Kushiel's Mercy

Page 20

“Everything’s there.” L’Envers jerked his chin at the barge. “Your horse, your things. Passage paid to Marsilikos. After that, you’re on your own.”
I took a deep breath. “Thank you, my lord.”
“The captain and crew are sound,” he said. “They were outside the City when it happened. I paid them to keep their mouths shut, and they’re scared enough to do it. If you need help in Marsilikos, try the Lady’s daughter. She wasn’t here for it, either.”
“I will.” I hesitated, then fished the letter I’d written out of an inner pocket. “I don’t have the right to ask you any further favors . . .”
L’Envers lips tightened. “Just ask.”
“This is for Phèdre and Joscelin.” I handed him the letter. “I didn’t divulge any details. And I know you can’t give it to them yet. Not until I’m well away, not until you’ve raised a sufficient delegation that they might, might listen, instead of accusing you of abducting me. But it’s important to me. I owe them my life. I owe them everything I am.”
He took it. “What else?”
“Sidonie,” I said softly. “If I fail, if I’ve been misled . . .” My voice faltered. “You’re welcome to seek vengeance against me, I don’t care. But please . . . no matter how it seemed, she didn’t go willingly. Not really.”
Somewhat in L’Envers’ worn, chiseled face softened. “I know.”
I swallowed. “Whatever you can do to save her.”
“Imriel.” Barquiel L’Envers hands settled on my shoulders. “She’s my blood. Why the hell do you think I wanted to protect her from you so badly?” His fingers flexed, biting deep. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He let me go. “Get out of here.”
I went.
Shrouded in my cloak, I boarded the barge. I wasn’t such a fool as to trust L’Envers wholeheartedly; before we cast off, I made certain all was as he’d promised. It was. The Bastard was belowdeck, looking profoundly discontented. I lingered briefly, cupping his whiskered muzzle in my hand. My saddlebags were stowed in a cabin, neatly packed. There was a generous purse. My sword-belt and my dagger were there. I buckled my weapons in place, my fingers shaking with the effort. Still, it made me feel stronger.
I went to tell the barge captain all was in readiness. He was a taciturn Eisandine fellow, uneasiness lurking behind his eyes.
“You’re sure you want to do this, your highness?” he asked.
Sunlight sparkled on the Aviline River. I could see the distant walls of the Palace gleaming. Somewhere in the City behind us, Phèdre and Joscelin were strolling the outer gardens of Eisheth’s temple, beginning to get worried. Mayhap they were already alarmed, alerted that some intruder had struck down a young initiate and I was nowhere to be found.
And somewhere in Carthage, Astegal, a prince of the House of Sarkal, appointed General of the Council of Thirty, preened his scarlet beard and dreamed of empire, basking under the ensorceled gaze of my girl Sidonie. Whom he might or might not have wed by now. Who did not love him, but had gone away with him willingly.
I ground my teeth. “I’m sure.”
The captain—Gilbert Dumel was his name—gave the order. “Oars away!”
The moorings were loosed, the ropes tossed aboard the barge. Deft sailors leapt across the gap. Rowers bent their backs, groaning with effort. L’Envers and his men were gone, nowhere in sight.
Another departure, another leavetaking.
Gods, I was tired.
The grey cloak puddled around me. I heard members of the crew murmuring, speculating. I bowed my head like Eisheth, splaying one hand on the sun-warmed boards of the prow to brace myself.
Love.
You will find it and lose it, again and again.
A Priest of Elua had told me that long ago. It was true. There were so many loves in my life I had found and lost. So many treasures that had slipped through my fingers. Not this. I wouldn’t allow it.
Not Sidonie.
Sixteen
The barge made steady progress down the Aviline. I kept to myself, spending long hours practicing the Cassiline discipline in an effort to regain my strength, while the green banks of Terre d’Ange slid past us.
Gilbert and his men gave me a wide, wary berth. They’d heard the stories in the City. Prince Imriel gone mad, tied to his bed and raving. I might have seemed sane enough now, but my wrists were still circled with healing scabs.
