Kushiel's Mercy

Page 26

“Fault-lines to exploit,” I suggested cynically.
“Yes.” Her glorious gaze returned to me. “You see them?”
“I do.” I stuck my fork into a spear of tender asparagus, chewing it slowly. “But like Solon, I choose not to exploit such knowledge for my own gain. I do not think merciful Kushiel intended us to use such a gift lightly.”
Her tone was unreadable. “So young to be so wise.”
I shook my head. “A lifetime of struggling against your legacy. I find it hard to believe you never took pleasure in the suffering of others.”
“Ah, well, suffering.” Melisande gave her graceful shrug. “When it is offered up in tribute, it is another matter. To feel another surrender his or her will unto yours, to bend it until it breaks . . . there is majesty and beauty in it.”
For the first time, her words made my blood run cold. They were so matter-of-fact. I set down my fork, my appetite waning.
“It bothers you to hear this,” my mother observed. “Have you never been tempted?”
I thought about the first time I’d given free rein to the dark desires in me, and the morning after that first encounter at Valerian House, when I’d caught Phèdre’s wrist in anger, felt her pulse leap beneath my thumb, and I’d known. I thought about the horrible, unthinkable threats I’d made during my madness. I’d hated the people I loved best in the world. And I would have taken pleasure in making them suffer against their will. I would have taken enormous pleasure in it.
“Yes,” I said shortly.
Melisande cocked her head. “And yet?”
“As a child, I saw death sown in the place of life,” I said. “And I think if I were to surrender wholly to my own darkest desires, without the bright beacon of love to guide me, I would become all that I despise.”
“Me,” she said quietly.
“No,” I said. “Worse.”
We were both silent a moment. Melisande pushed her own barely touched plate away. A young man who looked to be of mainland Hellene blood, tall and fair, emerged from the recesses of the villa to take our plates away, pausing briefly for a nod of approval that wasn’t forthcoming. Lost in thought, my mother merely gestured absently. He looked a bit crestfallen as he departed.
“You said you’ve changed,” I said, watching him go. “Does it trouble you now to observe others suffering against their will?”
“Other than you?” She returned from wherever her thoughts had taken her. “Probably a great deal less than it should, but considerably more than it did.”
“That’s comforting,” I said.
Another graceful shrug. “I am as the gods made me, Imriel. I’m doing my best.”
Since it seemed to be true, I didn’t press her, but changed the topic. “Do you love him?”
Melisande smiled. “Solon? In my own way.”
“Quite a change from having one of the most beautiful courtesans in the realm kneeling for your leash,” I commented.
Her brows rose. “Phèdre told you about that?” she asked, sounding genuinely shocked.
“Gods, no!” I said. “Mavros did, when we were younger.”
“Sacriphant’s son,” she murmured. “I heard you’d become friends.” Melisande’s gaze shifted back toward the distance. “Yes and no. Phèdre nó Delaunay is the only anguissette in living memory, and Kushiel’s hand lay heavier on her than on any I have read about in history.” Her mouth quirked. “And unfortunately, she was a good deal more persistent and resourceful than I reckoned, although in the end I had cause to be grateful for it.”
“You have no idea,” I said.
“I have enough.” She paused. “But Solon . . . Solon, you see with the shallow eyes of youth. He is a homely man, yes, but the breadth of his knowledge and the acuity of his intellect are staggering. And it is an exhilarating pleasure to have one of the greatest minds in existence laid in supplication at one’s feet.”
“Do you plan on attempting to break his will?” I asked.
“No,” Melisande said simply. “No, there is a time when I would have tried it for the sheer joy of the challenge. Now . . . I am not entirely sure I would win. And I am not entirely sure it would please me if I did. Ptolemy Solon and I enjoy one another. After the tedium of my years claiming sanctuary in the Temple of Asherat, I am content to be . . . content.” She looked amused. “You’re full of questions. Are there more?”
“Yes.” I met her gaze and held it. “What fault-lines do you see in me?”
