Kushiel's Scion

Page 19

The first time I met Phèdre, I spat in her face.
Across the study, Mavros began to smirk.
"Oh yes, it's true," Phèdre said quietly. "I made my marque that Longest Night." She turned her gaze back to Mavros, and his smile ebbed. "But I do not think," she said, "that House Shahrizai has had cause to boast of it since."
He looked at her for a long moment, his face naked beneath her steady regard. I knew what he saw. The whole entangled history of their Houses—of Phèdre, my mother, Anafiel Delaunay—lay between them; and yet, it was somewhat more. Phèdre nó Delaunay walked into hell willingly, and walked out alive. And somehow—Blessed Elua alone knows—she retained the ability to love. She carried the Name of God in her thoughts, and there was nothing in the human soul that could be concealed from her.
There were times when all she needed to do was lay it bare.
"Forgive me, my lady." Mavros' voice was hoarse. "I was cruel."
"Youth is cruel." Phèdre caught Joscelin's eye. Something passed between them and she sighed, shaking her head. "Go on, get out, the both of you. And mind, no more fighting."
We went with alacrity.
For a time, by common accord, neither of us spoke. We walked together, wordless and aimless. I stole a glance at Mavros and found him looking uncommonly pensive. As we departed from the manor grounds, our unplanned course took us to the river. We walked alongside, following it toward the northern end of the valley. I found a sturdy stick and slashed at the reeds that grew along the river's edge, watching them bend without breaking, springing upright as we passed.
"I'm sorry," Mavros said abruptly, breaking our long silence.
I halted, watching the water tumble over gleaming rocks. "The fault was mine."
"Not entirely." He stood beside me. "I begin to think mayhap the Shahrizai have an imperfect grasp of what it means to be Kushiel's Chosen."
I prodded the ground with my stick. "It's true, though. What you said."
"You wish it were not?" he asked. "Why?"
I nodded. "I can't help it. Mavros…" I sighed and tossed the stick away. "It's hard. I cannot explain it."
He sat down on a dry tussock of grass. "I told you that Kushiel is merciful," he said slowly. "It is a hard and demanding mercy. If we are the dark mirror of the world's desire, then I think mayhap Phèdre is the bright mirror of ours, showing us those things we cloak in pride and vanity. I beheld my own pettiness in her gaze, and I did not like what I saw."
"I'm familiar with the feeling," I murmured.
"And yet you are ashamed of her?" he asked, curious.
"No." I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. "I don't know! Why did it have to be my mother?"
"Oh." Mavros' tone changed. "Yes, well… yes. That must be awkward."
I lowered my hands and glared at him. "Awkward?"
He shrugged. "What do you wish me to say, Imri? The situation is what it is; I cannot change the past, any more than you can. You're carrying around a world of fear. I cannot help you if you refuse to confront it. No one can," he added, "not family, not Phèdre. You have to face the mirror yourself."
"Which one?" I asked dryly. "Bright or dark?"
"Both of them." He laughed. "Listen to me! Deigning to speak to you of fear."
I smiled a little. "Ah, well, you're not wrong."
"No." Mavros rose, dusting his hands. "But you're not ready. And as Roshana reminds me, I am supposed to practice patience." He held out his hand. "Are we friends?"
"Friends," I said slowly, clasping his hand. "All right, yes."
"Good." He grinned. "I don't fancy going another round with you! You're a nasty fighter, cousin."
So it was that our final days passed in amity. In the end, I was both saddened and relieved to see the Shahrizai depart. I had grown fond of them, fonder than I had reckoned. Mavros had spoken truly; they were a dark mirror, and there was much of myself I saw in them that I did not disdain. But too, there were other things.
Their escort came for them on the appointed day, and we gathered in the front courtyard to bid them farewell. They looked as splendid as they had when they arrived, and I could not help but feel a certain pride at their beauty. Baptiste whooped and shouted, standing in his stirrups and turning his mount in a tight circle; Roshana smiled and blew me a kiss. Mavros raised his hand in farewell, winking.
