Kushiel's Mercy (18 page)

“What did you see in the mirror?” I demanded.

They exchanged a glance, faces softening. “It was a marvel,” Joscelin said, wonder in his tone. “The invisible ties that bind all things in the cosmos . . .” His voice trailed off.

“No,” I said dully. “It was a trick. It was some vast and terrible enchantment, and I was protected from it only because the eunuch stabbed me with something that sent me mad.” I laughed in despair. “Madness as a shield against madness. Now I’m sane, and you’re raving.”

“You’re sick,” Phèdre said gently.

“I’m sane,” I said. “Sidonie loves me. She defied her mother and half the realm for my sake. She would never wed Astegal. And Terre d’Ange would never betray its alliance with Aragonia to unite with Carthage.”

Phèdre shook her head in sorrow and went to meet the chirurgeon.

Somewhat was wrong, terribly wrong. Filled with terror, I held my tongue and suffered myself to be examined by the royal chirurgeon, Lelahiah Valais. She confirmed that the worst of the fever had broken, bandaged my injuries, and recommended strong broth and a great deal of sleep. I heard them speak in hushed tones about my continued delusions.

“Do you think it’s because he was taken by Carthaginian slavers as a child that he harbors such a peculiar grudge?” Joscelin asked the chirurgeon.

“Oh, yes,” Lelahiah said. “I’m sure of it. And to be fair, I’ve heard there are folk outside the City unhappy with the Queen’s decision.”

“People are always fearful of change,” Phèdre murmured. “But what do you make of his claim about Sidonie, of all people?” She sounded perplexed. “I wouldn’t say they disliked one another, but they’ve never been close.”

“Mayhap that’s why.” The chirurgeon lowered her voice. “The mind is a strange place, my lady, and we cannot examine its workings the way we examine the body’s. I understand he was very ill after his wife was slain and his wounds turned septic. Mayhap one spell of madness evoked another, and somehow in his thoughts, he has replaced the loss of his wife with a loss that is less painful to him.”

Less painful.

Sidonie.

I stared at the moon outside my balcony. A month ago, I’d made love to her by moonlight. Now she was gone. Gone to Carthage, gone to wed Astegal. Gone of her own volition, it seemed. Was I mad? I had been. I’d said things that made me cringe inside. I didn’t trust myself. But I loved Sidonie. I knew I did. And she loved me. I could feel her absence like a wound. I remembered her. Everything about her. Everything we had done together. Her scent, the taste of her skin. The faraway look she got in the throes of pleasure. Her voice.
Always and always.

My head was full of voices and memory.

Gods, I was tired.

Alais’ voice, her grave face the day we’d spoken atop the ramparts of Bryn Gorrydum
. I think she’s going to need you very badly one day.

That damned eunuch, Sunjata.

Go to Cythera.

Ask Ptolemy Solon how to undo what’s done here tonight.

I closed my eyes. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” I whispered into the darkness. “I’ll come for you, love. I promise.”

Fourteen

M
y strength returned slowly.

It wasn’t as bad as it had been after Dorelei’s death. I wasn’t wounded, save for the suppurating abrasions around my wrists and ankles, a bitterly ironic reminder of the bindings I’d once worn as a protection against enchantment. But the fever and lack of nourishment had left me weak.

And I was surrounded by madness.

Everyone in the Palace believed it. Terre d’Ange—and oh, gods, Alba too—had made a pact with Carthage. Sidonie had gone away to wed Astegal, escorted onto the Carthaginian flagship with great fanfare.

No one remembered our affair.

It had been erased from memory as though it had never existed. Mavros came to visit me when he learned I was recovering. I begged him to rack his wits. He had been the first person to know, the one who had helped from the very beginning. All he could do was gaze at me with sympathy and shake his head.

I wanted desperately to get outside the City, but in the first days of my recuperation, I barely had the strength to get out of bed. On Lelahiah Valais’ orders, I was kept in relative solitude. Only family members were permitted to visit me. I wasn’t allowed to hear aught that might disturb me and feed my delusions. Servants and guards were given strict orders not to discuss sensitive matters in my presence.

Still, I heard wisps of conversation here and there, enough to gather that there was widespread dismay beyond the City’s walls. It gave me a thread of hope.

And then, some five days after my fever broke, I overheard a careless guard remark to a chambermaid as she entered my quarters that Ysandre and Barquiel L’Envers were engaged in a shouting match in the throne hall.