My mother looked at me for a long, long time. The mantle of sorrow settled back over her. “Many,” she said at length, her voice gentle. “Fault-lines of grief and loss and despair, and fault-lines of pride and yearning. A strong, bright vein of indomitable courage and strength that with the wisdom of experience, even I would be reluctant to cross.” Reaching across the table, she touched my cheek. “Imriel. I swear to you, in Kushiel’s name, that I would never do aught to exploit you. And I keep my promises.”
“I know,” I said. “So do I.”
Melisande nodded. “What do you see?”
I looked into her.
I saw passion and pride, humor and ambition. Regret and sorrow. A surprising reserve of measured joy, and a chilling amorality. A profound capacity for impersonal cruelty. Unexpected generosity. A lack of conscience, and a growing awareness of that lack. Thoughtfulness. Curiosity.
Me.
I was my mother’s fault-line. I was the kernel of vulnerability at her core. I could hurt her far, far more than she could ever hurt me. And she could be hurt through me. What I suffered hurt her. She had loved others in her own way, and there were profound ties there, most especially to Phèdre. That bond, I daresay only the gods themselves understood. But I was the only person she had ever loved with all the deep, abiding wonder and ferocity of her mortal soul.
I pitied her.
It hurt; it hurt us both. I was the first to look away. I knew myself, and I was sane. I took no pleasure in her pain.
“Now you know,” Melisande said in a low, steady voice.
“Yes.” I took a deep breath and forced myself to meet her gaze. “And I am grateful for your love, Mother. Despite everything, I am grateful for it.”
Her generous lips curved in a smile. “Let us hope that it is enough to bring down Carthage.”
“Let us.” There was a pitcher of cool white wine on the table. I filled both our cups, hoisting my own in toast. “Between the two of us, let us hope.”
No word came from Solon that day. I returned to the widow’s lodgings and passed the night there. In the morning, Leander came to fetch me, finding me in the garden once more. This time, I heard him enter and halted my exercises.
“Word from the palace?” I asked.
He shook his head, braids dancing. “Her ladyship thought you might fancy an excursion to the Shrine of Aphrodite. ’Tis only a league or two.”
It was a kind thought. I was restless and impatient, eager to be doing instead of waiting. At least this would serve to keep me occupied; and too, it was always wise to pay respects to the gods of a place. I had the Bastard saddled, and Leander and I set out, following the road eastward along the Cytheran coast.
I had to own, it was beautiful here. It was autumn. In Terre d’Ange, there would be a chill in the air, a promise of frost to come. Here in Cythera, it was warm and sunny. The wind off the sea tangled my hair, making me envy Leander his braids. The folk we passed saluted us cheerfully. The Bastard, recovered at last from his ordeal, pranced and snorted.
“Good-looking horse,” Leander observed, eyeing him.
“He was a gift,” I said. “From the House of Aragon.”
He whistled. “That’s got to sting, thinking on it, what with Terre d’Ange betraying its alliance.”
“It does, in fact.” I looked curiously at him. “Does it trouble you?”
“Truly?” Leander shrugged. “Not really. Blessed Elua wandered the world without a care. Why shouldn’t I?”
I couldn’t think of a reply, so I didn’t give one.
It took a little over an hour to reach the shrine of the goddess, situated on a windswept promontory overlooking the sea. It was built in the classic Hellene style, simple and elegant, open to the elements. Myrtle grew in abundance around it, the sun-warmed leaves releasing a pleasing fragrance. Bees droned around the flowering shrubs. There were vendors in the plaza in front of the temple steps selling incense, honey, oil, and votive offerings. On Leander’s advice, I bought a flagon of sweet oil and a piece of honeycomb.
A priestess in a white chiton greeted us at the top of the steps, small, dark, and plump, with a smile at once merry and mysterious. We made an offering of coin and she directed us toward the rear of the temple.
I’d thought to see an effigy there, but instead there was a black stone on a plinth, as large as a tall man’s torso, its surface polished and gleaming. I gave Leander an inquiring look.
