Kushiel's Scion

Page 8

Sidonies voice intervened, cool as water over rocks. "I have heard many things of you, Cousin Imriel, but never that you were a coward."
I stared at her, furious.
She raised her brows; gold, a deeper hue than her mother's. Unlike Alais, the Dauphine looked almost wholly D'Angeline. Only her eyes were pure Cruithne, dark and unreadable.
"That," I said coldly, "I am not."
"Well, then." Sidonie returned to her book, dismissing me.
By what right a twelve-year-old girl who had never known a day's fear or hunger or want of any kind thought to insult the courage of a fourteen-year-old boy who had endured a hell that would break many a grown man, I cannot say. It was, however, singularly effective. I was still chafing at the condescension in her tone when I made my decision to go to Lombelon.
There was a good deal of discussion. I wanted to go alone, with only a pair of men-at-arms, which Phèdre adamantly refused to allow. In turn, I argued against the entire household appearing in a show of force. Sidonie had pricked my pride, and I did not want Maslin to think I was afraid.
In the end, I was allowed to go with a handful of men-at-arms under Ti-Philippe's command, although Phèdre did not like it. Neither did Joscelin, but he understood.
The day was blustery, with a chill edge to the wind hinting at the winter to come. We departed in the early morning under dull grey skies. It was strange to see the City quiet and empty; the shop doors bolted, the streets almost deserted. Only a few scattered members of the City Guard were about, and a few weary revelers weaving their way home from a late night's debauch. One of them greeted Ti-Philippe, calling out a slurred salute.
He grinned in reply. "To the flowers of Orchis!"
I felt myself redden. Orchis was one of the Thirteen Houses of the Night Court, where Naamah's finest Servants plied their trade. Phèdre was raised in one such—Cereus House, First among Thirteen.
"Philippe?" I cleared my throat. "What's it like there?"
He glanced at me. "Orchis House?"
"The Night Court."
"Well, it depends on the House." He shrugged. "I like Orchis. They're lighthearted; merry. It suits me."
"What about the others?" I asked.
"They're all different." Ti-Philippe smiled. "Heliotrope's nice. The adepts there will make you feel like the only man ever to touch their hearts. And Eglantine—it's worth visiting for the poets and players alone. Jasmine… ah, there's adepts at Jasmine will leave you limp as a dishrag, half-drowned in the sweat of desire."
Phèdre's mother was an adept of Jasmine House, but she left. And when she sold her daughter into indentured servitude, it was to the First among Thirteen; to Cereus House. "What about Cereus?"
"Ah." His gaze sharpened. "Well, all beauty's transient, so they say; but I'm not one to ache at its passing—or at least not to relish the ache."
"No," I said slowly. "I suppose not."
Ti-Philippe chuckled. "Ah, don't worry, Imriel, you've got plenty of years to choose."
The men in earshot laughed, and I blushed deeper. "That's not why I asked."
"I know." He grinned, but nicely. "Well, if you choose to visit Cereus House one day, you'll see where her ladyship got her manners, but that's about it. Anyway, it's not the House I'd pick for you."
"Which one, then?" I was curious despite myself. The Night Court wouldn't accept me as a patron until I'd gained sixteen years, but the mere thought of choosing among the Thirteen Houses made my stomach feel unsettled with a sick excitement.
Ti-Philippe opened his mouth to reply, then paused and shook his head. "I'm not sure." His eyes had gone grave and thoughtful. "For you, I'm not sure."
"Well, what do think you might fancy?" Gilot asked cheerfully. "I'll tell you, I hear Bryony's more fun than you might reckon. If you like to wager, you're a lad will have the coin to spare. Or maybe Alyssum, eh? A little modesty, a little hesitation?" Leaning over in the saddle, he nudged my leg. "That might suit you, Imri."
Unaccountably, I shuddered. Something in his words summoned a memory of the zenana, so powerful that I could almost smell the stagnant water in the abandoned pool. I remembered the Bhodistani women fasting there, hollow-eyed and serene. Somehow they had maintained dignity and modesty alike in that terrible place. It had carried a cost. One of them had died at the point of a knife rather than consume a morsel of food in the Mahrkagir's hall.
