Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3)

Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3) Page 78

As before, there was a world of grief behind the words, not for Astegal, but for the City of Elua, for her mother and father, and all who dwelled in the City. It didn’t matter. It was real. It sufficed.

Ysandre paled. “How?”

Sidonie straightened. “It was the Euskerri. Serafin L’Envers y Aragon made a treaty with them. Together they defeated Astegal’s army outside Amílcar. Astegal . . .” She paused. “I am told . . . I am told he was captured and executed. He had left orders for me to flee for my own safety. And there is more—”

“House L’Envers!” Ysandre hissed the word, nails digging into her own forearms. “I should have known it. This conspiracy grows vaster by the day. I swear to Blessed Elua, I could claw that cursed blood from my own veins if I could!”

“Hold.” Drustan lifted one hand. “You said there was more,” he said to Sidonie. “Speak.”

“A ray of hope.” She gazed at her father. “One last gift of my lord’s kinsman Bodeshmun. It is why I was sent swiftly and in secret.”

Ysandre and Drustan exchanged a glance. “Then let us hear this tale in its entirety,” Ysandre said. She pointed at me. “And you may begin with how and why Melisande Shahrizai’s oft-vanished son comes to reappear in your company.”

There were nods and mutters of agreement among Ghislain’s men.

Sidonie inclined her head and began to speak.

In the end, I daresay it was Barquiel L’Envers’ long-standing and well-known dislike of me that sold my end of the tale. They knew he’d helped me get out of the City. When Sidonie stated her belief that he’d done it to get me out of the way for good, it struck a chord. We already knew Joscelin believed it to be true.

“No doubt Uncle Barquiel believed Astegal would be swift to dispatch Imriel when he showed up in Carthage with this mad fantasy of rescuing me.” Sidonie’s voice softened. “But he didn’t know my husband. Astegal took pity on Imriel and had his physicians treat him as best they could. He was kind that way. He had a generous, noble heart.”

Everyone nodded.

I swallowed my bile and tried to look humble.

“And what do you believe now, Imriel de la Courcel?” Drustan asked in an implacable tone.

I spread my hands. “I believe whatever Sidonie tells me. I know there are thoughts in my head that are wrong. I know Sidonie doesn’t love me. I saw that in Carthage. But I believe whatever she tells me, and I would never do anything to harm her or any of you. I just don’t want to be sent away again.”

I sounded like a simpleton to my own ears, but they seemed willing to accept it.

“This is Kratos.” Sidonie switched to Hellene, laying a hand on Kratos’ arm. “He was my lord’s most trusted bodyguard, the companion of his childhood. At Astegal’s command, he has seen me safe these long weeks. Now that we are here, he has agreed to keep watch over poor Imriel.”

Kratos bowed.

Ysandre eyed him coolly and spoke in fluent Hellene. “I do not recall seeing this man when General Astegal’s delegation was here, and he has a rather memorable face.”

Beads of sweat broke out on my brow. It wasn’t a challenge any of us had anticipated. Gods, this was hard! They might have been in the grip of madness and paranoia and easily misled in some ways, but neither Drustan nor Ysandre had lost their faculties.

“No, your majesty.” Kratos offered another bow. “I was a wedding gift.”

Her brows rose. “A wedding gift?”

“My service was to the greater House of Sarkal.” Kratos pressed a fist to his chest. “My lord Astegal’s mother released me into the service of her son’s household that he might have one retainer he trusted beyond all doubt to watch over that which was most precious to him.”

If I hadn’t known better, I would have believed he spoke with absolute sincerity and conviction. Ysandre relaxed, and I thanked the gods for Kratos and his quick wits.

“And a wise woman my lord’s mother proved to be,” Sidonie murmured in D’Angeline. “For in the end, the House of Sarkal was betrayed.”

