Kushiel's Scion

Page 44

"I'm not," I said. "I try to be, but I'm not."
"Nice can be dull." Sidonie laughed at my expression. "Does that shock you? I'm a Queen's heir, Imriel. I've never been able to afford the luxury of niceness. And I have found, all too often, that a pleasant mask hides the face of ugliness."
I shook my head. "That's not what I mean."
"What, then?" she asked. "You've a good heart. For a long time, I didn't believe it. But I saw it the day you tried to protect me. And I've seen it in the way you treat Alais."
"Alais is different," I said.
"From what?" Her brows rose. "Me?"
I looked steadily at her, remembering the feel of her body beneath mine; remembering the adept in the private chambers of Valerian's dungeon. It was too easy to picture Sidonie the same way. Even now, I could envision taking her here in the orchard, destroying her cool composure. Pinning her wrists, feeling her writhe, golden hair splaying over the grass. Her fair skin bruised by the marks of my teeth and nails. "Yes," I said. "You."
Her chin rose. "I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be," I said. "You used to."
"Yes, and things have changed between us, haven't they?" Sidonie regarded me. "You swore an oath. Do you recant it?"
I let out my breath in a hiss. "No!"
"Then I have no cause for fear," she said.
I grabbed her upper arms, hard enough to bruise. "You don't know me," I said hoarsely. "You don't know what I'm capable of."
"Don't be so sure." She stood unmoving in my grip, chin tilted. Deep below the surface of her gaze, a nameless emotion flared. Dark eyes, Cruithne eyes, rendered strange and unfamiliar in her D'Angeline face. "I'm not a child, Imriel. I know you're Kushiel's scion. I know your House. And I know my own heritage, too. Do you forget that Kusheline blood flows in the veins of House L'Envers?"
I had forgotten.
For a moment, we stood motionless, both of us. I could feel my heart thudding in my chest, the blood throbbing in my veins. I could sense her breathing quicken. And I reminded myself that she was only sixteen, and nearly a sister to me.
I pushed her away. "Name of Elua, no!"
She stumbled on the grass, then caught herself and laughed wildly. "No? Then go ahead, cousin. Run! Invoke Blessed Elua's name. Why not? You didn't hesitate to do it before when I drew away. Run, run away from desire. Run away from responsibility. Run!"
I strode to the Bastard's side and unhitched his reins, swinging astride. "Stay," I said coldly, gazing down at her from the saddle. "Wed some pedigreed D'Angeline nobleman, take Maslin de Lombelon as a lover, do as you will. Stay. I wish you the joy of it."
Sidonie sobered. "I don't have a choice," she whispered. "Oh, Imriel! I never have."
I swallowed, feeling an ache in my heart. "I don't want to part like this."
"Nor do I." Bowing her head, she laid a hand on my stirrup, fingertips brushing the glossy leather of my boot. "Go," she murmured. "And may Blessed Elua hold you in his hand and keep you."
I nodded. "And you, my lady."
She looked up at me. "You made a promise to Alais. Keep it."
I'll come back.
I laid my clenched fist on my heart. "On my oath, I will."
I went, then, setting my heels hard into the Bastard's flanks. He blew out his breath, snorting through his nostrils. We cantered between the apple trees and I dared not look behind me, knowing she watched us go.
In my haste to depart, I nearly ran down a handful of the Queen's Guard.
They were idling on the outskirts of the orchard. I checked the Bastard hard. I saw Maslin de Lombelon a few paces away, conversing with a familiar figure. Their heads turned as we plunged to a halt. A stab of fury went through me, and I tasted bile.
"You're back," I said to Duc Barquiel L'Envers.
"And you're still here. I'd hoped to find the rumors true and you in Tiberium." He looked me over archly. "I like the hair."
Maslin had gone rigid. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. L'Envers glanced at him. "The Dauphine," Maslin said to the Duc, "is in the orchard without a guardsman in sight. I find myself mistrustful of the Prince's intentions. 'Tis not the first time he's sought a means to be alone with her."
"I see," Barquiel L'Envers said quietly. He took two steps toward me. I put my right hand on the hilt of my new sword. Beneath his close-cropped blond hair, his face was cold, as cold as anything I'd ever seen. There was no malice in it, merely a deadly calm, implacable and calculating. "You don't want to play that game, princeling. Trust me, you do not."
