It went on for a long time. I feigned stumbles and offered false openings, recovering in the nick of time. I parried with the merest flick of the wrists I could manage, hoarding my strength. Step by step, I lead Eamonn mac Grainne on a dull, wearying dance back and forth across the greensward, and I watched his grin fade, replaced by exhausted frustration. He grew slow to raising his buckler, and I began to attack him once more.

How long it lasted, I could not say. It felt like hours.

Our audience jeered and made catcalls and eventually lost interest altogether, except perhaps for a few. Locked together in a private world, Eamonn and I continued to trade blows, sweat-drenched, moving as slowly as one does in a dream.

In the end, I got inside his guard, beating his sword aside; but once I had gotten there, I lacked the strength to regroup. Keeping his sword-arm pinned low and outside, I leaned against his shield, breathing hard. Both of us were swaying on our feet, nearly holding each other upright.

"Truce?" Eamonn said hoarsely.

"Truce," I agreed.

With a groan, he dropped onto the grass and sprawled on his back. I dropped beside him, staring at the blue sky, my chest heaving. I could not remember being more exhausted, not even after helping clear the new pasture in Montrève.

"Imri?" Alais' face appeared in my field of vision, disconcertingly inverted. "Is it a draw, then?"

Too weary to speak, I nodded.

"Oh, good!" Her upside-down face vanished, and I heard Drustan proclaim the match a draw to a fresh round of jeers. I was too tired to even consider rising.

Beside me, Eamonn began to chuckle. "Good bout," he said.

I turned my head toward him. "Not bad."

Lying on the grass, too weary to move, both of us laughed like idiots. Phèdre was right, it was a foolish and unnecessary thing we had done; but it was a glorious one, too. And somehow in the process, we had become friends.

Chapter Nineteen

What followed was one of the happiest times of my life. True friendship must be akin to romance, I think; only without all the anguish and anxiety. After our bout, Eamonn and I became inseparable.

At Court, we made an odd pair. The rumor went about that we were lovers, of course, though there was no truth to it, or at least not in the physical sense. Although it was common practice in Terre d'Ange, after Daršanga, I had seen too much of men's cruelty for the notion to appeal for me. As the Dowayne of Balm House had noted, I was unready to address that wound.

Eamonn thought it was funny. "You people do like your buggery!" he said, laughing.

"Oh, and the Dalriada don't?" I asked him. "Tell me truly."

"Only on long hunting trips." He grinned, unperturbed. "I'm game if you are! Dagda Mor, you're pretty enough for it, Imriel."

"True," I said. "But you're not." It only made him laugh harder.

My Court friends thought it strange. Eamonn was well-liked—it was hard to dislike him, good-natured as he was—but he had no head for the subtleties of the Court, and no great command of the tongue. He was simple, direct, and honest.

It made it easy to be in his company. But it was a mistake to underestimate his intelligence, as most of the gentry did. Most D'Angelines, I fear, are terrible snobs. I loved my country as much as anyone and perhaps more than most. I had cause, having been snatched from it, having witnessed the impossible heroism of which our people are capable at their finest. But I had witnessed acts of heartbreaking valor by people of other nations, too, and I was under no illusion that D'Angeline blood confers any superiority.

We are a pretty folk, as Eamonn said. It is a legacy of Elua and his Companions, whose blood runs in our veins. I had seen one of the One God's angels, and the beauty of Rahab in his true form was almost unbearable. But physical beauty was meaningless in and of itself. I should know, being my mother's son. It was Blessed Elua's precept, not his bloodline, that offered us a chance to make ourselves truly better. It meant somewhat more than license to conduct endless affairs, a fact my fellow countrymen often forget.

Eamonn and I spoke of such matters.

He was endlessly curious about Terre d'Ange, and eager to meet his father; although he attached less weight to it than I would have reckoned. I suppose it shouldn't have surprised me, since I had little interest in my own. I learned Eamonn was one of five children born to Grainne mac Conor, the Lady of the Dalriada. All of them had different fathers, save his two younger sisters. He was the restless one among them, not content to stay bound by Alba's shores.