Although the rest of the tale was almost entirely a skein of lies, Sidonie spun it artfully, telling them how when word of Astegal’s death reached New Carthage, the city devolved into bitter factions grasping for power. That was a familiar notion that fell on willing ears. She told them that on Astegal’s orders, she was to flee with his kinsman Bodeshmun back to Carthage proper; but before it could be arranged, Bodeshmun was slain by the treachery of Gillimas of Hiram, who bribed the Amazigh guards. He’d told her of the protective gem, bade her to flee to the City of Elua instead of Carthage, to find the gem and renew its charm.

Sidonie had witnessed violent death since she’d left her parents’ side. Her description of Bodeshmun’s end, his gasped words and dying rattle, rang horribly true. And through it all ran that raw thread of genuine anguish, giving the weight of truth to her lies.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Ysandre said when Sidonie finished. The unexpected gentleness in her voice brought a lump to my throat. Ysandre glanced at Drustan. “We didn’t mean to doubt you. It’s just . . .”

“I know.” Sidonie shivered. “Alais.”

“You’ve heard?” Drustan asked gravely.

She nodded. “But why? Why would she do it? I don’t understand.”

“No one does. There are theories. But we’ll talk about that on the morrow. You should rest. You must be weary to the bone and grief-stricken atop it.” Ysandre rested her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and gazed into her eyes. “Sidonie, I am so very, very sorry about Astegal’s death.”

“Thank you.” The words were choked. I had to look away as Ysandre enfolded her in a comforting embrace. I couldn’t bear to see Sidonie cling to what was left of her mother’s goodness.

Drustan, too, embraced his daughter. “This gem,” he said. “Do you truly think it might help?”

“I do.” Sidonie dashed the tears from her eyes. “You saw . . . we all saw what marvels Bodeshmun and his horologists were capable of achieving. I think he may have seen that the City of Elua would be in dire need of protection. I think it’s terribly important that we find it.”

“Then we’ll do so.” Drustan held her hands. He glanced downward and frowned. “Why are you wearing an ollamh’s charms?”

“To keep her safe,” I put in quickly and anxiously. “It was my idea.”

This question, we had anticipated.

Sidonie glanced over her shoulder at me. “I fear Imriel remembers,” she said softly. “Alban magic, my cousin Dorelei’s death. It’s all mixed up in his thoughts. He’s afraid. Afraid that’s what’s behind Alais’ and Talorcan’s rebellion. He thinks this will help keep me safe from it.”

“It won’t,” Drustan said shortly. “It’s ambition, not magic, at stake here.”

“I know.” Sidonie smiled through tears at her father. “But I don’t mind and it brings him peace. Can we not let it be and concentrate on finding Bodeshmun’s charm? For that I truly believe might prove effective.”

Drustan released her hands. “Of course.”

“Of course,” Ysandre echoed.

There was a discreet knock at the door. Ghislain nó Trevalion went to answer it. He returned, inclining his head. “Your majesties,” he said. “The Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève and her consort Joscelin Verreuil wish to see their foster-son. They have received word of his return.”

My heart raced.

“Admit them,” Ysandre said.

Seventy-Four

The door opened.

I hadn’t had time to brace myself. Not against this. The sight of them was like a spear to the gut.

“Imriel.” Phèdre breathed my name and my arms opened. She walked into them and I embraced her, willing myself to forget the vile things I’d said in my madness, wanting to believe for a few heartbeats that everything was well.

“Did he harm you?” Joscelin demanded. “Did he harm you? Because I swear to Elua, I will butcher him if he did!”

He meant L’Envers. “No.” I released Phèdre. “No, no one harmed me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t think straight.”

“Still?” Phèdre whispered.

I glanced at Sidonie and nodded. “Still.”

“When I heard you’d returned, I hoped . . .” Phèdre gathered herself and turned to Drustan and Ysandre. “Forgive us, your majesties,” she said in a formal tone. “I apologize for the impropriety.”

“Oh, stop,” Ysandre said irritably. “You know damnably well you don’t need to stand on protocol. These are dire times and Sidonie brings dire tidings. Astegal of Carthage is dead and his army has suffered a great defeat.”

