Kushiel's Justice (6 page)

S
IX

B
EHOLD!”
M
AVROS FLUNG UP
his arms. “Bryony House.”

Even from the courtyard, it stood in marked contrast to Alyssum. It was a grand structure, three stories high, with steep gables. Every window was ablaze with light, and the mullions were adorned with ornate reliefs of bryony vine. When the door opened, laughter and music and the rattle of dice spilled out.

We were ushered into the receiving salon, which was modeled after the Hall of Games in the Palace. A throng of D’Angeline nobles played at games of chance and skill—dice, cards, rhythmomachy, and other, more obscure games. The atmosphere was sharp and charged.

“Lord Mavros!” A tall woman with black hair piled in a high coronet greeted us with a curtsy. Her black gown was cut low in the back, showing off her marque. Delicate tendrils of bryony climbed her spine, sprouting pale flowers above the spade-shaped leaves. “It’s been too long.” She straightened and appraised me with unabashedly calculating eyes. “Prince Imriel. Welcome to Bryony, your highness.”

“Imri, this is the Dowayne, Janelle nó Bryony,” Mavros said. “Watch your purse.”

She tapped his arm with a folded fan. “Never wager what you can’t afford to lose, for Naamah will take all you have and more. What are you after, you naughty child?”

Mavros smiled lazily. “Tokens.”

On the Longest Night, there are two fêtes of note in the City of Elua. One was at the Palace, and the other was held at Cereus House, first among the Thirteen. It is a night Naamah’s Servants celebrate among themselves, and no one, not even a Prince of the Blood, may attend without a token.

“Is that so?” Her wide mouth curled. “And what do you offer for them?”

Mavros spread his arms. “What would you wager?”

“A challenge!” Janelle nó Bryony flung back her head. “Let’s put it to the crowd, shall we?” She gestured toward the corner, and an attendant there struck a massive bronze gong. The sound reverberated and an expectant hush followed. “A challenge!” she repeated. “Lord Mavros Shahrizai and Prince Imriel de la Courcel come begging a wager for tokens! How shall we judge them worthy?”

“Mavros,” I muttered under my breath.

He nudged me. “Hush. You wanted this.”

True and not true. I had argued that we bypass Balm House, next in the alphabet, for I had already been there and experienced Naamah’s healing grace. But I didn’t understand what gambit Mavros was playing, and whatever it was, it had me on edge.

Patrons shouted out suggestions, profane and amusing and vile. Janelle nó Bryony listened, nodding, until she heard one that took her fancy echoed a number of times. “The hourglass?” she murmured. “That would suit. Indeed, so well that I’ll take the challenge myself. And
I
shall choose the contestant.” She pointed at me. “Are you minded to accept, your highness? If you lose, I win a forfeit of my choosing.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling foolish. “I don’t understand.”

“ ’Tis a simple matter, sweet prince.” Janelle stepped close to me, caressing my cheek. Her grey eyes shone. “I seek to please you in the time allotted,” she breathed in my ear, making the hair at the nape of my neck stand on end. “And you seek to outwait me. Will you play?”

“Here?” I glanced at the avid crowd. “I think not.”

“No, no, I’ll not put you on display.” She pointed toward the second story, where a specially constructed chamber overhung the balcony, lined with silk curtains. “There.”

Behind her, Mavros was shaking his head in warning, looking dubious. Elua knows what he had expected, but it seemed he didn’t like the odds of this wager the Dowayne had conceived. But I thought about Claudia Fulvia and what she had made me endure, and I smiled at Janelle. “All right,” I said lightly. “Why not?”

“Oh,
very
good!” Her nails trailed down my throat and over my chest. “Come.”

It was something, it seemed, for the Dowayne of Bryony House to take on a challenge personally. She led me up the sweeping staircase while the throng cheered and laid wagers. From what I could hear, none or few of them favored me. We entered the dais chamber, strewn with cushions and hung with fretted lamps. A pair of adepts closed the drapes behind us, and Janelle opened those facing the salon. Below us, the crowd milled.

“Bring the hourglass!” she called.

A bare-chested male adept with the Bryony mark brought forth a tall, slender hourglass capped with silver at both ends and wreathed in trailing vine. The crowd parted to make a space for him.

