Kushiel's Justice

Page 21

Wrong, all wrong.
Not the ones I loved.
Still, I closed my eyes and kissed her. A chaste kiss, by D'Angeline standards. I didn't love her. I didn't want her. I would do my best to be kind to her. Cheers, erupting. Another pelting of petals. Ysandre's face was happy, Drustan's woad-masked face was happy. Elua, I was sweltering! Overhead, the sun blazed. I tugged at my collar.
It was done.
I looked at Sidonie. Although it bore no markings, her delicate face was a mask, too; smooth and perfect and unreadable. She reached into a basket Amarante held for her and grasped a handful of rose petals, tossing them high in the air. They fell all around us in a gentle shower, settling in our hair. Dorelei laughed with delight, unaware of the silent message I read in the gesture. I closed my eyes again, briefly, hearing Sidonie's voice in a sunlit room.
The lover showers kisses on the face of the beloved…
Elua, but it hurt.
The Queen clapped her hands together. "Let us celebrate!”
More than anything, I wished that day that there were no festivities following the wedding rites. I wished we could have departed immediately afterward; for Alba, for Montrève, for Jebe-Barkal. Anywhere but here. But this was Terre d’Ange and because the Queen had decreed it, there must be a fête, lavish and interminable. The silk pavilions must be erected, this time filled with long tables lined with chairs, laid with white linen and set with gleaming dishes.
Servants circulated with flagons of cool white wine. The sun crept across the sky with infinitesimal slowness. I stood sweating and drinking wine, receiving the well-wishes of those guests not deemed sufficiently important to attend the dinner. Dorelei stayed at my side, overwhelmed by the unrelenting attention.
At last the lower rim of the sun's disk slipped below the edge the western horizon and the worst of the day's heat began to dissipate. Palace servants began lighting the lamps and bringing forth an endless stream of platters.
I remember very little of that meal, save for the tremendous effort it took to remain courteous; though in response to what, I couldn't have said. I heard words that held no meaning for me and felt my lips move in reply, uttering equally meaningless pleasantries. I laughed politely at jests and clapped politely at toasts. The food I ate had no taste; the wine I drank had no effect. Inside, I felt empty.
Afterward, there was music and dancing. I danced with my new bride. My wife. Her fingers trembled in mine and her wide-set gaze searched my face, filled with uncertainty. I smiled reassuringly at her.
I danced with Alais, who had little to say to me.
I danced with Phèdre, who said quietly, "I'm proud of you.”
I danced with Amarante, and as I did, I caught a glimpse of Maslin in his lieutenant's attire offering Sidonie a glass of cordial, the lamplight catching his fair hair. For the first time that night, I felt a spark of anger in my breast. "How long do you think before she takes him into her bed?" I asked in a low voice.
Amarante followed my gaze. "Longer than you think, my lord," she murmured. "And not as long as I'd like.”
"Jealous?" I asked grimly.
"No." She gave me a long, level look. "I think she's going to hurt him quite badly.”
"He's a grown man, let him take his chances." For some reason, her calm, reasonable words fanned my anger. "Name of Elua, Amarante! What about you? Do you care so little for her that you don't even fear getting hurt?”
Her green eyes flashed with rare emotion. "I care a great deal, actually. Love's not always a raging tempest, Imriel. It can be a safe harbor, too. I value Sidonie's friendship and trust above all else. I take neither lightly and I do not expect to lose them.”
I sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just—”
"I know," Amarante said.
"A safe harbor," I mused. "Surely even your waters must get ruffled at times.”
"Oh, well." A smile touched her generous lips. "If Sidonie has her way, you may find out someday. She can be persuasive when she chooses, and she does have a very large bed.”
It made me laugh, and it very nearly made me cry. It was a good deal easier feeling empty inside. The song ended and I released Amarante. "Take care of her?" I whispered. "Please?”
She nodded. "I'll try.”
And then, because it would have been rude not to, I danced with Sidonie on my wedding night. There was no awkwardness as there had been on her birthday. We had gone too far beyond it. I bowed and extended my hand, and she took it without a word.
It didn't need words.
