Kushiel's Mercy (19 page)

I thought about Astegal in Jasmine House, his arms slung around a pair of adepts. Smiling as he emerged at dawn, heavy-lidded. I thought about Sidonie in his bed, ensorceled, spreading her thighs willingly for him, urging him into her. My muscles knotted, trembling with fury.

“Duc Barquiel,” I said in perfect sincerity, “if I fail in this, you’re more than welcome to kill me.”

He gave a curt nod. “What do you need?”

I told him. I didn’t need much. Money. My horse, my sword and vambraces, some supplies. Mostly I needed to get out of the City of Elua and to Marsilikos without someone sending guards to retrieve me for my own safety.

“Can you ride?” L’Envers asked pragmatically. “You look half-starved and weak as a day-old kitten.”

I shrugged. “I’ll manage.”

He snorted. “I’ll arrange for passage by barge. Think you can convince your keepers to let you make a healing-offering at Eisheth’s temple in three days?”

“I think so.” I smiled ruefully. “It’s not a bad idea, actually.”

“All right.” There was noise in the corridor outside L’Envers’ quarters. He turned his head. “Ah. That would be someone come to make sure I’ve not gutted you, I suspect. I’m surprised it took so long.” He put out his hand. “Eisheth’s temple, three days.”

I rose and took his hand. “Thank you, my lord.”

Barquiel L’Envers tightened his grip. “Just don’t fail.”

Fifteen

I
t wasn’t hard to convince Phèdre and Joscelin to take me to Eisheth’s temple; indeed, they thought it an excellent idea. I’d regained enough strength that Lelahiah Valais reckoned the outing would do me no harm, and Phèdre and Joscelin both thought it a hopeful sign that I realized I was yet in need of healing.

I felt awful about it.

I hated to betray their trust. As if I hadn’t reason enough to love them, they’d stood by me during my madness, tending me with care while I ranted and raved. The things I’d said were seared into my memory. And when I’d come out of it, they’d welcomed me back with heartbreaking joy, forgiving every word without a thought.

Now I was leaving.

I couldn’t see any way around it. I’d tried, over and over, to convince them of the truth about Carthage. Elua knows, they had to have doubts. Barquiel L’Envers wasn’t alone. Although he was the only one to take it up with the Queen thus far, there was a realm full of bewildered folk outside the walls of the City.

But they wouldn’t hear it, not from me. The madness that had protected me worked against me. I
had
been insane—barking-mad, as L’Envers had said, frothing at the mouth. And every memory that contradicted the beliefs that Carthage’s magics had instilled was gone, vanished. When I reminded Phèdre of her research into Cythera, when I reminded Joscelin how he’d thought of sending Ti-Philippe to scout among Rousse’s sailors, they looked grave and worried, and quietly changed the subject.

I could imagine the memory that it evoked.

Me, tied to a bed and screaming about Cythera.

They would never let me go, not now. Mayhap in time I could wear them down. Once L’Envers assembled a delegation, once they realized that outside the walls of the City, my seeming delusion was shared by thousands, things would begin to change. But even at that, my tale would seem half-mad. L’Envers was willing to take a chance on it only because he was desperate and he didn’t care if I lived or died. There was no way I could prove the truth of my tale. Folk outside the City could attest to my relationship with Sidonie, my quest to find my mother. Not the existence of the Unseen Guild, shrouded in deadly secrecy. Not the admission I’d forced from Gillimas of Hiram. And of a surety, not my encounter with Sunjata the night of the full moon. It would take a long, long time before any of that began to sound like aught but fever-dreams to anyone caught in the grip of Carthage’s spell.

I couldn’t afford to wait.

Not while Astegal . . . ah, gods! I couldn’t bear to think on it.

So I gave up and behaved like a model patient. I spent the long, tedious hours of my recuperation writing a letter expressing my apologies ten thousand ways over. Begging forgiveness. Telling them I loved them. And three days after my meeting with Barquiel L’Envers, two of the people I loved best in the world escorted me gladly to Eisheth’s temple, where I meant to betray them.

The temple was built around a spring whose waters were said to have healing properties. It was an expansive and gracious place. Many people came to stay for days at a time, partaking of the healing waters. The head priestess met us in the temple courtyard, a brown-haired woman of middle years, clad in sea-blue robes. I recognized her; she had been present at my hearing in the Great Temple of Elua, when all the orders of Blessed Elua and his Companions had elected to acknowledge Sidonie’s and my love. She gave no sign of having met me before.