"No." My voice was thick. "Not that."
"Ah, well." Gilot was oblivious. "There's Dahlia if you like 'em haughty instead; or Camellia, they're a proud lot. Or, of course—"
"Enough, Gilot." It was Hugues who intervened. His voice was mild, but there was somewhat implacable in his pleasant blue eyes; and too, the set of his broad shoulders. "As Philippe said, Prince Imriel has years to choose."
I smiled my thanks at him.
"Sorry, Imri." Gilot shrugged. "I meant no offense."
"None taken." I shook my head. "It's no matter."
It was, though. I did not want to hear him name the other Houses—not Balm or Gentian; healers and dreamers I did not mind—but the other two. Mandrake and Valerian, those given over to the sharper pleasures; the one giving, the other receiving. Their clientele was smaller, but it was select.
They played with dangerous toys, there.
I knew too much about those.
We passed through the Northern Gate and turned up the collars of our cloaks against the cold wind. I felt it whip against my cheeks, scouring away the City's clinging touch, and I was glad. Although a part of me yearned for it, I was not ready, yet, to be a man among men, speaking casually of desire and the pleasures of the flesh. Not yet, not really.
Besides, there was Maslin.
What was the truer test of manhood? To know another, to plumb the depths of desire? Or to face one's fears and accept the burden that responsibility entails? Anyone could do the former. It was in the latter that the challenge lay.
We reached Lombelon before midday. The seneschal, Jerome Bargot, greeted us with startled good manners, calling for mugs of hot perry cider and ushering us into the great room, where we might warm ourselves before the fire.
"Welcome, Prince Imriel," he said when we were settled. "Forgive us for not being prepared to better receive you."
"No matter." I smiled to put him at ease. "The fault is mine for coming without notice. But have no fear, we will not trouble you long."
"As you will, highness; it is no trouble." He paused. "How may I serve you?"
I cupped my mug, feeling its warmth seep into my cold hands, and took a sip of perry cider. It was sweet and spicy, blazing a trail of heat into my belly, and I felt stronger for it. "I wish to see Maslin," I said. "Anne Livet's son."
Jerome Bargot, who was a florid man, turned pale. "Has he… has he given offense, highness?"
"No." I shook my head. It was strange to have so many people worried about offending me; although I suppose the seneschal had cause for concern. I reached into the pouch at my belt, withdrawing the sealed deed. "I have come to set right a certain matter. Will you summon him?"
The seneschal's eyes bulged. "Highness!" he croaked. "He is… he is in the orchards, tending to the fall mulching. Perhaps you would prefer to wait until—"
"Bring him," I said simply.
Jerome Bargot bowed. "As you will."
We lounged in the great room and waited while Maslin was summoned. The fire crackled. We grew warm and threw off our cloaks. Hugues brought out his wooden flute and played a simple, merry tune. A serving maid brought a plate of bread and meat and strong mustard, and Gilot caught her eye, grasping her hands and convincing her to dance a measure with him until she drew away, laughing and protesting.
It reminded me of Montrève, and I was smiling when Maslin arrived.
He brought with him a strong whiff of dung. I rose when he entered the great room. We took each other's measure at a glance. Hugues' flute fell silent. Firelight laid a ruddy crown on Maslin's pale hair. He clenched his fists, with half-moons of dirt under the crescents of his nails, and inclined his head. His voice, when he acknowledged me, was grating. "Your highness."
I saw him, and for the first time, it was as though I stood outside myself. I saw the fierce pride and the anguished betrayal. I saw the fault-lines in his soul and where they lay, and how they could be exploited. There was a game to be played. He hated me, yes, but we were victims in common. I could play to that, speak cunning words, turn his hatred to a shared target. One whose justice was too harsh for his angry soul, whose mercy galled my unrestful one.
Ysandre, the Queen.
Or I could wound him with disdain, and earn his undying enmity, sealed and immaculate. There was power in that, too. Those whose hatreds are simple are easy to manipulate. He could become my creature, all unwitting.
