Kushiel's Mercy (20 page)

Not this one.

So I pushed my body until my muscles quivered, taking a grim solace in my returning strength. I forced myself not to think about Sidonie and Astegal. It was too dangerous, filling me with fury and despair, making me fear for my sanity once more. There was darkness lurking in me, spilled out by the prick of a eunuch’s needle. I couldn’t give in to it.

We reached the wide mouth of the Aviline, opening onto the sea. The barge turned east along the coast, making for Marsilikos. I gazed out at the vast expanse of water to the south, thinking about the lands that lay beyond.

Cythera.

Carthage.

Like Tiberium, Carthage had ruled a vast empire once. Long ago, in the days before Blessed Elua wandered the earth, Carthage had conquered Aragonia. It had made alliances with our forebears in the land that would become Terre d’Ange; it had marched on Tiberium. Armies of both nations had fought one another to a standstill.

In the end, the pendulum had swung. Carthage’s army had been vanquished on Tiberian soil, its dream of empire destroyed. Tiberium’s star had risen for a time, until it too had fallen.

Now Carthage sought to rise again, armed with dire magic.

It could be stopped, though. I had to believe it. Whatever the horologists had done, it wasn’t as deadly as what I’d witnessed in Drujan. The Âka-Magi there had used madness as a weapon to destroy an entire Akkadian army, turning it against itself. They had been able to kill with a thought. And Phèdre had managed to bring them down nonetheless—Phèdre, Joscelin, and the brave folk of the zenana.

I had to believe.

The gilded Dome of the Lady was shining brightly the day we reached Marsilikos. The harbor was busy, filled with an unwarranted number of Quintilius Rousse’s ships. His men were swarming everywhere. I didn’t dare roam the docks, seeking passage to Cythera. Once the Bastard was unloaded, I thanked Gilbert and his men and took my leave of them. I rode into the city, struggling with my fractious horse, sweating beneath my concealing cloak. I’d regained a good measure of strength, but not nearly as much as I’d have liked.

The streets of Marsilikos were filled with uneasy talk. I took a room at a modest inn and gave a false name. I paid a lad to carry a note to the Lady of Marsilikos’ daughter, Jeanne de Mereliot, then sat in the tavern, drinking ale and eavesdropping.

All the conversation was the same. Roxanne de Mereliot, her son, Gerard, and every member of their retinue had returned from the City of Elua under the conviction that Terre d’Ange was Carthage’s ally, speaking in vague, glowing terms of a marvel they had witnessed, speaking happily of the love-match between Astegal and Sidonie.

No one could fathom why.

There was speculation about a bribe of unimaginable proportions, fueled by the accounts of Carthage’s generous gifts. Here and there, a few stalwarts insisted that it had to be some ploy Ysandre and Drustan had concocted to confuse Carthage, lulling them into complacency, but no one could explain how that would play out in a manner that would justify Sidonie’s sacrifice.

And there were whispers of dark magic performed beneath a bloody moon, about Carthage itself, a land with gods terrible enough that they had once demanded the sacrifice of babes and children.

I listened, gritting my teeth until my jaw ached.

It wasn’t long before the tavern-lad returned with a message from Jeanne de Mereliot, bidding me to meet her in all haste at the Academy of Medicine. I’d nearly forgotten she was a chirurgeon in her own right. She was of Eisheth’s line, with healing in her blood.

Since it wasn’t far, I made the journey on foot, cloaked and sweltering in the heat, pushing my body to further endurance. There weren’t many folk in Marsilikos who could put a name to my face for a surety, but there were a few. I’d ridden with Gerard de Mereliot and an escort of the Lady’s men once. With my luck, I’d be sure to encounter one of them.

For a mercy, I didn’t.

At the Academy, I presented myself as Cadmar of Landras. It was the name of a boy I’d known long ago when I was a child in the Sanctuary of Elua. I don’t know why it was the first thing I’d thought of when I’d given a false name, except that it was a piece of my past no one would ever connect to Imriel de la Courcel. I’d warned Jeanne in the note I’d sent, and I was escorted to her study without question.

“Im—” Jeanne caught her breath at the sight of me, barely catching herself before saying my name. We had passed a night together once, or at least several hours of one. Eisheth’s mercy takes many forms. Her smoky grey eyes widened. “You look . . .” She shook her head. “Thank you,” she said to the attendant who had escorted me. “You may go.”

“Well met, Jeanne,” I said when the door had closed.

“You look awful,” she said gently.