"I'll see you at Court, cousin!" he called.
Once again, nothing had changed, yet everything was different. I had a sense of myself that was different and new. I was a member, albeit at a distance, of a strange and exotic family. And if I was not prepared to embrace this bond wholeheartedly, neither did I regard it in abject horror.
Other things had changed, some to my sorrow. In the month of my Shahrizai cousins' visit, I had grown apart from Charles. Although our friendship endured, he seemed to me younger than he had before, and simple and rustic in his desires. At the same time, Katherine had grown more mature. Whatever else had transpired in the meadow, Roshana had spoken truly; Katherine had learned somewhat of herself during their visit that she had not known before. She moved with a new surety, aware of her own blossoming sensuality and confident in the knowledge. It made me wonder at the cause.
After the Shahrizai had gone, I watched her set her sights once more on Gilot.
This time, there was no simpering. She stood, easy and sure, and crooked her finger at him; and he trailed after her, blindsided and besotted.
It would have made me laugh, had it not hurt. I'd had my chance, there in the meadow, and I let it slip through my fingers. There beside the lake, Katherine had offered herself, had dared to make herself vulnerable, and I had spurned her. And yet she accepted it without blaming me and moved on with ease. It was no more and no less than the old priest of Elua had foretold when he spoke to me of love on the Longest Night.
You will find it and lose it, again and again.
With a heart full of youthful rue, I watched it go.
We finished the summer at Montrève. After a month's indulgence with the Shahrizai, I flung myself into labor. I helped Charles with chores around the estate, and if our camaraderie was less than it had been, still, he was glad to have my aid. I sparred with Joscelin, who spoke well of my progress. And I resumed my studies with Phèdre.
There were no more tutors, and we did not practice the art of covertcy. Instead, sensing my need to lose myself undisturbed, she gave me a series of texts to read—histories and philosophies, for the most part. I liked reading the arguments of old Hellene philosophers.
After her anger, I was careful with Phèdre. It was not that she held a grudge, not by any means. There was no one in the world quicker to forgive. But it was because she understood human failing all too well; and in the bright mirror of her regard, I was reluctant to gaze upon my own shortcomings.
I spoke to Joscelin about it one day after we had sparred.
"Well," he said judiciously, "You did act the fool."
"Yes, I know." I flushed. "It's just—"
"I know." Joscelin's gaze softened. "Your mother." He sighed and ran a hand through his wheat-blond hair, darkened with streaks of sweat. It was hot and we had fought hard. "Imriel, I don't relish the knowledge any more than you do."
I traced a pattern on the slate with the toe of one boot. "How do you bear it?"
"I tried doing without Phèdre once." His voice was light and wry, but I lifted my head to meet his gaze, and his expression was not. "I discovered anything else was preferable."
"Even Daršanga?" I asked.
"Yes." Joscelin was quiet for a moment. "Even Daršanga," he said at length, and gave his half-smile, reaching out to tousle my hair. "Even her inexplicable affinity for your cursed mother. And if you ask me which of the two is worse, love, I would be hard put to answer. But we got you out of it, didn't we?"
It was one of those moments that made my heart soar. I grinned foolishly. "You reckon it was worthwhile?"
"Of course," Joscelin said simply. "Don't you?"
I thought a good deal about his words. It was not only that they warmed my heart, but they held a double meaning. Like Drustan mab Necthana, when he speaks, it is to good effect; like the Cruarch, Joscelin is more subtle than he appears. When all was said and done, I did reckon it worthwhile. They had found me, and redeemed me out of hell.
It was enough; it was more than enough.
Still, I did not know how to make my peace with Phèdre.
The strain persisted between us until the day she caught me browsing in her study. She has an extensive library, both at Montrève and in the City, but it was a common text that had caught my eye—an edition of the Trois Milles Joies, which is a famous D'Angeline compendium.