I trembled at this knowledge. It was my mother's legacy, Kushiel's gift, and I did not want any part of it.
What I wanted was to make a friend of him.
It was not to be. That, too, I saw; and I was grateful to Phèdre for her warning.
"Here," I said, thrusting the deed forward. "I cannot undo what is done. I know only that this is right. Lombelon is yours."
Maslin grabbed the parchment and broke the seal. For a long moment, he read, lips moving silently. At last, his dark eyes met mine.
"Why?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Because I could."
It was not answer enough; it would never be answer enough. But it was all the answer I could afford him. Maslin shuddered, his dung-stained nails tightening on the deed. "Shall I bow and scrape in thanks, princeling?" he asked harshly. "Is that what you wish to see? Groveling gratitude, a sop for your miserable soul?"
Someone's breath hissed between their teeth, and I motioned my retainers to be still. I gazed at Maslin. "You do not know me," I said to him. "Do not presume that you do."
He looked away. "Nor you me," he muttered.
"Fair enough," I said evenly.
"What is it?" He looked back at me, scowling. "What do you want?"
I considered the question. "I want to be good."
This was an answer he understood. I saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. His scowl eased and he nodded, half to himself, as though I had spoken his thoughts, thoughts no one else in the room save we two could know. "People make it hard to do," he said.
I thought about my mother who had borne me, the priest who had lied to me. I thought about the Carthaginian slavers, the Mahrkagir, the mocking, distrustful face of Barquiel L'Envers. And I thought, too, about Phèdre and Joscelin—and strangely, Sidonie, with her cool, disdainful words. "Some do," I said. "Not all."
"Most," said Maslin.
"Too many," I agreed.
What the others in the room made of our conversation, I cannot guess. But we understood one another, we traitors' sons. It was not friendship, but it would do. I put out my hand, and this time, Maslin clasped it. His grip was callused and strong.
"My thanks," he said. "I didn't mean…" He shrugged, wordless.
I nodded. "I know."
So it was done, and I was glad. We took our leave in short order, leaving behind a manor abuzz with the news. The folk of Lombelon seemed well enough pleased with my decision, and I was glad of that, too. I had not made a friend, but I had not made an enemy, either.
I thought a great deal about Maslin on the homeward ride, wondering about those people in his life who made it hard to be good. His life seemed so much simpler than mine—it was one of the things I had envied him. And yet I had complicated it.
Was it right? I believed it was. Was it good?.
I thought so, yes; but I was not certain. I had acted out of self-interest. In the end, I could not say. And I thought, too, about my own perceptions—about the fault-lines and flaws I had discerned in Maslin, and how they might best be exploited. It was not so different from the arts of covertcy which Phèdre had taught me; and yet it was.
I had seen how Maslin could be used.
I was my mother's son.
But I had seen, and I had walked away from it. It gladdened my heart to know this. That was the secret of Kushiel's gift to his scions—power, to be used for good or ill. Even so, it could be rejected. It need not be used.
Therein, I thought, lay true strength.
Dusk was falling by the time we returned to the City of Elua, the long shadows tinting the white walls of the City with blue. We were all of us cold and hungry, blowing on our chilled fingers as we rode into the narrow courtyard. All the windows of the townhouse were ablaze with lights, awaiting our return. For the first time, I felt a strong sense of homecoming; here, in this place. We poured through the open door into the welcoming parlor, set about with warming braziers and the bust of Anafiel Delaunay on its marble plinth, smiling his subtle smile.
"Well?" Phèdre set her hands on her hips, eyes sparkling. I could see so many things in them—relief, concern, curiosity. And love; always love. So much it made me dizzy, so much it made my heart ache. "How was it?"
"Good." I smiled at her; at Joscelin, who stood beside her, his Cassiline stoicism not hiding his own vast relief at my safe return. It had cost him, letting me go without his protection. "It was good. I'm glad I did it."
We celebrated that night with a long meal around a crowded table. What exactly it was that we celebrated, I could not say. I only knew I was glad to have gone and glad to be back, and I felt lighter in my heart than I had since setting foot in Lombelon.