Kushiel's Scion (84 page)
"Oh please, my lord!" Anna got to her feet. "No, we mustn't."
Gilot stirred, murmuring restlessly in his sleep.
"I insist," I said, reaching for the door. "Stay."
She glanced at Gilot, then at me, her brows knit. "You would be welcome to my room, if it's not too humble."
"Is it worse than this?" I gestured around.
"No." Anna smiled through her tears. "You're a funny sort of prince, my lord."
"So I'm told," I said.
I left them there, lingering in the courtyard long enough to hear Anna bar the door against intruders. Through the irregular slats of the latched shutters, I could see her bend tenderly to kiss her daughter and Gilot, then blow out the last oil lamp. Oddly enough, my envy had dissipated. In its place, there was an aching tenderness, heavy and poignant.
"May Elua bless and keep you," I whispered.
And then I found my way to Anna's apartment, climbing the outer stair to the second story, and slept alone on the widow's pallet, with her daughter's empty cot beside me.
Even a stunted tree reaches for sunlight.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Master Piero lectured on the virtue of honesty.
I swear, betimes the man chose his topics purely to provoke me. We met in his lecture hall at the University, and I sat on my three-legged stool, chin in hand, listening to flies drone while he railed against the myriad ways a lie can fester in one's soul, lies breeding lies, even as flies hatch maggots in an open wound.
"Ugh!" Brigitta commented.
Afterward, we argued the matter—lies of intent, lies of omission, lies of kindness. Whether there was merit in any of them. I argued that there was. That some secrets were meant to be kept, too injurious to be made known.
"Truth, like fire, cauterizes," Master Piero said tranquilly. "Can you think of a secret better kept than exposed, Imriel nó Montrève?"
"I can think of a few, Master," I muttered.
He smiled at me. "Think harder."
I did, then. I thought about my mother's legacy of secrecy and plotting; one for which it seemed I had a knack. I wondered, for the first time, what my life would be like if she had simply succumbed, handing my infant self over to Ysandre de la Courcel to be raised as a member of House Courcel. But as Asclepius had said, the past could not be altered without changing the present. If I had never been hidden by a priest's lie, there would have been no one to challenge Angra Mainyu in Daršanga. There were no easy answers.
It made my head ache to think on it.
I was glad when Master Piero dismissed us. "Lucius!" I caught his arm. "Are you free this afternoon? I'll stand you a jug of wine."
Things had been cool between us since I'd managed to insult his friendship, but he gave me a measuring look and nodded. "All right. Let's go to the baths first. It's perishing hot out there."
We spent a good portion of the afternoon idling in the pleasant waters of the tepidarium. The baths were crowded, so I held my tongue and listened instead while Lucius spoke of the wedding plans. The city of Lucca was preparing for a gala affair to celebrate the long-overdue union of two of its ruling families. Helena appeared content, and her beloved Bartolomeo had written Lucius a letter of thanks.
"Can you imagine?" he said wryly.
"It does seem a bit odd," I admitted.
"I don't think he could have borne seeing her wed to Domenico Martelli," he said. "From what I hear, he's nearly as bad as old Gallus Tadius. His first wife died. He put it about that she came to term early and died in childbirth, but I heard he beat her until she lost the babe. I suppose Bartolomeo has reason to be relieved."
"How is old Gallus Tadius?" I asked.
"Still quiet." Lucius grinned at me. "I hate to admit the priests were right, but he's been mercifully, blessedly quiet."
Clean and refreshed, we strolled through the city. Our usual wineshop was already doing a brisk trade, and I suggested we seek out less crowded quarters. Lucius looked puzzled, but agreed.
"You're being very mysterious, Montrève," he observed.
"I've reason for it," I said.
We found a place on the outskirts of the students' quarter. It catered to day-laborers for the most part; tradesmen and merchants who wanted a quiet drink during the midday hours. The wine wasn't very good, but it was mostly empty, which suited my purposes.
Lucius tasted his wine and made a face, then settled back in his chair. "All right. Out with it."
"Do you remember how you said you'd appreciate my friendship more if I let you reciprocate it?" I asked him.
"Quite well." He looked sharply at me. "This isn't about the time when I asked if there was any chance you might fancy me, is it? Because that's not what I meant. Don't flatter yourself, Montrève. I'm not pining."
"No, no." I shook my head. "I know what you meant. You've been honest and open in your friendship, and I've been… less than forthcoming."
"Mm." A corner of his mouth quirked. "You do cultivate an air of brooding mystery. It grows a bit tiresome."
I laughed. "It's not a-purpose."
"Good to know." He turned somber. "Why? Does it have to do with what happened when you were a child? Bad things, you said."