I leaned over in the saddle and spat at his feet.
L'Envers never moved. "Go away, young Imriel," he said. "Far, far away."
"Guards!" Maslin said crisply, drawing his sword. They unsheathed their weapons, approaching warily. My blade rang as it cleared the scabbard. I kneed the Bastard in a tight circle, extending my blade and keeping them at bay.
What would have happened if Sidonie had not emerged from the orchard at that moment, strolling arm-in-arm with Amarante, I cannot say. I daresay they wouldn't have attacked me in broad daylight, without provocation, there on the Queen's grounds.
But I am not certain.
Sidonie's voice carried, cool and imperious. "Lieutenant Maslin, what on earth are you doing?"
He hesitated, then bowed and put up his sword, gesturing to his men to follow suit. "Your pardon, your highness. A misunderstanding, nothing more."
"I should hope so," she said evenly. Barquiel L'Envers narrowed his eyes, studying her. She returned his gaze without flinching. "Well met, Uncle. I trust your respite agreed with you?"
"Oh, indeed." He gave a pointed nod toward the orchard. "As, I trust, did yours."
"Very much so." Tender years or no, Sidonie didn't so much as flush. I ducked my head to hide a grin. From my vantage point on horseback, I could see the slightest hint of a smile hovering in the corner of her lips. She shifted her gaze to me, inclining her head.
Cousin.
I returned her nod. "Dauphine."
No one else spoke. I sheathed my sword and took up the Bastard's reins in both hands. He was edgy, body quivering between my thighs, hooves shifting. Sidonie and I exchanged a long silent glance.
"I'm going," I said to Barquiel L'Envers. "But I'll be back one day."
He said nothing, his eyes narrow and calculating.
I repeated my salute, pressing a clenched fist to my heart. And then I turned the Bastard and gave him his head. We fled, startling the guards at the Palace gate, bursting into the cobbled streets of the City, leaving behind a knot of intrigue and desire I'd no wish to unravel. Passersby stared, and I didn't care. Let them think what they might.
I felt the wind of our passage on my face, and it felt like freedom.
Run, I thought.
Run.
Chapter Thirty
I said nothing of the encounter. There was nothing new in Barquiel L'Envers' enmity. Maslin was another matter, but I wasn't sure whether his animosity was born of his dislike of me, his feelings for Sidonie, or L'Envers' seditious lies. Either way, I found myself reluctant to speak of it. There was no merit in worrying Phèdre and Joscelin. I didn't want to talk to them about Sidonie, either. Although I couldn't say why, what lay between us seemed best left unspoken.
Anyway, it didn't matter.
On the following day, we left.
The rumor of my departure was already circulating, but we kept the timing of it quiet. I hadn't told anyone but Mavros, and no one else had spoken of it. We rode out from the City in a large party, attended by almost all of Montrève's retainers; even Eugenie and her niece. To all appearances, we might have been going on a household pleasure-jaunt, amply stocked with provisions. A league outside the City, we would part ways. Gilot and I would continue on toward Eisheth's Way and Marsilikos, and the others would return slowly to the City.
It wouldn't fool anyone, not for long. But it would buy us a little time.
As merry as our party looked, it felt like a funeral procession. I had put off thinking about this moment. I had known it would be hard. I hadn't reckoned on feeling like something inside me was breaking.
On one of the smaller country roads that connects to Eisheth's Way, we halted and said our farewells. Everyone there seemed impossibly dear to me. Eugenie was the first to weep, embracing me and turning away. I bid farewell to her, to Clory, to all our men-at-arms, to Hugues and Ti-Philippe.
Gilot said his own farewells, and when he was done, he led our mounts and pack-horses a way down the road. On Ti-Philippe's nod, the household withdrew in the opposite direction, leaving Phèdre and Joscelin and me alone.
I could scarce bear to look at them.
The sun stood high overhead. Our shadows pooled at our feet, mingling on the dusty road. The scent of lavender hung in the air. After all we had endured, it seemed impossible that we would part. There should have been words for it; torrents of words. But it was hard to breathe past the lump in my throat, and all words failed me.
