Kushiel's Mercy

Page 85

Joscelin put his hands on my shoulders. “You need to sit down.”
“Please.” I forced myself to breathe slowly and evenly. “I need to get to the Square.”
“No.” His voice hardened. “Phèdre was right. I should never have let you continue in this mad hunt. It’s made you worse.”
“Joscelin—”
He shook his head. “I promised Ysandre I’d keep you out of the way. Kratos was kind enough to assist. And it was just barely enough to keep her from throwing you in the dungeon for safekeeping. You’re not going anywhere near the Square, now or anytime soon.”
I closed my eyes. “I am begging you to please, please trust me, Joscelin.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t. Not in this. You’re not well.”
I opened my eyes. “Kratos.”
Kratos didn’t hesitate. He seized Joscelin from behind, pinning his arms—or at least seeking to. But strong and skilled as he was, he’d not reckoned on the highly trained reflexes of a Cassiline Brother. Joscelin twisted and struggled, working his right-hand dagger free of its sheath, and stabbing backward at a low, awkward angle. It was enough. Kratos grunted as it plunged into his thigh, his arms loosening.
Joscelin broke free, yanking the dagger with him and drawing his left-hand dagger to match it. He settled into a defensive stance, vambraces crossed, eyes wild with sudden shock and suspicion. “What in the hell is this, Imri? Is it treason after all?”
Kratos took a lurching step toward him.
“Don’t!” Joscelin flipped his right dagger, holding it by the bloody tip. “One more step and I’ll plant this in his throat.”
“Hold,” I said to Kratos. “Stay back.” I raised my empty hands to Joscelin. “I don’t want to fight you. Please, just let me pass. I need to get to the Square.”
“Is it Alais?” Joscelin asked, angry and bewildered. “Are you in league with her? What are you doing? What scheme is this? Does it have aught to do with your mother?” I glanced past him toward the far end of the hall, thinking that if I could get past Joscelin, I could beat him in a foot-race. “Oh, no.” He reversed his dagger again, grasping the hilt and setting himself against me. “You’re not going anywhere.”
I took a deep breath. “Joscelin Verreuil, as a Prince of the Blood and a member of House Courcel, I am ordering you to stand down.”
“I’m obeying her majesty’s orders,” he said. “You’ve no authority to countermand them.” Kratos attempted to sidle around him, limping. Joscelin took a few steps backward, better positioning himself to guard both of us. “You’re staying here until Ysandre and the Palace Guard return.” He pointed at Kratos with the tip of one dagger. “And I swear to Elua, if this man moves again, I will throw on him.”
“He means it,” I said to Kratos in Hellene. “He can kill you in the blink of an eye.”
Kratos nodded stoically. “What will you?”
What I willed, what I longed for, was the wondrous, glorious certainty that had filled me: the voices of Blessed Elua and his Companions. I wanted it back. I wanted it to have worked in the first place. But mayhap I wasn’t a flawed vessel after all. Mayhap words spoken to me long ago in Lucca were true: the gods answer our prayers sideways at best. I had my answer. I had the key to finding the gem, to saving Terre d’Ange.
And the man I loved and honored above all others stood between me and my goal.
I drew my sword. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Then don’t,” Joscelin said steadily.
I shook my head. It had gone too far. Kratos was exposed. We’d both be accused of sedition, mayhap of treason. Mayhap they’d still look for the demon-stone and find it. What then? Sidonie’s memory had slipped away, and with it, the key to unlocking the spell. Others had it. Alais and L’Envers. They could use it once they took the City if they could find the gem. But by then there wouldn’t be much left to save.
“I have to try,” I said, and advanced on him.
Elua! We’d sparred so many times, Joscelin and I. I never, ever thought we’d duel in earnest. Not in a thousand years. And it wasn’t . . . not quite. Not yet. My sword clattered off his vambraces. Joscelin made a deft move to attempt to trap it with the curved quillons of his daggers. I made a deft move to evade it. We circled one another, trading reluctant blows.
“What did we do wrong, Imri?” There was a note of anguish in Joscelin’s voice. “Was there aught you wanted that we failed to provide?”
