"Any other night you wished." Her gaze was steady, but her color rose.

Another wave of desire rolled over me. Fighting the urge to haul her onto my lap and kiss her all over, I shuddered and handed her the comb. "I think you'd better finish this yourself, and I think we'd better not talk about this, either, or we'll end up delaying the entire procession."

Sidonie took the comb without comment, watching as I rose and crossed the pavilion.

"Yes," I said at length, looking back at her. "To you, yes."

She smiled wickedly. "Good."

By the time we emerged from the pavilion, the campsite was bustling with activity. Drustan's pavilion had already been taken down, as had many of the smaller tents. Ti-Philippe glanced up as we approached the makeshift dining table, his face splitting in a broad grin. I ignored him studiously, helping myself to a plate of cold pheasant and farmer's cheese. As it happened, I was ravenous.

In truth, I didn't mind the smiles, not really. Not from folk I loved and trusted. I would have expected Sidonie to respond to them with cool aplomb, but in fact, she seemed quietly amused by it. I wondered if, by the time we'd been together as long as Phedre and Joscelin, I'd be able to predict her reactions.

I wasn't sure I would.

I wasn't sure I wanted to, either.

The only shadow cast over that morning came from Talorcan. He came from the picket-lines and passed by the table. Upon seeing Sidonie and me seated side by side, he paused, a muscle in his jaw working.

"Could you not have waited a few more days?" he asked me in a low voice. "The sod has barely settled above the bear-witch's grave. Did my sister deserve so little respect?"

It was unexpected. I glanced up at him, seeing the sorrow and grief and bitter failure in his dark eyes. "Talorcan, there was no-"

"Do you say Imriel should have refused me, cousin?" Sidonie inquired.

Dark blood suffused Talorcan's face. "Of course not."

"Then it is I who owes you an apology," she said gravely. "Not Imriel. For I was the one to extend my hand to him. I assure you, in the name of Blessed Elua and his Companions, and all the gods and goddesses of Alba, there was no disrespect intended. If there was a semblance of it, I do apologize."

The muscle in his jaw twitched. "No apology is needed," he said curtly.

"Tal, my prince." Urist, seated on the opposite side of the table, heaved himself to his feet, leaning on his walking-stick. He clapped the Cruarch's heir on the shoulder. "Take a walk with me, will you? I've a mind to tell you a tale."

We watched them walk away.

"You know," Joscelin said wistfully, "betimes I miss the days when the worst of our problems could be solved at sword-point."

I glanced at Sidonie and smiled. "I don't."

After that, though, there was peace; at least of a sort. Whatever Urist said to Talorcan-and I daresay it had to do with the promise he'd made Dorelei-there was no more animosity between us. He made an effort to tamp down his hurt and his anger; and I didn't blame him for it, anyway. In his place, I would have felt the same. Still, I kept a careful eye on him, concerned for Alais' sake. They were courteous with one another, and betimes there seemed to be genuine warmth between them.

At other times, there didn't.

So many uncertainties, so many things to ponder! We tried, Sidonie and I, to find a time to talk freely without the world listening. But there was little privacy on the road by day, and hushed conversations in her pavilion by night turned quickly to somewhat else. We had been parted for far, far too long.

All too soon, we arrived at Bryn Gorrydum.

I would have been content to have the journey last longer. It was an in-between time, a happy time. Such times never last. True to his word, Drustan had held off speaking to me about my relationship with his eldest daughter until we reached Bryn Gorrydum. But that first night, he did. It was a quiet affair, a dinner amongst family and friends. When Sidonie rose to retire, Drustan shook his head at me.

So I stayed.

Everyone else left, taking their cues from the Cruarch of Alba. I slid down the bench to sit opposite Drustan, pouring uisghe for us both. I'd celebrated my Alban nuptials in this great hall. I'd composed a heartfelt poem in Dorelei's honor. I'd fought with staves against some fellow named Goraidh and won. And on the night we'd wed, I'd lain sleepless, creeping at last from the bed we shared to read the letter Sidonie had sent to me. Here in this very hall, I'd removed the croonie-stone from around my throat; laughed and wept and realized I truly did love her, madly and hopelessly and always.

I sat across from Drustan and folded my hands on the table.

He cleared his throat. "Sidonie."

I nodded. "I love her, my lord."

"I can see that." Drustan shook his head impatiently. It was a gesture Sidonie had inherited. I'd never noticed before; he didn't do it often in public, any more than she did. "The both of you make it quite obvious. By the Boar, Imriel! You will always be family. I said that to you. Do you recall?"

My heart ached. "I do, my lord."

He fixed me with a hard gaze. "You knew then, didn't you?"

"Yes," I said steadily. "And mayhap I should have spoken to you, but I was grievously hurt and racked by guilt. Of a surety, I should have spoken to you before Dorelei and I wed. My lord, I will tell you what I told your wife. I have known since Sidonie was sixteen. We doubted. We were afraid; too young, too uncertain. We should have trusted Blessed Elua's precept. We did not. That was our mistake."

