Kushiel's Scion

Page 39

"Your majesty, it will suffice." Though my heart was heavy and the words left a bitter taste in my mouth, I said them. "As to the other… I'll think about it."
Ysandre inclined her head. "Thank you."
"Imriel." Drustan hesitated, then spoke. "I think you would like Dorelei. I would never have proposed this if I thought you were ill-suited."
I had always liked and admired the Cruarch of Alba. Today, I didn't. "Do you know what, my lord?" I said to him. "Right now, I don't care."
With that, I turned on my heel and made my exit.
Chapter Twenty-Six
All was done as the Queen promised. Within a day, her proclamation of my innocence was released. Several days later, it was quietly put about that Duc Barquiel L'Envers was stepping down from command of the Royal Army, citing a desire for respite after years of long service. Ghislain nó Trevalion, Bertram father, was named in his place.
No one at Court thought it overly strange. After all, L'Envers was rising sixty and had held the command for most of my lifetime. And Ghislain nó Trevalion had proven himself an able commander during the Skaldic War and a loyal Queen's man during his father's insurrection. I daresay some of L'Envers' enlisted men wondered at it, but they kept their mouths shut. As a leader, he was admired, but not greatly loved.
My lot improved… somewhat. The Queen's proclamation was accepted by some, and regarded with mild skepticism by others. In turn, I was not inclined to forgive my former friends their betrayal, and my relationship with Bertran remained awkward. An open admission from Barquiel L'Envers would have been infinitely more satisfying, and I wondered every day if I had made the right choice.
I asked Phèdre about it.
"I don't know, love," she said gently. "Some things are never given us to know, and some choices are not between right and wrong, merely different paths. You chose with a great deal of maturity, and that will have to suffice."
It was true, I know, but not terribly reassuring.
We tarried in the City that summer, delaying our departure for Montrève. My plans for Tiberium lay idle. Simmering with inward resentment, I kept my word to Ysandre, attending affairs at Court. I made an effort to be pleasant to Prince Talorcan's sister, Dorelei mab Breidaia.
It wasn't hard.
Somewhat to my annoyance, Drustan was right—I did like her. Although D'Angelines made her shy, she had a lively, curious mind, and I suspected in Alba she was far more forthcoming. When she laughed, there was somewhat infectious about the way her laughter broke to end in a whimsical giggle. I found it hard to brood around Dorelei. I found it hard to envision her as a bride, too. Although she was seventeen, she seemed younger. Somewhat about her put me in mind of Alais as she'd been as a child, fond and impulsive.
And then there was Sidonie.
On the surface, nothing had changed between us. After all, what had happened? Nothing. And yet everything was different. I found myself looking for her without thinking when I entered a room. When she looked for me, I felt her gaze like a touch.
I felt Maslin's, too; only it was more like a blow. He was there, too often, escorting her. They made a pretty pair, the Dauphine and her handsome lieutenant. Already there were murmurs beginning—that they were lovers, that she had promised to make him her Captain of the Guard and keep him on as her consort no matter who she wed. Such things had been done before in Terre d'Ange.
At a fete in honor of Roxanne de Mereliot, the Lady of Marsilikos, I was watching them together and thinking about those very rumors when a voice interrupted.
"It's not true, you know."
I glanced at Amarante of Namarre. "What's not?"
She smiled, the kind of smile one would expect from someone whose mother was a Priestess of Naamah. "What you're thinking."
I folded my arms. "And how would you know what I'm thinking?"
Her smile deepened. "Go ask her to dance, your highness."
I felt unaccountably nervous at it. For some idiotic reason, the words Eamonn had spoken the last time I asked Sidonie to dance rang in my head. Mind you don't get chilblains, he had said with a chuckle. At the time, I had laughed, too. Now I found myself constructing an argument with him in my thoughts, and it got in the way of my tongue.
"Do you… ?" I pointed at the dance floor, words failing me.
Sidonie looked bemused. "Are you all right, Imriel?"
I nodded. "Will you dance with me?"