They kept their word, though. No one betrayed my presence. I supposed that was one good thing about finding myself under the patronage of Barquiel L’Envers. He wasn’t a man anyone wanted to cross.
And, too, they were scared. Somehow, Carthage had managed to strike at the very heart of Terre d’Ange, and no one knew how.
As the days passed, I grew stronger. I’d fought back from worse. Berlik had nearly killed me; this was nothing.
Fighting despair was harder.
Even as my body slowly healed, the sense of weariness persisted. It had nothing to do with overexerting myself. It was a fear that I’d been given one burden more than I could carry. I had failed in Vralia. I’d given up and prepared to abandon my hunt for Berlik. In the end, he’d come to me.
This was different, though. I’d wanted vengeance for Dorelei, very much. I’d wanted to let her spirit rest peacefully. I’d needed to assuage my grief. And I’d wanted to do my utmost to ameliorate the shadow of guilt that lay between Sidonie and me. Still, I could have lived with the failure, bitter and awful though it would have been.
Not this one.
So I pushed my body until my muscles quivered, taking a grim solace in my returning strength. I forced myself not to think about Sidonie and Astegal. It was too dangerous, filling me with fury and despair, making me fear for my sanity once more. There was darkness lurking in me, spilled out by the prick of a eunuch’s needle. I couldn’t give in to it.
We reached the wide mouth of the Aviline, opening onto the sea. The barge turned east along the coast, making for Marsilikos. I gazed out at the vast expanse of water to the south, thinking about the lands that lay beyond.
Cythera.
Carthage.
Like Tiberium, Carthage had ruled a vast empire once. Long ago, in the days before Blessed Elua wandered the earth, Carthage had conquered Aragonia. It had made alliances with our forebears in the land that would become Terre d’Ange; it had marched on Tiberium. Armies of both nations had fought one another to a standstill.
In the end, the pendulum had swung. Carthage’s army had been vanquished on Tiberian soil, its dream of empire destroyed. Tiberium’s star had risen for a time, until it too had fallen.
Now Carthage sought to rise again, armed with dire magic.
It could be stopped, though. I had to believe it. Whatever the horologists had done, it wasn’t as deadly as what I’d witnessed in Drujan. The ka-Magi there had used madness as a weapon to destroy an entire Akkadian army, turning it against itself. They had been able to kill with a thought. And Phèdre had managed to bring them down nonetheless—Phèdre, Joscelin, and the brave folk of the zenana.
I had to believe.
The gilded Dome of the Lady was shining brightly the day we reached Marsilikos. The harbor was busy, filled with an unwarranted number of Quintilius Rousse’s ships. His men were swarming everywhere. I didn’t dare roam the docks, seeking passage to Cythera. Once the Bastard was unloaded, I thanked Gilbert and his men and took my leave of them. I rode into the city, struggling with my fractious horse, sweating beneath my concealing cloak. I’d regained a good measure of strength, but not nearly as much as I’d have liked.
The streets of Marsilikos were filled with uneasy talk. I took a room at a modest inn and gave a false name. I paid a lad to carry a note to the Lady of Marsilikos’ daughter, Jeanne de Mereliot, then sat in the tavern, drinking ale and eavesdropping.
All the conversation was the same. Roxanne de Mereliot, her son, Gerard, and every member of their retinue had returned from the City of Elua under the conviction that Terre d’Ange was Carthage’s ally, speaking in vague, glowing terms of a marvel they had witnessed, speaking happily of the love-match between Astegal and Sidonie.
No one could fathom why.
There was speculation about a bribe of unimaginable proportions, fueled by the accounts of Carthage’s generous gifts. Here and there, a few stalwarts insisted that it had to be some ploy Ysandre and Drustan had concocted to confuse Carthage, lulling them into complacency, but no one could explain how that would play out in a manner that would justify Sidonie’s sacrifice.
And there were whispers of dark magic performed beneath a bloody moon, about Carthage itself, a land with gods terrible enough that they had once demanded the sacrifice of babes and children.
I listened, gritting my teeth until my jaw ached.
