I shuddered under her hands. "You followed a dream?"
Her dark eyes moved over our party, came to rest on Hyacinthe’s face. "You followed a dream," she said, and left me to go to him, touching his face with slim, brown fingers. "A waking dreamer."
He started back at the touch, with a strange expression. Rousse’s men and the Dalriada stared at each other and fingered weapons gaugingly. The boy Brennan tilted his head up at Moiread and asked something. I could almost pick out words in what he said, almost.
"May we meet your brother?" I asked Moiread, desperate to make sense of the encounter.
"Of course." She turned back to me, still smiling. "But you must meet the Twins, first. They are the Lords of the Dalriada."
It was a strange procession. Two of Rousse’s men remained behind with the boat, to relay what had happened shipboard. The rest of us followed, as we wended our way along a narrow track through the green hills. The Dalriada were laughing and shouting, one of them taking the boy Brennan on his shoulders, playing at being a horse. The D’Angelines were silent and wide-eyed. I did my best to explain, with scant idea myself what had befallen us.
The seat of the Dalriada royalty is a great hall, set atop one of the highest hills. It echoes the hall of Tea Muir in Eire, I am told, where the High King of Eire rules. A stone building, filled with daub and white washed with lime, the roof thatch; but that is not to do it justice. It is vast, with seven doors, through which one enters according to rank. They have laws governing such things, the Eirans do.
We entered through the Sun Door, which was an honor, although I did not know it then. It is the second-highest rank they could have accorded us, the highest being the door of the White Mare, through which only the scions of Tea Muir may enter. There we were made to wait in a sitting room, while Brennan was sent scuttling on an errand and the Dalriada warriors lounged about in bright-eyed poses. Beyond the next door, we heard sounds of quarreling.
"You speak for the swan," Moiread said to me, nonplussed. "Who stands with you?"
"He does," I said without hesitation, pointing to Quintilius Rousse, who held the treasure-coffer. "And he, and he." I indicated Joscelin and Hyacinthe, who both bowed uneasily.
"That is well," she said, and disappeared. After a moment, she returned. "The Twins will see you."
I looked once at Quintilius Rousse, once at Joscelin and once at Hyacinthe, drawing strength from their steady regard. Taking a deep breath, I followed Moiread into the hall of the Lords of the Dalriada.
I don’t know what I had expected; it had all occurred with such speed. But if it was anything, it was not this: The two of them, brother and sister, on their adjoining thrones.
Now, I know them well enough, the Twins. Then, I took refuge in what I knew best, taking the coffer from Rousse and offering it to them, then kneeling with bowed head. Grainne looked at me keenly, I saw through lowered lashes, toying restlessly with the gold torque about her neck and the jeweled pins scattered in her red-gold tresses. Eamonn was the more suspicious, setting the coffer aside and raising his voice in a sharp query.
"They have 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 Moiread, 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! I say-"