was in his heart that it would be a betrayal of his people to do aught else. There was reason for it—Maelcon the Usurper was the old Cruarch's son. To violate tradition now would undermine the legitimacy of his own claim. Although Drustan had made no formal declaration, in Alba, his nephew Talorcan, the eldest son of his sister Breidaia, was widely regarded as his heir.
D'Angelines held a different view.
It sat ill with them to give the succession of Alba over to a complete and utter stranger, a Cruithne with no blood ties to Terre d'Ange. And it sat doubly ill because my cousin Sidonie, Drustan and Ysandre's daughter, had been, from the moment of her birth, the acknowledged Dauphine of Terre d'Ange. It was a double standard, and one that did not favor Terre d'Ange.
If the peers of the realm were willing to accept Sidonie as Ysandre's heir, half-Cruithne though she was, they wanted somewhat in return. They wanted Drustan to name an heir with D'Angeline blood, preferably Alais. They feared that if he didn't, Alba's influence in Terre d'Ange would grow, while our influence in Alba would dwindle.
"What is it your mother wants?" I asked Alais one day, curious.
She sat cross-legged at the foot of my bed, her small face serious. "Truly? She agrees, although she's not willing to say it publicly, not yet. She wants Father to name me his heir."
"Do you think he will?" I asked.
Alais shook her head. "No," she said somberly. "I don't think he can." She paused, furrowing her dark brows. "They're not like us, are they, Imri? Their women don't light candles to Eisheth."
"No," I agreed. "They don't."
We were silent a moment, both of us pondering the mysteries of procreation, of which we had no firsthand knowledge. It was one of Eisheth's gifts to the women of Terre d'Ange—they did not conceive ere they chose, lighting a candle in her name and praying that she open the gates of their wombs. But there were no guarantees, even so; a prayer might be years in the granting.
And a prayer, once made, could not be rescinded.
There were D'Angeline women who had gotten unwanted children.
Not many, for rape was a crime of heresy and punishable by death. Still, it happened; as did errors in judgment.
"What do you want?" I asked Alais.
She rested her chin on her propped hands. "I wouldn't mind," she said. "Alba, I mean. But it won't happen, so I don't know… do you know what I would like?"
I shook my head. "No," I said. "Tell me."
"I'd like to learn to use a sword." Alais' face brightened. "Would you teach me, Imri? No one else will."
I opened my mouth to demur, and the royal guards in attendance snickered. I watched the eager light fade from Alais' face. I thought about the stories I had heard; about Grainne of the Dalriada, who had ridden to war alongside her brother in her wicker chariot, fighting as fiercely as a man. I remembered Daršanga and the women there. I saw Kaneka's hand covering Gashtaham's mouth from behind, her dagger flashing. Blood spurting from the ka-Magus' throat, and Phèdre dragging me out of its spray.
"I would be honored," I said, drawing my bedclothes around me and bowing. "Princess."
Alais beamed.
The following day, I sent Gilot to fetch a pair of wooden practice-swords from the townhouse, but it was Joscelin who brought them. I was so happy to see him, I clambered out of bed and flung my arms around him.
"Gently, love!" He laughed. "You're meant to be a-bed still."
I made a face. "I'm weary of bed rest. Are you in disgrace? I've missed you."
"Only a bit." Joscelin lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.
"I'm sorry," I said.
He grinned at me. "I know. Well, now we've both been punished for our folly. What's this about teaching Princess Alais to use a sword?"
"She asked," I said simply. "And I said I would."
Joscelin nodded as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world. "I brought the daggers, too," he said. "Better to start with those; the swords are a bit heavy."
So it was that I
D'Angelines held a different view.
It sat ill with them to give the succession of Alba over to a complete and utter stranger, a Cruithne with no blood ties to Terre d'Ange. And it sat doubly ill because my cousin Sidonie, Drustan and Ysandre's daughter, had been, from the moment of her birth, the acknowledged Dauphine of Terre d'Ange. It was a double standard, and one that did not favor Terre d'Ange.
If the peers of the realm were willing to accept Sidonie as Ysandre's heir, half-Cruithne though she was, they wanted somewhat in return. They wanted Drustan to name an heir with D'Angeline blood, preferably Alais. They feared that if he didn't, Alba's influence in Terre d'Ange would grow, while our influence in Alba would dwindle.
"What is it your mother wants?" I asked Alais one day, curious.
She sat cross-legged at the foot of my bed, her small face serious. "Truly? She agrees, although she's not willing to say it publicly, not yet. She wants Father to name me his heir."
"Do you think he will?" I asked.
Alais shook her head. "No," she said somberly. "I don't think he can." She paused, furrowing her dark brows. "They're not like us, are they, Imri? Their women don't light candles to Eisheth."
"No," I agreed. "They don't."
We were silent a moment, both of us pondering the mysteries of procreation, of which we had no firsthand knowledge. It was one of Eisheth's gifts to the women of Terre d'Ange—they did not conceive ere they chose, lighting a candle in her name and praying that she open the gates of their wombs. But there were no guarantees, even so; a prayer might be years in the granting.
And a prayer, once made, could not be rescinded.
There were D'Angeline women who had gotten unwanted children.
Not many, for rape was a crime of heresy and punishable by death. Still, it happened; as did errors in judgment.
"What do you want?" I asked Alais.
She rested her chin on her propped hands. "I wouldn't mind," she said. "Alba, I mean. But it won't happen, so I don't know… do you know what I would like?"
I shook my head. "No," I said. "Tell me."
"I'd like to learn to use a sword." Alais' face brightened. "Would you teach me, Imri? No one else will."
I opened my mouth to demur, and the royal guards in attendance snickered. I watched the eager light fade from Alais' face. I thought about the stories I had heard; about Grainne of the Dalriada, who had ridden to war alongside her brother in her wicker chariot, fighting as fiercely as a man. I remembered Daršanga and the women there. I saw Kaneka's hand covering Gashtaham's mouth from behind, her dagger flashing. Blood spurting from the ka-Magus' throat, and Phèdre dragging me out of its spray.
"I would be honored," I said, drawing my bedclothes around me and bowing. "Princess."
Alais beamed.
The following day, I sent Gilot to fetch a pair of wooden practice-swords from the townhouse, but it was Joscelin who brought them. I was so happy to see him, I clambered out of bed and flung my arms around him.
"Gently, love!" He laughed. "You're meant to be a-bed still."
I made a face. "I'm weary of bed rest. Are you in disgrace? I've missed you."
"Only a bit." Joscelin lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.
"I'm sorry," I said.
He grinned at me. "I know. Well, now we've both been punished for our folly. What's this about teaching Princess Alais to use a sword?"
"She asked," I said simply. "And I said I would."
Joscelin nodded as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world. "I brought the daggers, too," he said. "Better to start with those; the swords are a bit heavy."
So it was that I
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