Kushiel's Scion (41 page)
"Don't fall in love, Imri," he said. "It will only break your heart."
"No fear," I murmured. "I haven't yet."
Gilot shuddered. "Don't."
Chapter Twenty-Three
In the City, my restlessness returned. I couldn't help it. I was seventeen and I wanted… something. Love, despite Gilot's warning; adventure, despite what I knew of its rigors. It didn't matter. I wanted, with passionate intensity, to feel. I wanted more.
Most of the time, I kept it in check. At others, it would break free. I lashed out at friends, and earned a name for having a sharp tongue.
And once, I lashed out at Nicola L'Envers y Aragon.
She had returned for the winter, along with her son Raul, who was contentedly courting several of the young women of the Court, including Colette Trente. Betimes, Phèdre saw Lady Nicola. Although she was quiet about it, I knew. I always knew. I saw what I had seen in Daršanga; the languor, the remote echo of violent pleasure. And despite my attempts at resolve and maturity, I still hated it.
It was an awkward encounter, taking place in the Salon of Eisheth's Harp; a small fete in honor of a minor dignitary from one of the Caerdicci city-states. At the Queen's behest, the musicians struck up a tune and everyone took part in a Caerdicci pavane in which one changed partners according to intricate rules.
At the end, I found myself partnered with the Lady Nicola.
I forced a pleasant smile as we danced, and we spoke lightly of inconsequential matters. She was a diplomat's wife; she was good at it. But there was another line of thought running behind her eyes, and when the dance ended, she gave voice to it with unexpected honesty. "You don't like me overmuch, do you?"
In the middle of a polite bow, I stiffened. "No," I admitted, straightening. "Not overmuch, I'm afraid."
Nicola studied me. There was no offense in her expression, only curiosity. "Why?"
I glanced over at Phèdre. She was conversing with the Caerdicci dignitary, her face alight with lively intelligence. A rush of love and anger overcame me. "Tell me, what manner of toys do you prefer, my lady?" I asked. "Whips? Brands? Blades?" With satisfaction, I watched Nicola blanch. "If you knew…" For a moment, words failed me. With an effort, I gathered myself. "If you knew," I said coldly, "if you had any idea, the slightest idea, what Phèdre has endured, you would never lay a hand upon her. You would never conduct such cruel outrage and call it love" I shook my head. "You have no idea."
I was trembling, filled with righteous fury. I expected… I don't know. I expected the Lady Nicola to apologize, to retreat in humility. Instead, she looked at me with profound compassion and spoke three words in a low tone.
"Duzhmata, duzhûshta, duzhvarshta."
It struck me like a fist to the gut, hearing them spoken here. I doubled over, gasping, hearing her voice at a distance. Vaguely aware, I suffered myself to be led to a low couch. There I collapsed, pale and sweating.
"I'm sorry." Nicola's face swam in my gaze, concerned. "Imriel, forgive me."
"You know," I whispered.
Her warm hands chafed my cold ones. "Yes."
"How?" I asked helplessly.
There was a world of sorrow in her gaze; an ocean of sorrow. "Because I could bear to hear it. Oh, Imriel! In a thousand years, I could never come between Phèdre and Joscelin, nor would I try to. What they are to one another…" Kneeling before me, Nicola shrugged. "The gods alone have decreed. And yet this thing, this one thing, I can hear and understand, in a way that he cannot. Altogether, they are stronger for it." She paused. "Have you never felt the need to tell anyone what befell you in that terrible place? Someone you trusted without reservation?"
Thinking of Eamonn, I nodded.
"Then you know," she said softly.
"But you hurt her," I whispered. "You hurt her!"
The Lady Nicola L'Envers y Aragon smiled. "No," she said. "There is a point where pleasure and pain commingle. Believe me, I would violate neither Elua's precept or Phèdre's trust." She touched my cheek, the garnet seal bearing the mark of Kushiel's Dart dangling from her wrist, brushing my skin. "And there are points, too, where being a friend and a lover intermesh. Is it hurtful to explore these?"
"Don't!" I shrank from her touch. "Please, don't."
She sat back on her heels, violet eyes grave, her gold-embroidered skirts pooling around her. "As you wish," Nicola said. "Only know…" She opened her hand, regarding her empty palm, contemplating the lines etched upon it. "Only know."
"Know what?" I cried.
"Know yourself." Nicola touched the center of my brow with the tip of her forefinger. "It's a good place to start, Prince Imriel."
I tried.
I tried so hard to be good that winter. All the while, all I yearned for was freedom; freedom from my past, freedom from my present, hedged all around with safeguards. I let go my antipathy toward the Lady Nicola, gaining a new sympathy and understanding. At Court, I tried hard to be pleasant and lighthearted. Making an effort, I tried, very hard, to be a good brother to Alais and Sidonie.
