"How in the world do you manage to do this?" Eamonn shook his head in disbelief. "I swear, Imriel, you stumble into the most difficult things!”

"Oh, thus speaks the man who spent a Skaldic winter slaving to win the hand of his ill-tempered bride!" I observed sharply.

Eamonn grinned and beckoned for more ale. "She's not ill-tempered with me. Well, not anymore. Not usually." He fished on the table for coins to pay for the ale, waiting for the barkeep to leave. "So tell me, Imri. Which is she? A Claudia or a Helena?" I looked at him, uncomprehending. "A wanton you long to debauch or an innocent you want to protect?" he clarified. "Oh, come! You tumbled into Claudia's marriage-bed without a second thought, and you lopped off Valpetra's hand to save Helena without even having met her. Surely you've noticed you're drawn to one or the other.”

"I hadn't, actually." I thought about it and smiled. "Both.”

"You are in trouble." Eamonn raised his brows. "What do you mean to do?”

"Hope it passes." I shrugged. "We're both hoping.”

"That's why Sidonie went to Naamah's shrine?" he asked. "To get away?”

I nodded. "It was too hard being under the same roof together.”

Eamonn gave me a dubious look. "I'm not laughing, Imri, but it is hard to fathom. What will you do when she returns?”

"I don't know." I shook my head. "I was thinking of taking Dorelei to tour my holdings to the north…I don't know. I hadn't decided, and then you showed up, and I've not made any plans since.”

"I've an idea," Eamonn said slowly. "Come with me.”

"To Alba?" I stared at him. "Now?”

"Why not?" He grinned. "I'd be pleased to no end to have you, and Brigitta wouldn't mind. She quite likes Dorelei. You could pay your respects to my lady mother before your Alban nuptials. Surely, the Lady of the Dalriada deserves no less from a D'Angeline prince. After all, I was named for her brother my uncle, who died defending Terre d'Ange.”

"Yes, I know," I said absently. "She carried his head home in a bag.”

"True," Eamonn agreed. "It's buried atop the mound in Innisclan. Pity she didn't get the head of the man who killed him to bury at the foot, he would have rested easier for it. But you could make an offering there. It would be fitting.”

"Ysandre would never—" I reflected. "Well, she might.”

"There's a debt of honor owed," he said pragmatically. "She's never deigned to visit. What better opportunity than to send you, your bride, and a large armed company to escort the Lady's wayward son home?”

It seemed like a mad adventure when he first proposed it, but the longer I thought about it, the more sense it made. Eamonn was right, Terre d'Ange did owe a debt to the Dalriada, and his arrival forged the perfect opportunity to acknowledge it. Dorelei and I were bound for Alba anyway. Our wedding had been witnessed by the peers of the realm here, who could now assure themselves that the line of succession in Alba wouldn't revert wholly to the Cruithne, shutting out Terre d'Ange's influence. Nothing more was needful.

It made sense; it made a great deal of sense. My heart protested at it—ah, Elua! I didn't want to leave D'Angeline soil any sooner than I had to. And yet something had to be done. Mayhap with the Straits between us, Sidonie and I would find our ardor cooling and our infatuation passing. And if we didn't…well.

I hoped we would at the same time I prayed we didn't.

"All right, then." I hoisted my tankard. "To the Dalriada!”

Chapter Sixteen

Phèdre turned pale when I told her the idea."You don't think it's wise?" I asked.

"No, it's not that." She laughed, but there was sorrow in it. "The opposite, in fact. I think it's an excellent plan. I'm being selfish, that's all. I didn't expect to lose you again quite this soon.”

"I know," I said. "I hate it, too. But—”

"No, no." She shook her head. "You're right, it's for the best.”

Joscelin, who was sharpening one of Eugènie's kitchen cleavers as he listened, tested it on his thumb and swore mildly when it cut him. "Elua! These things hold an edge. What does she use them for, anyway?”

"Much the same thing you do, my love, only it results in dinner." Phèdre passed him a silk kerchief. "Here.”

He wrapped his bleeding thumb. "Why don't we go with them?”

"To Alba?" Her color began to return. "You and I?”