I remembered them all, all the words we'd spoken. The first time, that terrifying rush of intimacy upon entering her, crossing the forbidden threshold together. Her voice, wondering and bemused in the aftermath, legs clamped around my hips. Why do we fit so well together?
I hadn't known then and I didn't know now.
I knew only that we did.
We danced without speaking, without exchanging a glance. And when the musicians swung into a new tune, we stood for the merest space of time, no more than a heartbeat, heads bowed against one another. Then Sidonie pulled away from me and I escorted her back to the pavilion.
Maslin of Lombelon was there, waiting. He was playing the faithful guard and companion, but his body was taut and his nostrils flared like a dog's catching a strange scent. He took a step toward me, bristling.
I stood my ground. "Maslin, don't.”
Another time, any other time, I'd have welcomed it. I wasn't the fear-haunted boy he'd met in an orchard years ago, threatened at the point of a pruning hook. I'd stood before the onslaught of a Caerdicci mercenary army and I'd seen men die by my own hand. I had a whole new set of nightmares to haunt my sleep.
"Traitor's son!" Maslin spat under his breath. "Can you not leave her be on your own wedding night?”
"It was only a courtesy," I said wearily. It was a piece of irony that he, of all people, could throw that epithet at me. But then, his father had died a hero in the end. Beyond him, I could see Amarante murmuring somewhat with a questioning expression, and Sidonie shaking her head and turning away from the scene. "And I'm only a bridegroom. Let it be, Maslin.”
He looked uncertain. I didn't care. It was late. Drustan's men and the Cruithne honor guard had broken out the uisghe and were beginning to sing a complex harmony, urged on by the D'Angelines. Dorelei—my wife—appeared lonely and at a loss amidst the gathering. The Daughter of the Grove had long since retired. None of the women of her family were in attendance, having chosen to wait for the Alban rites.
Be kind to her, Phèdre had said.
I walked past Maslin, past everyone, to my wife's side. Dorelei looked at me with gratitude. "Shall we have a last dance?" I asked softly. "Or shall we retire?”
"I don't want to stay here any longer," she whispered back.
I took her hand. "Then we won't.”
A group of revelers followed us into the Palace, tossing the last of the flower petals, shouting out good wishes and more bawdy jests. I led Dorelei through the halls to my newly appointed chambers and closed the door in their faces, bolting it firmly.
We were alone.
Husband and wife.
Our rooms had been strewn about with flowers and all the lamps were lit. The Serenissiman vase stood on a sideboard, filled with roses. I remembered Sidonie and Amarante with their arms full of irises and swallowed hard. "Are you tired?" I asked Dorelei. "We needn't…”
"No." Her face was set and determined. "I want to do this.”
"All right." I smiled at her. "Come here, then." I led her into the bedchamber and sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hands. " 'Tis awkward, is it not?" I said gently. "The whirlwind of courtship, the two of us knowing so little of one another. Tell me what pleases you.”
Her cheeks flushed. "I don't… I don't know.”
It startled me. "You're a virgin?”
Dorelei nodded, her flush deepening. "It seemed wiser to wait. I couldn't risk getting with child, not with Alba's succession at stake and Terre d'Ange's interest in it. We're not like you, you know.”
"No, I know," I murmured.
"They took me to Eisheth's temple today," she mused. "So strange! I lit a candle to her and said the prayer they taught me. Do you think our children will share her gift?”
"I imagine so," I said. "Alais and …Sidonie do. The gifts of Blessed Elua and his Companions run strong in the Great Houses.”
"Like beauty?" Dorelei asked gravely, and I nodded. She plucked an errant flower petal from my hair. "You know, you frighten me a little. Here, it seems even beauty can be a weapon.”
"I won't hurt you," I said. "I promise.”
Her gaze above the dots of blue woad was dark and deep, and I wondered what she saw with it. They dreamed true dreams, the daughters of Necthana's line. But Dorelei only shook her head, her hair black and shining beneath the wreath of wilting stephanotis flowers that adorned it, held in place by pearl-headed pins. "I'm not ignorant, if that's what you're thinking. I've read your …sacred texts." Her flush returned. "I do read, you know. But when you ask me what pleases me, the truth is, I do not know.”