Janelle nó Bryony raised her hand. “Let it begin!” The adept overturned his hourglass. Sand began to trickle through its narrow neck. Janelle closed the drapes and turned to me, letting her gown slip from her shoulders. Her skin was white in the lamplight, and there was rouge on the nipples of her high, firm breasts. I swallowed at the sight. “You were unwise, sweet prince,” she said, her voice soft and mocking. “Have you not heard the first rule of Bryony House’s patrons? Never wager against its Dowayne. I will enjoy choosing a forfeit.”

I wanted her, badly. But I didn’t much like her. I bared my teeth at her in a cold smile. “A Dowayne should gauge her patrons better, my lady.”

“Defiance!” One eyebrow arched. “This will be fun.”

All of Naamah’s Servants are adept in her arts. As the crowd below chanted and clapped to mark the passage of time, Janelle sank gracefully to her knees before me. Her hot breath penetrated through my breeches. My phallus leapt in response, stiffening.

I stared at the draped ceiling.

The Dowayne of Bryony House performed the
languisement
on me. She did it with excruciating skill. I could feel the muscles of her cheeks and throat milking my phallus. I thought of Claudia and nearly lost all control. No. So I did the only thing left to me and thought of Darsšanga. It went on for a long time. The unseen crowd’s roar grew louder, clapping turning to stamping. I felt her hands, growing urgent, cupping my testes, squeezing and rolling them; her urgent finger probing my anus. My body went rigid with shock and pleasure, and I overrode it.

“Duzhmata,”
I whispered.
“Duzhûshta, duzhvarshta.”

Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds.

The gong sounded and the crowd of patrons erupted in cheers, demanding to know the outcome. On her knees, Janelle released me. She bowed her head for a moment, then gazed up at me, and there was no mockery in her face, only puzzlement. “Why are you crying?”

I rubbed away the tears with the heel of my hand. “I told you. You should gauge your patrons better.” I pulled up my breeches and fastened them. My arousal had faded, leaving behind a dull, unfulfilled ache. I extended her hand to her, then retrieved her gown. “Here.”

She dressed without comment and made to draw back the drapes, then paused. “Tell me, highness. Was the victory worth the cost?”

I thought about it. “Probably not.”

Janelle nó Bryony inclined her head. “Well, then.”

With that, she opened the drapes and presented me to the shouting throng, sinking low in an elaborate curtsy of acknowledgment and defeat. I looked down at their upturned faces and listened to the sound of my name being chanted. Wagers were settled, coins changing hands. Mavros, his cupped hands overflowing, winked up at me. Janelle fished a pair of ivory tokens from her purse and tossed them to him, and the crowd roared some more before turning to other pursuits and fresh pleasures, fueled by avarice and desire.

Afterward, during the carriage ride homeward, I was quiet. Mavros hummed to himself in contentment, dividing our spoils. “Here.” He poured a handful of coins into my lap, making a point of showing me the ivory token. “Mind you don’t lose this.”

I tucked my share away. “I didn’t think you’d wager on me.”

“Ah, well.” He shrugged. “You’re a stubborn one. I know that much about you.”

“Too stubborn, mayhap,” I mused.

“Mayhap.” Mavros considered me. “Imri, listen. I was all for this idea. After two Houses, I’m not so sure. Me, I can find pleasure in anything, but you’ve got a way of battering yourself to pieces against your own desires.”

“You know why,” I murmured.

“I do.” He nodded. “Some of it, at any rate. But listen, beneath the trappings of pleasure, these are Servants of Naamah, sworn to her service. When we indulge ourselves in the Night Court, we make reverence to Naamah in the ways we like best. When you choose instead to wrestle with your own despite, you do Naamah a disservice.”

I looked away, knowing Mavros was right. “What would you have me do?”

“Stop picking at scars,” he said laconically. “Scratch the itch.”

“Easier said than done,” I said.

He shrugged again. “You asked.”

I thought about his words in the days that followed, and we didn’t visit any more Houses. I went instead to the Temple of Naamah, to make an offering and beg forgiveness lest I had offended. To my surprise and pleasure, Phèdre and Joscelin elected to accompany me.

It was an unpredictable day, with an unseasonable warm breeze blowing. Everywhere in the City, people had exchanged heavy winter garb for lighter attire. Dense clouds scudded across the sky, broken by patches of brilliant blue.

I bought a dove from the vendors outside the temple, carrying it in a gilded cage. The Great Temple of Naamah was a modest place, a round marble building surrounded by gardens. Even in winter, it was green with cypresses and yew trees, filled with the cooing of sacred doves.

