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

Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3) Page 79

He wasn’t.

“Thank you, Hugues,” I whispered.

Another curt nod. “Of course.”

Inside it was worse. The household staff was quiet and furtive—here, here in Phèdre nó Delaunay’s home, where it wasn’t unknown for a stablehand to dine with the Comtesse of Montrève.

“Where . . .” I cleared my throat. “Where’s Eugènie?”

Phèdre shot me a puzzled look. “In the kitchen, I imagine.”

There I found Eugènie up to her elbows in flour, kneading dough. She bobbed an awkward curtsy. “Prince Imriel,” she said in a careful tone. “We had word of your return. I’m making the quince tarts you like so much.”

I made myself smile at her. “Thank you, Eugènie.”

It was just all so wrong, as though I was caught in a waking dream where no one was quite themselves. I thought I’d be better prepared than Sidonie to deal with it, since I’d already experienced their madness. I was wrong. Matters had worsened, and I wasn’t recovering from my own bout of insanity this time, questioning my own memories. I had to fight the urge to shake them, shout at them to wake up, to come to their senses. Ptolemy Solon had warned me that any attempt to struggle against the spell would cause it to tighten like a snare. I had to keep reminding myself of it.

It got worse when we dined in the early evening. Shortly after we’d taken our seats at the table, there was a commotion in the courtyard. Joscelin went to attend to it and returned looking somber.

“Queen’s courier,” he said. “Ysandre’s declared a state of mourning. They’re announcing it throughout the City.”

“Just the City?” Phèdre inquired.

“They’d only make a mockery of it outside the City’s walls.” Joscelin frowned. “Elua! Would that we knew what Alais and L’Envers did to make them turn against the Crown itself.”

“Alais.” Phèdre shook her head. “I reckon myself a fair judge of character, but I’ll admit, I never expected this of her.” She glanced at me. “You were always close to her, Imri. Did you suspect she harbored such ambitions?”

I cleared my throat. “Not . . . not in Terre d’Ange.” I saw Alais’ weary face in my memory, heard her words. I do not, want this responsibility. “I knew she aspired to overturn the law of matrilineal succession in Alba. It surprised me.”

“It’s not just Alais and L’Envers,” Joscelin said grimly. “Talorcan’s backing them, the treacherous bastard. Somehow he’s managed to seize power in Alba. Drustan says he’s got seven hundred men in Turnone. If he sends more, this war’s truly going to be ugly.”

“Must it come to that?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. They both stared at me. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . if the whole country is against us, do we even stand a chance?”

“Yes, of course,” Phèdre said firmly. “I have every hope that the support for this rebellion is broad, but not deep. When the commonfolk see the cost of it, I believe they will come to their senses and beg Alais and Barquiel to surrender. And if they do not . . .” Her face took on an expression of stern dignity. “There are things in this world that are worth fighting and dying for, Imriel. Without respect for the rule of law, we are no better than the most savage of barbarians. What did we stand against Waldemar Selig for if not for this?”

I bit my tongue and nodded.

“You of all people should know that, Imriel.” Joscelin sounded disappointed in me. “Do you forget your own history?”

“No,” I murmured. “I’m sorry.”

“Poor boy.” Phèdre’s face softened. “It’s not your fault. He’s not himself, Joscelin.”

“I blame those witches of the Maghuin Dhonn.” Joscelin’s jaw tightened. “He’s not been right since they sank their hooks into him. And Alais . . . I fear they got to her somehow. You recall, she seemed passing fond of that youngest son of the Lady of the Dalriada, the Maghuin Dhonn harpist’s get.”

Phèdre shivered. “And through her to Talorcan.”

Joscelin nodded. “I fear as much.”

The damnable thing was that they made it almost seem plausible. We’d come up with a similar tale ourselves. I licked my dry lips. “I thought so, too. I gave Sidonie the croonie-stone that the ollamh gave me to protect her. I tried to copy the charm he wrought.”

“Ah, love!” Phèdre gave me a sorrowful smile. “Your heart’s in the right place, no matter how misguided the object of its affection. It gives me hope.”

