out through Pictish warrior's mask, fine and dark. A cloak of combed red wool hung from his shoulders, clasped with gold.
    "You are the swan's voice," he said to me in Cruithne, those dark eyes cutting me through to the bone. "What does she say?"
    If he had not spoken ... he was strange enough, and fearful, that I might have doubted my answer. But there was somewhat in his voice, a slight break, hopeful and young, that only one trained to listen would hear. I rose to my feet, lifting the chain from about my neck, holding forth Rolande's gold signet ring. It swayed between us.
    "My lord," I said, raising my voice. "Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d'Ange, would honor the covenant between you."
    Drustan mab Necthana took the ring, closing his hand hard about it. He glanced at his mother, and his three sisters, who nodded, all in unison. A gleam flared and died in his dark eyes. "What is the price?" he asked me harshly.
    I met his dark gaze, staring out from his blue-marqued face that had seen loss and betrayal, his father's murder. For a moment, we understood each other, the Pictish Prince and I. "Terre d'Ange stands under threat of invasion," I said softly. "If you regain the throne of Alba, the Master of the Straits will allow you to cross. That is the price. Your aid, to secure the D'Angeline throne. That is the price of wedding the Queen of Terre d'Ange, my lord."
    Drustan looked at the Twins.
    They shifted on their thrones, the Lords of the Dalriada. Grainne leaned forward, while Eamonn leaned back, not meeting the Cruarch's gaze.
    "What do you say, my brethren?" Drustan asked it in Cruithne. His dark eyes gleamed. "You have waited for a sign, Eamonn. Here it is. Let us take up the sword, and Alba will flock to our side. Maelcon's men will run before us, and the Master of the Straits will reward us, laying the waters as calm as a carpet. What do you say?"
    " I say-" Grainne drew a deep breath.
    "No." Eamonn cut her off, tugging at his torque, speaking slowly in Cruithne. "No." He shook his head, stubborn as an ox. "The risk is too great, and the gain to little. Do they bring an army? Do they bring swords?" He opened the coffer, showing its contents, shimmering and harmless, redolent with spice. Grainne murmured appreciatively, drawing out a length of gold-shot green silk. "No!" Eamonn drew the coffer back, nearly closing the lid on his sister's hand. "Fair words and baubles!"
    "Dagda Mor!" Grainne snapped at him, eyes flashing. "You are a coward and a fool! 7 say-"
    "You