“Be welcome, Prince Imriel,” she said, bowing. “May you find healing here.”

My eyes stung. “Thank you.”

I turned to Phèdre and Joscelin. It was a bright day, the sun pinning a silvery cap on Joscelin’s fair hair, illuminating the scarlet mote in Phèdre’s dark eyes. They were smiling, happy, unaware that the world had fallen to pieces all around us. My heart ached at what I was about to do.

“I love you,” I said to them. “I love you both.”

“We’ll be here.” Phèdre stretched to kiss my cheek. “You have your offering?”

My throat tightened. “I do.”

“Drink deep,” Joscelin advised me.

“I will,” I murmured, blinking away tears.

And then I left them, Phèdre and Joscelin, the parents of my heart, to entrust myself into the hands of a man who’d wanted me dead since I was born. I followed the priestess as she led me into the inner sanctum, a rocky little garden. There was the spring, bubbling gently, lined by moss-covered stones on which votive candles burned, their flames almost invisible in the sunlight. There was the effigy of Eisheth: the figure of a woman, half again as large as life, kneeling beside the spring, her hands cupped. Streaks of green moss reached up her marble flanks. Her cupped hands held the ashes of other offerings.

“Make your offering.” The priestess pressed my shoulder, pushing me gently to my knees. “Drink, and seek healing.”

I knelt and she left me.

Eisheth’s head was bowed, curtains of marble hair hiding her features. Humble. The mossy stones were damp beneath my knees. I fumbled for the packet tied to my belt, poured an offering of incense into her cupped hands. Hyssop and cedar gum. There were wax tapers piled neatly at her feet. I took one, kindled it at a votive, and lit the incense. A sweet thread of smoke arose from her palms, bluish in the sunlight.

“Merciful Eisheth, grant me healing,” I whispered. “Grant it to us all.”

I cupped my own hands, dipped them into the spring, and drank. The water was cool, with an acrid mineral tang. I drank deep.

“Ready, highness?” a man’s voice whispered behind me.

It was one of L’Envers’ guards, beckoning from the entrance, a grey cloak folded over one arm. He didn’t have to tell me to hurry. I crossed quickly over to him and donned the cloak, pulling up the hood to hide my features.

“This way.” He steered me down the wide corridor, then turned into a narrow hall used by the initiates and acolytes who served the priesthood. I could tell, because he pointed to the crumpled figure of one on the floor. “Mind the body.”

I stepped gingerly over it. “You didn’t . . . ?”

The guard shook his head. “He’ll have a lump on his skull, that’s all.”

I was relieved. Barquiel L’Envers had a name for being ruthless. At least he was efficient, too. His guardsman navigated me with swift certitude down the back hallways of the temple. Once we had to duck into a storage room filled with strips of willow bark while a pair of acolytes passed, but we managed to exit the temple by the postern gate. There was a plain carriage waiting, another guard at the reins.

“Get in.” The first guard opened the carriage door and gave me an ungentle shove. He followed as I slid across the seats, shouting to the driver, “Go!”

The driver snapped the reins and the carriage lurched into motion. “My thanks,” I said to the guard.

“Don’t thank me.” His face was shuttered. “I’m just following orders. It’s a sodding mystery to me why his grace is helping you.”

“Love of country?” I suggested.

“How on earth is packing you off to some strange isle supposed to help?” His expression slipped a little to reveal utter bewilderment. “No mind. Like as not, he’s finally found a way to get rid of you.”

“Like as not,” I agreed, wondering if it was true.

The carriage took us to the wharf. Barquiel L’Envers was there alongside a sizable merchant-barge, drumming his fingers impatiently on his sword-belt. I dismounted from the carriage, careful to keep my hood up.

“Everything’s there.” L’Envers jerked his chin at the barge. “Your horse, your things. Passage paid to Marsilikos. After that, you’re on your own.”

I took a deep breath. “Thank you, my lord.”

“The captain and crew are sound,” he said. “They were outside the City when it happened. I paid them to keep their mouths shut, and they’re scared enough to do it. If you need help in Marsilikos, try the Lady’s daughter. She wasn’t here for it, either.”

“I will.” I hesitated, then fished the letter I’d written out of an inner pocket. “I don’t have the right to ask you any further favors . . .”

L’Envers lips tightened. “Just ask.”