"Imriel," Phèdre whispered.
I nodded and looked at her, seeing past her undimmed beauty and the mark of Kushiel's Dart; even the sorrow brimming in her eyes. I saw the profound compassion and courage. Love. I saw love in its truest, purest form.
You will find it and lose it, again and again.
"Be well," she said. "Be happy. Come back safely to us one day."
Unable to speak, I nodded again, stepping into her embrace. I bowed my head against her shoulder. In that moment, I remembered only how many times she had held me when I awoke from nightmares, sweating and trembling, my throat raw from screaming. How many times I had taken comfort from her mere presence. In a part of me, I wished nothing had ever changed. But it had, and I could not undo it. The silent leap of desire lay between us, deep as a chasm. After a moment, Phèdre planted a kiss on my brow and let me go, turning away.
I looked at Joscelin, and knew there was nothing left to say. In a way, we had already said our farewells. He reached out his hand and we clasped forearms like men. It gave me strength to draw a shuddering breath and speak.
"I love you," I said to them. "I love you both so much."
If I stayed, I feared I would lose my resolve. And so I went. Behind me, I heard a small sound escape Phèdre; I heard the sound of Joscelin's vambraces creaking as he put his arm about her. It was she who had taught me to listen for such things. And he was doing what he had always done, being strong for us both when we needed him the most.
My steps dragged on the dusty road. Ahead of me was Gilot, sweating under the hot sun as he sat astride, holding two lead-lines and the Bastard's reins. I kept going though my heart felt like a stone in my breast.
"You're sure about this?" Gilot asked when I reached him.
I leaned my head against the Bastard's muscular neck, breathing in the odor of hot horseflesh. I could feel Phèdre's kiss on my brow like a blessing. "I'm sure," I mumbled through the Bastard's coarse mane.
"Let's go, then." His voice was firm.
I forced myself to mount, though my limbs felt heavy and reluctant. Gilot secured the lead-lines of the pack-horses and we set on our way, treading our shadows beneath us.
I looked behind me only once. They were still standing there, Phèdre and Joscelin, growing small in the distance. She looked small beneath his arm. He raised one hand in salute, vambrace glinting. I raised my hand in reply, and turned my gaze forward.
Ah, Elua! It hurt to leave them.
I wiped my eyes, scrubbing my tearstained cheeks. And then I drew a deep breath, tasting the air as a free man. "Gilot?"
"Aye, highness?" he asked.
"I'm done with weeping," I said. "I'm sick unto death of my own tears. No more, do you hear me?"
"I do." He smiled wryly. "Tell the truth, I've had enough of my own."
"Good." I straightened in the saddle. "And no more your highness or my prince, either. Call me what you will in front of others, but not that. I'm not going to Tiberium as a Prince of the Blood or a member of House Courcel."
Gilot eyed me sidelong. "No? How do you want to be called?"
"Imriel," I said. "Imriel nó Montrève."
He nodded. "As you wish."
We made good time to Marsilikos, arriving a day and a half before the Tiberian merchant ship was due to depart. Gilot and I made our way to the quais, booking our passage with the ship's captain. He was an affable Tiberian fellow, glad to have our company and our gold, happy to recommend an inn where we might abide for a night.
Gilot was disgruntled.
"Surely the Lady of Marsilikos would receive you!" he complained, fussing at the threadbare blankets that covered his pallet. "My Lady Phèdre counts her as a friend. Do you mean to live as a peasant, Imri?"
I reclined on my own pallet, thin and lumpy, folding my arms beneath my head. Our rented room had one small window. Through it, I could glimpse the Dome of the Lady high atop its hill, overlooking the harbor, gilded and glorious, impervious to the knowledge of our presence. I smiled to myself.
"Mayhap," I said to Gilot. "Or near enough as makes no difference."
He scowled at me. "Why?"
I closed my eyes. "Because that's how I was raised, Gilot. As a peasant. As an orphan taken in by Brother Selbert of the Sanctuary of Elua in Landras, taught to herd goats for a living. And I wonder, betimes, who that boy might have grown up to be." I opened my eyes. "Does that trouble you?"