“There is one hope.” I told them about Bodeshmun’s gem and his death-bed charge to Sidonie.

Joscelin’s eyes brightened. “Do you really think it holds the power to protect the City?”

“I do,” I said, meaning it.

“I remember seeing it.” Phèdre gestured at her throat. “The Chief Horologist wore it on a chain around his neck. Every facet was inscribed. And there’s no denying that he was a man of surpassing gifts. The marvels he showed us . . .” She smiled at me, this time with gladness. “That is a piece of hope, love. Whatever happens outside these walls, if the City of Elua can hold, the heart of Terre d’Ange lives.”

“For no one, man, woman, nor child, may be rightfully crowned sovereign of Terre d’Ange anywhere but here,” Joscelin said.

“Nowhere,” Phèdre agreed.

They exchanged glances, remembering. I could guess at their memories. Ysandre de la Courcel riding fearlessly toward the City amidst a shower of silver coins, each one bearing her likeness. They believed they were fighting to preserve her legacy, their legacy.

And they were so very, very wrong.

Seventy-Five

I endured the night.

It felt terribly strange to sleep beneath the low roof of my boyhood bedchamber. I’d not slept there for years. I’d outgrown it in ways I couldn’t even number. And yet it held so many memories. Long nights conversing with Eamonn when he had fostered with us. My own sickly reflection in the mirror as I’d sawed at my Shahrizai braids with a dagger the day after I’d visited Valerian House for the first time. Phèdre adjusting the collar of my doublet on the day I’d wed Dorelei mab Breidaia.

That was the last memory.

As I lay sleepless, I thought about Dorelei and our unborn son. Their spirits slept now beneath a green mound in Clunderry, Berlik’s skull buried at their feet. I prayed for their forgiveness and understanding.

And I thought about Sidonie.

Ah, gods! Was simple happiness truly so much to ask? Was it ambitious to dream of a future in which we spent our lives together, taking pleasure in each other, in the bright mirror and the dark? In the heady abandon of love-play, in the homely comfort of watching our children dandled on the loving knees of their grandparents?

“Kushiel,” I whispered into the darkness. “I have spent my life trying to be good. I pray you hear your scion’s prayers. There is no one here in need of your harsh justice, only your mercy.”

There was no answer. Outside my narrow window, the moon inched closer to fullness in the night sky.

Some time after dawn, I arose hollow-eyed for lack of sleep and donned the clothing that the maidservant Clory had laid out for me. Black breeches and a black doublet. Mourning attire. It must have belonged to Joscelin.

It fit surprisingly well.

I descended the stairs to find the rest of the household likewise attired in mourning garb. Joscelin eyed me critically. “You’re limping. I didn’t notice that yesterday.”

I opened my mouth to say that my healing wound stiffened when I slept, then caught myself. “I took a tumble on the ship in some rough waters and got a nasty bruise.”

Phèdre cocked her head at me. “Why didn’t Astegal’s ship continue up the Aviline? What made you decide to transfer to a barge?”

For the first time in my life, I had cause to curse her agile wits. “We thought it would be safer if no one knew Sidonie had returned,” I said. “We’d heard the rumors of impending war.”

She didn’t blink. “How did you know you could trust the barge-captain?”

“I don’t know.” I was too tired to invent a good lie. “Astegal had made plans for every contingency. You’d have to ask Kratos the details.”

It seemed to satisfy her, at least for the moment. I trusted Kratos would field the question with aplomb if Phèdre chose to pursue it. I hoped he’d slept better than I had.

Word came from the Palace before we’d finished breaking our fast; we were summoned to a funeral service in Astegal’s honor that afternoon. It would take place at the Temple of Elua, followed by a reception at the Palace. Ysandre and Drustan were moving swiftly; but then, there was precious little time to spare.

“I should attend as a member of House Courcel,” I said, rising from the table. “I’ll see you at the temple.”

Another glance exchanged.

