Kushiel's Dart

old ways once? Elua's wandering put an end to it, if we did; our bloodlines we trace through mother and father alike, back to the shining linkages of the past, to Elua and his Companions, when they walked the earth. Our lineage we bear stamped on our faces, in our souls.
    Isolated by the Master of the Straits, in Alba it is different. They trace heritage through the mother, beyond question, proof born in blood and tears. Necthana's children had different fathers; warriors, dreamers. Love as thou wilt . Blessed Elua too was Earth's Child, Her last-begotten, conceived in Her dark womb of blood and tears.
    Having listened, Drustan bent his head toward the Twins, at his right hand. "What say the Dalriada?"
    Eamonn drew a deep breath. "Drustan Cru, you know our hearts and our minds. Your uncle was our friend. In Eire, we do not suffer a blood-traitor to live." Grainne nodded in accord, unwontedly somber. They keep the old ways too, I thought, remembering her son Brennan; who was his father? I'd never asked. Elua knew, the next born might be Rousse's get.
    Drustan looked at me. "What says Terre d'Ange?"
    I hadn't been expecting it, though I don't know why. It is how such things are done, in the eyes of all assembled. I remembered Parliament voting at the trial of House Trevalion, the Lioness of Azzalle and Ysandre de la Courcel's cool face, her down-turned thumb signalling death. "My lord," I said to Drustan, my voice sounding as if it belonged to someone else. "Foclaidha of the Brugantü conspired against the Crown. It has been proven. We do not bid for clemency."
    There was a buzz around the hall; not everyone there had known who I was, had heard Cruithne from my lips. Drustan ignored it, looking fixedly at Foclaidha.
    "For your treachery," he said, "you will die. For the blood ties between us, I grant it will be swift."
    What I expected, I don't know, again. Somewhat else. Truly, I'd not put thought to this day, to prepare myself for it. Lyonette accepted poison, drinking it off at one draught and laughing. Baudoin chose to fall on his sword. Is it more civilized, that way? No. In the end, it is the same; death at the root. All the ritual in the world does not change that. And yet I was shocked when two of Drustan's Cruithne seized Foclaidha's arms and forced her to her knees, when Drustan himself rose from the throne, drawing his sword.
    It flashed, once. He'd honed it keen for this day, and there is a great deal of strength in the folk of the Cullach Gorrym, for all that they are not as tall as those who came later. Clean through, he severed her neck.
    Foclaidha's head rolled a little, eyes still open.
    Her body fell heavily to the flagstones of the hall of Bryn Gorrydum, blood pooling at the neck.
    I caught my breath in my teeth, repressing a squeak, Elua be thanked.
    Joscelin's hand closed on my elbow, bone-grindingly tight, and I was glad he was there. At the throne, Necthana and her daughters looked at the headless body of Foclaidha of the Brugantü, grim satisfaction on their dark, serene faces. To their right, the Twins grinned with fierce vindication.
    "Let it end here," Drustan said softly, cleaning his sword and sheathing it. "Those who will swear fealty, may live. The lands of the Brugantü, I declare forfeit, and give unto the keeping of the Sigovae and Votadae, who alone among the Tarbh Cro kept faith with the Cullach Gorrym."
    There was cheering at that, from those wild northern Picti who'd ridden to join Drustan's army. A wise choice, it transpired; a popular choice, on Drustan's part. It restored honor to the folk of the Red Bull.
    The Black Boar reigned in Alba.
    All exiles carry a map within them that points the way homeward. I looked to the east, the open windows of the hall of Bryn Gorrydum carrying the scent of rain, and a salt breeze from the sea, that mingled with the coppery odor of fresh-spilled blood. A warm breeze, summery. How many months had we been on the road, at sea? In Terre d'Ange, there would be flowers blooming, fruit trees bearing. I heard in my mind Thelesis de Mornay singing The Exile's Lament. The bee is in the lavender; the honey fills the comb . The Skaldi would be massing, moving, crossing the Camae-lines, fording the Rhenus River.
    While we waged a war, summer had come.
    The affairs of state that remained would not be settled in a day. Days on end, it took, while Drustan heard petitions from tribal lords and com-monfolk alike, dispossessed by Maelcon the Usurper, and restored