“Name of Elua!” Phèdre gasped. “Oh, you poor child,” she said to Sidonie. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

Sidonie looked near tears again. “Thank you, my lady,” she murmured. “I’m sorry to bring such awful news.”

“You were in Carthage?” Joscelin asked me in bewilderment. I nodded. His right hand closed on my elbow, hard enough to hurt. He shook me roughly. “Why? Why did you flee? How could you do that to us? Do you have any idea how worried we were?”

I closed my eyes. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Take him home,” Drustan said brusquely. “We’ll hold a conference on the morrow.”

My eyes flew open. “No! I need to be near Sidonie.” I wasn’t playing a role; I was terrified that her bindings would break or fail. I didn’t know what I’d do if they did, but I knew I had to be there.

“The hell you do,” Ysandre muttered.

“It’s all right,” Sidonie said quietly. “It soothes his mind to know I’m close at hand. Imriel, go with your foster-parents, at least for the night. You can return in the morning.” She touched the croonie-stone at her throat, her eyes eloquent. “Kratos will stay with me to make sure I’m safe.”

I hesitated, misliking it.

“Imriel!” Phèdre gazed at me with reproach. “After all that we’ve done for you, after all that you’ve put us through, how could you possibly begrudge us a single night?”

It was true, of course; but in all the years I’d known them, they’d never once thrown it in my face. It wasn’t like Phèdre to do it now, believing me to be in the grip of madness as she did. As unkindness went, it was surpassing mild; still, it made me heartsick.

“Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

And so I went with them, willing myself to be calm and docile. The truth was, there wasn’t anything I could do if Sidonie’s bindings failed and there was a chance that she’d turn on me if they did whether I was present or not. I felt frustrated and helpless. Mayhap she was right and I should have stayed out of the City, but it would have killed me to send her here alone with only Kratos to aid her. Quick-witted and loyal as he was, he barely spoke D’Angeline.

Above everything, there hovered the pervasive sense that she needed me, that I needed to be here. It was the same sense Sidonie had felt on the ship. Blessed Elua had joined us for a purpose. If there was aught we could do, it would require us both.

Once I’d willed myself to docility and we’d entered Montrève’s carriage, Phèdre and Joscelin seemed more themselves. Almost.

“So how was Carthage, love?” Phèdre asked gently, as though I were ten years old and I’d gone on a pleasure-jaunt.

“Fine.” I forced a smile. “They were very kind to me there.”

“Did you . . .” She hesitated. “Did Prince Astegal’s chirurgeons examine you?”

“Oh, yes.” I leaned my head back against the cushions. “They were able to help a little. They explained matters in a way I could understand. I know I’m not right in my wits. I do.”

“It’s all right, Imri.” Joscelin exchanged a glance with Phèdre. “We’ll take care of you. We’ll always take care of you.”

My eyes stung. “Thank you.”

Phèdre’s townhouse in the City had always been a place of warmth and joy. Every time I’d returned to it, I’d been received with open arms and tears of happiness. Not this time. Our driver had to give a password before the gate was opened. In the narrow courtyard, Montrève’s men-at-arms were arrayed to meet us, hands hovering over sword-hilts.

“Is all well?” Ti-Philippe called in a hard voice.

“As well as it gets,” Joscelin affirmed. “Bad news from afar.”

We descended from the carriage. There was no Eugènie waiting to fold me to her bosom and accuse me of being heartless, no joyous reunion. Only hard-eyed, watchful men. One of them gave me a terse smile.

“Prince Imriel.” Hugues inclined his head. “We’re pleased to see you safe.”

Hugues, sweet Hugues. He’d always been among my favorite retainers at House Montrève, the strapping shepherd-lad Ti-Philippe had seduced ages ago, long since grown into a beautiful, gentle man with a heart as vast as his shoulders were broad. He’d taught me to wrestle when I was a boy, taught me to wield a quarterstaff as effectively as a shepherd’s crook. When I’d wed Dorelei and gone away to Alba, Hugues had given me his treasured wooden flute as a parting gift. He should have been laughing with joy, concocting more bad poetry to declaim in his lovely voice.