“No.” I feinted at his left. He was slower to parry on his left side where his arm had been badly broken in Daršanga. But my head was still splitting and the dizziness and nausea hadn’t gone away. I was slow today. “No, I never wanted for aught.”
“Did we not love you enough?” Joscelin asked softly.
My eyes stung. I blinked to clear them. “No! Name of Elua, no!”
Astegal of Carthage hadn’t succeeded in distracting me, but this . . . gods. It made me sick at heart, sick enough to break my concentration. Joscelin took advantage of it and made another pass at trapping my blade. This time I barely evaded it. Metal screeched on metal. We both whirled, then parted and fell back. I held my blade angled before me. Joscelin gazed at me, daggers crossed, a world of pain and sorrow in his summer-blue eyes.
“Then why?” he asked me.
I swallowed. There was no answer I could give him that he would believe. And I didn’t think I could defeat him without getting one or both of us mortally wounded. He was too good. He always had been. Even on my best days, I’d won only one bout in three against him; and today was far from one of my best. And even if Joscelin gave me an opening, I wasn’t sure I could bear to take it.
But there was one thing I was sure of.
Even here, even now, in the grip of Bodeshmun’s cursed spell, even believing me a traitor, Joscelin loved me. He’d gone for his daggers and not his sword. He was fighting defensively, seeking to disarm me. He didn’t want to hurt me any more than I did him, mayhap less.
I dropped my sword.
Joscelin glanced at it. I charged him. I saw his eyes widen, his daggers sweeping up instinctively toward my throat. At the last minute, he grimaced and let them fall. I hooked my right foot behind his left ankle and brought us both crashing to the marble floor.
We rolled, grappling.
On the floor, unarmed, the odds changed. I was the better wrestler. At an age when most boys in Siovale were being taught the art and science of it, Joscelin had been training to be a Cassiline Brother. But Hugues had taught me to wrestle during the long summer days at Montrève. And I’d learned a great deal more at the ungentle hands of a former Hellene champion in New Carthage.
In the end I pinned Joscelin as Astegal had pinned Kratos in the palaestra, wrenching his arm hard behind his back, my legs twined with his. Unlike Astegal, I didn’t grind his face into the marble.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I pray you’ll forgive me.” Joscelin glared at me, his head twisted. I glanced up. “Kratos?”
Kratos limped over, snatching up one of Joscelin’s daggers along the way. He brought the pommel crashing down hard on the back of Joscelin’s head.
I winced in sympathy.
Joscelin’s eyes rolled back and his body went limp.
I released my grip on him, breathing hard. I turned Joscelin over and felt at his throat for a pulse. It beat strongly. I knelt and kissed his brow. Kratos eyed me impassively.
“He’s my foster-father,” I said. “And a hero of the realm.” I got to my feet. The hall spun around me, then steadied. “Are there guards about?”
Kratos shook his head. “Not in earshot, I don’t think.” He nodded at Joscelin. “The Queen put a great deal of trust in him. There’ll be guards on the outer doors, I imagine.”
“How’s your leg?” I asked him. “I’m not sure they’ll let me pass alone.”
“I’ll manage.” He continued to eye me. “What was it you thought you were doing, anyway? Did you imagine they’d listen?”
“I did,” I said. “But I think the gods answer prayers sideways.” I clapped his shoulder. “I’ll explain later. Let’s go.”
Eighty-Two
I was right. Without Kratos’ aid, I’d never have gotten past the guards. He strode through the corridor toward the main doors of the Palace, shouting loudly for the guards to fetch our horses.
The guards looked dubious. “I thought Prince Imriel—” one began.
“He is god-touched, man!” Kratos roared, grabbing the fellow’s doublet. “Not mad! He had a . . . a seeing! You hit him before he could speak it! Do you people know nothing?”
“A seeing?” the guard repeated.
“A vision,” I said. “I know where the gem is. Blessed Elua has decreed that it must be found before this war is launched.”
They hesitated.
Kratos shook the man he held like a terrier with a rat. “I serve the House of Sarkal. This was Lord Bodeshmun’s last wish and her highness’ great hope. Go! Now!”