“My lady!” The acolyte at the door bowed low at the sight of Phèdre. “We are honored.”

Phèdre was one of Naamah’s Servants, too, and she has taken it to places farther and more terrible and wondrous, I think, than any adept of the Night Court might dream. It has been many years since Naamah called her to service, but if she did, I daresay Phèdre would answer. But today was not that day. She merely looked calm and peaceful as we entered the temple. I showed the acolyte my dove and told him my desire, and he went to fetch the priest.

“So.” Joscelin tilted his head, gazing at the statue of Naamah that stood beneath the oculus at the apex of the dome. “You were dedicated here?”

“Twice,” Phèdre agreed. They stood side by side, hands entwined. Naamah’s arms were open as though to embrace the world. Her face was soft with compassion and desire, bathed in a shaft of sunlight from above. After a moment, a slow-moving bank of clouds passed overhead, dimming the light. Joscelin laughed softly and shook his head, and I thought about what he had said about being unwilling to lay love on the altar of faith.

“Prince Imriel.”

I started at the priest’s voice. He stood waiting, hands folded in the sleeves of his scarlet surplice, attended by a pair of acolytes carrying the implements of his office. I guessed him to be around Joscelin’s age, although he had the sort of smooth, tranquil features that made it hard to tell. His hair was ash-brown and it fell straight and shining to his waist.

“My lord priest.” I approached the altar and knelt, setting down the birdcage. “I come to make an offering.”

“Why?”

The priest’s eyes were a sooty grey, long-lashed and disconcerting in their openness. I rubbed my palms on my thighs. “Because I fear I may have transgressed unwittingly,” I said slowly. “And I wish her grace upon me.”

“Do you?” he asked steadily. “It may come at a price.”

“I know.” I glanced involuntarily at Joscelin. “Yes.”

“Then let it be done.” The priest took an aspergillum from one of his acolytes and dipped it in a basin of water, flicking me with droplets, then smeared chrism on my brow. “By Naamah’s sacred river, be cleansed of all transgressions,” he intoned. “By the touch of anointment, be blessed in Naamah’s sight.” He nodded at me. “Make your offering.”

Kneeling, I opened the cage. The dove huddled at the bottom, round eyes wary. I cupped her in my hands, mindful of the fragile bones, the swift-beating heart. “Forgive me,” I whispered to her. “I know how it feels.”

When I stood and opened my hands, two things happened. The dove launched herself in frantic flight toward the oculus, and the cloud-bank overhead passed. An unexpected blaze of sunlight once more streamed down upon us, broken only by a wild flurry of beating wings as the dove winged its way free of the temple. I felt my heart soar and laughed aloud for the sheer joy of it.

“Naamah is pleased.” The priest’s grey eyes crinkled. “Are you?”

“Yes,” I said simply.

“Good.” He bowed to Phèdre. “Well met, my lady.”

She smiled at him. “Do you not remember me, Raphael Murain? Somehow, I’m not surprised to find you here.”

The priest laughed. “I didn’t think you’d remember
me
.”

Something passed between them; a shared memory. Joscelin raised his brows and offered no comment. We took our leave of the temple and lingered for a moment in the gardens outside. I gazed at the roosting doves and tried to guess which one was mine, but they all looked more or less alike.

“I could never tell,” Phèdre said, guessing my thoughts.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” I mused. “The vendors breed them in order to sell them to supplicants to set them free. And yet, if there were no temple, there would be no need for cages in the first place.”

“True,” Phèdre agreed. “The will of the gods is strange.”

I glanced at her. “Was he a patron?”

“Raphael?” She looked surprised and amused. “Oh, no.
I
was. He was an adept of Gentian House.” She laughed at my expression. “Ah, love! It was a long time ago, and I’d need of counsel in the matter of a dream. Speaking of which, I think I’ve found somewhat that you and Alais might find of interest.”

“Oh?” I said. “What?”

“A story about a bear.”

When we returned to the townhouse, she showed me. It was in a text by the Tiberian historian Caledonius, who had served as a military tribune in Alba during the uprising of the Cruithne under the leadership of Cinhil Ru. I knew
that
story, of course. Cinhil Ru was the first Cruarch of Alba. He united the multitude of warring tribes and made a pact with the Dalriada. They defeated the Tiberian forces occupying Alba and drove them out, across the Straits, never to return. Drustan mab Necthana was descended from his line; and so, for that matter, were Sidonie and Alais.