“Imriel,” Phèdre said gently. “I think it’s best if you stay with us. I’m pleased that the physicians in Carthage were able to explain your situation in a way you could understand, but Sidonie’s in a great deal of pain right now. I fear worrying about your delusions is the last thing she needs.”

I gritted my teeth. “Actually, she said I was a solace. That it was a comfort to know that the last kinsman she expected had stayed loyal to the Crown.”

“I’m sure she did,” Phèdre said. “She’s always had a keen sense of propriety, even as a little girl. I never understood why you disliked her, any more than I can understand why your illness turned your feelings inside out.” She shook her head. “Nonetheless, give the poor child a moment’s peace.”

Joscelin’s hand closed on my shoulder. “Why don’t we spar? It will be like old times.”

I turned my head toward him. “Do you mean to keep me here forcibly?”

“Imri.” Joscelin’s grip tightened, then released. He caught my hand instead and raised it, baring my wrist to reveal the faint scars there. His eyes were grave. The vile threats I could never unsay, never forget I’d uttered, echoed in my memory. “We’re trying to help.”

I looked away. “I know. All right.”

I couldn’t begin to count the number of times I’d sparred with Joscelin: here in the inner courtyard of the townhouse, in the gardens of Montrève. The hilts of the wooden practice-swords we used were smooth and shiny with wear. He’d begun teaching me on the deck of a ship bound for Menekhet when I was ten years old. Betimes when I concentrated on my footwork, I could still remember the feel of the warm deck beneath my bare feet. I’d been so grateful for his attention, for his loving patience.

My heart wasn’t in it today.

My heart was in the Palace, agonizing for Sidonie as she prepared to hear Astegal of Carthage lovingly eulogized, worrying about the charm holding. It was with Alais and, gods help me, Barquiel L’Envers as they went about the terrible chore of raising an ever-larger army. I fought mechanically. My feet remembered the steps of their own accord. My thigh throbbed. My arms remembered the dull exhaustion I’d felt outside the gates of Amílcar, my muscles quivering with the aftermath of untold blows and parries.

Too many memories.

The dead; thousands of dead. Dead Amazigh, dead Carthaginians, dead Nubians . . . and, ah, Elua have mercy! Thousands of dead Euskerri. The flower of a generation.

“Not bad.” We were both breathing hard when Joscelin called for a halt. He smiled at me, his summer-blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’ve kept up your training.”

“Yes.” I forced the word past the tightness in my throat. “I’ve tried.”

Joscelin clapped my back. “Good man.”

When the hour arrived to depart for the Temple of Elua, it was almost a relief. Our carriage was draped with swags of black mourning-cloth and the headstalls of the horses had been dyed black. Our escort of outriders wore the forest-green and gold livery of House Montrève, but each man sported a black armband. We proceeded somberly through the streets of the City. Black cloth, black paint, black armbands. I remembered entering the City with Sidonie . . . how long ago? Almost two years. The black armbands, the down-turned thumbs.

This was different.

That had been a bitter reminder of my mother’s legacy. This was a city in mourning. Mourning Astegal of Carthage, who had stolen away the love of my life, whose ambition had turned all those I loved against all they held dear. On the streets, men and women wept openly. I gazed out the window at their faces, my heart aching. And I allowed myself the fierce consolation of remembering the quiver that had run the length of my blade when Astegal had died, of Sidonie’s hand firm atop mine on the hilt and her unflinching courage.

And Astegal’s damned head on a pike, his slack jaw gaping.

The Temple of Elua was thronged with mourners and guards. In the vestibule, I pried off my boots quickly and slipped through the crowd in the inner garden sanctum to find Sidonie. She was with Drustan and Ysandre and Brother Thomas Jubert at the base of Elua’s effigy, Kratos at her side. I saw her head turn as I made my way toward her. The quick flair of relief in her eyes eased a tight knot inside me.

“Imriel.” Sidonie greeted me carefully. “I thought to see you at the Palace this morning.”

I gave her a brief bow. “Forgive me. Are you well?”

Her shoulders twitched. “I’m enduring.”