Kushiel's Mercy (71 page)

“If we survive this, Sidonie wants to establish an academy to study magic in Terre d’Ange,” I informed her. “It’s to be our legacy.”

“Truly?” Alais asked.

Sidonie smiled with sorrow. “It’s a notion from a time when Imriel and I hoped that the key written on Bodeshmun’s talisman was all we needed.”

“It’s a good idea, though.” Alais hesitated. “I’ve come to a realization over the course of these past months. I do not,
not
want this responsibility. Not here. I never wanted it here. And not in Alba, either. I thought I did, but I was wrong.” She met her sister’s gaze. “I know my duty. But what if I can fill it in a way no one considered? If we do survive this, I want to return to Alba to continue my studies and become an
ollamh
.”

“An
ollamh
,” Sidonie echoed.

“In Alba, an
ollamh
is the Cruarch’s equal,” I said, remembering my first encounter with one.

Alais nodded. “If I could attain that rank, I would wield a good deal of influence, which is all that the carping D’Angeline peers ever cared about. All that business about the succession was only ever about power anyway. And as for Talorcan . . .” She shrugged.

“You don’t love him,” I said softly.

“No.” Alais glanced at me. “He’s a good man. But no, I don’t.”

“Then you shouldn’t wed him.” Sidonie stroked her sister’s unruly black curls. “After this, I suspect the peers of the realm may prove rather receptive to the idea of having a member of the royal family grown wise and powerful in the ways of arcane lore.”

“Do you think the
ollamh
s might be able to help us now?” I asked.

Alais shook her head. “Only with charms of protection like yours and that will help only if we’re able to get folk across the Straits. But I think the Maghuin Dhonn know things we’ve lost. You said the demon in the stone was an elemental, a desert spirit. The Maghuin Dhonn’s magic is old and wild and rooted in nature. If you should fail . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“We won’t fail,” I said.

“But if we do, you’ll look for further answers among the Maghuin Dhonn,” Sidonie said firmly. A glance passed between them.

“We
won’t
fail,” I repeated, willing myself to believe it.

Barquiel L’Envers returned shortly thereafter to inform us that the preparations were under way. “I sent a swift courier to alert Gilbert Dumel,” he said, sounding ragged. “He ought to reach Yvens a half day before you.”

I got to my feet. “Is our carriage ready?’

“Sit.” L’Envers pointed at me. “There are fourteen members of our shadow Parliament here in Turnone, representing the seven provinces. I’ve taken the liberty of sending for them.” He shifted his gaze to Sidonie. “You need to address them. I know time is short. Alais and I will tell them the whole of your tale later. But they need to see and hear you. They need to believe the madness can be broken. They need to believe that this battle is worth the cost, and to carry that word home with them. They need
hope
.”

“Then they shall have it,” Sidonie said.

Gods, I loved her.

There was no time for sleep, but it didn’t matter. We could sleep in the carriage, jolting our way toward Yvens. We waited for the fourteen members of the shadow Parliament to assemble, woken from their own slumber in the grey hours of dawn. Alais sent her chamberlain to the kitchens. We broke our fast with bread and apricot preserves and many pots of strong tea.

“They’re ready for us,” L’Envers said.

Sidonie and I donned our cloaks and hoods. We were ushered to another room, a small chamber adjacent to a larger room, one that might have served as a musical salon in happier times.

“Wait here,” he said to us; and to Alais, “Do you know what to say?”

She looked ashen but resolute. “I think so.”

It wasn’t the best of plans. The door to our chamber was thick and heavy, and L’Envers had closed it—all the better to make a theatrical gesture. I supposed it ran in the family. Still, it meant that whatever Alais said, we couldn’t hear it, only her muffled voice. But in the end, it didn’t really matter. When Alais finished, L’Envers wrenched open the door.

“Go,” he said tersely.

We walked out together. I’d emerged bareheaded; it was close and airless in the storage chamber. Sidonie didn’t push her hood back until we emerged. I heard fourteen voices gasp.

There was only one face I recognized: Frederic Guillard, a young Azzallese baron who’d spent a summer at Court some years ago. I’d played piquet with him in the Hall of Games. I didn’t know the others. They were peers of the Lesser Houses, man and woman, old and young. It didn’t matter. They were there to represent their folk. They stared at us with wonder and uncertainty.