L’Envers hadn’t been in the City the night of the full moon.

I struggled into my clothing, trembling with exertion, and made my way into the salon. “I need to talk to him,” I said.
“Now.”

“Oh no!” the guard said in alarm. “That’s not possible, your highness.”

“The hell it’s not,” I said. “Get out of my way.”

He blocked me. “Send for Messire Joscelin and Lady Phèdre,” he said urgently to the maid. “They’re in the throne hall with her majesty.”

She nodded and fled.

I found my sword-belt and drew my blade. My arm shook
. “Get out of my way.”

The guard put his hands up. “Don’t do this, your highness. You’re ill.”

I gritted my teeth. “I just want to talk to L’Envers. Stand aside, man!”

He did.

I pushed past him, sword in hand. Elua knows, I couldn’t blame them for trying to protect me from myself. The madness had made a monster of me. I would never be able to forget. But it was gone now, or at least banished into wherever it is that such things lurk in the dark, unplumbed depths of the soul.

At least I prayed it was.

Trailed by the anxious guard, I staggered out of my quarters. Down the hallway, down the wide marble stair that led to the ground floor of the Palace. I took a two-handed grip on my sword, keeping it angled before me. People shrieked and ran. They’d heard tell of my ravings. More guardsmen came, forming a wary circle around me. I ignored them and staggered onward.

The doors to the throne hall were closed. I could hear raised voices behind them. With both hands, I pointed my sword at the guards posted there. “Admit me.”

They paled. “We can’t, your highness,” one said.

My knees wobbled. “Just do it!”

Someone grabbed me from behind, pinning my arms as Joscelin had done. Someone else wrestled the sword from my hands. I cursed and struggled, borne down under the weight of several guards.

The doors to the throne hall opened with a crash and Barquiel L’Envers strode out, his face white with fury. He stopped short at the sight of me struggling with the guards, fixing me with a look of disgust.

“Some great undying love affair
that
turned out to be,” L’Envers said in contempt, then turned on his heel and strode away, followed by a retinue of his own men-at-arms.

“Wait!” His words rang in my ears. A rill of terrified strength ran through me. I thrashed and flailed my way free, got my feet under me, and ran after him.

L’Envers turned and drew his blade. “Keep your distance, lunatic,” he said coldly. “I swear to Elua, I
will
run you through.”

I managed to halt before I impaled myself. “You remember,” I gasped. “Sidonie and I. You remember it.”

“Unfortunately.” His violet eyes narrowed. “Do you?”

I nodded, panting. “Can we speak, my lord? Please?”

He was silent a moment. “Fetch his blade,” he said at length to one of his men, and to me, “Come with me.”

On any other occasion, the last place in the world I could imagine wanting to be was alone with Barquiel L’Envers in his private quarters, surrounded by men loyal to him. Today, I was desperately grateful to be there. He sent his men out of earshot, ensconced me on his couch, poured me a generous draught of brandy, then poured one for himself, and sat opposite me.

“Speak.”

I had nothing left to lose. I told him everything.

Claudia Fulvia, the Unseen Guild and their threats. Canis and my mother. My letter to Diokles Agallon, the bargain. Carthage. The eunuch Sunjata, Gillimas. What had happened the night of the full moon. Ptolemy Solon and Cythera. My month-long madness, and the madness I’d awoken to.

“Sodding Carthage,” L’Envers said when I’d finished. “I knew it.”

“Then I’m not mad?” I asked.

“You were.” He studied me. “Barking-mad, from the sound of it. But in this, it’s hard to say.” He quaffed his brandy and refilled it, regarding the glass. “Truth be told, I heard rumors of this Guild of yours years ago in Khebbel-im-Akkad, though I couldn’t vouch for them. Of a surety, the whole damn City is convinced, man, woman, and child, that Carthage is our new best friend, and the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange made a love-match with a Carthaginian prince and sailed away merrily with him. You’re right about that. Somewhat was done to them.”

“But it’s only the City?” I said hopefully.

Barquiel L’Envers snorted. “The City, and all who were in it that night. Damn nigh all of Parliament. The Royal Army and its commander. The Royal Admiral and a good number of his men. The Cruarch of Alba.”

I felt sick. “All the powers of the realm.”

