Kushiel's Mercy
Page 81

“Yes.” We were within earshot of Sidonie. I glanced at her. Her expression was composed, but I could see the stricken look behind her eyes. From the first dawning of our liaison, even before it had begun, Amarante had known. She had been Sidonie’s sole confidante and conspirator.
Amarante moved past me. “Sidonie.” Her voice changed, softening. “I’m so very—”
“Please don’t.” Sidonie laid her fingers gently over Amarante’s lips. “I don’t think I can bear to hear another word of sympathy today.”
“I understand.” Amarante took her hand and kissed it. “Would you like me to stay with you for a while?”
“No.” Sidonie shivered. “No, thank you. It’s a kind offer.”
“Of course.” Amarante studied her face, frowning slightly. She was a Priestess of Naamah and although it happened precious seldom, she knew withdrawal when she encountered it. For a mercy, whatever she saw, she chose to attribute it to grief. “You know you’ve only to send word to the temple if you need me.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Sidonie watched her go. “I’m not sure how much longer I can do this.”
“Your highness is weary,” Kratos said in Hellene. “You should retire.”
She looked at him with hope. “Do you suppose I might?”
He bowed. “I will speak to your lady mother.”
Kratos strode through the crowd, gesturing for people to keep their distance from Sidonie. They deferred out of respect for their beloved Astegal’s most trusted bodyguard.
“Sidonie,” I said in a low voice. “Before you go, I want you to look at the gem-painting that Astegal presented at the fête. It’s part and parcel of the spell. See if there are any words hidden in it written in Punic.”
“Punic.” She nodded, closing her eyes briefly.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yes.” She opened her eyes. “But I can feel it. And I’m afraid of slipping away.”
“Don’t.” I caught her hand and squeezed it hard. “Stay.”
She returned the pressure. “I’m trying.”
Across the hall, Ysandre was gesturing and Drustan was shaking his head. Kratos’ face was flushed. He offered them a curt bow. Drustan made his way toward us. I released Sidonie’s hand and moved a few feet away.
“Sidonie.” Drustan rested his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. “I understand that you are weary and heart-sore. But you need to be strong.” His fingers flexed. “We stand on the eve of war. This is the greatest test any ruler might face. And I know you cannot fathom what that truly means, but you are your mother’s heir. The people need to see that neither grief nor betrayal will bow your head.”
“Yes, Father,” Sidonie murmured.
And so she stayed, and I stayed near her, offering the meager comfort of my presence as the reception wore on and on and an endless line of well-wishers came to proffer their sympathies. Over and over, they offered the same regrets and platitudes; over and over, Sidonie accepted them with forced gratitude. Many of them asked if there was a chance she yet carried Astegal’s child. Their faces fell when she shook her head.
What another piece of bitter irony it was. The peers of the realm, the lords and ladies of the Great Houses of Terre d’Ange, had always held reservations regarding Ysandre de la Courcel’s half-Cruithne heir. If Sidonie had truly fallen in love with a foreign prince, they would have shrieked to the heavens about the sacred bloodline of Blessed Elua being further diluted. And yet here they were, offering her adulation, mourning the loss of Astegal of Carthage.
I willed myself not to hate them. It was the spell, only the spell.
I can feel it. I’m afraid of slipping away.
Those words made my blood run cold.
At last the reception ended, the crowds thinning, departing with multitudinous vows to find Bodeshmun’s charm. Phèdre came to find me.
“Will you not come home with us, love?” she asked plaintively.
I shook my head. “I need to stay here.”
“Have no fear, my lady.” Kratos’ arm descended over my shoulders, heavy and solid. Whether or not he understood all the words spoken, he read the situation well. He smiled at her. “As her highness has bidden me, I’ll make certain that the prince comes to no harm.”
Phèdre cocked her head and replied in Hellene. “You don’t have a Carthaginian accent.”
“No.” Kratos’ smile never wavered. “I was born in Hellas and taken in battle many years ago, serving as a mercenary. Bad luck. On the day Astegal was born, his father freed me.” He removed his arm from my shoulders and pressed his clenched fist to his heart. “Hence, my loyalty.”