“My lords and ladies,” Sidonie addressed them in a somber tone. “I wish to thank each of you for your courage in defending Terre d’Ange in a time of sorrow. And I wish to apologize for my own role in it.” She took a deep breath. “You have heard rumors that there is dire magic behind the madness that grips all who were in the City of Elua on that fateful night. We are here to tell you it is true. And we are here to tell you that it
can
and
will
be defeated.”

I saw the first glimmers of hope in their faces.

“The tale is long and time is short,” Sidonie continued. “I will leave the full telling of it to my royal kin. But know this: For months on end, I was in the grip of the same madness. I believed lies. Neither my wits nor my will were wholly my own. And yes, in the grip of this madness, I wed Astegal of Carthage.” She glanced at me, her eyes bright. “But love, true love, is a persistent and abiding force. Imriel de la Courcel found a way to break the spell and save me.” There was a second collective gasp. Sidonie held out one hand. “It is a method that will work only if the victim has been removed from D’Angeline soil,” she said gently. “It will not work on those poor afflicted souls in the City. But there is another method that may succeed and yet avert the shadow of war that hangs over us.”

They listened hungrily.

“I will make no false promises,” Sidonie said. “The challenge is a difficult one. Imriel and I will depart immediately for the City. We will do everything in our power to succeed. If we fail, the burden will fall to you—to you and to all the folk of Terre d’Ange.” Her voice was strong and steady. “And if we do fail, I call upon you to rise up and prevent the slaughter of innocents. To do whatever is necessary. I call for war.”

There were nods and murmurs, looks of grim determination. As awful a choice as it was, there was a certain relief in hearing it stated aloud.

“I call upon you to do so knowing that those who can be captured
can
be saved.” Sidonie gestured, showing her bindings. “There is magic in Alba that can shield against the effects of this foul spell. One way or another, it
will
be broken. And know this.” She took another deep breath. “We go forth in every hope of success. Over the past weeks, I have witnessed great and terrible things. And I bear glad tidings out of them. Carthage’s army has suffered a great defeat.”

That caught them by surprise; I’d forgotten that they didn’t know. But we were the first bearers of the news, and we’d bade Marc Faucon and his men to stay silent.

Sidonie smiled grimly. “Astegal of Carthage is dead. Even now . . .” She had to raise her voice to be heard above the rising excitement. “Even now, his head adorns a pike in the Plaza del Rey in Amílcar! And even as I speak, the bulk of the D’Angeline fleet hurries to Aragonia to honor our alliance and make
war
on those who sought to divide our fair country against itself!”

It stirred their blood like strong spirits and brought them to their feet, cheering. And Elua, yes, it gave them hope. A fierce, proud, violent hope, but hope nonetheless.

“We go now to the City in an effort to save her!” Sidonie shouted above the noise. “We ask that your prayers ride with us! We pray to Blessed Elua and his Companions that we may show the world once more that there is no magic so dire that love cannot defeat it!”

I don’t think anyone heard her final words. It didn’t matter. They surged forward to offer their support and gratitude, weeping and laughing and clamoring. I couldn’t even see Sidonie in the throng that surrounded her, but they acknowledged me, too. I found myself embraced, my cheeks kissed, my hands clasped. It struck me more forcibly than I could have reckoned, and somewhere beneath it, I realized that for the first time in my life, I was being wholeheartedly accepted by my fellow countrymen.

“I’ve thought dreadful things of you, Prince Imriel,” a beautiful old L’Agnacite woman whispered to me, tears on her wrinkled cheeks. “I’m very sorry for them.”

I swallowed against the lump in my throat. “That’s all right, my lady. Just lend us your prayers.”

“I will.” She pressed my hands between her soft palms. “I will.”

At length the crush subsided. Barquiel L’Envers pushed his way through with Alais at his side. “I fear their highnesses must depart,” he announced. “Time
is
of the essence. But they have endured grave dangers to be here today. Let us take heart from their words and resolve to be no less worthy of Terre d’Ange!”

The cheer was resounding.

My heart ached.

And then it was time for one more damnable leavetaking. This one hurt. Marc Faucon and his men came to fetch us. They had Kratos in tow. I introduced him to Alais and L’Envers, reckoning he deserved no less. They’d heard the tale, they knew his role and treated him with respect. Still, I took a certain pleasure in the bemusement of the watching peers, wondering what in Elua’s name an aging Hellene wrestler with a squashed nose was doing in the midst of everything.