It wasn’t long before the tavern-lad returned with a message from Jeanne de Mereliot, bidding me to meet her in all haste at the Academy of Medicine. I’d nearly forgotten she was a chirurgeon in her own right. She was of Eisheth’s line, with healing in her blood.
Since it wasn’t far, I made the journey on foot, cloaked and sweltering in the heat, pushing my body to further endurance. There weren’t many folk in Marsilikos who could put a name to my face for a surety, but there were a few. I’d ridden with Gerard de Mereliot and an escort of the Lady’s men once. With my luck, I’d be sure to encounter one of them.
For a mercy, I didn’t.
At the Academy, I presented myself as Cadmar of Landras. It was the name of a boy I’d known long ago when I was a child in the Sanctuary of Elua. I don’t know why it was the first thing I’d thought of when I’d given a false name, except that it was a piece of my past no one would ever connect to Imriel de la Courcel. I’d warned Jeanne in the note I’d sent, and I was escorted to her study without question.
“Im—” Jeanne caught her breath at the sight of me, barely catching herself before saying my name. We had passed a night together once, or at least several hours of one. Eisheth’s mercy takes many forms. Her smoky grey eyes widened. “You look . . .” She shook her head. “Thank you,” she said to the attendant who had escorted me. “You may go.”
“Well met, Jeanne,” I said when the door had closed.
“You look awful,” she said gently.
“I’ve looked worse,” I said. “Believe me.”
Jeanne regarded me with a chirurgeon’s concern. “You were very ill. You shouldn’t be travelling, Imriel. Not like this.”
“I wasn’t ill.” I found a chair and sat. “I was stark raving mad, Jeanne. But it passed, and now I’m the only living soul who was in the City of Elua the night the moon was obscured who doesn’t believe that Carthage and Terre d’Ange are allies, and Sidonie de la Courcel fell in love with a Carthaginian prince.”
“So your letter suggested.” Tears shone in her eyes, born of frustration and weariness. “What in Blessed Elua’s name happened that night?” Jeanne gestured helplessly around her study, which was piled high with books and scrolls. “I’ve been looking for answers; we all have. But there’s nothing in history to guide us, no account of thousands of folk succumbing to the same delusion at the same time.”
“It was a trick,” I said. “A spell.”
“You saw it?” she asked. “What they did?”
The hope in her voice hurt. I shook my head. “I saw very little. A man drove a needle into me.” I touched my side. “Here. He told me I would go mad, but it was for my own protection. He said the fever would break in a month. And he said to seek out Ptolemy Solon in Cythera, who would know how to undo what was done. That’s why I’m here. I need your help booking passage to Cythera.”
“A needle.” A strange expression crossed Jeanne’s face. She stooped before me, laying one hand on my brow. “Have you any idea how that sounds?”
“Yes.” I caught her hand. “But it’s true. There’s nothing wrong with my memory. I remember you. You came to my room and offered me respite. Eisheth’s mercy. You opened all the windows. I remember, Jeanne. Your black hair spread on the pillow like sea-grass, the cool wind blowing over my skin. You were gentle and kind, and I needed that so much. When you left, you laughed and told me Eisheth had a fondness for beautiful sailor-boys.”
Her fingers stirred in mine. “Remembering that doesn’t make this true.”
“But what if it is?” I asked simply.
She didn’t answer right away, but began rummaging through the texts piled on every surface of her study, her face fierce with concentration. I sat quietly, watching her.
“Here,” Jeanne said at length, thrusting an ancient, cracked tome at me, marking a passage with one finger. It was written in Hellene.
I read it.
To induce madness, forge a needle of silver that has never seen daylight, one handspan’s length. Bathe it in the sweat of a lunatic’s brow mixed with the effluvium of a horned toad. For one year, expose it to the light of the full moon. When plunged into the vitals, it will induce madness for the duration of the moon’s cycle.
My blood ran cold. “What is this book? Where did you get it?”“It’s a compendium of occult ailments by Cleon of Naxos,” Jeanne said. “He spent years gathering tales of folk rumored to have been afflicted by witchcraft.” She shrugged. “No one’s ever given it credence, but there was a copy in the Academy library. A curiosity, I suppose. I pulled it only out of desperation.”