“This is for Phèdre and Joscelin.” I handed him the letter. “I didn’t divulge any details. And I know you can’t give it to them yet. Not until I’m well away, not until you’ve raised a sufficient delegation that they might,
might
listen, instead of accusing you of abducting me. But it’s important to me. I owe them my life. I owe them everything I am.”

He took it. “What else?”

“Sidonie,” I said softly. “If I fail, if I’ve been misled . . .” My voice faltered. “You’re welcome to seek vengeance against me, I don’t care. But please . . . no matter how it seemed, she didn’t go willingly. Not really.”

Somewhat in L’Envers’ worn, chiseled face softened. “I know.”

I swallowed. “Whatever you can do to save her.”

“Imriel.” Barquiel L’Envers hands settled on my shoulders. “She’s my blood. Why the hell do you think I wanted to protect her from you so badly?” His fingers flexed, biting deep. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He let me go. “Get out of here.”

I went.

Shrouded in my cloak, I boarded the barge. I wasn’t such a fool as to trust L’Envers wholeheartedly; before we cast off, I made certain all was as he’d promised. It was. The Bastard was belowdeck, looking profoundly discontented. I lingered briefly, cupping his whiskered muzzle in my hand. My saddlebags were stowed in a cabin, neatly packed. There was a generous purse. My sword-belt and my dagger were there. I buckled my weapons in place, my fingers shaking with the effort. Still, it made me feel stronger.

I went to tell the barge captain all was in readiness. He was a taciturn Eisandine fellow, uneasiness lurking behind his eyes.

“You’re sure you want to do this, your highness?” he asked.

Sunlight sparkled on the Aviline River. I could see the distant walls of the Palace gleaming. Somewhere in the City behind us, Phèdre and Joscelin were strolling the outer gardens of Eisheth’s temple, beginning to get worried. Mayhap they were already alarmed, alerted that some intruder had struck down a young initiate and I was nowhere to be found.

And somewhere in Carthage, Astegal, a prince of the House of Sarkal, appointed General of the Council of Thirty, preened his scarlet beard and dreamed of empire, basking under the ensorceled gaze of
my
girl Sidonie. Whom he might or might not have wed by now. Who did not love him, but had gone away with him willingly.

I ground my teeth. “I’m sure.”

The captain—Gilbert Dumel was his name—gave the order. “Oars away!”

The moorings were loosed, the ropes tossed aboard the barge. Deft sailors leapt across the gap. Rowers bent their backs, groaning with effort. L’Envers and his men were gone, nowhere in sight.

Another departure, another leavetaking.

Gods, I was tired.

The grey cloak puddled around me. I heard members of the crew murmuring, speculating. I bowed my head like Eisheth, splaying one hand on the sun-warmed boards of the prow to brace myself.

Love.

You will find it and lose it, again and again.

A Priest of Elua had told me that long ago. It was true. There were so many loves in my life I had found and lost. So many treasures that had slipped through my fingers. Not this. I wouldn’t allow it.

Not Sidonie.

Sixteen

T
he barge made steady progress down the Aviline. I kept to myself, spending long hours practicing the Cassiline discipline in an effort to regain my strength, while the green banks of Terre d’Ange slid past us.

Gilbert and his men gave me a wide, wary berth. They’d heard the stories in the City. Prince Imriel gone mad, tied to his bed and raving. I might have seemed sane enough now, but my wrists were still circled with healing scabs.

They kept their word, though. No one betrayed my presence. I supposed that was one good thing about finding myself under the patronage of Barquiel L’Envers. He wasn’t a man anyone wanted to cross.

And, too, they were scared. Somehow, Carthage had managed to strike at the very heart of Terre d’Ange, and no one knew how.

As the days passed, I grew stronger. I’d fought back from worse. Berlik had nearly killed me; this was nothing.

Fighting despair was harder.

Even as my body slowly healed, the sense of weariness persisted. It had nothing to do with overexerting myself. It was a fear that I’d been given one burden more than I could carry. I
had
failed in Vralia. I’d given up and prepared to abandon my hunt for Berlik. In the end, he’d come to me.

This was different, though. I’d wanted vengeance for Dorelei, very much. I’d wanted to let her spirit rest peacefully. I’d needed to assuage my grief. And I’d wanted to do my utmost to ameliorate the shadow of guilt that lay between Sidonie and me. Still, I could have lived with the failure, bitter and awful though it would have been.