"And now you stand to make a hypocrite of me," Drustan murmured.

"My lord!" I protested.

He held up one hand and drained his cup. I refilled it. "I will not oppose your union," he said in his direct manner. "Neither will I support it. I would have you understand why."

"I'm listening," I said.

"I think you're a fine young man, Imriel," Drustan said. "You've overcome a great deal in your life. You were raised by two people I trust beyond all doubt. You served Alba well; in truth, better than Alba served you. And I would indeed be a hypocrite of the worst kind if I believed that you were worthy of my niece, but not my daughter." His mouth twisted wryly. "Urist was kind enough to point that out to me."

"Urist has been good to me," I said.

"He's come to respect you," Drustan said. "Which is another point in your favor. I value Urist's judgment. If he says you were a good lord of Clunderry and a good husband to Dorelei, I believe it to be true."

I swirled the uisghe in my cup. "And yet."

"And yet." Drustan nodded. "Imriel, Ysandre was scarce older than you are now when she took the throne and inherited a realm poisoned by treason, poised on the brink of utter conquest." His voice was gentle. "You've seen battle, I know. I do not think you can imagine the scope of this war. Ysandre is strong and determined. She was always prepared to defend the throne from those who sought to usurp it from within, and to defend the borders of Terre d'Ange from those who sought to assail it from without. But never in her darkest dreams did she suspect one of her own people would betray the very beating heart of Terre d'Ange into the hands of the Skaldi."

I took a gulp of fiery liquid. "I know, my lord. I know what my mother did."

' 'Tis one thing to know it, and another to live through it," Drustan said quietly. "This land is my heart and soul. I love it beyond all telling. If one of my clan-lords betrayed Alba in such a manner, I would raze the very earth on which he walked to purify the land of his touch. I would know no peace until he was destroyed utterly. I'm not D'Angeline. I do not share the profound depths of Ysandre's horror at the thought of Melisande Shahrizai's son wedding her heir ...but I understand it, all too well. No force on earth can diminish the shock of that betrayal. It goes deeper than words. And for that reason, out of respect for my wife, I cannot give you my blessing."

There wasn't much I could say in reply. I refilled our cups and drank.

"Do you understand?" Drustan asked.

"Yes." I set down my cup. "I do, my lord. But 'tis a piece of irony. It was Ysandre herself who fought so hard to see me found. To heal the rifts within the realm and House Courcel with love and forgiveness." I smiled bitterly. "What are Sidonie and I doing if not that very thing? Of a surety, Ysandre had no qualms about letting Melisande Shahrizai's son wed your sister's daughter when it suited her political needs. What do you call that if not hypocrisy, my lord?"

"I'm not defending it, Imriel." To his credit, Drustan looked disturbed. "But this isn't a matter of reason. All the reason in the world cannot change her heart."

"A man's heart may change in a day," I said, thinking about what Adelmar of the Frisii had said when I'd challenged Berlik's sincerity as a pilgrim. He'd spoken sardonically, but as it happened, he had been right. "What might change Ysandre's, my lord?"

Drustan shook his head. "That, I fear, you must discover for yourself."

I gazed at him for a long moment. "Will you give us your blessing if I do?"

"I will." His voice was firm.

"Then I'll find a way," I said simply.

He drank the last of the uisghe in his cup, then rose and extended his hand. I stood, and we clasped hands across the table. "I pray you do."

I made my way up the stairs to my bedchamber. I'd carried Dorelei up those stairs on our wedding night, to the very same chamber that Sidonie and I had been given to share. The thought gave me a pang, but not enough to deter me. I murmured a prayer to Dorelei's spirit, asking her forgiveness as I pushed open the door.

A single candle was burning low on the bedside table, guttering in a pool of wax. Sidonie lifted her head from the pillow, lying propped on one arm. Her hair was loose, honey-gold locks spilling over her creamy shoulders. I stood in the doorway and gazed at her, the tide of desire rising in my veins. A faint smile touched her lips. "Well?"

"Not good," I said. "But not bad, either."

She turned back the covers. "Come here."

I went.

Chapter Seventy-Four.

Once again, we made our farewells. I had a long talk with Alais before we departed, just the two of us. I knew Sidonie had spoken to her, too, and later we would discuss it, but I wanted time alone with Alais. She was the sister of my heart, and in many ways, my oldest friend. If she hadn't been there after Dorelei's death, I wasn't sure I'd have found the will to recover.We climbed up one of the watchtowers to the parapet of Bryn Gorrydum, empty and windswept. It was one of the few places where one could talk undisturbed. For a time, we simply strolled together.