“I’ve looked worse,” I said. “Believe me.”

Jeanne regarded me with a chirurgeon’s concern. “You were very ill. You shouldn’t be travelling, Imriel. Not like this.”

“I wasn’t ill.” I found a chair and sat. “I was stark raving mad, Jeanne. But it passed, and now I’m the only living soul who was in the City of Elua the night the moon was obscured who
doesn’t
believe that Carthage and Terre d’Ange are allies, and Sidonie de la Courcel fell in love with a Carthaginian prince.”

“So your letter suggested.” Tears shone in her eyes, born of frustration and weariness. “What in Blessed Elua’s name
happened
that night?” Jeanne gestured helplessly around her study, which was piled high with books and scrolls. “I’ve been looking for answers; we all have. But there’s nothing in history to guide us, no account of thousands of folk succumbing to the same delusion at the same time.”

“It was a trick,” I said. “A spell.”

“You saw it?” she asked. “What they did?”

The hope in her voice hurt. I shook my head. “I saw very little. A man drove a needle into me.” I touched my side. “Here. He told me I would go mad, but it was for my own protection. He said the fever would break in a month. And he said to seek out Ptolemy Solon in Cythera, who would know how to undo what was done. That’s why I’m here. I need your help booking passage to Cythera.”

“A needle.” A strange expression crossed Jeanne’s face. She stooped before me, laying one hand on my brow. “Have you any idea how that sounds?”

“Yes.” I caught her hand. “But it’s true. There’s nothing wrong with my memory. I remember
you.
You came to my room and offered me respite. Eisheth’s mercy. You opened all the windows. I remember, Jeanne. Your black hair spread on the pillow like sea-grass, the cool wind blowing over my skin. You were gentle and kind, and I needed that so much. When you left, you laughed and told me Eisheth had a fondness for beautiful sailor-boys.”

Her fingers stirred in mine. “Remembering that doesn’t make this true.”

“But what if it is?” I asked simply.

She didn’t answer right away, but began rummaging through the texts piled on every surface of her study, her face fierce with concentration. I sat quietly, watching her.

“Here,” Jeanne said at length, thrusting an ancient, cracked tome at me, marking a passage with one finger. It was written in Hellene.

I read it.

To induce madness, forge a needle of silver that has never seen daylight, one handspan’s length. Bathe it in the sweat of a lunatic’s brow mixed with the effluvium of a horned toad. For one year, expose it to the light of the full moon. When plunged into the vitals, it will induce madness for the duration of the moon’s cycle.

My blood ran cold. “What is this book? Where did you get it?”

“It’s a compendium of occult ailments by Cleon of Naxos,” Jeanne said. “He spent years gathering tales of folk rumored to have been afflicted by witchcraft.” She shrugged. “No one’s ever given it credence, but there was a copy in the Academy library. A curiosity, I suppose. I pulled it only out of desperation.”

“Does Cleon of Naxos suggest cures?” I asked.

“No.” Regret darkened her gaze. “He died some two hundred years ago. There’s a note at the end of the compendium stating he meant to compile a volume of occult cures, but so far as I know, he never did.”

“Damn.” I closed the book. “Well, it’s somewhat.” I remembered the searing pain of Sunjata’s needle plunging deep into my flesh and shivered. A madman’s sweat and toad-slime. Gods.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Jeanne asked.

“I’ll manage.” I handed the book back to her. “Jeanne, listen. It was Barquiel L’Envers who helped me get this far. He’s the only ranking peer of the realm who
wasn’t
in the City that night. He’s planning to raise a delegation to petition Ysandre to step aside and let Alais assume the throne until we can find a way to undo this.”

“L’Envers helped you?” Her voice held an incredulous note.

“He’s desperate, too.” I smiled briefly. “Or eager to be rid of me. Tell him about this. If nothing else, it’s one more piece of proof that I’m not remembering fever-dreams. And mayhap there are other texts no one’s ever heeded that might hold other answers.”

Resolve strengthened her features. “It’s worth looking.”

“Will you help me get to Cythera?” I asked.

Jeanne gave me a long look. “I shouldn’t. I’m not sure it wouldn’t be violating my chirurgeon’s oath.”

“Do no harm,” I said softly, thinking of Canis’ medallion. “My lady, believe me when I tell you that you will do me far greater harm if you withhold your aid.”

“The Dauphine?” she asked with sympathy.

I nodded, suddenly bereft of words.

