Kushiel's Mercy
Page 4

“I concur.” Naamah’s priest and the Priestess of Eisheth spoke simultaneously, rising and exchanging laughing glances. “It may be there is healing in it,” Eisheth’s priestess added.
The Priest of Naamah smiled at me. “Of a surety, there is desire.”
Shemhazai’s priest leveled a shrewd, thoughtful gaze at me, then stood. “Yes,” he said. “I cannot fathom the wisdom of it, not yet. But I do not deny the knowledge.”
“I see no harm here,” Anael’s priestess said simply, rising.
Azza’s priest stood, tossing his chlamys over his shoulder. “If it is pride that speaks, it is earned,” he said. “No more can I say.”
The last to rise was the Priest of Camael. He was the oldest among them, with a warrior’s posture that belied his lined face and age-silvered hair. “I like this least among you,” he said slowly. “For there is too much in it that threatens the strength of Terre d’Ange. But I will not say he does not speak true, and that is all you have asked of me.”
“So be it,” Brother Thomas said.
One by one, they inclined their heads to him and departed. I got to my feet and watched them go, my heart feeling at once heavy and light. I had spoken the truth, but it was a cruel, harsh truth, and not one I welcomed. Love came at a price. If Terre d’Ange was not to bear the cost of it, I would have to do it. The deed that had been left unspoken. “Is that all, then?” I asked the priest. “What happens now?”
“It is enough,” he said somberly. “And what happens now depends entirely on the will of her majesty Queen Ysandre.”
Three
We found out soon enough what Ysandre willed.
Brother Thomas served us better than I would have reckoned. He paid a visit to the Palace with a dozen members of the temple in tow, serene priests and priestesses in their blue robes and bare feet. The Queen granted them a private audience. What was said in her chambers, no one knew for sure, but all had seen them arrive.
Speculation swirled, and a day after the meeting, Ysandre announced that there would be a public audience in the throne hall at three hours past noon on the morrow.
“Do you think she’ll heed their advice?” I asked Sidonie.
“Elua, I hope so,” she said fervently.
“And if she doesn’t?” I watched her expression change. “I know it’s your choice, Sidonie. But I have a voice in it.”
“You have a very pleasant voice.” She kissed me. “Not in this.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
The audience was enormous. The throne hall was a vast space, big enough to swallow up the two hundred chairs placed toward the front of the room for peers of the realm. There were at least three hundred peers in attendance, and many hundreds more ordinary citizens, jostling for standing room.
It was easy to see the realm was divided. Sidonie and I were seated in the first realm of peers to the right of the Queen, as was befitting our status. Those who chose to sit or stand on the right side were allies and supporters. House Montrève, of course. House Shahrizai. Sidonie’s personal guard. My old friends Julien Trente and his sister, Colette, now wed to Raul L’Envers y Aragon, who was also there. And too, although he wouldn’t meet the Queen’s eyes, their father, Lord Amaury Trente. Gerard de Mereliot, representing the Lady of Marsilikos. Marquis Tibault de Toluard, the avid inventor, who maintained a friendship with Joscelin. A number of young peers I didn’t know by name.
There were Tsingani and Yeshuites among the throng, too; and adepts of the Night Court, hundreds of them, glittering and lovely. It tugged at my heart for reasons I couldn’t explain.
But there were others, too. The left side of the throne hall was nearly as crowded, and there were victims of the Skaldi War among them, sporting grim expressions and black armbands. And, of course, the contingent wouldn’t be complete without Duc Barquiel L’Envers, who had long detested me for inexplicable reasons of his own.
At the precise hour, a horologist struck a gong. An impressive silence fell over the hall, broken only by the faint creak of hinges as the great doors at the rear of the hall were closed. A pair of guards opened the doors to the inner throne chamber and Ysandre emerged.
The Queen mounted the dais and stood before the audience, tall and fair, her carriage erect and regal. Sidonie lacked her mother’s height, but she had the same carriage. I wondered if Ysandre had the same capability as her daughter for utterly abandoning it in private. Somehow, I didn’t think so.