She smiled. "Yes, all right."
It was so strange; like and unlike. Sidonie was scarce less formal than before, and yet. Her fingers quivered slightly in mine. The space between us was charged. I was acutely aware of my hand on the small of her back. My palm felt hot and I yearned to press her to me, feeling her young body firm against mine. My cousin, my near-sister. I didn't, but I wanted to. Instead, as I swept her across the floor, I broke the silence between us.
"Are we going to speak of this, Sidonie?" I asked.
For a moment, she didn't answer, and I thought mayhap she would pretend ignorance. Then her chin rose, and I saw her dark eyes were filled with pain and regret. "I don't know," she said. "Mayhap it's better if we don't."
"Is that Naamah's counsel?" I asked. "Or your own?"
She glanced involuntarily toward Amarante. "No. I don't know." She changed the subject. "Will you wed Dorelei? I know what my parents are plotting."
I bared my teeth in a smile. "I don't know. What's Maslin de Lombelon to you?"
"One of the only people at Court who never lies to me," she said honestly. "A safeguard, often. A friend, betimes. Nothing more, yet, and mayhap ever. I cannot say for sure. Why do you care? Why do you hate one another so?"
"I didn't want to." I tightened my grip on her hand; too tight. This time, though her eyes widened, she didn't protest. "Ah, Elua! Sidonie, I only ever wanted him to like me. And you…" The music ended and I let her go. "And you," I repeated softly, bowing to her. "Imriel…" she began. I waited.
Sidonie shook her head, impatient and despairing. "It's not that simple!"
"No," I said. "It's not. Mayhap if we obeyed naught but Blessed Elua's precept, it would be. Elua cared naught for thrones or mortal politics." I paused, remembering where I had heard those words before. "You know," I said, wondering, "Phèdre once told me that when she asked Melisande what Elua would make of her treason, my mother said that very thing in reply. The older I get, the closer I come to understanding her." I saw Sidonie's look of alarm and laughed softly. "Don't worry, your highness. I will keep my oath to you. On pain of death, I will keep it. You see," I said to her, "I always keep my promises."
On that ironic and self-righteous note, I strode away, ignoring the wrench of pain in my heart, the subtle tug that urged me to stay.
I thought about going home, and didn't. If Eamonn was there, I would have confided in him, but he wasn't. For a good hour, I wandered the City with only a worried Gilot to attend me. And then I made up my mind and turned to the only people I knew would understand my bitter, complicated mood.
The Shahrizai maintain a multitude of domiciles in and near the City. I went to Lord Sacriphant's townhouse, where I knew Mavros abided. Gilot was uneasy at accompanying me, though once we arrived, he relented, awed by the effortless grace of the household. Everything moved so smoothly there, the polite servants with their eyes downcast, in stark contrast to the free and informal nature of Montrève's household.
"Cousin!" Mavros greeted me effusively, kissing me on both cheeks. His blue eyes glinted, ambiguous as twilight. "Have you sewn up any good dogs lately?"
"Mavros." I returned his embrace. "You have always offered me the solace of family. May we speak?"
His expression sobered and sharpened at once. "Of course," he said, guiding me inward with a sweep of his arm. "Enter, and speak. What you say shall not pass these threshholds." He glared at a passing servant. "Shall it?"
The servant shook his head. "No, my lord," he murmured. "Never."
"So!" Mavros slung his arm around my neck, escorting me into the inner salon. It was gorgeously appointed with tapestries on the walls depicting scenes from the history of Kusheth and muted lamplight gleaming on gilded statuary. Mavros gestured to a couch and sent the servant to bring a cordial. "Speak, Cousin Imriel."
I told him everything, or almost.
I told him about the hunt and what had transpired between Sidonie and me, and the tension between us that followed it. I told him about Dorelei and the Queen's request. And I told him about what Barquiel L'Envers had done.
Mavros listened silently, moving only to refill my glass. Only when I told him about L'Envers did he seem surprised, hissing through his teeth.
"Sodding bastard!" he spat. "He should know better than to cross the Shahrizai!"