Joscelin gave his half-smile. "We were bound to go for the Alban rites, anyway. It's only a couple months early, and Ysandre might like the plan better with the Queen's Champion riding in attendance. Besides, you could pay your respects to the Lady Grainne.”

"And Hyacinthe?" Phèdre's eyes sparkled.

"Yes, and that damned Tsingano." Joscelin caught her about the waist and kissed her. "Exactly how respectful do you plan on being?”

She laughed and kissed him back without answering.

It made me smile. There is no one else in the world, I think, who would refer to the Master of the Straits as "that damned Tsingano." But Joscelin had the right, if anyone did. They had all known each other long ago, and Phèdre had loved Hyacinthe, too. I daresay in a part of her heart, she still did. To his credit, it didn't seem to bother Joscelin, not really. I hadn't understood before why her feelings for some of her former patrons and lovers bothered him, and others didn't. I understood it better now.

All in all, Eamonn's plan was well received. Dorelei had been delighted by it, so much so that it made me feel guilty to see the happiness that transformed her face and realize I'd never seen her truly happy before. All of us together begged a formal audience of the Queen and Cruarch and presented our proposal.

I could tell by the look of approval in Drustan's eyes that he liked the idea. Ysandre rested her chin in one hand and gazed at us for a long time, considering it. Her gaze rested the longest on Phèdre and Joscelin.

"You know," she mused. " 'Tis a strange day indeed when the two of you are to be entrusted as my sensible elder statesmen.”

Joscelin smiled. "You've taken far greater risks on us, your majesty.”

"True." Ysandre looked at Eamonn, Brigitta, Dorelei, and me. She shook her head in amazement. "Elua! When I think that the four of us were only a few years older than this lot when the Skal—" She caught herself, mindful of Brigitta's presence. "So be it. However, if it is to be done, let it be done properly. A suitable gift of tribute must be found, and my lord Drustan will need to speak with Ghislain nó Trevalion regarding an escort of Alban and D'Angeline guards. Tarry another week.”

Eamonn bowed. "Your majesty, we'd thought to leave in two days—”

Ysandre raised one hand. "Ah, no! You've made it clear I've been remiss, and I'll not be rushed in this. Why hurry? You may receive word from your father." She smiled. "Besides, Sidonie will be home by then. It would be nice to have all the members of House Courcel under one roof one last time ere you disperse.”

"I agree on all counts," Drustan said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Let it be done properly, or not at all.”

So it was decided.

In the days that followed, an armed escort of fifty men was assembled; thirty D'Angeline and twenty Cruithne. Although Drustan could spare no more than a score of his personal guard, it was agreed that the company would be placed under the command of Urist, one of the most seasoned veterans among the Albans. Supplies were commissioned, messengers sent to the coast of Azzalle to arrange for transport across the Straits.

The inventory lists from the Royal Treasury were procured, and Ysandre and Phèdre spent hours poring over them to select appropriate gifts, assisted by Eamonn, who took a surprising interest in the process.

Brigitta applied herself fervently to the study of Cruithne and Eiran, assisted by Dorelei and Alais, who was the only person deeply unhappy about our plan. Alais begged to be allowed to accompany us. Both her mother and her father refused.

A swift courier arrived from the Lady of Marsilikos, bearing a much-battered oilskin pouch containing a missive from the Royal Admiral Quintilius Rousse promising to meet his son and his bride in Alba, pending the Queen's permission. Ysandre penned a hasty reply granting as much, and the courier dashed back on his errand, racing to catch an outgoing vessel to bear the Queen's letter to Rousse.

And Sidonie returned.

Of all the damnable luck, I was there when her party arrived. I'd meant to be gone; they'd been spotted from the walls and I'd known they were coming. I was planning to meet Mavros and a few of my Shahrizai kin at a manor house a half league outside the city, where they meant to ride to hawks. But I'd gotten delayed leaving the Palace and the ostlers were slow in bringing around the Bastard, who could be fractious.

I was waiting in the courtyard, growing anxious and impatient, wondering if I should go saddle him myself, when they arrived.