“All rise for her majesty Queen Ysandre de la Courcel!” the herald called.
Those who were seated rose, bowing or curtsying. The packed throngs toward the rear followed suit. Ysandre inclined her head.
“All be seated for her majesty Queen Ysandre de la Courcel!”
We sat.
Ysandre took the throne. She looked tired, shadows under the violet eyes that were nothing like her eldest daughter’s. A gold crown with delicate spires sat atop her fair hair. For all that it was finely wrought, it carried a visible weight. I felt an unwanted pang of guilt and sympathy. I couldn’t even imagine what Sidonie must feel.
“My lords and ladies, good folk of the realm.” The Queen’s clear voice carried in the stillness. “Even in the annals of Terre d’Ange, I imagine this is an unwarranted occurrence,” she continued more softly. There was an edge of sadness in it. “I daresay it is known why I have called this audience.”
There were nods and murmurs all around.
“So.” Ysandre gathered herself. “Sidonie de la Courcel, my eldest child and heir, the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange, desires to be united in love with her kinsman, Imriel nó Montrève de la Courcel. Is this still your claim?” she asked Sidonie.
Sidonie rose, according her mother a second curtsy. “It is, your majesty.”
“And is it also your stated desire?” Ysandre asked me.
I stood and bowed. “It is, your majesty.”
Ysandre nodded. “I am advised by the priesthood of Blessed Elua that your claim is worthy,” she said slowly. “And here before those assembled, I swear in Blessed Elua’s name that I will not forbid your union.”
There were gasps, hisses, and a few quickly stifled cheers.
Ysandre raised her hand. “However.” Her voice hardened. “I am advised by many others that this union is a dagger that cuts at the heart of Terre d’Ange. Let me say this.” She looked squarely at me. “Imriel de la Courcel has served the thrones of both Terre d’Ange and Alba with honor. I do not accuse him of sedition. But when I look upon the faces of those here assembled . . .” Her gaze drifted over the crowd. “I see a thousand anguished memories of lives lost on the fields of Troyes-le-Monte, memories you children cannot begin to compass. I see fear and suspicion, a canker eating at the heart of the realm. I see old hatreds roused, old wounds bleeding, and the seeds of discord being sown.”
There was a genuine ache behind her words, and I did not think she took any pleasure in the fierce nods of agreement from those assembled on the left of the hall. I’d had my differences with Ysandre, but I’d never doubted she loved Terre d’Ange.
“Blessed Elua cared naught for crowns and thrones,” she said quietly. “Those words, I am told, were spoken by Melisande Shahrizai.”
The mention of my mother’s name evoked another hiss.
Ysandre raised her hand for silence a second time. “It is true,” she said. “It is also true that Blessed Elua cared naught for the trappings of mortal society, the conventions and rules by which we bind ourselves.” She closed her eyes briefly. “Love as thou wilt. It suffices unto itself.” Opening her eyes, she gazed at Sidonie. “That I grant you, my love,” she murmured. “Love as you will. But if you declare him your consort, know that I will not acknowledge it. There will be no legal binding. And if you wed him . . .” The Queen’s jaw tightened as she forced the words out, sorrow in every syllable. “If you wed him, I will disinherit you.”
In silent acquiescence, Sidonie inclined her head.
“This I swear in Blessed Elua’s name before all here assembled.” Ysandre’s voice sharpened. “Do you hear and acknowledge it?”
“I do, your majesty.” Sidonie lifted her chin and gazed at her mother. “Is there aught that might make you recant this vow?”
“Need you ask?” Ysandre said wryly.
Sidonie held her gaze without blinking. “I would hear you say it before all here assembled.”
The hall was deathly silent. I felt Ysandre’s gaze shift, felt the weight of it fall upon me. Felt the unwanted burden settling on my shoulders.
“Yes,” she said gently. “Of course. Twenty-some years ago, on the blood-soaked battlefields of Troyes-le-Monte, Melisande Shahrizai was convicted of treason and sentenced to execution for conspiring with the Skaldi warlord Waldemar Selig to conquer Terre d’Ange. That death, she evaded.” Her throat worked. “Imriel de la Courcel, do you find your mother and bring her to justice, I will recant this vow and grant every blessing to your union.”