"It is my father's blood, my mother says," he told me. "He is a wanderer, too."

"It must run in the family," I said. "They say his grandfather was Tiberian."

"Ah, yes!" Eamonn beamed. "I plan to go there, to Tiberium. It is something no other Dalriada has ever done. Is it not a center of learning?"

"The University is," I said. "Eamonn, do you speak Caerdicci?"

"No," he said cheerfully. "I was hoping you would teach me."

Word came that Admiral Rousse's flagship had made port at Marsilikos. Messengers were sent to meet the Admiral, who blazed a path up Eisheth's Way to the City of Elua, riding hard to meet his half-Eiran son.

That, too, was a spectacle.

"Elua's Balls!" Quintilius Rousse roared, grabbing Eamonn by both shoulders. "You've a look of your mother, lad! You're one to make a man proud, you are. By the seven hells, that was a magnificent woman, eh?"

"Oh, she still is, Father!" Eamonn grinned.

"No doubt." Quintilius Rousse swatted Eamonn on the back, staggering him. "No doubt, lad!" He winked at Phèdre. "Right, my lady?"

Phèdre smiled. "The Lord and Lady of the Dalriada were magnificent alike."

"Ah, Eamonn." Rousse grew pensive. "A fine man, your uncle. I mourned his loss. I hope you're honored to be his namesake, lad."

"Oh, yes," he said earnestly. "I am."

There was a lengthy fete that night to celebrate their reunion, and one unlike most Court affairs. There were more of Drustan's Cruithne present than usual, and Ysandre had invited a number of men from Rousse's old crew; sailors who had risen to appointments of their own.

Phèdre's Boys.

It was a raucous night. Sidonie and Alais, who attended the supper, were dismissed early. I felt sorry for Alais, who dragged her feet, departing reluctantly. Sidonie's expression was cool and unfathomable, and I supposed she was glad to go. For my part, I was glad to stay.

They were all survivors, and some things only survivors may share. They did, that night, reliving the experience and retelling the stories—the battle of Bryn Gorrydum, the crossing of the Straits, the battle of Troyes-le-Mont. Eamonn and I both listened in fascination, catching one another's eye, nodding in understanding. In different ways, this was our common heritage.

Toward the end of the evening, Drustan ordered a keg of uisghe breached. It was a strong, fiery drink, and even though I sipped it with care, it made my head spin. I heard laughter as it circulated, and then impassioned toasts drunk to the fallen dead—to Eamonn mac Conor, to Drustan's sister Moiread, to Remy and Fortun, two of Phèdre's Boys who lost their lives in La Serenissima, thanks to my mother's treachery. And after those and many others, too many to count, I heard the D'Angeline voices of Phèdre's Boys raised in a marching-chant.

"Man or woman, we don't care; give us twins, we'll take the pair!"

In the grip of a sudden, unwelcome understanding, I squinted at Phèdre. Her face, lovely and alight with memory, swam in my vision.

"Did you bed his…" I gestured vaguely at Eamonn. "What, both of them?"

Phèdre glanced at Joscelin, who shrugged. "It's a peculiar form of diplomacy," he said. "But oddly effective in its own way."

"I'm sorry, love," Phèdre apologized to me. "I thought you knew."

"No." I seized the pitcher of uisghe as it passed, pouring a cup and draining it. "Is there a list I should consult? Mayhap in the Royal Archives?"

"There's a thought." Joscelin's dry voice was the last thing I heard before my head struck the table. Much later, I awoke in my own bed to a vague memory of being led, stumbling, from the Queen's banquet hall, my arms slung over the shoulders of Joscelin and Ti-Philippe. It was a good thing we had come by carriage, as I'm sure I couldn't have ridden that night.

I avoided Eamonn as best I could for several days, pleading illness. Of a surety, it was true the first day. But then the time came for Quintilius Rousse to depart and for us to make ready to travel to Montrève, and once that occurred, I could no longer avoid Eamonn's company.

On the road, it was he who broached the subject. "Why are you angry at me, Imriel?"

I stared straight ahead through the Bastard's pricked ears. "I'm not."

"You are," he said simply.

