Kushiel's Mercy
Page 44

“Sidonie,” I whispered, miserable.
But then there was another tune and another. Others danced. I saw Justina approach Astegal and curtsy, voicing a request. I saw him accept, laughing. White teeth, wagging jaw. A narrow strip of crimson beard. The musicians picked up their pace. Justina glanced at me over Astegal’s shoulder, her eyes flashing.
I approached her, ignoring the ever-present Amazigh.
Sidonie.
“Will you dance?” I asked simply.
Her hand slid into mine. “All right.”
Oh, gods.
We fit; we fit so well together, I felt dizzy. Every step she took, I knew before she took it. Her body fit itself to mine. I led her and she followed. Effortless. I wanted to crush her against me. I was fairly trembling with the effort of not doing so.
“Why?” I whispered hoarsely in her ear. “You asked me to come here. Why do you disdain me, Sidonie?”
She shivered. “I don’t.”
“You do!” I said in anguish.
Her head had been bowed, but she lifted it now. Her black eyes met mine. “When first we met, I spoke of temptation and its lack. At the time, I spoke honestly. But this . . . ” Another shiver ran through her. “I thought it would go away, and it hasn’t. Why?”
“I told you why in Carthage,” I murmured.
Sidonie shook her head. “Even if that were true, it doesn’t explain this.”
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t very well tell her that I reminded her of the love she had forgotten. It would only add another layer of unbelievable madness to my tale, and it wouldn’t advance my cause with her. If I succeeded, she’d remember soon enough. I shifted her hand from my shoulder, laying it on my chest so she could feel my heart beating fast and hard. “Mayhap the gods have their reasons.”
She pulled her hand away. “Please don’t make this more difficult.”
“Just don’t shut me out altogether,” I whispered. “Please.”
The song ended too soon. There was another of Astegal’s hand-picked lords there, Gillimas of Hiram, waiting to claim a dance of her. He was a Guildsman, Sunjata had told me. I’d not had occasion to deal with him. My diplomatic mission had ended in Carthage. So far as anyone here was concerned, I was a lap-dog, a harmless courtier . . . and a failed one, at that.
But they were satisfied it was because of the spell, because Astegal kept her contented. They were wrong. Although she didn’t understand why, Sidonie was being wary because she did have feelings for me.
Strong feelings.
The knowledge filled me with elation. It lent me strength. I made myself play at being a perfect courtier that night. I danced with a good many Carthaginian ladies, and with Justina, who was one of the few Aragonians present—or at least, a seeming Aragonian. She played her part so well I forgot myself.
“Well?” I asked her, smiling falsely. “Any luck this evening?”
Justina laughed as though I’d said somewhat witty. “Oh, yes.”
“Good,” I said, still smiling. “Excellent.”
If the night had ended there, it would have been perfect, or at least as near to it as it could be under the circumstances. Unfortunately, it didn’t. After the dancing, Astegal decreed a spectacle, announcing that the Amazigh would perform a ritual for us.
All of us returned to our seats at the long tables, clearing the floor. Two Amazigh took their places. They bowed to one another, then unwound the lower portions of their head-scarves, rewinding them in such a fashion that their eyes were bound and covered. With that, they drew their blades and commenced to spar.
What the point of it was, I couldn’t say. A reminder of their skill, I suppose. To be sure, it was an impressive spectacle. Robed and faceless, they hardly looked human. They fought with a sword in the right hand and a dagger in the left, flowing back and forth across the floor. Their blades crossed and clashed, glinting in the light of many lamps and candles.
At length, one gained the advantage of the other. Feeling the other’s sword-point against his throat, the defeated Amazigh dropped his blade, pressing the palms of his hands together in a curious gesture of surrender. I clapped politely along with everyone else.
“Do any among you think to best my loyal Amazigh at their game?” Astegal called. There were general utterances of denial. “Ah, but someone must try.” He made a show of glancing around the room, his gaze settling on me. “Leander Maignard!” he said brightly. “You were invited here to provide entertainment. Do so.”
I spread my hands. “I’m no swordsman, my lord.”