He nodded, looking aged and weary. “And Ysandre’s minded to dispatch the army to the Aragonian border in support of Carthage’s threat.” He scrubbed his face with one hand. “I tell you, lad, if this is some elaborate scheme of your mother’s to place you on the throne, I’ve half a mind to go along with it. I’d sooner see Melisande’s treasonous spawn warming his arse on the throne than my own niece acting as Carthage’s pawn. And outside the City walls, there are hundreds of thousands of folk who’d agree.”

“I don’t think it is. The eunuch said he served two masters.” I shook my head. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can’t stay here.”

“Oh?” L’Envers raised his brows.

“Sidonie needs me,” I said simply. “I have to go.”

Barquiel L’Envers looked at me for a long, long time, an incredulous expression slowly dawning over his worn features. He gave a short, choked laugh. “Oh, Blessed Elua bugger me! You actually
love
her?”

Tears stung my eyes. “Very much so, my lord.”

“Blessed Elua bugger me,” L’Envers repeated, bemused. “So what in the seven hells do we do, Imriel de la Courcel? Raise an army? Wrest Quintilius Rousse’s fleet from his control and sail against Carthage? How do we do it without setting off a civil war in Terre d’Ange?”

“We can’t,” I said. “We have to break the spell.”

“Cythera.” He raked a hand through his short-cropped hair. “You’re sure that part’s not a fever-dream?”

“As sure as I can be. Sunjata said the fever would break in a month, and it did. I have to try,” I said. “I’ll grovel and beg, if that’s what it takes. If Ptolemy Solon knows how to undo this, I’ll do whatever is needful. But I need your help to get out of the City, my lord.”

“If it’s
not
a piece of your madness, you know damned well what he’ll ask for,” L’Envers said wryly. “A pardon for Melisande Shahrizai.”

I was silent.

L’Envers sighed. “I wish to hell I knew whether or not to believe you.”

“I’m not lying,” I said stiffly.

“No.” He eyed me. “No, I don’t think you are. But I’m not sure you’ve got your wits back altogether, and of a surety, I’m not convinced you aren’t a pawn in some unknowable scheme of your mother’s. Are you?”

You’re lucky your mother loves you.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “If I am, can it truly be worse than this?” He didn’t answer. I sipped my brandy, thinking. “Send to Alba, my lord. There’s still one member of House Courcel fit to sit the throne. Alais. If you raise a large enough delegation of D’Angelines and Albans alike to petition Ysandre and convince her that there’s somewhat amiss, if you
reason
with her instead of shouting, mayhap she’ll be willing to let Alais assume the throne until we can undo what was done.”

“Alais!” L’Envers said in surprise. “That slip of a girl?”

“She’s second in line for the throne,” I pointed out. “And she’s gained her majority; she turned eighteen last winter.”

“True,” he mused.

“She has the Master of the Straits’ ear,” I added. “If there’s anyone Drustan might listen to, it’s Hyacinthe. I’m sure he would help. He’s a deadly force unto himself, and he knows a good deal about magic. So do the
ollamhs
.” I thought about Berlik. “So do the Maghuin Dhonn, for that matter. It’s worth asking.”

“Anything else?” L’Envers asked, only slightly sardonic.

“Scour the Royal Archives,” I suggested. “The Secretary of the Presence will have recorded Parliament’s last session and . . . and the public audience wherein Ysandre bade me to bring my mother to justice if I truly wished to wed Sidonie. There has to be written evidence that casts doubt on Carthage’s claims and proves the truth. You can recruit scholars from outside the City to compile it.”

“While you sail off to Cythera to reunite with your mother and Carthage goes unchecked,” he said.

I spread my hands. “Do you have a better plan?”

“Unfortunately, no,” L’Envers muttered, rising to pace the room. “You have a point. At the least, it might stall Ysandre from sending the army against Aragonia without setting off a civil war. And there would be a legitimate heir on the throne.” He halted. “No pardon for Melisande. A pardon’s unacceptable.” A look of profound distaste crossed his features. “However, I suppose we could offer to commute her sentence to exile in exchange for Ptolemy Solon’s assistance.”

My heart leapt. “Then you’ll help me?”

“Gods, I must have lost my own wits.” His mouth twisted. “I swear to Blessed Elua, if you fail in this, if you prove false or a dupe, I will make it my life’s work to hunt you down and kill you.” His violet eyes were deadly serious. “No intrigue, no ploys. I will kill you and bear whatever punishment follows.”