He blushed all over his scarred face, muttering, "Wants to get a child."
"I know. She thinks you’re good stock. She’s very direct in her desires." Actually, they were rather well-matched, but I thought it privately.
"Sibeal had a dream," Hyacinthe announced, referring to Necthana’s middle daughter. "She saw you, Phèdre. You were holding a scale, tipped all to one side."
"You understood this." I raised my brows at him.
He looked at me nonplussed. "They are teaching me Cruithne. And I am teaching them about the dromonde. You have been busy elsewhere, doing the Queen’s business."
"Yes, well, tell your dreamers that the scale is not yet ready to balance," I said wryly. "Do they see you as well, in their dreams, O Prince of Travellers?"
Hyacinthe shook his head, frowning slightly. "Only once. Breidaia dreamed me on an island, and asked if I was born there. Naught else."
"Passing strange," I said, forgetting about it in the next instant, as Drustan beckoned me to spin tales of the glories of a D’Angeline alliance for an eager-looking Dalriada clan-lord. We’d done a good job of that, at least. I made my way across the hall, feeling Eamonn’s gaze at my back. So it had been, ever since I’d bedded his sister.
But I’d spoken true to Hyacinthe. If I was no diplomat, still, I knew to gauge a patron. Eamonn was a slow man, as cautious and deliberate as his sister was impetuous. He’d cast his luck and lost the first night; he’d be wary of approaching the brink. And I needed him to be desperate.
Four days, and then five. Grainne and Eamonn had shouting matches, backed by their factions. I saw the first quarrel between Dalriada and Cruithne, when one of Drustan’s men was set upon by three outlander Dalriada. And I saw then why Eamonn had declined to test Drustan’s steel. Outnumbered and outsized, the Cruithne warrior fought with a cunning and speed I’d never witnessed, holding his own until Drustan came at a run, half-gaited and furious, shoving Dalriada swords aside with his bare hands.
They could have killed him, then; they didn’t, looking with fear and respect at his blue warrior’s marques, the red cloak and the gold torque of his birthright, the Cruarch of Alba.
"Tell them tomorrow," I said to him when the Dalriada had apologized and gone. "Not in council, but after, when they’re feasting in the hall. Tell them what you have decided."
He looked at me and nodded. "I will do as you wish."
So it was that it happened on the sixth day.
As on the others, nothing was decided, the Twins at odds. Still, they honored the laws of hospitality, fêting their guests. It was in the hall, before the roaring fire, that Drustan rose to address Grainne and Eamonn.
"My lords of the Dalriada," he said, bowing. "You have given shelter to me and my people, and I am ever grateful. But I have sworn a pledge." He held up his right hand, firelight gleaming from the gold of Rolande’s signet. "I must honor it, or die trying. A usurper sits upon my uncle’s throne, mine by right, my father-slaying cousin, Maelcon. On the morrow, I ride east, to reclaim that which is mine. And if I live, we cross the Straits."
Pandemonium erupted in the hall, noisy and familiar. I waited, then made my way to the Twins' thrones.
"My lords," I said, kneeling. "We thank you for your hospitality. Prince Drustan has spoken. We will depart on the morrow, carrying his words to our Queen."
Grainne gave me a regal nod and turned away, concealing an amused glint in her grey-green eyes. She knew what I was about to try; she’d given me the key. I stood and made my curtsy, with all the grace of Cereus House, and turned to leave.
"Wait," Eamonn protested, following to catch my shoulder. "You need not depart in such haste, my lady! At least…at least drink with me, will you not? You have not…you cannot…" He shot an evil glance at his sister. "We are alike, she and I, born of one womb! You cannot favor one over the other!"
"My lord!" I shook off his hand. "I am the Queen’s ambassador! Would you treat me so?"
"I have never forced any woman!" Snatching his hand back, he glared at me. "But how can you choose so? It is not right!"
I shrugged. "My lord," I said mildly, "as you desire D’Angelines for our beauty, so do we admire aught in others, boldness and daring. Such, your sister possesses."
"And you say I do not?" Eamonn was working himself into a fury, features wild and distorted. "You say I lack courage?"
A small crowd was beginning to gather. Joscelin worked through it unobtrusively, making his way to my side.
Feeling his reassuring presence at my shoulder, I looked at Eamonn and shrugged again, keeping my face expressionless. "I do not say it, my lord. Your actions speak for me."
"Rather louder than you imagined, Eamonn." That was Grainne’s voice, sharp and mocking; it drew laughter. He turned to glare at her, his face near purple with anger, hands fisting at his sides. She looked back at him, her face a cool reflection of his, red-gold brows arched. "You have made your bed; do you cry now, that you lie in it alone?"
"If it is daring you want," he said through grinding teeth, "I will show you daring!" Thrusting one fist into the air, he cried out. "The Dalriada ride to war, at the side of Drustan mab Necthana!"
Cheers erupted; if there were groans, they were swept aside in the wave of jubilation. Eamonn pumped his fist, shouting, wholly caught up in it. For a moment, I think, he forgot about me; I had been a catalyst to this deep rivalry between the Twins, no more. But he remembered, and turned to me with bright eyes, grinning.
"What do you say to that, D’Angeline?" he asked, catching my arms. "Was that daring enough?"
A horse, a sword, a brooch…it was a boy’s glee, at a victory won. It made me smile, despite myself. "Yes, my lord," I said, meaning it. "It is enough."
At my side, Joscelin heaved a sigh.
Thus did it come to pass that I bedded the Twins, Lords of the Dalriada. Eamonn kept his grin for days, going about the business of preparing for war with it plastered on his face, foolish and blissful. I daresay I served him better than I had his sister, having been considerably more sober. Although Grainne had no complaints, to be sure; she caught me in the hall one day and slid a gold bracelet over my arm, rich with the fine, intricate knotwork they do.
"For luck," she said, amused. "This goddess you serve, she is a powerful one."
I hoped so.
We were riding to war.
Chapter Seventy-Two
No D’Angeline need march, of course; it was not our battle. We could have set sail, gone the long way around, avoiding the Straits to set course for lower Siovale. But it would have been a coward’s course, and in truth, we’d have had no word to bear. By the time we made landfall and won through to Ysandre, the Cruithne would have crossed the Straits or died.
Drustan was willing to ride to the aid of Terre d’Ange; we D’Angelines could do no less for the Cullach Gorrym. Quintilius Rousse left half his men with the ship, with instructions to bring word to the Queen if we failed.
The rest of us would follow the battle.
The Dalriada ride to war as if to a party, laughing and shouting and jesting, decked out in splendour and finery. The lords fight in the old style still, with war-chariots; it was something to behold, a Hellene tale sprung to life. The Cruithne are quieter, but just as deadly, fierce eyes and battle-grins gleaming in their blue-whorled faces.