Astegal laughed. “That will make it all the more entertaining! Don’t worry, my pretty little friend. My men are skilled; you’ll take no serious hurt.”
The Carthaginian peers laughed. Even Bodeshmun allowed himself a sour smile. I glanced at Sidonie. She wasn’t amused. If Astegal thought to lessen me in her eyes by humiliating me in public as he’d humiliated Kratos in the palaestra, he was mistaken.
I rose and bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”
One of the Amazigh loaned me his sword and dagger. Someone else bound my eyes with a length of cloth. I stood very still, focusing my breathing. The noise in the great hall was distracting, voices bouncing off the walls. They were making wagers, not on who would win, but how long I would last.
Strangely, the dual blades in my hands didn’t feel entirely wrong, only . . . unbalanced. The Amazigh sword was heavier than the one I was accustomed to wielding, and it felt mismatched against the dagger.
“Go!” Astegal shouted.
I took a silent, sliding step to my left and felt the wind of a blade’s passage where I had been. I’d always been good at her ladyship’s training games. I could navigate the entire villa blindfolded, and I had sharp ears. I concentrated. Beneath the noise of the onlookers, I heard the soft scuff of my opponent’s sandals as he advanced, thinking I’d retreated. I poked him blindly with the tip of my sword, moving farther to the left as I did.
A great roar went up.
Circles, I thought. The Amazigh had battled to-and-fro in a straight line. If I could keep circling, I could keep him off guard.
For a while, it worked. Longer than anyone expected, I daresay. Long enough that the tables were turned, and the crowd began laughing at the sight of the Amazigh spinning, his robes flying as he tried to guess which way I’d gone. I kept my blades crossed before me, concentrating on defending myself.
But while the Amazigh may have been fierce in battle—who else would devise such a dangerous ritual?—they were patient, too. My opponent stalked me until he began to catch my rhythm. He landed a blow with the edge of his sword on my dagger-hand, scoring a nasty gash and causing me to drop my blade.
His dagger swept my sword aside. I sensed the blow to follow and whirled away, instinctively taking up my heavy, borrowed sword in a two-handed grip. For a moment, we were both disoriented. The crowd grumbled as the Amazigh resumed his patient stalking.
I listened for him. This felt right, the sword angled across my body. The memory of Prince Imriel practicing in the garden flashed across my thoughts, watching him move through a fluid series of movements. What do you call it? I’d asked him. Telling the hours. He’d moved in circles. Blood trickled down the back of my left hand, tickling my wrist. I concentrated, trying to remember more.
I wondered if . . .
Careless. The Amazigh blade clattered against my sword. I pushed back in a panic and felt the prick of a dagger at my throat as he slipped inside my guard. I dropped my sword and put my hands together in surrender.
There was good-natured applause as I removed my blindfold. My Amazigh opponent readjusted the folds of his head-scarf. I bowed to him, my palms still pressed together. He returned the bow impassively.
“Well done!” Astegal chuckled and tossed me a gold coin, as if I were one of his hired performers. “Spinning and dashing like a cornered hare. I’ve never seen the like. You were right, my dear,” he added to Sidonie. “He is entertaining. I can see why he made you laugh.”
“Yes.” Her expression was unreadable, but there was somewhat working behind her eyes. Another memory stirred. “Thank you, Messire Maignard.”
I bowed to her. “For you, your highness, anything.”
Astegal waved a dismissive hand. “Go, go. Enjoy the revel.”
I went.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Although I’d bound it, the gash on the back of my hand throbbed, keeping me awake. I played out memories of the night over and over in my thoughts. Dancing with Sidonie. The feeling of her in my arms, the inexplicable rightness of it. The duel with the Amazigh. Wondering if by some miracle I might have been able to re-create the elegant, deceptively simple movements I’d seen Prince Imriel perform. Realizing that it was a damned good thing I hadn’t.
Harmless. I had to appear harmless.
It was all right, I’d put on an amusing spectacle. All that Carthage had seen was a cornered hare—and that’s all I’d been, really. Still, I tried to remember what I knew of the Cassiline Brotherhood.