Jeanne sighed. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” I caught her hands and kissed them. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Silence fell between us. Jeanne de Mereliot freed one hand, touched my cheek with that healing gentleness I remembered so well. Her grey eyes were clear and grave and lovely. “I keep a private chamber here at the Academy if you’d prefer to stay here tonight.” She smiled a little. “I promise you, it’s much tidier than my study.”

Respite.

Eisheth’s mercy.

I understood what she was offering, and I wanted it more than I would have reckoned. A blessing to carry with me, a memory of grace to ward off the memories of madness that racked me with shame. A night’s haven, a talisman against the thoughts of Sidonie in Astegal’s bed.

But it would blur other memories, too.

Sidonie, silvered by moonlight, her face in shadow. The sweat of love-making drying on our skin.

I love you. Very, very much.

Always,
I’d said.
Always and always.

I needed to cling to it. It was that memory which lent me purpose and courage. I couldn’t afford to let go of it, to lessen it in any way. I was afraid I’d fall apart if I did.

“You are as kind as you are beautiful,” I said to Jeanne. “And there is a large part of me that would like nothing better. But, my lady, I’m very much afraid that your kindness would prove my undoing.”

She smiled again, but there was sorrow in it. “Then I’ll send word to Cadmar of Landras at the inn. Promise me you’ll have a care for yourself.”

“It’s a long sea voyage,” I said. “I’ll have naught to do but rest idle.”

Jeanne frowned, a belated thought occurring to her. “Why is L’Envers sending you alone and in secret? Do you reckon he
is
hoping to be rid of you?”

“I don’t think so, no.” I shook my head. “It’s a long story, and there are parts of it that are dangerous to know. But the one who drove the needle into me, the one who bade me go to Cythera and seek out Ptolemy Solon—my mother sent him. He told me as much.”

She drew a sharp breath. “
Melisande?”

“The same,” I said wryly.

“Why?” Jeanne asked in bewilderment.

“She’s Solon’s mistress,” I said. “I’d learned that much on my own. Beyond that . . .” I shook my head. “Blessed Elua alone knows. But if he’s willing to help, it’s only because I’m her son.”

“Melisande,” Jeanne repeated. “Name of Elua!” She gave a short laugh. “What a piece of irony that would be if Melisande Shahrizai’s intrigues provided the key to Terre d’Ange’s salvation.”

I hadn’t thought about it in those terms.

Irony be damned. Let the gods laugh, let old scores be settled, let old wounds heal. I was sick unto death of them anyway. All I wanted was to undo this madness. I wanted to erase this grief and confusion that haunted the land. I wanted Terre d’Ange back. I wanted the memories of my loved ones back. I wanted Sidonie back.

Back in my arms, back in my heart, where she belonged.

Where we fit so well together.

“I pray they do,” I said.

“So do I,” Jeanne murmured. “Elua forgive me, but so do I.”

Seventeen

A
round midday on the morrow, a message arrived from Jeanne de Mereliot.

I’d gone for a ride in the early hours of the morning, taking the Bastard outside the city into the countryside, where I could fling back the hood of my cloak and give him free rein to stretch his legs, working off the pent frustrations of our barge trip.

I shouldn’t have taken him. It had been pure selfishness on my part. I knew I had to do this alone. Still, it felt good to have the companionship of one living creature.

The Bastard was blown by the time we returned, his nostrils flaring and his spotted hide damp with sweat. I tipped the ostler at the inn an extra coin to be sure he was well-tended.

Inside, the message awaited.

“Messire Cadmar?” The innkeeper passed me a sealed letter. “For you.”

I read it and laughed.

Jeanne had booked passage for me aboard the
Aeolia,
the self-same Tiberian ship that had brought me to Marsilikos . . . how long ago? Not quite four years. It felt like a lifetime. But then, I had lived a lifetime in those few years.

The
Aeolia
was scheduled to depart at dawn the next day. I passed a quiet evening in Marsilikos, nursing tankards of ale and dining on lamb shanks, listening to the continued profound confusion and dismay on the part of my compatriots.

It hurt.

They hurt.

They were scared, bewildered, and confused. It worried me. I prayed that L’Envers was able to keep his temper in check, that the delegation he assembled was able to make Ysandre see reason. Because if they weren’t, fear and confusion would begin to give way to anger. L’Envers, the minor lords, and the commonfolk had numbers on their side, but Ysandre had Ghislain nó Trevalion and the Royal Army. If things got ugly, they could get very ugly.