The guards exchanged glances. One unbarred the doors to let us pass and the other ran toward the stables, shouting for an ostler.
Ah, gods! Quickly, quickly, quickly. I waited in an agony of suspense, terrified at the thought that Joscelin would awaken and come in pursuit of us, terrified that someone would find him, terrified that the guards would grow suspicious at his absence and forbid us passage. But no; Kratos had rattled them and they still regarded him as their revered Astegal’s sole representative in the City. The ostlers came at a run, leading the blaze-faced bay I’d been riding and the sturdily built chestnut that Sidonie had given Kratos.
Kratos mounted with a grunt. I could see blood darkening the fabric of his blue breeches and moved my mount unobtrusively to block the sight, then swung astride.
“Do you need an escort?” the guard asked Kratos.
“No,” he said curtly. “Just open the gates.”
The order was given, the gates were opened. “You’d best take the lead,” I murmured to Kratos. “They’ll make way for you when we reach the Square.”
He nodded and set his heels to the chestnut’s flanks.
We burst through the gates and began racing through the City. The streets were as empty as I’d ever seen them. Everyone was gathered at the Square, just as they had been the night of the marvel.
Only this time it was to hear a declaration of war.
How long did we have? I wasn’t sure. Kratos thought I’d been unconscious a quarter of an hour. I didn’t imagine my head was any harder than Joscelin’s. When he woke, he’d be in a fury. Once he denounced us, it would be over.
Kratos didn’t ride well and his injury made it worse. He jounced awkwardly in the saddle. His horse wasn’t swift. Again and again, I had to check my own mount, fearful of clipping the chestnut’s hooves, reining in my own impatience.
When Joscelin awoke, he would ride very, very swiftly in pursuit.
We passed empty townhouses, empty stores, empty wineshops. The thunder of our passage made my aching head swim.
We glimpsed the outer edge of the throng, ordinary citizens clogging the street. “Make way!” Kratos began shouting. “Make way in the name of Astegal of Carthage!”
People turned and stared. They knew him, knew his homely face with its squashed nose. They knew his heavily accented D’Angeline. They moved, sluggish, their bunched ranks parting with frustrating slowness.
Kratos plunged into their midst and I followed.
People stared after us.
If I failed, if I was wrong . . . Kratos was dead. I didn’t doubt it. He’d aided me and assaulted Joscelin. The same twisted malevolence that had led the City to hail him as Astegal’s trusted right-hand man would turn on him. They would tear him to pieces for his betrayal.
And likely me too.
The street opened. We had reached the outer edge of Elua’s Square. It was packed with soldiers. They were slower to move, but they did, giving way reluctantly at the name of Astegal of Carthage. I gazed above a shining sea of helmets.
Elua’s Oak.
It rose, vast and majestic, its spring canopy spreading over the Square. I’d stood beneath it as a boy when Ysandre de la Courcel announced an end to Phèdre’s sentence of penance and gave her blessing to the quest to free the Master of the Straits. I’d sat beneath it as a young man, beside a dry and empty fountain, suspected of treason thanks to Barquiel L’Envers’ machinations. Almost a year ago, I’d groveled at its roots, succumbing to madness. And only a few hours ago, I’d knelt beneath it and prayed.
I prayed now, sick and dizzy.
A wooden dais had been erected beneath the oak. There they were: Ysandre, Drustan, and Sidonie. Drustan’s sword was in his hand. I guessed the speech had already been given, the salutes exchanged.
“Make way!” Kratos called, forging a steady path through the crowd of soldiers. “In the name of Astegal of Carthage, make way!”
I followed in his wake.
Far behind us was the sound of a new commotion arising.
Joscelin.
No time.
No time for fear, no time for uncertainty. No time to try to explain what I was doing. I left that to Kratos. As we reached the oak, I draped my mount’s reins over his neck, kicked my feet free of the stirrups. I drew myself up and stood atop my saddle, swaying unsteadily. My heart thudded in my breast. I caught the lowest limb, hauled myself atop it. Below voices rose in furious argument.