Kushiel's Mercy
Page 23

“There is a fruit that grows south of Carthage,” Solon said when the girl had departed. “When it is green, it is poisonous. Only when it has fully ripened may it be safely eaten. I sampled it once in my younger days. There was a heady sense of danger in it. Once I’d eaten it, I craved more. Your mother is like that fruit.”
“I see,” I said.
“Not entirely.” He tilted his head. “I grow old. I thought myself beyond the point of succumbing to such temptations. The fruit, I withstood. My vow to myself, I have kept. But to my chagrin, I find I am unable to resist the delicious, sinful pleasure of groveling at your mother’s feet.” He laughed at my expression. “Ah, Imriel! The world is full of unexpected delights.”
“Elua knows that’s true,” I muttered.
The upper rim of the sun vanished beneath the sea, leaving a ruddy glow behind it. Servants came with covered dishes, lifting the domes to reveal grape leaves stuffed with rice and lamb, fillets of mullet in wine, crusty bread, and a creamy pink sauce made with fish roe. Solon sniffed appreciatively, his broad nostrils widening.
“Happiness,” he said.
I took a long drink of my wine. “Happiness, my lord?”
“It is the highest form of wisdom.” Solon tore off a piece of bread, dipping it in the roe sauce. He chewed slowly, savoring it. “That is the totality of what I have learned in my pursuit of knowledge, Imriel de la Courcel.”
I tried the roe sauce, emulating him. It was salty and delicious, velvet on the tongue. “Oh?”
Solon popped a grape leaf–wrapped delicacy into his mouth. “Oh, yes. I have applied this learning here in Cythera since I was given the governorship.” His jaw worked, and he swallowed with obvious pleasure. His brown eyes glowed. “I’ve sought to make my people happy. I’ve listened to the concerns of all and brokered peace among them. I’ve implemented just laws. Do you know, any man, woman, or child sold into slavery in Cythera must be paid a fair wage? Fair enough that they might buy their freedom in seven years’ time.”
“Sunjata,” I said.
He nodded with glee. “Even so!”
“Solon.” I pushed my plate away. “I am interested in your thoughts. Indeed, I spent some months in Tiberium studying philosophy with Master Piero di Bonci, and I would have gladly spent longer. Another time, I would like nothing better than to discuss the virtues of happiness with you. But my country has been torn apart by Carthage’s magics. Terre d’Ange hovers on the brink of instability. And Sidonie de la Courcel, whom I love beyond all reason, has been ensorceled into believing she is meant to wed an ambitious Carthaginian general—”
Solon speared a piece of poached mullet with his fork. “She did.”
My voice rose. “When?”
He chewed and swallowed. “Some two weeks ago. I imagine Carthage will have launched their invasion by now. We ought to get word any day.”
Sidonie had married Astegal.
I felt sick.
“Eat.” Solon pushed my plate back toward me. There was sympathy in his wise ape’s face. “I’ve a feeling you’re going to need your strength. Undoing Carthage’s spell won’t be an easy task.”
I stabbed at my fish. “Then you’ll help?”
“I might.” He braced his elbows on the table. “What are you offering?”
I forced a bite of mullet down my throat. “My mother’s sentence commuted to exile.”
“No pardon?” Solon asked.
“No,” I said shortly. I thought about riding into the City upon returning from my excursion to Vralia. The black armbands, the down-turned thumbs. The hard, anguished stares on the faces of the bereaved. “No pardon.”
He nodded. “I’ll think on it. Will you see her willingly?”
“Does she have the final say?” I asked grimly.
“No.” Solon blinked at me. “She has the first say, but the final say is mine. I freely confess myself a man besotted, but it has not bereaved me of my wits.” He gave a slow smile. “I believe I am the first man to say no to your mother from time to time. And oddly enough, I do believe she respects me for it.”
I took another bite of mullet. “I’ll see her.”
“Good.” He swabbed another piece of bread with roe sauce. “Because I would have surely refused my aid if you hadn’t. One of her people will come to fetch you in the morning. I hope that you will not be unkind. This will be a long and anxious night of waiting for her.”