Not much, really. Tales from childhood; but the Cassiline Brothers had fallen out of favor not long after I was born. I knew they were stern and celibate, and that they held strange beliefs. That they trained from the age of ten to be the best bodyguards in the world.
And I knew that Joscelin Verreuil, the consort of Prince Imriel’s foster-mother, had been one such. In Terre d’Ange, he was reckoned a hero. In her ladyship’s household, he was reckoned an almighty irritant. I’d forgotten all about the fact that he was a Cassiline. It must have been he who trained the prince.
And somewhat about a vigil . . .
Yes, there had been a vigil. It wasn’t long after her ladyship had arrived on Cythera, where we had assiduously prepared for her. We got word her son the prince had taken sick after kneeling the whole night, the Longest Night, in the bitter cold. I remembered her ladyship being uncommonly distraught, uttering scathing words about the Cassiline Brotherhood in general and Joscelin Verreuil in particular. I remembered my mother commenting that it was likely one of the few things on which her ladyship and Phèdre nó Delaunay might agree.
At the time, I’d agreed, too. It seemed utter folly.
Now . . .
Well, it was folly. But it held a strange, stark appeal. I was a stranger in a strange land, truly and figuratively. I didn’t know if I was D’Angeline or Cytheran. I was in love, and I didn’t know how to love. Blessed Elua did. And the longer I thought on it, the more the notion of laying this burden in his hands, of appearing before him in humility and subjecting myself to his will, appealed to me.
I rose quietly and dressed in darkness. The door to Sunjata’s chamber was firmly closed. He had been invited to attend the festivities on this night, but he had declined the invitation. I didn’t even know why. We were growing distant to one another, and it saddened me.
Kratos—Kratos was snoring in his chamber.
The sound made me smile. I slipped from our quarters into the hallway. It was late and the palace would be locked and guarded for the night. Still, there was an inner courtyard that would suffice.
Torches were burning low along the corridors. There were guards at every corner, but they let me pass. I was Leander Maignard, harmless. The last one yawned, opening the brass-bound door onto the courtyard. Cool night air washed over my face. Overhead, stars spangled the sky, dimmed by a full moon. In the courtyard, flames danced from four torches arrayed in a square.
In between them, a figure knelt.
“Sidonie,” I whispered.
Her back was to me. It didn’t matter. I knew her; I would have known her anywhere. I took a step forward. One of the torches peeled away. Indigo robes, flowing toward me. Intent Amazigh eyes in a narrow strip of visible face.
“This is not for you,” he said briefly in Hellene.
Her bowed head rose and turned. Sidonie gazed over her shoulder at me.
“It is a D’Angeline custom,” I said softly. “Like her highness, I do but seek to keep Blessed Elua’s vigil.”
The guard’s finger wagged. “Not here. Not tonight.”
I looked past him. Torchlight streaked her face. Like me, Sidonie prayed for guidance. She was frightened and confused. I wanted to go to her, wanted to embrace and kiss her. I wanted to tell her everything, and soothe away her fears with truths instead of subtle lies.
Instead, I bowed to the Amazigh.
“Forgive me for disturbing her highness’ prayers,” I murmured. “I will go elsewhere.”
“That would be wise,” he said briefly. “Go, then.”
I went.
And with every step I took, I felt her watch me go.
Fourty
So it was that I kept Elua’s vigil in my own way. I kept it in the privacy of my bedchamber, kneeling before the narrow slit of a window that illuminated it, my knees aching on the flagstones as I sat on my heels.
I watched the moon move across the skies and prayed.
For what? I couldn’t even have said. I just prayed. And somewhere, in the dim hours before dawn, I felt a presence surround me. It settled over me like a cloak of feathers, warm and golden. There was brightness, so much brightness; and somewhat blocking it. A sob caught in my throat, jolting me awake.
I straightened stiffly.
“Will you break your fast, Leander?”
I squinted at Sunjata, leaning on the sill of my window. “What are you doing here?”
He moved away with careless grace. “Keeping watch over you.”
I broke my fast with bread and honey and strong tea imported from Bhodistan, and told Sunjata most of what had passed on the Longest Night. He listened without comment until I was finished.