Her expression eased. “I see.”
Once the hall was emptied, Sidonie went to stand before the gem-painting. She gazed at it for a long time as though lost in contemplation. The guards surrounding her, and even Drustan and Ysandre, waited with respect.
I lingered, hoping.
But no. At length she turned away, giving her head an imperceptible shake. There was no hidden clue.
The hunt continued.
Seventy-Seven
For five days the hunt for Bodeshmun’s gem continued at a frantic pace. The City looked like it had been sacked and looted.
At first the mood was one of fierce jubilation. After conferring with Phèdre and hearing her thoughts on a more logical approach, Ysandre ordered the Royal Army to assist with the search. They began by digging up the whole of Elua’s Square, removing the massive paving-stones and hauling them away, sifting through the dirt below.
They found nothing.
The mood didn’t sour all at once, but day by day the tension mounted. The search continued. The wing of the Palace in which the Carthaginian delegation had lodged was stripped bare. Following Joscelin’s suggestion, the Royal Treasury was moved piece by piece to an array of empty storage chambers, every gem within it scrutinized. Routes from the Palace to the Square were scoured obsessively. Every crack and crevice along the white walls of the City where Bodeshmun’s mirrors had been placed was examined.
Nothing.
As hope dwindled, tempers flared. The semblance of looting became a reality and there was widespread fighting in the streets of the City. A rumor went around that a wandering Tsingani kumpania had found the gem and stolen it away, sparking riots in Night’s Doorstep. A house was burned, an entire family killed in their sleep. The Cockerel closed its doors for the first time in memory.
Rumor ran rampant, fueled by the fact that no one could quite remember the details of the night surrounding the marvel.
Even the Night Court wasn’t immune. Someone remembered that Astegal and a group of Carthaginians had visited there. A fresh rumor went around that Bodeshmun had accompanied them, that he had entrusted the gem to the safekeeping of Bryony House, whose treasury was renowned for being more secure than the Royal Treasury itself. An irate crowd stormed the gates of Bryony House, demanding that the Dowayne allow them to search the treasury. When she refused, claiming that her own household had already conducted a thorough search, the altercation turned violent. The Dowayne’s skilled guards skirmished with the mob.
The incident killed three and wounded many others.
Every day brought irate petitioners to the Palace: robbed merchants, injured citizens, a furious Janelle nó Bryony. Every day, the Hall of Audience rang with shouting.
Every day was worse than the last.
And worst of all, Sidonie was slipping away.
There was never enough time to talk. She sent for me when she could, but we didn’t dare spend much time closeted without arousing suspicion. If it hadn’t been for Kratos, I’m not sure we’d have managed at all. The members of her personal guard had been recalled from the duties to which they’d been assigned when she left for Carthage. All of the goodwill I’d managed to earn had vanished, lost along with the memories of an affair that had divided the nation. The first time I saw Claude de Monluc, he regarded me with cool wariness. Still, so long as I only met with Sidonie with Kratos in tow, they were willing to allow it.
As long as it was brief.
As long as we did naught to arouse suspicion.
“Imriel.” It was on the fifth day that Sidonie greeted me at her door with a momentary look of blankness. She shuddered, her gaze clearing. “Thank you for coming. Please, come in.”
I entered, Kratos padding behind me. “How bad is it, Sun Princess?” I asked when the door closed behind us.
“Bad.” She sat hunched on the couch, hands gripping opposite elbows. The hollows of her eyes looked sunken and bruised. “It hurts. It hurts all the time, and I’m afraid to sleep. Afraid I’ll tear away the bindings all unwitting. I have to think about it every minute of every day.”
“You can do this,” I said steadily. “You can, Sidonie.”
She shivered. “I can feel it. It’s out there. But it feels like it’s everywhere in the City. Nowhere more than anywhere else. It’s there and it’s here. In my head, buzzing like a beehive. It keeps telling me it would be so much easier to let go and believe.”
“It lies,” I said.
