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

Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3) Page 80

“Imri!” Phèdre’s voice behind me held a note of despairing reproach. “I’m sorry, your highness. I asked him not to trouble you.”

“He’s no trouble, my lady.” Sidonie smiled at her with a mixture of sweetness and sorrow. “I quite missed his presence this morning. In a strange way, I feel I’ve lost a sister and gained a brother.” She laid her hand on my arm. That irrepressible spark leapt between us, giving the lie to her words, but we’d had long practice in dissembling. “I know you’ve missed him, but I hope you’ll spare me his company from time to time.”

“Of course,” Phèdre said without hesitation. “For as long as you like.”

“He doesn’t think of you as a sister,” Ysandre noted suspiciously.

“I’m trying,” I said humbly.

Drustan gave me a hard look. “See that your man Kratos keeps an eye on him,” he said to Sidonie.

She inclined her head. “Of course, Father. I only wish to have the comfort of family around me on this dark day.”

Brother Thomas cleared his throat. “Speaking of which, we should begin, child.” He took Sidonie’s hands. “Are you prepared?”

“I am, my lord.”

The priest released her hands and took his place before the plinth on which Elua’s effigy stood. He spread his arms, echoing the pose of the massive effigy behind him. The crowd ceased its murmuring and fell silent. Brother Thomas was a big man. I remembered how he’d reminded me of Berlik when I’d first seen him, with his black hair and light grey eyes. I remembered how I’d spoken to Brother Thomas and an assembly representing all the priesthoods of Elua’s Companions in an effort to convince them that my love for Sidonie was genuine. In the end, all of them had acknowledged the validity of our claim.

And now he gave her husband’s eulogy.

“We are gathered here today to honor the passing of Astegal, Prince of the House of Sarkal, General of Carthage, husband of the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange, her highness Sidonie de la Courcel,” Brother Thomas began. The crowd gave a collective sigh. “Astegal of Carthage was a man of great and daring vision,” the priest continued. “He came courting Terre d’Ange with his arms laden with gifts and his mind brimming with ideas. He captured our imagination and he captured the heart of our young Dauphine . . .”

It went on at considerable length. I daresay it was well done. I did my best not to listen, concentrating instead on the beating of the blood in my veins. I stood behind Sidonie, near enough for her to feel my presence, not so close that it aroused suspicion. I couldn’t see her face, but I could feel the pain radiating from her as surely as though it were my own.

At last he ended. “. . . pray that if Blessed Elua is merciful, they will find one another again in another life and live to see their dreams brought to fruition.” Brother Thomas bent his head to Sidonie. “You may speak now, my child.”

“Thank you.” Sidonie took his place before the plinth. Her face was streaked with tears. “I will not . . .” Her voice shook. She clasped her hands together hard and willed it to steadiness. “I will not attempt to elaborate on the eloquent words Brother Thomas spoke. I can but thank him for bringing to life so beautifully the memory of the man with whom I fell in love and for whom I grieve today.”

The sentence was delivered with seemingly perfect sincerity, and I knew in the marrow of my bones that those were the hardest words Sidonie had ever spoken. A few of the mourners sobbed aloud.

She paused, collecting herself. “Astegal gave me many gifts during our too-short time together. He was as generous to me as he was to Terre d’Ange. But there is one gift he gave in secret—his greatest gift to me, to us, to the City of Elua. And it is of that gift I would speak on this fearful day, on the eve of a darker tomorrow.”

In a clear, steady voice, with tears drying on her cheeks, Sidonie repeated the tale of Bodeshmun’s death and the hidden gem.

She had inspired hope in Turnone and she inspired it here. I could feel the mood shift, hearts lifting. I watched Ysandre’s eyes shine with pride, Drustan rest his hand on his wife’s shoulder, nodding in approval. Ah, gods! They had every right to be proud of their heir. I prayed one day they would know why.

“I beseech you.” Sidonie opened her arms, echoing the priest, echoing Blessed Elua himself. “All of you in Elua’s blessed City. Take up this search, leave no stone unturned. Amidst the tragedy of his death, let us lay claim to this last, best gift of my Astegal and snatch hope from despair, honor from treason.”

