Kushiel's Mercy

Alba. I daresay there was a part of him that missed the land of his birth. The Master of the Straits was reckoned the equal to the Queen and Cruarch, and his counsel was always welcome.
    “It is my thought that our nations have seen enough war for one lifetime,” Hyacinthe said, sitting at Drustan’s right hand. “I, too, speak against it. You are within your rights to demand some manner of restitution.” He shrugged slightly, and the air around him seemed to shudder. “And you are within your rights to decide that the tribute-gift with which Carthage gained entry to the City suffices. As to that, I do not care. But I will say this.” His voice rose, threaded with ominous thunder. “Carthage’s deeds threatened and damaged the lives of those I love. If that had been known to me, I would not have hesitated to use any and all power against them.”
    The hall was hushed and breathless.
    Hyacinthe smiled grimly. “I consider it a debt owed. If Carthage should ever think to raise its hand against the least citizen of Terre d’Ange or Alba while I live, I will sink it beneath the waves.”
    There was no further talk of retribution.
    With the matter settled, Drustan returned to Alba, escorted by the soldiers who’d come to defend Terre d’Ange against itself. Alais and Hyacinthe went with them. Before they left, I’d remembered a promise unkept. I spoke to Phèdre, who sent Ti-Philippe and Hugues to Montrève to see it fulfilled. Unlike in other years, there was no great farewell fête for the Cruarch, but there was a small gathering of family and friends. It was there that I fulfilled my promise. Sidonie laughed at me, but she willingly consented to be part of it.
    Alais’ eyes widened when she saw us enter. The wolfhound paced before us on a leash, tall and dignified, no longer a pup. “Oh, Imri!” She pressed her cheeks with both hands.
    “You remembered.”
    “Ah, Elua,” Ysandre murmured in fond despair.
    I handed the leash to Alais. “We chose her a year ago. Her dam was one of Celeste’s littermates. Artus Labbé said she was the best of the lot. He called her Allegra.”
    “Allegra,” Alais whispered, stroking the dog’s head. Its plumed whip of a tail beat.
    “Thank you.”
    It was another thing brought around full circle. I’d mocked myself after that day long ago when Alais’ dog Celeste, my gift to her, had been gored by a boar and I’d sought to protect Sidonie from a harmless deer. Imriel, savior of dogs, defender against deer. Later, when it truly mattered, I had failed. Failed to protect Dorelei, failed to protect Celeste.
    The bear that had killed my wife and our unborn son had slain Alais’ dog, too.
    The bear-witch.
    Berlik.
    So many sacrifices, great and small. Had they been needful to bring us to this moment? I would never know. All I could do was mourn and honor them, great and small. The Cruithne princess who taught me what it meant to love selflessly. The noble-hearted dog who died trying to defend her.
    “Thank you,” Alais repeated. She gave the wolfhound a hug and straightened, unselfconsciously brushing dog hair from her gown. “I thought . . .” She hesitated.
    “When I return, I thought I might stay at Clunderry. It was a place of happiness, once.
    I’m ready to remember it thus.”
    I smiled. “I’d like that. I’d like to think of you there.”
    “Not alone, surely?” Sidonie inquired.
    Alais shook her head. “No, of course not. Aunt Breidaia and I talked of it before I left.
    And Firdha or one of the other ollamh s would have to consent if I’m to continue my studies there.”
    “Ah.” I raised my brows. “So you might invite Aodhan of the Dalriada, who wrought my bindings. And mayhap his pupil, Conor mac Grainne, the son of the Lady of the Dalriada and a certain harpist?”
    “I might in time.” Alais flushed. “I told you I believe the Maghuin Dhonn know things we’ve lost. Mayhap it’s time to reclaim them. To work together in peace and understanding.”
    I eyed her until her flush deepened. “Mayhap.”
    Mayhap it was, I thought. Mayhap Dorelei’s death and Berlik’s sacrifice were part of another pattern yet to emerge, one in which Alais played a role no one could have guessed. Or mayhap her role was a bridge to another tale, one that would be told by generations yet to be born.
    I hoped it would be a joyous one.

Eighty-Eight

    Summer gave way to fall. In the countryside, it was harvest time. In the City, the peers arranged hunting