“I know.” Sidonie took my hands, pressed them to her face. Her tears were hot on my skin. “But I can’t help it. At least I feel myself starting to believe our lies, and not some skewed version of my own memories. Elua! How can we fail after all we’ve tried? After all who’ve died for our efforts?”
I held her while she wept. “We won’t.”
Over the crown of her head, I could see Kratos watching us. For the first time, there was doubt and fear on his broad features.
I fought against despair.
“Sidonie,” I whispered. “We will not fail.”
She lifted her head and kissed me, clinging to me, her mouth hot and desperate. “I love you,” she murmured. “I do. I know it.”
I nodded, swallowing hard. “No magic so dire.”
“None,” Sidonie echoed.
But there was. Bodeshmun had crafted his spell with care and hidden the demon-stone with consummate skill. Day by day, its influence ate away at Sidonie’s resolve, even as it ate away at the foundations of the City of Elua. In the end, Ysandre was forced to declare an end to the search and command the Royal Army to restore order.
“I’m sorry,” Ysandre said to Sidonie when we dined that evening. House Courcel, seemingly united, tolerating the presence of poor mad Prince Imriel. “I know you placed a great deal of hope in Astegal’s kinsman. But we cannot afford to have the City at its own throat. Not on the eve of war.”
Sidonie leaned her brow against steepled fingers. “I understand. But . . .”
“You cannot afford to be soft, child.” There was sympathy in Drustan’s voice. “I too wish that we had found Bodeshmun’s charm. But we must deal with that which is, not that which we wish might be. In these final days, the army must be free to prepare for battle, knowing that we leave the City calm behind us when we go.”
“Has there been word?” she asked him.
Drustan and Ysandre exchanged a glance. “Yes.” It was Ysandre who answered. “Reports of a considerable force amassing on the plains east of Turnone. It seems our threat worked. Alais and L’Envers mean to make a stand.”
“Did you . . .” I hesitated. “Did you truly mean it, Ysandre? Would you have put innocent villages to the sword?” I knew I shouldn’t ask, but I couldn’t help myself. If there was any chance the answer was no, mayhap this looming tragedy could still be averted.
Ysandre looked at me with pity and sorrow. “That is not a threat one makes in idleness, Imriel. Of course I meant it. No village conspiring to give aid to traitors is innocent. It would have been a grievous measure, but a necessary one.”
But you can’t win! I wanted to cry the words aloud. I didn’t. It wouldn’t do any good. “What if Sidonie and I attempted to treat with them?” I asked instead. “Alais might listen to her sister, and you know we’ve always been close.”
On the other side of the long table, Sidonie lifted her head, following my thoughts. If the search for Bodeshmun’s gem was a loss, that would at least serve to get her out of the City of Elua, away from the spell’s malign influence.
“Why on earth would Alais listen to either of you over the orders of her own mother and father?” Ysandre’s eyes narrowed. I could see the suspicion rising in her, abrupt and overwhelming. “Or is there some other scheme behind this, hmm? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A chance to spirit Sidonie away for yourself. I daresay it’s exactly what you’ve been waiting for.”
“Mother!” Sidonie said sharply. “He’s only trying to help.”
Ysandre pointed at her. “You’re overtrusting. If you’d learned nothing else from your sister’s betrayal and that which befell your husband’s kinsman in New Carthage, I’d expect you to be on guard against that particular weakness.”
“I was only trying to help,” I murmured. “I’m sorry.”
Drustan regarded me, his face impassive behind its woad markings. “Imriel, you did a great service to Alba after Dorelei’s death, and I will always hold your memory in honor. But I fear so long as this delusion grips you, you’re not to be trusted. Your words today prove it.” His gaze shifted to Sidonie. “And I fear it might be best if you were to avoid his company unless matters of state dictate otherwise.”
“Kratos—” she began.
“I don’t care about Kratos!” Drustan shouted. It was so out of character that Sidonie simply stared at him, shocked. He wrestled himself under control with a visible effort. “Kratos.” This time it was a summons. Kratos, posted by the door like a good bodyguard, came forward in answer to it. “Escort Prince Imriel to his quarters, or wherever it is he wishes to go,” Drustan said. “He is no longer permitted to call upon the Dauphine.”