It was Enediel Vintesoir, the founder of the Night Court, who compiled it; or so legend claims. It contains every form of lovemaking in which men and women may partake, in every possible form and combination. All of them were illustrated by finely cut woodblock prints.
I scanned its pages in appalled fascination, dry-mouthed and taut with desire.
"Do you wish to borrow it?"
Phèdre's voice broke my reverie. I dropped the volume, wincing at the sound of parchment crackling, and stooped and caught it up quickly, holding it before me to hide the swelling in my breeches.
"No!" I said, quick and high-pitched. "I'm sorry. I was only looking."
"You may, you know." She turned away in a graceful gesture, scanning the shelves. "You probably should. Here." Phèdre handed me a leather-bound copy of The Journey of Naamah. "This one, too."
I felt the blood rise in my face, which was an improvement. "It's not necessary."
"They're only texts, Imri." Phèdre leaned against the bookshelves, a delicate frown knitting her brows. "You're curious. It's good to learn."
"Did you?" I asked, clutching both volumes.
"I did," she said gravely. "For a long time. You need not put it into practice. I didn't, not for years. But all knowledge is worth having."
"My thanks," I whispered, and fled.
I read the books she had lent me, and I learned. Strangely, it broke the long tension between us. The Trois Milles Joies dealt wholly with erotic instruction, but The Journey of Naamah examined the divine aspects of carnal love. When I read about how Naamah gave herself to the King of Persis to win Blessed Elua's freedom, and how she lay down with strangers in the stews of Bhodistan to earn coin that Elua might eat, I began to grasp an inkling of the link between desire and divine compassion—and in so doing, I gained a deeper understanding of Phèdre. What she had done was not so different. Both of them gave of themselves, and somehow gained in the process. And there was no shame in it, only love.
As for the rest of it, I felt easier knowing that such desires as plagued me were simply part and parcel of the human condition. I spent many hours poring over those tomes, yet when I returned them to her, although they'd made me restless with yearning, I felt a bit easier in my skin.
"So," Phèdre murmured. "Do you have questions?"
I shook my head. "No," I said honestly. "Not yet." I thought of Mavros' words, and laughed. "I'm not ready."
"All right." She smiled at me. "You know you may always ask."
"I know," I said. "And I'm grateful, but to be truthful, I'm not sure you're the best person to give me answers."
A flicker of pain crossed her face. She drew a deep breath and released it. "That may be true. But I would always try."
I nodded. "I'll think on it."
When summer began to give way to autumn, we made ready to return to the City. It was the first time that I did not do so with a heavy heart. Montrève had grown smaller, and I had changed. When I thought about showing myself at Court, there was something in me that regarded the challenge with grim satisfaction. Let the peers mutter and wonder; I would meet their sidelong glances with a direct gaze.
I was tired of being afraid.
Chapter Fourteen
There was the usual fanfare upon our return to the City of Elua—a merry welcome at the gates, a joyous reception at the townhouse and an official one at Court. For once, I didn't dread the latter. Part of it, of course, was my newfound confidence, a good deal of which I own I owed to my Shahrizai kin. But there was a large part of it that was due to a different reason, one that had nothing to do with anything save Alais.
I was bringing the pup I had promised her, and I was eager to see her response.
At five months, she—the wolfhound bitch—was almost half-grown. I called her Celeste. She was a tall, lean shadow, grey and hairy, with intelligent brown eyes and long-toed paws that promised further growth.
"You're sure you want to do this?" Joscelin asked dubiously. "At Court?"
"She'll be good," I assured him. "And Alais will love it."
In the parlor of Phèdre's townhouse, Celeste sat with her narrow jaws parted, red tongue lolling. Her hairy, whiplike tail swept the marble floor in a steady beat, while the bust of Anafiel Delaunay sat on its plinth, regarding her with an austere smile. She had been well-behaved on the journey, and I was proud of her.
Phèdre laughed aloud. It was a musical sound, scintillating and filled with pure delight. "Why not?" she said to Joscelin, eyes dancing with whimsy. "He's right, you know."