They roared.

It went on and on; promises and vows and pledges shouted with ferocious determination. The denizens of the City of Elua would raze the very foundations of the City to find Bodeshmun’s gem. Sidonie lowered her arms and stepped away from the plinth, stumbling a little. Kratos caught her, but it was my gaze she sought.

“My Astegal,” Sidonie whispered beneath the roar, her voice catching in her throat, barely audible. “I feel sick.”

“I know,” I murmured.

That was all the comfort I could offer. As in Turnone, the throng pressed forward, offering their sympathies, offering their fierce vows. The guards beat them back, restoring order. I was pushed to the side, unheeded. I found Phèdre and Joscelin beside me once more, Joscelin shoving at the guardsmen with an unwonted curse as they crowded us.

It didn’t matter.

All that mattered was that Sidonie had succeeded. She’d been right; she had a role to play here. She had swayed them as no one else could have done: Ysandre’s very well trained heir, Astegal’s grieving widow.

I prayed it was enough.

And I prayed it was in time.

Seventy-Six

“Look,” Phèdre said in wonderment, gazing out the window of the carriage as we rode to the reception following the service. “They’re tearing up the city.”

It was true.

Word had spread like wildfire. By the time we emerged from the Temple of Elua, it was already racing ahead of us. Men and women thronged the streets, worrying their fingertips bloody as they pried at paving-stones, clamoring to search the premises of merchants and wineshops and threatening violence to any who might forbid them entry.

“Good,” Joscelin said briefly.

Phèdre glanced at him. “Surely there must be a more logical way to approach this.”

He shrugged. “You’re good at figuring out that sort of thing.”

“Well, we know Bodeshmun had the gem the night of the fête when the delegation first arrived,” Phèdre said pragmatically. “That’s when I noticed it.”

“He had it the day of the marvel,” I added. I was just as glad to have her mind working on this puzzle and not picking out inconsistencies in our story. “Sid—” I caught myself. Elua, this was hard. “I went to watch the preparations in Elua’s Square earlier in the day and I saw it then.”

“So if Bodeshmun hid it himself, all we need to do is retrace his steps between the last sighting and the day he departed to limit the possibilities,” Phèdre mused. “Unless of course he handed it off to someone else.”

“He had runners going back and forth to adjust the mirrors on the walls.” I pictured Bodeshmun pacing in his study, absentmindedly touching his chest where the painted leather talisman that held the key to unlocking the demon-stone was hidden. “But I don’t think he was the sort to hand off so powerful a charm.”

“No?” She regarded me. “Well, that would surely make the task easier. I’ll have to ask Sidonie’s opinion. Doubtless she came to know Bodeshmun quite well during her time in Carthage.”

“Doubtless,” I agreed.

“What about the Royal Treasury?” Joscelin suggested. “After all, where better to hide a single gem than amid a thousand others?”

Phèdre smiled at him. “That’s an excellent thought.”

I stifled a groan. That was one of the few places L’Envers had managed to search thoroughly; but I couldn’t very well say it, and I couldn’t think of a valid reason to discount the notion. I gazed out the window at the folk pelting through the city, spreading the word, searching haphazardly. A gem the size of a child’s fist. It could be hidden anywhere. I remembered the icy-hot pain of a needle piercing my kidneys, Sunjata’s voice hissing in my ear.

Go to Cythera.

An emerald flash.

“Do you recall what Bodeshmun did after showing you the marvel?” I asked. “After the shadow had passed from the moon?”

“Everyone went . . .” Phèdre’s face went blank. “There was a fête, wasn’t there?” she asked Joscelin, who nodded uncertainly. “Elua! Between the wonder and the horror, I swear, the night’s a blur.” She stroked my hair. “I don’t remember much beyond hearing you’d been found unconscious and raving, I fear.”

“That was a bad night,” Joscelin murmured. “I’m sure others will recall it better.”