"It's part of it." I studied my hands encircling my winecup. "You asked about family."
"Is there a Gallus Tadius in yours?"
I glanced up at his sympathetic gaze. "Not exactly. There's a Melisande Shahrizai and a Benedicte de la Courcel. Lucius, I've not lied to you, but I've not been honest, either." I took a deep breath and braced myself for his reaction. "What I told you is true. I was adopted by Phèdre nó Delaunay, the Comtesse de Montrève. But I'm kin to Queen Ysandre, and in Terre d'Ange my name, my full name, is Imriel nó Montrève de la Courcel."
Lucius blinked at me, his mouth working soundlessly. He raised his winecup in an unthinking gesture. It slipped from his fingers and shattered on the wooden table. A puddle of wine spread between us and the barkeep hurried toward us with alacrity, a rag in his hand.
"Oh, sweet Apollo!" Lucius whispered. "You're the Bella Donna's son."
I stared at him. "What?"
It had to wait while the barkeep swabbed the table. Lucius muttered under his breath, pacing the wineshop and tapping his temples. I ignored him and thanked the barkeep for his troubles, giving him a few coins and procuring a new cup for Lucius, which I filled and thrust across the table.
"Sit," I said. "And tell me."
"Tell you!" He gave a harried laugh, but he sat and drained his cup, refilling it straightaway. "It's a legend, Montrève—or whatever I should call you. A Serenissiman tale, but it's cropped up in Lucca and elsewhere in the north of Caerdicca Unitas. Not here, not this far southwest. The Bella Donna, the handmaiden of Asherat." He gestured impatiently. "Asherat-of-the-Sea, the Bona Dea, Magna Mater. Whatever you wish to call her. As Master Piero says, the gods wear many faces."
"Lucius," I said.
He drank off another cup. "She's your mother?"
"No!" I raked a hand through my hair, still damp from the baths. "Lucius, my mother is very much a mortal woman. Her name is Melisande Shahrizai, and she took sanctuary in the Temple of Asherat to avoid being executed for treason."
He nodded and set his winecup down carefully. "The Bella Donna."
"She's a traitor!" I shouted.
Lucius winced. "Montrève, you asked. I'm telling you, that's all. That's the legend. She was a beautiful woman, wrongfully accused, her son stolen from her. She took the Veil of Asherat and the goddess granted her sanctuary. Year upon year, her grief and her beauty deepened. When her pain grew too much to bear, the goddess made the walls of the temple melt like mist and freed her to roam the earth in search of her lost son. There was a priestess who swore it was so." He picked up his cup, then set it down. "Women in desperate circumstances ask the Bella Donna to intercede with the goddess on their behalf. Little things, offerings at the crossroads. Blue beads. Helena did it, once. That's how I know."
"Lucius." I spread my hands. "That's absurd."
He nodded. "I know."
"You don't," I said. We sat in silence for a moment. "Lucius, my mother was the architect of the greatest treachery in the history of Terre d'Ange, and my father… he was her dupe, her willing dupe, so far as I know, one in a long line of many. And me… I represent the least of her plots."
Lucius got up from the table and took our empty winejug to the barkeep. He returned, refilled our cups, and set the jug down between us. The shock had passed from his face and his hazel eyes were steady. "Tell me."
I told him.
Not all of it; not the full horror of Daršanga. On that, I touched lightly. I had told Phèdre all of it and Eamonn some of it, and I didn't think I'd ever speak of it to another living being. But I told Lucius my history, written in broad strokes.
Parts of it, he knew.
Lucius wasn't ignorant of the world's affairs; he'd simply failed to assemble the puzzle. Still, it was strange to speak openly to someone whose perspective was so vastly different from my own. The war that had left such deep and abiding scars on Terre d'Ange, Skaldia, and Alba was merely a historical point of interest to the Caerdicci.
"Are you sure?" he asked when I finished. "Sure of your mother's guilt?"
"Yes." I didn't elaborate.
"Where is she now?"
"Well, she's not roaming the earth in search of her missing son!" I said tartly. "Name of Elua! I was only missing in the first place because she had me hidden away, at least until the slavers took me. And I've been found for quite some years now."
"Fables have a way of outliving truths," Lucius murmured. "So you don't know?"
"I've no idea," I said shortly. "And so long as she keeps her promise, I don't care."
"Promise?" He raised his brows.
"To do naught to jeopardize the lives of the Queen and her daughters," I said.
Lucius looked blankly at me for a moment, then blew out his breath. "Which would put you on the throne, right? Jupiter Capitolinus, Montrève! What in the hell are you doing wandering around Tiberium pretending to be an impoverished gentleman scholar?"
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