It was a fine day, bright and clear and temperate. I saw Sidonie before she saw me. She'd forgone the chariot to ride astride, her skirts draped over her mount's crupper. The sun was bright on her honey-gold hair, looped in a soft coronet. Her face was calm and composed, half-turned toward Amarante, who was riding beside her. The exposed line of her white throat was lovely. And oh, Elua! Nothing had changed.

My mouth went dry.

My heart turned into a lead weight.

I didn't say a word, but Sidonie turned her head as though I'd called to her. If she was surprised to see me, it didn't show. Her expression didn't change. Still, somewhat in it deepened, somewhat only I could see. I bowed and stepped forward to hold her stirrup. Her guards clattered into the courtyard around her, led by Maslin.

"Imriel." Sidonie dismounted, allowing me to assist her. "Thank you.”

"Welcome home, your highness," I said softly. She was wearing the earrings I'd given her. "I hope your pilgrimage was a good one.”

"Yes." She smiled a little, sadly. "Yes, it was.”

Her hands were still resting in mine. I could have stood there forever, holding them; I could have listened to her say my name a thousand times. I rubbed the inside of her left wrist with my thumb, feeling the warm, steady beat of her pulse quicken. "There's news," I said with a lightness I didn't feel. "Eamonn's come back.”

"Oh?" Her black eyes searched mine. "I'm glad to hear it.”

"I'll be …" I swallowed. "I'll be leaving with him in three days' time.”

Sidonie drew a slow, deep breath, gathering strength. Her fingers squeezed mine. "Well, then. I'm glad I returned in time to bid you farewell.”

"So am I," I said hoarsely.

At that moment, the tardy ostler leading the Bastard into the courtyard gave a shout of alarm as the spotted hellion chose to spook at the unexpected sight of so many riders, jerking against the reins and plunging about. Maslin's mounted guards milled and cursed. I dropped Sidonie's hands and ran over to grab the reins. The Bastard gave me a walleyed look, but I glared back at him, and he subsided. I swung myself astride and pointed his head toward the Palace gate.

Maslin blocked my way.

The Bastard checked as I reined him hard. Maslin had dismounted, but he showed no sign of fear. He spread his arms wide, making the Bastard shy and snort. I wrestled with the reins. "You don't fool me, princeling," Maslin said to me, his dark eyes glittering. "I just want you to know that. You don't fool me at all.”

I got the Bastard under control and leaned down. "What's the matter, Maslin?" I whispered to him. "Did you not get what you hoped for?”

The muscles in his lean, handsome face worked. He closed his eyes briefly, making himself strangely vulnerable. As fair-haired as he was, his lashes were dark. I watched him struggle with pride, anger, desire, and dislike. Once, I'd wanted him for a friend. For the space of a few heartbeats, I could see what it was in him that Sidonie liked; a potent mix of caustic honesty and hot-blooded yearning.

It was unnervingly familiar.

"Go." Maslin stepped aside. "The sooner the better.”

"Maslin." I hesitated. "Must we always be this way?”

Our eyes met, then he looked past me. "Yes.”

I turned in the saddle. Sidonie was mounting the Palace steps, Amarante's arm around her waist. Safe harbor. I sighed. "Fine. Do your duty.”

"I am always mindful of my duty," Maslin said stiffly. "Prince Imriel. Can you say the same?”

"Believe it or not," I said to him, "I'm trying.”

I got over the worst of my anger on the short ride to the manor house. By the time I arrived, it had faded, leaving behind a deep and abiding sorrow. It was good to spend time alone with my Shahrizai kin, especially Mavros. I'd gotten in the habit of thinking of Eamonn as my one true friend, but I'd grown close to Mavros. I would miss him.

In a meadow beyond the manor's mews, I told him about the encounter in the courtyard. He shook his head. "Elua's Balls! Whatever possessed you to give him Lombelon, anyway? You do realize if you hadn't, he'd be spreading dung in an orchard somewhere, not plotting his way into the royal heir's bed.”

"I know." I shaded my eyes, watching Mavros' peregrine falcon circle lazily in the blue sky. "I thought it was the right thing to do, that's all.”