Kushiel's Mercy
Page 7

I’d won the respite I’d prayed for. The Queen had made her pronouncement; the gauntlet had been cast. I had countered. My letter to Hyacinthe was dispatched by courier; the Master of the Straits made a prompt reply. There was a debt of honor between us, he wrote. I had played a crucial part in Phèdre’s quest to find the Name of God and free him from his curse. I had ventured into the depths of distant Vralia to avenge his wife’s niece. Of course he would search for Melisande in his sea-mirror.
Word was leaked. The adepts of the Night Court were more than happy to comply. Gossip whispered in the bedchambers of the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers made its way to the Palace Court and out into Terre d’Ange. The Master of the Straits himself was aiding my quest.
For now the realm was content to watch and wait.
And I was content to be with Sidonie.
We spent the better portion of our days apart. After their long talk, Ysandre didn’t exactly relent, but she thawed considerably. Sidonie had duties, many of them tiresome. Whenever Ysandre was otherwise committed, she stood in her mother’s stead, hearing suits brought by foreign dignitaries, the quarrels of members of the noble Houses, the complaints of the citizenry.
She had a good head for it. Although she was young—only nineteen, a year past gaining her majority—Sidonie had spent her entire life learning statecraft. She had an acute memory and the ability to recall in a heartbeat the most obscure detail of any legal or historical precedent she’d ever read—and she had read extensively. Supplicants thinking they stood a better chance of swaying the Queen’s young, untried heir were shortly disillusioned.
For my part, I did my best to take on the mantle of responsibility I’d long avoided. I was a peer of the realm, and I had estates I’d neglected all my life. I was a member of Parliament, capable of influencing decisions that had bearing on the whole of Terre d’Ange. I spent a great deal of time simply trying to inform myself. It seemed for every person reluctant to speak with me, there were two others eager to bend my ears in different directions.
Claude de Monluc kept his word, and much to my amused delight, Duc Barquiel L’Envers dispatched the Akkadian-trained captain of his own guard to teach the Dauphine’s Guard how to fight in the saddle. Since he didn’t know me by sight, I was free to take part, posing as a nameless guard among guards. I spent many hours on the drilling-grounds, learning the niceties of cavalry warfare: how to shoot a short bow from the back of a horse at full gallop, how ’twas better to slash and cut on a forward charge than risk lodging one’s blade, how to use one’s mount’s momentum to best advantage and avoid engagement, when to trust blindly to a rearward thrust.
The Bastard loved it. He had the makings of a good warhorse.
And I was good at it. I daresay I had been for a while; as I’d told Claude, I’d spent half my life being taught by Joscelin. Still, it would always be Joscelin against whom I measured myself, and there was no contest. He was better than me. He always would be. Once I might have cared. I didn’t, not anymore.
Heroism be damned. I wanted only to be sure Sidonie was safe.
Later, at Claude’s request, I asked Joscelin to teach the Dauphine’s Guard a few rudiments of the Cassiline discipline. Not all of it, of course. True Cassiline Brothers begin their training at the age of ten, and for ten years, they do nothing else. Claude’s men were skilled swordsmen in the traditional style, and it would have made no sense for them to unlearn everything they already knew to commit to a discipline that would take ten years to master. Still, there were some useful maneuvers that they could add to their repertoire, like the overhead parries for defending against a mounted enemy while on foot.
It was . . . fun.
With the sense of an extended truce in what Sidonie called the Battle of Imriel settling over the Court, a spirit of revelry returned. Drustan mab Necthana arrived later than was his wont. Sidonie and I attended his reception together. After that, daring young nobles began to throw private fêtes, inviting us to attend together. Julien Trente was the first, although I happened to know it was Mavros who put him up to it, reckoning it wouldn’t have been seemly for House Shahrizai to be the first to celebrate. But after Julien came Lisette de Blays, who was one of Sidonie’s ladies-in-waiting, a pretty young Namarrese noblewoman with an impudent sense of humor.
After that there were others. It became somewhat of a fashion. Sidonie and I weighed the invitations with care, seeking to accept only those that were sincere and genuine, begging off on those who merely sought to create spectacle. In public we were circumspect, even in the midst of frivolity and license.