Half the time, I even felt like it.
At thirteen, Alais was as prickly as a thornbush. With her, I pretended nothing had changed. Betimes she would relent and speak openly to me; about her fears regarding the unsettled succession in Alba, about the long-standing quarrel between her parents. At other times, she was bristly and removed.
Sidonie was another matter.
Elua help me! I came to respect her in that year. No; that is a lie. I came to admire her. I watched and I saw. Attending an increasing number of Court events, she shouldered her burden as the Dauphine of Terre d'Ange squarely, aware of all it entailed. There was a constant undercurrent of intrigue and speculation, which she ignored with remarkable thoroughness. If it made her seem a touch cool and removed, so be it. It was a heavy burden.
I thought about my oath.
Impossible as it seemed, it remained a secret between us. No one except Sidonie had heard me swear it on that Longest Night. I had told no one; not even Phèdre. Nor, it seemed, had Sidonie.
We had a secret.
It felt strange, though not in a bad way. We never spoke of it. But betimes, in a crowded room, I would catch her eye and see a faint smile hover at the corner of her mouth. I knew, then, she thought of it, too.
And that year, for the first time, my loyalty was assailed.
It happened in Night's Doorstep, a few weeks after Midwinter. A party of us had ventured forth, defying the bitter cold. It was my usual group of friends—Bertran de Trevalion, the Trentes, Raul L'Envers y Aragon, Marguerite Grosmaine. Gilot was there, and a handful of men-at-arms attending the others. All in all, we made a considerable crowd.
I had scarce been to the Cockerel since Eamonn had left, and I reveled in the reception I received. There were always Tsingani there, and as Phèdre's foster-son, I was always welcome among them. Whether or not I knew them, they knew me. They knew the story. And in some ways, I felt more at home among them than I ever did at Court.
"The gadjo pearl!" a Tsingano man cried, grinning. He flung his arm around my shoulders. "We Tsingani saved your life, didn't we, chavo?"
"You did," I agreed, ignoring the shocked stares of my Court companions. I beckoned to the barkeep. "I'll stand a round for the Tsingani!"
They cheered and I laughed.
"Are you mad, Imriel?" Bertran asked quietly.
"Not at all," I said cheerfully. "It's true, they did. If not for the Tsingani, I'd still be a slave in Drujan. A dead slave."
He gave me a troubled look. "You shouldn't speak of such things in public."
"Why not?" I asked. "It's true."
"Oh, yes!" My Tsingano comrade gave my shoulders a friendly shake. "And if not for your gadjo foster-mother, Anasztaisia's son would be a prisoner!" He let me go and extended his hand, dark and sinewy. "I am Viktor."
I clasped it firmly. "Imriel."
For a moment, I thought it would go badly with my Court friends; then Julien Trente let out a whoop of enthusiasm. "All right, then! I'll stand a round for the Tsingani!"
After that, all was well. A pair of fiddlers began to play, and everyone mingled and drank together. As if summoned by magic—or more likely, a well-organized system of messengers—others came, including several of Naamah's Servants. There was one I knew, a pretty girl named Hélène. I whispered in her ear, pointing her toward Gilot. He had a dazed look on his face as she led him away toward a back room. I hid my smile in a tankard of ale, reckoning it well worth the patron-fee.
By the time we left, it was late and the moon was high overhead, small and distant. We milled around in the crisp air, laughing and talking over the night's adventure, waiting for the stable-lads to fetch our mounts from the livery. The Trentes had come by carriage, and there was some fuss over a fraying harness strap. I paid it scant heed. Viktor and two of the other Tsingani were admiring the Bastard, discussing his lineage in Tsingani dialect. I was listening to them, trying to make out their comments, when a figure stepped from the shadows.
"Prince Imriel."
"Yes?" I frowned. It was a man, and no one I knew. His lower face was swathed in a heavy scarf, muffling his voice, and he wore a rustic woolen cap pulled low over his brow.
"You have friends in Parliament." His eyes glinted in his shadowed face. "True of heart and pure of blood."
Every ounce of camaraderie and warmth left me. "Who are you?"
"No one." He began backing away. "No one."
"Wait, stop." I moved to detain him. "Stop!" Bertran's mount swung around abruptly, blocking me. Bertran stared down at me, incredulous.
"What did that fellow just say to you?" he asked.
The mysterious messenger was disappearing around the corner of the Cockerel into a dark alley. "Stop!" I shouted, shoving at solid horseflesh. "Damn it, Bertran, help me catch him or get out of the way!"
He tried to do both at once. I slipped past him and was nearly run down. Bowled over by his charge, I ducked my head, trying to scramble out of the way of his mount's churning hooves. I heard Bertran swearing, Gilot shouting at him, and the ring of a sword being drawn.
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