Alais had changed. How not? She was seventeen, a year older than when I'd left her. It wasn't just age, though. Alba had changed her. She was at home here in a way she'd never been in Terre d'Ange. And Dorelei's death had changed her. She had been a serious child with a charming streak of spontaneity, then a prickly adolescent. Now, she was a thoughtful young woman.

"I worry about you," I told her.

"Me?" Alais flashed a smile at me. "You're the one draws trouble wherever you go."

"No good comes of disobeying Blessed Elua's precept," I observed.

"Talorcan." She sighed, gazing out at the Straits. "I know. He's grieving over his sister's death and angry at his failure. Still, what would you have me do, Imri? I am fond of him. And Alba..." Her voice trailed off. The wind plucked at her black curls. "Alba, I love."

"Enough to wed a man you don't?" I asked. "And seek to change the laws of succession?"

Her chin rose. "Mayhap."

There was an almighty stubbornness in her violet eyes; and Elua's priests acknowledge all manner of love. If Alais chose to act out of love for Alba, I had no footing to gainsay it. I took her shoulders in my hands. "I want happiness for you, that's all."

"I am happy," Alais said in a low voice. "Imri...we're not all given the same sort of happiness. This is where I belong, where I'm meant to be. Why and how and what I'm meant to do..." She shook her head. "That's my task, figuring it out."

"Don't try too hard, love." My throat tightened. "Madness lies that way."

"I know." Alais' face was grave. "I won't forget, I promise. After what happened, we are all mindful of it. Conor said..." Her words broke off again and she flushed.

I grinned. "Oh, Conor, is it?"

"Don't tease!" Her flush deepened. "About you and Sidonie ...I'm sorry to have taken it amiss, before. I know there was no hurt intended." I let go of her shoulders, and Alais took my right hand in both of hers, gazing at the gold knot on my finger. "You're good together. I didn't think you would be, but you are. And Imri..." Her voice grew small. "I think she's going to need you. I think she's going to need you very badly, one day."

A chill chased the length of my spine. "Is that a true dream?"

"No." Alais shook her head. "It's only a feeling. If I ever have a dream, a true dream, I'll send word." She lifted her head to gaze at me. "You are a hero, you know. At least to me."

I kissed her brow. "I'd as soon be a brother."

"That, too. Always." She smiled, her expression lightening. "Next spring, will you come to Alba and bring me a puppy?"

"One of Celeste's kin?" I asked.

Alais' eyes were bright. "Yes, please. You choose. I trust you."

I hugged her, holding her close, feeling her cling to me. "Of course."

"Just be safe," Alais whispered in my ear. "Both of you. Promise?"

"I'll try," I said. "You, too."

She nodded. "I'll try."

On the day of our departure, there was a considerable crowd gathered. I was touched to see that almost all the men of Clunderry's garrison who'd ridden together in the hunt had come ...Kinadius, Deordivus, Domnach, Brun ...Urist, of course. It was harder parting from him than I'd reckoned. We'd been through a great deal together.

He gave me a swift, hard embrace. "Take care of yourself, lad." His black eyes glinting, he poked my brow with a callused fingertip. "Wish we could have gotten some proper warrior's markings on you."

I smiled. "Try to give that leg a rest, will you?"

And then there were no more farewells to be made, only the Cruarch's flagship loaded and waiting. We filed aboard the ship; Sidonie and her retinue, Montreve's small company. Hyacinthe had not come, but I had no doubt he was watching in his sea-mirror, for a friendly breeze sprang up at our backs as the ship's prow swung toward the open sea. We crowded into the stern, waving as the harbor dwindled behind us.

"I can't believe I finally got to go on a great adventure, and you never even drew your sword," Hugues said to Joscelin, sounding a bit mournful.

Joscelin gave him a sardonic glance. "I was jesting the other day. Be glad of it."

"I am." Phedre took Joscelin's arm. "I'm glad that we went, and glad to find it wasn't needful. You've had enough fighting and death for one lifetime, love." Her gaze touched on me then, filled with soft emotion. "And above all else, I'm glad that you're alive and well and coming home, Imri."

"So am I." I laughed aloud for the sheer joy of it. "Elua! So am I."

It was another swift journey, sped by the hand of the Master of the Straits. I shared the state cabin with Sidonie that night and we made tireless love in the plunging darkness, finding after some trial and error that it worked best if she rode astride me, rocking gently, the rise and swell of the waves beneath the ship echoing our bodies' motion, soft gasps and moans echoing the splash of the rushing water, the creaking of the wooden hull. Things were still slow and sweet between us, our reunion touched with lingering tenderness and the awe of that first night. The sharper pleasures life offered could wait.

There was time, and time was a luxury.

We reveled in it, and in each other.

In the morning, Sidonie and I went to watch the coastline of Terre d'Ange appear on the horizon. A pair of her guards trailed us at a discreet distance, but no one disturbed us. The night's chill still hung in the air. I stood behind her in the prow of the ship, my cloak wrapped around us both, gazing over her shoulder.