Betimes it wasn’t easy. Whatever the nature of the fire Blessed Elua had lit between us, it continued to burn unabated. It had survived time, distance, enchantment, and grief, and it survived familiarity, too. There was an invisible cord binding us together. In the midst of a crowded room, I always knew where she was. If I closed my eyes and listened hard, I could almost feel her heart beating, drawing mine as inexorably as a lodestone draws iron.
I could make it quicken with a single whispered word in her ear and watch the pulse beat faster in the hollow of her throat. And all it took was one laden glance under her lashes, and my blood ran hot with desire. Still, we never acted on it in the presence of others.
Alone, it was different.
The nights were ours.
After we talked of exploring love’s sharper pleasures, I turned to Mavros for counsel. If there is one thing the Shahrizai understand, it is discretion. I trusted Mavros enough to arrange a private Showing for us featuring adepts of Valerian House and Mandrake House engaging in love’s sharper pleasures. It was customary to attend the Night Court for such things, but there were other arrangements that could be made, private townhouses with pleasure-chambers.
“Do you really think this is necessary?” Sidonie asked me.
“I do,” I said. “For both of us.”
“It frightens you,” she said softly. “Still.”
“A bit.” I was honest. “I saw too much darkness in Daršanga. Death sown in the place of life.” The mere mention of the place made me swallow, tasting bile and worse. “For a long time, it made me fear my own desires. It’s different with you. But I need to be sure this is somewhat you truly wish to explore, because if it’s not, if we do and you discover the reality’s nothing like the fantasy, and you want naught to do with it . . .” I shook my head. “I promise you, I’ll wake screaming in the middle of the night, dreaming of the Mahrkagir. Only it’s my face he’ll be wearing.”
“I know.” Sidonie took my hand. She was one of only three people I’d ever told the whole truth about what befell me there. “I’ll go.”
I gazed at her. “It doesn’t frighten you at all, does it?”
“No.” She smiled a little. “I told you, I trust you.”
I squeezed her hand. “That’s what frightens me.”
Sidonie raised her brows. “Trust me, then.”
She was right, of course. In the Night Court, there were elaborate contracts spelling out what was or was not permitted during the course of an assignation. That was part of what I wanted her to see and understand. Still, in the end, the essence of the exchange was trust, the surrender and acceptance of it. The more complete the surrender, the more wholehearted the acceptance, the more powerful the exchange.
And that, no mere Showing could teach.
We went, though.
It took place in the townhouse Mavros had rented. It was much like the Showing I had attended with him at Valerian House, only more discreet. The staging area was behind a veil of sheer, transparent silk. It was dimly lit, but the viewing area was completely dark. None of the adepts performing would be able to see who watched them. There were no attendants, only Mavros, serving as the host.
Sidonie and I fumbled our way to one of the reclining couches, trying to hush our laughter. We took our places. I slid my arms around her, resting my chin on her shoulder. I wanted to be able to feel her every reaction.
“You may begin,” Mavros called.
We watched.
It was the same, but different, so different! The only other time I’d attended such a Showing, I’d been abominably drunk, wallowing in misery. And even then, it had been good. Now . . . Elua have mercy, it was so much more.
We watched the pair of Valerian adepts enter the staging area and kneel, abeyante, heads bowed and hands clasped before them. We watched the Mandrake adepts stride onto the stage. “Strip,” one ordered ruthlessly.
The Valerian adepts obeyed.
I felt Sidonie’s breathing quicken, her ribcage rising and falling beneath my encircling arms. I could tell by her subtle responses whether or not what she was viewing pleased and aroused her.
Most of the time, it did.
A few times, it didn’t.
I took note of everything. It was beautiful; it was all beautiful. These were Naamah’s Servants, reveling in their art—and it was an art. There was a calculated beauty to the arc of a Mandrake adept’s arm as she swung the flogger. There was a pattern to the emerging welts, a rhythm to the gasps and pleas. Every pose struck had its own beauty, its own internal tension. Every order, every plea was part of a ritual. Still, I took note. The blindfold, yes; the gag, mayhap not. The crack of the whip, the slap of the tawse, the smack of the paddle—yes. Even the keen whistle and sharp cut of the cane.