I wasn’t. I already knew Sidonie didn’t; we’d discussed it. But I held my tongue on the thought.

The reception took place in the Hall of Audience. The first thing I saw upon entering was the painting rendered in ground gems that had been the centerpiece of Carthage’s largesse. It was on prominent display, the frame draped in black crepe. I stood and gazed at it for a long time. Ptolemy Solon had said that the image had defined the essence of the spell. A tall man with black hair and a crimson beard, a blonde woman. Standing before an oak tree, their hands clasped in friendship.

Or love.

I’d assumed the woman was meant to be Ysandre; we all had. It could as easily have been Sidonie. Mayhap it represented both of them. I searched the image for clues, hoping to find an image of the emerald gem buried in the leaves of the oak tree or mayhap a word hidden in the glimmering whorls of its bark, but there was nothing. Like as not it was a futile hope. L’Envers had said he’d searched Elua’s Square and the great oak tree itself. It had been barren in winter with no crown of green leaves to hide a gem. If the demon-stone was in Elua’s Square, it could only be buried beneath the flagstones.

But a word . . . if there was a word hidden in the design, it was like to be written in Punic. I wouldn’t even recognize the alphabet. I resolved to tell Sidonie to examine it herself at the earliest opportunity.

“Cousin.” A familiar voice behind me startled me out of my reverie. “A terrible story, is it not? But I hear your condition is improved.”

“Mavros!” I turned and blinked at him. He was wearing a doublet of Courcel blue with braided silver trim and the insignia of the silver swan on its breast. “Why aren’t you in mourning attire?”

“I am.” Mavros showed me his black armband. “Officers of the Royal Army were given orders to remain in uniform.”

“Royal Army?” I echoed.

His handsome face hardened. “Do you expect me to stand by and do nothing while that ambitious chit and her snake of an uncle attempt to overthrow the throne? Yes, of course I put in my name for a commission. Every peer in the City with a shred of honor and courage has.”

I glanced over in Joscelin’s direction. “I’m sorry. No one mentioned it.”

Mavros followed my gaze. “Ah. Yes, well, I expect they’re being cautious around you. Joscelin did put in his name, but the Queen refused to allow it.” His next words eradicated any dawning sense of relief I might have had. “Ysandre has sworn that Alais will never take the throne while she lives. We will fight to our last breath, but if it comes to it, if L’Envers takes the City, she’s asked Joscelin to remain that he might perform the terminus for her.”

“Surely not,” I whispered. “Phèdre would never consent to it.”

His brows rose. “’Tis a grave sacrifice to be sure. But Joscelin Verreuil is the Queen’s Champion. It’s his duty.”

I didn’t want to believe it, but I did. I remembered Sidonie aboard Deimos’ ship as we prepared to set it afire and attempt the harbor at Amílcar. Believe me when I tell you I would far rather die by your hand than be restored to Astegal. There was a streak of fierce pride in the women of House Courcel. Ysandre might make such a vow rather than cede the throne alive. And Joscelin . . . in his right mind, Joscelin would never honor it, nor would Phèdre consent to allow him.

But they weren’t.

Mavros misread my expression. “Don’t worry,” he said kindly. “No one expects you to serve, Imri. You’re ill. If your madness returned on the battlefield, it would endanger us all.” He smiled. “At any rate, I hear there’s hope for the City. Carthage may save her after all.”

“Yes.” I had to get away from this stranger with Mavros’ face. “Will you excuse me?”

I plunged into the sea of mourners, seeking Sidonie. Now that Mavros had mentioned it, I realized there were more familiar faces than I’d noticed wearing military uniforms. I did my best to avoid them, and in the process blundered into one of the few figures not clad in black or Courcel blue. I knew her by the gleaming fall of red-gold hair that hung down her back.

“Amarante!” I said in relief.

Elua, it was so damned easy to forget.

She turned, the crimson silk robes of a Priestess of Naamah swirling gracefully around her. Her brows knit as though she were trying for a moment to place me, and then she inclined her head. “Prince Imriel,” Amarante said politely. “I was pleased to hear that you had returned safely.”