And it drew out the inevitable a few precious moments longer.

“Good luck,” Alais whispered fiercely against my neck when I hugged her. “Be safe.
Please
be safe. And keep Sidonie safe.”

I held her hard. “I will.”

Barquiel L’Envers clasped my hand. “I misjudged you,” he said bluntly. “I’ll not apologize for it. Blessed Elua knows, your mother was a pox on this land, and you struck fear into our hearts when you turned my sensible grandniece’s head.”

It made me smile. “I know.”

L’Envers snorted. “Never thought that you might actually love her.” He watched Sidonie and Alais say their farewells, clutching one another’s hands and speaking in low tones. His face softened. “I suppose I should have. Never approved of Ysandre and Drustan’s union either, but it seems to have produced a remarkable pair of offspring.”

“Yes,” I said. “It did.”

“Ah.” He snapped his fingers. “Speaking of Drustan, I nearly forgot.” L’Envers untied a silk pouch from his belt and handed it to me. “The token you sent with the Euskerri messenger. It was a gift of the Cruarch, was it not? He’ll expect to see you wearing it in his niece’s memory.”

I opened the pouch to find the torc that Drustan had given me the day I’d wed Dorelei in Alba. I’d always admired Drustan. I’d been proud to receive it from his hands. What an awful thing it was to contemplate all his quiet strength and dignity twisted awry. “Thank you, my lord.”

Barquiel L’Envers offered a curt bow. “Blessed Elua hold and keep you. I wish you all the luck in the world.”

Time to go.

Again.

Sidonie and I raised our hoods and shrouded our faces. We left as we’d come, cloaked and anonymous. I kept my head lowered, watching the foot-worn granite blocks as I passed. I felt fresh air on my face, damp with spring’s promise. I climbed into the carriage, sliding across the horsehair seats. Sidonie joined me. I felt the carriage dip as Kratos took up his post alongside the driver. Someone drew the curtains. I pushed back my hood. Beside me, Sidonie did the same.

A whip cracked; a voice issued a command.

The carriage lurched forward.

Gods, I was tired. I hadn’t reckoned how much so until I took my place in the carriage. I hadn’t slept and I could feel the weight of all that
hope
riding on my shoulders. And if I was feeling it, I knew Sidonie was feeling it more. I slid my arm around her and she nestled close against me.

“You were magnificent,” I murmured against her hair.

“I’m scared,” she said quietly. “I’m afraid of what we’ll find in the City. I’m afraid of facing it, Imriel. And I’m afraid of failing.”

“I know.” I drew her closer. “But they didn’t.”

“No?” Sidonie lifted her head and gazed at me, yearning for reassurance.

“No.” I shook my head. “They didn’t. You did what you promised. You gave them hope.”

We paused at the gates of Turnone, and then the carriage nosed steeply downward. The horses plodded steadily, the carriage creaking and groaning. Sidonie yawned and settled her head on my shoulder. I held her, reveling in her warm presence, feeling the undercurrent of exhaustion tugging at the both of us.

“Sleep,” I whispered. “Sleep, love.”

She did.

So did I.

Seventy-Two

T
he farther we went toward the City of Elua, the more Sidonie’s bindings troubled her. She didn’t complain, but she answered honestly when I asked. She said it felt as though her wrists and ankles were twined with stinging nettles.

It worried me.

It worried me a lot.

“I can bear it.” She shrugged. “The itching’s worse than the pain, and it’s actually starting to hurt more than it itches. It’s an improvement.”

“I’m not worried about your ability to endure pain, love,” I said. “I carved a chunk of flesh out of your back on your orders. But what if Bodeshmun’s spell overwhelms the charm when we reach the City?”

Sidonie looked away. “We can’t let ourselves think thusly.”

“We can’t afford not to!” I raised my voice. “Sidonie, if you fall prey to Bodeshmun’s spell in the City of Elua, I’m not going to be able to wrestle you kicking and screaming back across the sea. I’m going to be surrounded by folk in the grip of the same cursed spell, and they’re not going to allow mad Prince Imriel to lay violent hands on you!”

“I know,” she murmured. “You needn’t shout.”