I fought down a surge of impatience. “I will try, my lord. But I have passed a good many anxious nights myself of late.”
“Of course,” Solon said. “I understand.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I don’t think you do. You’ve built a pleasant place here on Cythera. Imagine it altered overnight at a single stroke, plunged into uncertainty and confusion. Imagine my mother leaving you gladly for a man you despise. Imagine knowing that all her formidable will and intelligence have been violated and turned against her. Because if Carthage succeeds in Aragonia and Terre d’Ange, this will be only the beginning. Astegal dreams of empire. Cythera would be a pretty plum.”
Solon snorted. “Would Carthage be a worse master than Khebbel-im-Akkad? One overlord is much the same as another. You speak as a man whose country has never been a vassal nation.”
“True.” I set down my fork. “And I would like to remain thus. Do you wish me to beg, my lord? I will.” I got out of the chair and knelt at his feet. “You spoke of happiness. For the first time in my life, I had it. And it has been snatched away from me. I beg you, please, to tell me how to undo what was done. I will give you anything in my possession. I will do anything in my power that you wish.”
“Anything.” His round eyes glinted. “What if I told you I knew of a spell that could give one man the semblance of another? What if I asked for your beauty in exchange for my ugliness? Would you give it?”
“Yes,” I said promptly.
Solon’s brows rose. “Truly?”
I sat back on my heels and spread my arms. “Take it.”
“Hmm.” He regarded me a moment. “You’re fortunate that I have spent my life adhering to the wisdom of restraint. Or perhaps merely that your mother would take it amiss to find me wearing her son’s face.” He shook his head. “I don’t want your face, Imriel de la Courcel. What I want is to choose wisely in this. If I aid you, there are those who will recognize my handiwork. Undoing the spell will be difficult. If you fail, it is I—and Cythera—who will pay the price.”
“I won’t fail,” I said.
“Stubborn.” Solon smiled a little. “Much like your mother. And impulsive, much unlike her. Sleep, and go to see her. Whatever you think of her, Melisande is not made of stone. For ten years and more, she has grieved deeply, knowing what befell you when you were taken as a child, knowing what role her own actions played in it. I do believe it is the pain that finally taught her a measure of compassion.”
I got wearily to my feet. “I hope so.”
His eyes glinted again. “Given that she appears ready to forgive you for seeking her life, I do believe I am right.”
Nineteen
I spent a fitful night, tossing restlessly in my bed at the widow Nuray’s lodging-house, going over my conversation with Solon in my mind. I didn’t think it had gone well. He was an odd and disconcerting man.
Small wonder my mother liked him.
At least it was better than dwelling on the sure knowledge that Sidonie had wed Astegal. I couldn’t think about that without a tide of black, murderous rage rising in my heart, and the feeling was uncomfortably close to my madness.
I rose early and broke my fast, then spent the better part of an hour practicing my Cassiline forms in Nuray’s garden, trying to quiet my mind. I forced myself to focus on the movements; telling the hours, they called it. Step after flowing step, tracing arcs with my blade. It worked well enough that I didn’t notice my mother’s messenger enter the garden.
“Interesting, that,” an insouciant voice said. “What do you call it?”
I halted and turned, then stared.
It was a young man around my age. He’d spoken in Hellene with a native accent, and he wore billowy trousers caught at the ankles and an embroidered Cytheran vest, but he was D’Angeline. His face was narrower than mine, and his eyes a lighter shade of blue, but the stamp of House Shahrizai was there in the angle of his cheekbones, the sensuous mouth.
One of hers.
“Telling the hours,” I said stupidly. “It’s a Cassiline practice.”
“Cassilines!” He snapped his fingers. “I’d forgotten about them.” He came over to greet me, extending a hand. “I’m Leander, by the way.”
“Imriel.” I clasped his hand, frowning in perplexity. “Are we . . . kin?”
“Distantly, by way of the wrong side of the blanket.” Leander laughed. “It’s a long story.” He studied my face. “By the Goddess! You are her son. You look just like her.”