There it was, then.
The burden.
I bowed deeply for a third time, holding it. The silence in the hall persisted. I straightened and met the Queen’s eyes. “I hear and acknowledge your words, your majesty.”
Ysandre inclined her head. “That is all.”
The Queen made her exit through the throne chamber, but it took a long time for the crowd to disperse, mingling excitedly to discuss the news. Sidonie’s guardsmen hovered close, mindful of the hostile element, and Joscelin took care to position himself at my side while we waited for the throng to thin. But there were no threats, only a long, bland stare from Barquiel L’Envers that didn’t disguise the seething dislike beneath it.
“What in Elua’s name is the matter with him?” I muttered.
“A lifetime of plans gone awry.” Sidonie watched him. “You missed the last one. He’d hoped to convince Mother that I should wed his youngest son.”
“What?”
“Oh, yes.” She nodded. “To forge a great alliance with Khebbel-im-Akkad. Truth be told, I don’t think the Lugal would consider sending one of his heirs to Terre d’Ange for aught less.”
“What did your mother say?” I asked.
Sidonie smiled faintly. “She told him he forged a great alliance with Khebbel-im-Akkad when he wed his only daughter to the Khalif’s son, and if he thought the realm would stand for her half-Cruithne heir wedding a half-Akkadian prince, he’d lost his wits.” She gave me a wry glance. “At least no one questions the purity of your bloodline.”
“Generations of incest,” Mavros said cheerfully, approaching us with our cousin Roshana beside him. “At least on House Shahrizai’s side. Nice to see you’re carrying on the tradition.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” I said.
In truth, Sidonie and I weren’t all that closely related. My father had been her great-granduncle, brother of King Ganelon de la Courcel. It made us first cousins, I supposed, but there were two generations between us.
Of course, it was also true that my father had gotten me late in life, embittered by a lifetime of intrigue in La Serenissima, obsessed with the idea of putting a pure-blooded D’Angeline on the throne, and seduced by my mother’s wiles. When I was a babe, he and my mother had been part of a plot to assassinate Ysandre. It very nearly worked, too; it would have, had it not been for Phèdre and Joscelin.
Strange to think, if it had worked, I would likely have inherited the throne by now. I would be the King of Terre d’Ange, and Sidonie would never have been born. The thought made me shiver.
Small wonder half the realm mistrusted me.
Sidonie touched my arm. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
I nodded. “I think that would be wise.”
The crowds had thinned enough for us to make our way out of the throne hall, escorted by guards and accompanied by a small entourage. We adjourned to one of the smaller salons in the Palace, used for private fêtes. Sidonie looked pale. I would rather have spent this moment alone with her, and I daresay she felt the same, but those who had supported us publicly risked the Queen’s displeasure. It would have been ungracious to dismiss them as mere props. I sent one of the Palace understewards to fetch wine and refreshments.
“So . . . are we celebrating?” Julien Trente asked uncertainly after the wine had been poured.
I shrugged. “We’re not lamenting.”
“What happens now?” Mavros perched on the arm of a couch, swinging one leg. “Do you pack your trunks and head off to La Serenissima to follow your vanished mother’s seven-year-old trail?”
“No.” Sidonie’s voice was fierce. She drank half the contents of her winecup, her color returning. “Not now. Not yet. Not after two years of fear and uncertainty, wondering if Imriel was alive or dead.”
“What, then?” Roshana asked mildly.
“My thought is this.” I glanced at Phèdre. “I mean to write to the Master of the Straits and beseech his aid. He can search for her in his sea-mirror. If she is anywhere on D’Angeline or Alban soil, he will find her.”
Mavros blinked in surprise. “You think he’ll do it?”
“Oh, yes.” Phèdre answered his question, and well she might. The Master of the Straits, the waters that divided Alba and Terre d’Ange, could cause the waves to rise and lightning to strike at his command. He had also once been a Tsingano lad named Hyacinthe and her dearest friend. Like me, he owed her a debt he could never repay. “I am quite sure of it.”