I stole a sidelong glance at him. His face was so open and earnest, it made my heart ache. "It's not you," I said, sighing. "It's just… ah, Elua! Does everything always have to be so entangled?"

"No," Eamonn said slowly. "But I think it is what happens when people are at the center of great events. Maybe we are lucky to live in the aftertimes." He rubbed his chin in thought. "Do you know what my mother said about Phèdre?"

"Do I want to?" I asked in a sour tone.

He ignored my comment. "She said she was probably the bravest person she had ever met." He smiled a little, remembering. "She said it was something most people would not recognize, especially men, who think courage only matters in fighting. But that it is true."

"Oh." Whatever I had expected, it wasn't that. I looked over at Phèdre, riding some distance away, and felt ashamed. Eamonn's mother didn't know the half of it. Even Joscelin wouldn't have gone into Daršanga if not for his vow. "Eamonn, I'm sorry. I'm an idiot sometimes."

"True," he agreed. "Are you finished?"

"For now." I smiled. "It may happen again."

"That's all right," he said cheerfully. "If I had a foster-mother so beautiful, I would be jealous, too."

"It's not that!" I said.

He merely looked at me.

"All right." I flushed. "A little, mayhap."

"I would be," Eamonn said.

There was no talk of dark mirrors and frightening desires. I was sixteen years old, and my foster-mother was the most famous courtesan in the realm. Eamonn made it seem so simple and normal.

It wasn't, of course; not really.

I still had dreams that woke me in a cold sweat, at once nauseated and aching with desire. I knew the shadow lay in me, waiting. But Eamonn's sunny company drove it into hiding, as surely as that of my Shahrizai kin brought it to the fore. And for that, I was grateful.

For his part, Eamonn regarded Phèdre with frank awe; and Joscelin, too, for different reasons. And as they came to know him better on the ride to Montrève, I could see that they began to return his regard with amused affection. It made me feel good, almost as though I had a brother; albeit an unexpectedly large and ebullient one.

We had fun at Montrève.

In the countryside, Eamonn fit in more than he had in the City, and there was no snide talk from the Siovalese commonfolk as there was among the gentry. The Dalriada were heroes of legend, and they were delighted to have one in their midst.

Especially the young women.

It took me by surprise, although it shouldn't have. Eamonn loved women with the same unabashed passion with which he did everything else. At Court, his lack of sophistication at the Game of Courtship was regarded with a certain amused tolerance; in the country, his candid ardor met with approval. And he was a strapping figure. If he lacked a pretty face, it was an interesting one, revealing an odd, rough-hewn beauty at times.

"I think he's quite handsome," Katherine declared. "In a funny sort of way."

"You're mad," Gilot observed. Their romance had resumed upon our arrival, stronger than ever, and I wondered if Gilot would accompany us when we returned to the City this fall, or request to remain at Montrève.

"You don't understand women," Katherine teased him.

"I understand you," he retorted. "Don't I, now?"

At that, Charles and I rolled our eyes at one another in a rare moment of accord. I saw less of him this summer; in part because at sixteen, he was old enough to ride regularly with the Montrèvan border patrol headed by his older brother Denis, and in part because of Eamonn. Mostly, it was because our lives had gone in differing directions, furthering the process that had begun when the Shahrizai visited. But we could still agree on the fact that Katherine and Gilot were deadly cloying together.

Even so, Katherine had the right of it. The young women of Montrève and its surroundings liked Eamonn mac Grainne, and he cut a glad swathe through them—housemaids, crofter's daughters, villagers. They seemed to regard bedding him a grand lark.

I learned why.

It was on a day when we rode into the village. Eamonn had a fancy to visit Shemhazai's temple there. It was a small one, but they are all marvels of engineering. Gilot, Hugues and Ti-Philippe accompanied us, but they let us enter alone. The priestess tending it was clad in simple grey robes. She bowed, offering us bowls of incense in exchange for a tribute of coin.

Taking them, we approached the altar.

The figure of Shemhazai was scarce taller than a man, cunningly wrought of gilded metal. An empty bowl lay at its feet. It stood in a niche, head bowed, studying a tablet it held in its left hand. As we approached, it began to move.