His lamplit face was suffused with demonic cunning. "Mavros, no," I pleaded. "Don't do anything rash. I made my choice to keep the peace and I'll abide by it."
"Very noble." He eyed me wryly. "For Sidonie's sake?"
I shrugged. I hadn't told him about my oath. "For the sake of House Courcel."
"House Courcel!" he scoffed. "They don't do a very good job of protecting their own, do they? If it were us…" He shook his head, a myriad of braids shifting.
"Well, it's not." I cradled my half-empty glass in my hands.
"Mores the pity." Mavros poured cordial into the glass. "Fine, I'll behave. So do you fancy yourself in love with the young Dauphine?"
"Love? No," I said. "I don't know. Betimes, I don't even like her. But I think about her. A lot. Too much. And I…" I raised my glass and took a gulp of cordial, shuddering. "I want her."
"She's a cold one," Mavros observed.
I remembered the way the blood had risen beneath her skin as I lay atop her in the Queen's Wood, her pulse quickening in the hollow of her throat. "Oh, I don't believe it. But, Mavros! Name of Elua, she's only sixteen, and nearly my sister."
He looked amused. "Oh, please! She's playing the Game of Courtship, isn't she? And she's—what? Your father's great-niece. By Shahrizai standards, that's barely related."
"We have the same eyebrows," I informed him.
"So?" he said. "All the better to recognize one another. What about the little Pictish princess?"
I drained my cordial in a second gulp. "Lorelei?" I frowned, realizing I was a little drunk. "Dorelei. She's a sweet girl. A child."
"You don't want to marry her, then."
"No." I set down my empty glass. "I don't want to marry anyone. I want… I don't know what I want."
"Oh, you do." Tilting his head, Mavros regarded me through his lashes. "Barquiel L'Envers' head on a stake, and Sidonie de la Courcel whimpering in your bed."
I opened my mouth to deny it, but a rush of heat flooded me at his words, and I closed my eyes instead. Anger and desire were all bound up together in a knot inside me, urgent and pulsing, making my tongue thick and my limbs heavy. I bit my lip, willing it to subside.
"Come on." Mavros got to his feet. "It's early yet. We're going out."
I opened my eyes, gazing at his extended hand. "Where?"
He smiled. "Out."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In some part of me, I knew.
But I would sooner lie to myself and claim ignorance; and Mavros gave me the pretext to do so, refusing to tell me where we were bound and making a mysterious game of it. We travelled by carriage to another of the Shahrizai domiciles, where Roshana's mother Fanchone kept a household. There were several of the young Shahrizai gentry in residence, Roshana among them.
"Imri!" She greeted me with a lingering kiss, sinking both hands into my hair. "You have such beautiful hair," she whispered. "Will you let me braid it tonight?"
"All right," I agreed. "Why not?"
Mavros waved a magnanimous hand. "There's time."
So while other members of the household primped and made ready, I sat cross-legged in the Lady Fanchone's salon while Roshana hummed, brushing my hair and dividing it into an infinity of small locks, braiding each one deftly and tying off the ends with waxed thread. It took nearly an hour. Gilot, who had followed on horseback, looked on with marked disapproval.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Imri?" he asked me.
I shrugged, careful not to disturb Roshana's work. "Do what? Allow my hair to be braided? Gilot, do me a favor. Go back to the townhouse and let Phèdre know I'm here. I don't want her to worry."
He raised his brows. "Young Lord Shahrizai has already sent a messenger," he said, nodding toward Mavros. "I'm staying with you."
"As you like." I shrugged again.
Roshana moved around to my front, blocking my view of Gilot. I kept my gaze on her face and my head still, breathing slowly, admiring her concentration and the speed of her dexterous fingers. She gave me a quick smile.
"You've good discipline," she said. "Have you done this before?"
I smiled back at her, thinking of the vigils I had endured in the Temple of Elua, kneeling on the frozen ground. "Something like it. This is easier."
"And more fun, I'll warrant." She planted a kiss on my brow. "There, you're done."