I returned to Delaunay’s house full of new-found knowledge, finding to my dismay that he had invited friends for a small dining-party, and talk was of nothing but the Cruarch of Alba. Still, if there was consolation, it was in the fact that Delaunay was in high spirits and called me to join him on his couch.
"Surely if you are old enough to enter the service of Naamah, this evening’s conversation merits hearing," he said, patting the cushion beside him. He was still dressed for court, and fair glowed with elegance and the flush of good wine and talk. "You know the Comte de Fourcay, of course…Gaspar, make her a bow, she is nigh a lady now…and our poetess; Thelesis, I cower in your shadow…this is Quintilius Rousse of Eisande, who is the finest admiral ever to command a fleet, and my lord Percy of L’Agnace, Comte de Somerville, of whom you have heard tell."
I don’t know what I stammered-something inept, no doubt-as I rose to make my curtsy. I was used to Gaspar Trevalion, who was almost like an uncle to me (insofar as my notion of kin extended); Thelesis de Mornay awed me, though I had met her. But these new additions…the commander of the fleet of Eisande was legend in three nations, and the Comte de Somerville was a Prince of the Blood, who had led the charge against the Skaldi with Prince Rolande and Prince Benedicte. It was rumored that if the King should ever need to appoint a warlord, it would be the Comte de Somerville.
Because he figured in a tale out of my childhood, I expected he would be old, like the King, but he was no more than fifty years of age, hale and fit, with grey dimming his golden hair. A faint odor of apples clung to him; I learned later that this was a mark of the Scions of Anael in general, and of the Somerville line in particular. He smiled pleasantly at so I would be less fearful of him.
"Delaunay’s anguissette!" Quintilius Rousse shouted, beckoning me to his couch, which Alcuin shared. He seized my face in both hands and planted a kiss on it, releasing me with a grin. His weather-beaten face was dragged down on one side by a thick scar where he had been struck by a snapped cable, but his blue eyes glinted unabashedly. I could not decide if he were handsome or ugly. "Too bad I’ve no taste for pain, eh?" He patted Alcuin’s knee; Alcuin smiled serenely at him. I could tell he liked the bluff admiral well enough. Alcuin enjoyed frankness. "You’re the spider’s pupil, why d’ye reckon Elder Brother let the Cruarch through?"
It took me a moment to realize that by spider he meant Delaunay, and to recall that Elder Brother was a sailor’s term for the Master of the Straits, who ruled from the Three Sisters.
"If I could answer that, my lord," I said, sitting on Delaunay’s couch and arranging my skirts, "I would not be pupil, but master."
Quintilius Rousse roared with laughter, and the others chuckled. Delaunay stroked my hair and smiled. "Quintilius, my friend," he said, "if you cannot answer that, none of us can. Unless it be our gracious muse…?" He looked inquiringly at Thelesis, who shook her dark head.
"He let me pass for the price of a song," she said, her rich voice holding us all in thrall; of course, I remembered, she was in exile in Alba, and would thus have been summoned to attend. "Once thence, and once back. As best I can tell, he is governed by whim. To what whim did the Cruarch of Alba cater? That is the question."
Alcuin cleared his throat. It was a small sound, but everyone listened.
"They spoke of a vision." He glanced apologetically at Delaunay. "I was stationed close to the Alban delegation, but it is difficult to transcribe accurately and overhear, my lord. Still, I heard somewhat of a vision, of the King’s sister; a black boar and a silver swan."
"The King’s sister." Quintilius Rousse made a sour face. "Ye gods beyond, Lyonette? What’s she up to now?"
"No, no." Alcuin shook his head. "The sister of the Cruarch, the Pictish King, mother of his heir."
"Lyonette has naught to do with her," Gaspar Trevalion observed, "but I note she took the Cruarch’s wife under her wing, or paw, as it might happen. One almost wished to warn the poor thing that there are claws beneath those velvet pads."
"Lyonette de la Courcel de Trevalion would be well advised to guard herself against such prey," Thelesis murmured. "The Cruarch’s wife, Foclaidha, is descended from the Brugantü, under the aegis of the red bull. The Lioness of Azzalle would do well to beware her horns."
"Her boys are strapping things," Quintilius Rousse observed, nonplussed. "Did’ye see the size o' the eldest lad? None too pleased to play second fiddle to a cripple, either."
"You refer to the Prince of the Picti?" The Comte de Somerville’s tone might have sounded condescending, were it not for the obvious affection with which he addressed the naval commander. "A dusky little thing, but almost pretty beneath the blue. Pity about the leg. What was his name?"
"Drustan." Delaunay said it laughing. "Don’t even think it, Percy!"
"I’d never." The Comte de Somerville’s eyes glinted with amusement. "You know I’m too politic for that, old friend."
I sipped at a glass of wine, my head spinning at the level of conversation. "Are they truly painted blue?" I asked. The question sounded plaintively naive to my own ears.
"As truly as the Servants of Naamah earn her marque," Thelesis de Mornay answered me kindly. "Warriors of the Cruithne bear the symbols of their caste upon their faces and bodies, tattooed in blue woad by their own marquists' needles. Our fine lords may laugh, but young Drustan’s markings bear witness to his lineage and attest that he has won his spurs in battle. Do not be misled by his twisted foot."
"But what," asked Gaspar Trevalion, "do they want?" Having asked the question, he glanced around the couches. No one ventured an answer. "Do they come seeking trade? Fulfillment of a vision? Protection from Skaldic longboats? It is rumored on the coast of Azzalle that the Skaldi have sought to cross the Northernmost Seas to raid Alba, but what can we do? Even Quintilius Rousse cannot sail a fleet up the strait."
The admiral coughed. "It is also. . . rumored…that D’Angeline ships have sought a southwesterly route, and that the Cruithne and the Dalriada make for inhospitable landings. I do not think it is protection at sea they seek."
"Trade." Delaunay ran his finger absently around the rim of his glass, "Everyone desires trade. And it is a form of power, of freedom; the propagation of culture is the guarantor of immortality. How it must gall them, to look across the straits and see a world untouchable. And we, the jewel of the land, so close; so far. Do you never wonder why the Skaldi ever press our borders?" He looked up sharply, his wits in full stride. "No? We are marked, my friends, by the heritage of Blessed Elua and his Companions. We thrive, where other nations struggle. We live out our days in wine, song and abundance, nestled on the breast of this golden land, raising our sons and daughters to peerless beauty, and wonder, then, why we must defend our borders. We raise desire to an art form, and cry foul when it awakens its bloody echoes."
"We have raised more than desire to an art form," said the Comte de Somerville, and there was a grim reminder of steel in his voice. "We defend our borders."
"So we do," Quintilius Rousse agreed. "So we do."
There is a martial solemnity that follows this sort of proclamation; I heard it then, and I have heard it since. In its silence, Alcuin shook his head. "But the Master of the Straits has no interest in trade," he murmured. "So there is somewhat more to the matter."