“Really?” I whispered in Sidonie’s ear.
“Mmm.” There was a smile in her voice. “We’ll see.”
One of Mandrake’s adepts tossed a rose, gave an order. A Valerian adept crawled on all fours, retrieved it in his mouth. He raised his head for approval, lips bleeding from the stem’s thorns. His mistress retrieved it, stroked his cheek with the rose’s petals. He bowed his head, kissing the tips of her boots. I felt Sidonie’s body tense.
“No?” I murmured.
“No.” She tilted her head back. “I’ll kneel for you, but I won’t crawl.”
I stroked her hair. “Good to know.”
When it was over, after I gave Mavros a purse to present to the adepts as a patron-gift, all three of us shared a cordial in the salon. For the first time, he looked at Sidonie with frank curiosity. She returned his regard with perfect equanimity.
“Did you enjoy the Showing, your highness?” Mavros inquired, studiously polite.
“Very much so, my lord Shahrizai,” she replied, echoing his tone exactly. Mavros narrowed his eyes at her, trying to decide if she was teasing him. Sidonie laughed and finished her cordial, then got to her feet. “Yes, Mavros,” she said in her own voice, bending down to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for arranging it. I’m glad Imriel has a kinsman he can trust.”
“Of course,” he said, bemused. “You’re welcome.”
We didn’t act on what we’d seen that night, nor for several nights. I wanted to approach this with a mind clear of other images, and a heart purged of fear. I made offerings at the temples of Blessed Elua and all his Companions. In the Temple of Kushiel, I stood for a long time, simply gazing at the effigy’s face. I had come once to offer penance, making expiation for the lives I’d taken in Lucca, for all my dead. I hadn’t been there since.
Kushiel’s marble arms were crossed on his breast, his rod and flail held in either hand. His gaze was fixed on the distance, his features stern and calm. There was a trace of sorrow in his marble eyes, hinting at a compassion beyond the mortal compass. I thought about Berlik of the Maghuin Dhonn, whom I had killed in Vralia. He had knelt beneath a barren tree, bowing his head as the snow swirled around us. After I’d killed him, I’d wept.
I hadn’t done penance for his death. I didn’t think it would be fitting. That one, I was meant to carry.
And I thought, too, about Sidonie. About her strength and determination, and the unexpected desires that accompanied them. About the wondrous gift of her trust, and what I needed to do to be worthy of it. Trusting her, trusting myself. That was the hardest part of all. The thought of engaging in violent play with her thrilled me to the very marrow of my bones, so deep it made me shudder, stirring echoes of my worst fears. It was a dark, surging desire, tinged with cruelty and laced with tenderness.
I wanted it.
Blessed Elua, I wanted it.
And I loved her.
Somehow it made all the difference in the world. There in Kushiel’s temple, I gathered up all my fear, took a deep breath, and let it go.
Sidonie knew. We had dined apart that evening. The Queen was entertaining an ambassador from Euskerria, a territory that lay betwixt Aragonia and the south of Terre d’Ange, and she wanted her heir present. The dinner ran late, and I was in her chambers before she returned, thoughtful and talkative.
“Imriel, you spent your childhood in Siovale,” she said in absent-minded greeting. “What do you know about . . .” Her voice trailed off as she glanced around the salon. It was ablaze with candles.
“The Euskerri?” I suggested.
Sidonie nodded.
“Not much,” I said. “In the south, they were made scapegoats in the same way the Tsingani were, blamed for goat stealing and the like. I daresay there’s as much truth to it. Do you want to talk about it now or later?”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “Later.”
“All right.” I put down the book I’d been reading. “Take off your clothes.”
“Here?” she asked.
“Here.” I cocked a brow at her. “The drapes are drawn, Sun Princess. There’s no one here. You’ve ridden me on this very couch. Are you suddenly overcome with modesty?”
“No.” Sidonie shook her head. Amber drops hanging from her ears shivered, catching the light. “It’s just . . . different.”