I reached up to undo the pins, lifting the wreath from her head. "Then let us find out, shall we?”
"I would like that," Dorelei whispered.
I made love to her, slowly and gently. Kindly. I kissed her until her body softened, trusting, and she returned my kisses with ardor. I removed her clothing piece by piece, tasting her brown skin. I removed my own clothing and held myself very still, letting her tentative hands and lips and tongue explore my body. She was eager in some ways, shy in others. Her fingers trembled, wrapped around the shaft of my phallus.
"Will it fit inside me?" she asked in wonderment. "Truly?”
Why do we fit so well together?
"Truly," I assured her. I spread her thighs and performed the languisement on her, concentrating on Naamah's Pearl until Dorelei gasped with surprise and clutched at my hair. And then I eased my way up her body. Patience. I fitted the head of my phallus inside her and heard her gasp again. I thrust my hips forward, slow and gentle.
There was an obstruction.
And then there wasn't.
"Oh, slowly, slowly, please!" she gasped.
I didn't want slowly. I wanted to bury myself in her, deeper and deeper, I wanted to feel her loins rocking against mine. I wanted her arms stretched tight above her head, or at least her fingernails buried in my buttocks, urging me onward. I wanted to feel her heels drumming against the backs of my thighs, I wanted her uttering sweet, urgent obscenities in my ear.
I wanted Sidonie.
Patience, Phèdre had said.
I propped myself on my arms. I made slow, patient love to my wife.
I felt Dorelei give a little shudder inside, her inner walls rippling. She made a noise deep in her throat, half pain, half pleasure. The sound made my testes contract. I hissed through my teeth and spent myself in her. She had lit a candle to Eisheth. I flooded her womb with my seed, wondering whether it would take root, praying in my guilty heart that it didn't.
Afterward, I held her and stroked her hair until she fell asleep, her head pillowed on my shoulder, her breathing slow and even. It should have been a comforting sound.
It wasn't.
Chapter Fourteen
Thus began my new life as the husband of Dorelei mab Breidaia and a Prince of Alba.I detested it.
Even if it hadn't been for Sidonie, I daresay I wouldn't have been happy, despite Phèdre's wish for me. This marriage was a cage I'd entered voluntarily, but it was a cage nonetheless. I felt trapped; trapped into enforced intimacy, trapped into a life I didn't want. There would have been an element of confinement under any circumstances, but I could have borne it with better grace if I hadn't had a taste of the freedom and happiness I might have enjoyed otherwise. Now I had, and I detested the prison of my new life with a thoroughness that was profound and unrelenting.
Every day, waking to find Dorelei in my bed, I fought against a black tide of bitterness that rose in me. I forced tender words to fall from my lips. I was gentle, I was kind.
I tried very, very hard not to hate her.
Elua, it was unfair! Unfair to me, and unfair to her most of all. Dorelei was a nice young woman, good-hearted and sweet. It was no fault of hers that nice wasn't what I'd desired. And unfortunately, she was perceptive enough to sense my withdrawal and struggle as the days passed.
For a mercy, Dorelei attributed it to the travails I'd undergone. It was yet another piece of irony. Although I'd been the one to plant the thought in her head, for once in my life, my turmoil had nothing to do with Daršanga, nothing to do with old wounds. I wasn't wrestling with cravings I despised. For once in my young, tumultuous life, I knew perfectly well what I wanted.
I wanted Sidonie.
And I couldn't have her.
It drove me mad to be under the same roof with her, albeit a very large roof. I hated living in the Palace, surrounded by people—guards, peers, delegates, supplicants. Someone was always watching. When Firdha the ollamh departed for Alba, Drustan shuffled his men around and assigned her honor guard to attend Dorelei and me. It made her happy—Kinadius, the youngest, was a childhood friend. It made me feel more trapped than ever. I watched them laugh and jest together, remembering how he'd entertained thoughts of courting her.
I wished he would. I wished he'd seduce her and take her off my hands. Albans weren't D'Angeline, but they were easy enough in matters of marital fidelity. Oh, but no! Not in this instance, not with the damnable succession at stake.