“It fell from the sky thousands of years ago,” he murmured. “Much like the genitals of the castrated Ouranos from which foam-born Aphrodite was begotten. You’re to anoint it.”
Although I couldn’t have said why, it felt ancient. Older than the temple, worn smooth by countless generations of hands. I poured the flagon of oil over the top of the stone, then squeezed the honeycomb. Honey dripped, gliding over the oil.
Honey-gold, onyx-black.
I thought of Sidonie and my heart ached with longing. I rubbed the honey and oil, spreading it over the smooth black rock. “Divine Aphrodite, I pray you accept this offering,” I whispered. “If there is mercy in your heart for the plight of lovers, I pray you look kindly on my quest.”
The stone felt warm beneath my hands, oil-slick and sticky with honey. It was peaceful and strangely erotic, and beneath it lay a sense of waiting stillness. When I had finished, the plump priestess approached with a basin of water and a linen towel. I washed and dried my hands while she gazed at my face.
“Such sadness,” the priestess said softly. “Did a woman break your heart?”
“No,” I said. “But the world threatens to.”
She shifted the basin under one arm and took my right hand, pressing it to her warm breast. “If your heart knows its true desire, you must trust it.”
I nodded. “Thank you, my lady.”
With that, she let me go and departed. Leander stared after her. “Huh. I’ve made a dozen offerings and no one’s ever said such a thing to me.”
“Do you know your heart’s true desire?” I asked wryly.
He looked at me under his lashes. “Well, no. But I’m familiar with quite a few others.”
Outside the temple, we bought sausages and olives and boiled eggs from a food vendor, eating them in the shade of a fragrant stand of myrtle. I was quiet and thoughtful. Leander watched me curiously.
“What’s it like?” he asked. “Being in love.”
“It’s awful.” I smiled. “And wonderful. Betimes you feel like your heart’s going to burst into a thousand pieces, flaying your chest wide open. Betimes you feel like you could leap off a cliff and take wing. And then it changes. It puts roots into you, deep and enduring. It becomes a part of you.”
“Huh.” Leander wiped his hands on his loose breeches. “Hard to fathom.”
“You’ll know it one day,” I said.
“Mayhap.” He rose with careless grace. “Shall we go?”
We returned to Paphos together. Leander hummed as he rode. For the first time, I found myself wishing I’d brought the wooden flute that Hugues had given me. I hadn’t played it since I’d avenged Dorelei’s death. Too many memories. I hadn’t thought of it when I’d beseeched L’Envers’ aid, and I daresay he would have laughed at me if I’d asked for it. But it had been a comfort to me in Alba; and in Vralia it had saved my life. I tried to recall the charmed tune of the Maghuin Dhonn that I’d played, the one that had sent everyone in the gaol to sleep, allowing me to escape with Kebek, the young Tatar.
I’d forgotten it.
I listened to my memories, moving my fingers. If I had a flute, I thought, mayhap I might be able to recall it. What the mind forgets, the body remembers. By the time we approached the gates of Paphos, I had resolved to visit the market in search of a skilled craftsman.
“Leander—” I began.
“Hsst!” Leander raised one hand, peering forward. “Shabaq?”
A lean figure sitting cross-legged beneath a lemon tree rose and crossed over to us. I recognized him as the young man playing the blindfold game in my mother’s household. He laid a hand on Leander’s stirrup, flashing a white grin.
“Her ladyship sent me to look out for you,” Shabaq said cheerfully. “His apish eminence awaits you at his palace.”
Leander glanced at me. “Shall we—”
I didn’t wait to hear the rest of it. I nudged the Bastard’s flanks with my heels and gave him his head, all thoughts of flutes and stones and honey forgotten, pedestrians scattering before our onslaught.
Ptolemy Solon had found the key.
That was all I needed.
Twenty-Two
There is good news and bad news.” Solon spoke in a hushed voice. We were meeting in the room where I’d first met with him, overlooking the sea. “The good news is that there is a very simple way to break Carthage’s spell.” He pointed out the window at the bright harbor. “The spell is bound to Terre d’Ange. Its effects cannot cross the sea.”