Kushiel's Dart

when we returned. Necthana and her daughters, who sang a mourning song, quiet and beautiful, a woven thread of chant they passed among the three of them, taking it up in turn, descant and rise. I stood and listened for a time, tears in my eyes, both for its sorrow and its loveliness.
    And Joscelin, who knelt in a private Cassiline prayer. He lifted his head at our approach, giving me a bleak stare. Never mind him, I thought; taking Hyacinthe's face in both hands, I drew it down and placed a kiss on his brow.
    "Grieve and be healed," I whispered. He nodded and took up his place. I too knelt, gazing at Moiread; her face serene in death as it had been in life. Necthana, Breidaia and Sibeal sang, weaving the threads of life together, victory and loss, birth and death, love and hatred. After a time, I dreamed a lit tle, waking, as had not happened since I was a child in Cereus House, kneeling attendant for endless hours at some adult function. Another voice had joined theirs, deeper, sounding an earth-rooted refrain. I shook myself alert and saw Drustan, who had joined his mother and sisters.
    He is quite beautiful after all, I thought, surprised at the thought, seeing for the first time what Ysandre had seen. His features beneath the tattooing were finely made, black hair falling straight and shining over his shoulders. Earth's oldest children. All of them sang together, poignantly lovely.
    Barbarians, we call them.
    When it was done, Breidaia started another melody; this, though, only the women carried. Drustan made his way to Joscelin, crouching at his side. I wondered if I should rise to translate, but the young Cruarch of Alba spoke in broken Caerdicci. That I have not voiced even to you , he had said to me; I understood why, hearing it.
    "You . . . fight... for family," he said to Joscelin. "Brother."
    Drustan held out his hand. Joscelin shook his head, eyes on the bier. "Your sister is dead, my King," he said in his flawless Caerdicci, learned at his father's knee. "Do me no honor. I failed you."
    Shifting, Drustan met my eyes and nodded. I rose smoothly and went to join them, kneeling and bowing my head. "Thousands died this day and I could not save them," Drustan said in Cruithne, looking at Joscelin and not me. "I, born Cruarch, to give my life for my people. Do you say right was not done this day, Prince of Swords?"
    I translated it all, even the title. Joscelin turned his gaze on Drustan. "My King, it is your birthright you have taken, and the death of your kin you avenged. It was rightfully done. It is I who have failed in my trust."
    I translated for Drustan, adding somewhat about Cassiline vows. The Cruarch looked thoughtful and rubbed his misformed foot unselfconsciously, working at the cramped ligaments. Then he said, "You have sworn no vow to the Cullach Gorrym. Our lives we risked to regain Alba, Do not demean my sister's death in taking it from her."
    Joscelin started at his words, when I spoke them. I swear, the arrogance of Cassilines, even outcasts-especially outcasts-is beyond my compass. It dawned on him though, slow and gradual, that Drustan was telling him he was overstepping the bounds of his responsibility. And even more slowly, that it might be true. Having said his piece, Drustan merely continued to look evenly at Joscelin, holding out his hand, blue-whorled and strong.
    "Brother," Joscelin said in Caerdicci, and clasped Drustan's hand. "If you will have me."
    No need to translate that; Drustan understood and grinned, standing and pulling Joscelin with him, embracing him.
    "There you are!" A woman's voice ran out in Eiran; I looked up to see Grainne, Eamonn a step behind her. Not a cut on them, either one. It must be true that they fought like tigers. I didn't doubt it. "Ah, little sister," Grainne said sorrowing, gazing at Moiread. Plucking a jeweled dagger from her kirtle, she seized a lock of her own red-gold hair, cutting it. Approaching the bier, she laid it carefully beneath Moiread's folded hands. "We avenged you, little sister, do not doubt it, a hundred times over."
    Eamonn followed suit, his hair paler than his twin's, still streaked with traces of lime. He touched Moiread's cold hands gently. "Be at peace with it, little sister. We will sing of your valor."
    "Folk need to see you," Grainne said to Drustan in her direct way, eyes on a level with his. "To share your grief, to share the victory. They followed the Cullach Gorrym and fought well for you this day."
    Drustan nodded. "I