“She’s no goddess,” I said wryly.
“Touchy, touchy.” He arched one brow. “It’s just a saying, my lovely. Very common in these parts. I wasn’t speaking of her ladyship.”
I bit my tongue on a sharp retort and sheathed my blade. “Have you come to take me to her?”
“I have.” Leander inclined his head. He had the blue-black Shahrizai hair, too. It was plaited in a handful of braids, caught up at the crown of his head. “Come with me.”
My mother’s villa lay in the foothills of the mountains, a short ride from the city proper. As we rode, Leander told me somewhat of his history, or rather, his family’s history. Many years ago, Melisande’s father, Casimar Shahrizai, had embarked on an illicit affair with the wife of another Kusheline lord, the Baron de Maignard. During their affair, Victoire de Maignard had gotten with child and delivered a boy. Casimar had demanded she acknowledge the boy as his. Being of Azzallese descent and proud, Victoire had refused. They had quarrelled bitterly.
“So.” Leander’s generous mouth twisted. “Casimar ruined my family.”
“How so?” I asked.
“With money.” He shrugged. “He got my great-grandmother’s husband to invest in a scheme that left him penniless. House Maignard was destroyed. The Baron killed himself in shame. My great-grandmother’s family shunned her for her folly. House Shahrizai turned their backs on her. She became a laundress.”
He went on to tell me how my mother had heard the story as a child. When she came of age and into estates of her own, she sought out the fallen Maignard clan and offered to buy them out of penury. The price for her generosity was their loyalty to her and her alone.
“Great-grandmother Victoire accepted it,” Leander said cynically. “Even Azza’s pride would bend under the weight of a thousand vats of laundry. Our family’s been in your mother’s service ever since.”
“You don’t mind?” I asked.
“Why should I?” Leander gestured expansively. “Oh, I know, I’m meant to think exile from Terre d’Ange is a hell unto itself. But look around you, man! It’s a little paradise here. I’ve lived here since I was a boy. All of that other business happened long before I was born. And I’ll tell you . . .” He fingered a ruby stud in his earlobe and smirked. “Your mother’s a generous patron.”
“I’m sure she is,” I muttered.
Leander drew rein. “All right. You want to hear a piece of Maignard family lore?” His expression hardened. “By all accounts, Casimar Shahrizai was a nasty piece of work. He was charming, but vindictive as all hell. He spent an ungodly amount of money to ruin the old baron. When you mother made her offer, she swore in Kushiel’s name that she would never act out of mere spite. Insofar as I know, she never has.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“So.” Leander shrugged again. “Now you know.”
It was a strange feeling. I’d never thought of my mother as a child, as someone’s daughter. I’d never thought about the forces that had shaped her, like a charming and vicious father. I couldn’t help but feel a creeping sense of admiration for the young woman she had been. Laying the groundwork for plans that would eventually shake the realm to its core. Adhering to her own twisted principles of integrity.
And a sense of loss, too—for the person my mother might have been if she hadn’t been so goddamned ambitious.
All of us had monsters hidden within us.
I’d seen the face of mine in my madness, turning me against everyone I loved, relishing their pain. I’d seen a future in which my son, Dorelei’s and my son, had become a tyrant, cruel and ruthless.
We reached the villa. It was a sprawling place, sunlit and gracious. The foothills were terraced, grapes ripening on the vine. The scent of cypress wafted down from the mountains. Leander and I dismounted in the courtyard. A cheerful Cytheran stable-lad came to take our mounts. Leander ruffled his hair, gave him a kiss on the cheek. The stable-lad ducked his head and smiled.
“All is permitted in her ladyship’s household,” Leander commented.
He led me through the villa. It had mosaic tile floors that were exquisite, depicting the Hellene goddess of love in various adventures. I heard the sound of laughter. A young woman darted from a hallway, her eyes blindfolded, and blundered into Leander. He laughed and caught her shoulders.
“Leander,” she said decisively, raising her blind face and sniffing. “I know your pomade.”