Authors: Jacqueline Carey

Tags: #High Fantasy

Kushiel's Scion (20 page)

"To hurt people?" I shuddered, thinking of the zenana. "But I don't, Mavros. Not anyone, not ever."

"No?" He smiled, leaning over in the saddle. "Take my hand."

I did, and felt his clasp tighten. Mavros bore down hard, exerting a painful pressure on the web of flesh betwixt my thumb and forefinger. His mocking gaze dared me to retaliate. I bared my teeth in an involuntary grin, squeezing back. My stint of hard labor stood me in good stead. I burrowed into his flesh with the ball of my thumb and squeezed his knuckles until I could almost hear the small bones grinding.

We swayed in our saddles together, locked in foolish combat.

"See?" Mavros gasped. He laughed, disengaging, and shook out his hand, eyeing it ruefully. "Ah, Imriel! It's a part of you. And there's pleasure in it, isn't there?"

Across the meadow, Baptiste crowed in triumph as Roshana succeeded in untangling the goshawk's jesses. At the same moment, one of the wolfhounds flushed a ptarmigan, nosing the air in vague, dignified perplexity as the bird took flight. The goshawk burst from Baptiste's fist in a feathered blur, striking hard and fast, landing in a tumble.

"It's not the same," I said eventually.

"No?" he asked. "How does it differ?"

How indeed? It was a game, a moment's challenge, one we entered willingly. How, truly, did that differ from love-play that tested the boundaries between pleasure and pain? Since I could not say, I asked a question instead. "You told me there were reasons for it," I said. "That Kushiel was merciful."

"There are." Mavros grimaced, massaging his hand. "And he is."

I watched Baptiste swing the lure, calling the goshawk off her quarry. He managed it nicely. The disinterested hounds ranged farther afield, seeking prey of their own. "Tell me more," I said. "I want to understand."

"Imriel." Mavros sighed "Ah, Imri! How can I explain it to you? It is purging, Kushiel's gift. In the loss of self, there is expiation, and grace. Like a bright fire, it purges all, and makes everything new. It is a gift, and it is ours to give. And to receive, betimes. All of us will know it at least once, that we might better understand Kushiel's gift."

I ignored him for a moment, whistling for the hounds. They came, loping and obedient, jaws parted and tongues lolling. My horse snorted through its nostrils as they crowded around. I dug into my game-bag, quartering one of the hares they had caught earlier, tossing bits to them.

"It's not enough," I said tersely.

"No?" Mavros smiled. "What does Phèdre say?"

I glared at him, my heart filled with sudden fury. "You know nothing of her!"

"No." He swallowed then, hard. "Forgive me, I do not. Once again, I have overstepped my bounds, Imriel." He was silent for a moment, thinking. "I only want you to understand. What you are… there is beauty and majesty in it. But perhaps…" He glanced across the meadow. "Perhaps it is better if I let Roshana explain."

We spoke no more of it that day, and for several days afterward.

They were sensitive to such things, the Shahrizai, and capable of great delicacy. I knew why. It was what I had experienced with Maslin in Lombelon when it seemed I stood outside myself and saw into him—they saw the fault-lines in my soul, my flaws and weaknesses, and trod gently near them.

For a time, at least.

And that, I thought, was what truly made them dangerous. It was a comfort to know that my kin were capable of kindness, and not necessarily wont to exploit Kushiel's gift for personal gain or vaunting ambition. But they saw too much, and they were drawn to what they saw. In time, Mavros—or perhaps Roshana—would prick me once more where I was sore.

In the meanwhile, we spoke of less consequential matters.

I learned a great deal of my heritage. House Shahrizai was the oldest family in Kusheth; one of the oldest, indeed, in Terre d'Ange. Their holdings were extensive, lying on both coasts of the province. For all that, theirs is not the sovereign duchy in Kusheth—that falls to Quincel de Morhban, who holds the Pointe d'Oest. To hear Mavros speak, it was by choice; although I didn't wholly believe him. I suspect it has long served the Crown's interest to keep House Shahrizai in check. They were powerful and numerous enough to be a threat, if they chose.

But it was true that they were a strange and insular clan in their own way. Cousins often wed within the family, and they held their own traditions. Other than the ruling Duc de Shahrizai, they did not use land-titles among themselves—only the Shahrizai name, as though it superseded any holdings. And they were fearsomely loyal to one another.

Mavros claimed that my mother acted without her House's blessing or knowledge. Whether or not it is true, I cannot say, but he believed it to be so. He thought she did so in order to protect the Shahrizai, should matters go awry. Perhaps he was even right. They held her in a strange mix of awe and… I did not even know a word for it. Regret, perhaps?

"I wish I had known her," Baptiste announced when we spoke of her late one evening, sitting in the manor's great room. "I do, truly."

Roshana, who was unbraiding his hair, smiled quietly. "She was dangerous to know, my heart. Even for family."

It was a cardinal sin among them, to endanger the well-being of the family; and yet their greatest disdain was reserved for Marmion Shahrizai, who accidentally caused the death of his sister Persia. It was she who aided my mother in escaping from Troyes-le-Monte, loyal to the end.

Roshana spoke truly; my mother was dangerous to know.

"Why did she do it?" I asked my cousins that night. "Why did she do what she did?"

They exchanged glances and shrugs. There was a moment of silence, broken only by the soft sound of Roshana running a boar-bristle brush through Baptiste's unbound hair.

"Did she never tell you?" Mavros asked me.

"No," I said, and thought of Phèdre seated behind a pile of unsealed letters, looking pain-bruised and weary. I was abashed. "I don't know. She sent… she used to send letters, before she vanished. But I never read them."

"I would!" Baptiste raised his head, an eager light in his eyes.

"Hush, my heart." Roshana stroked his cheek, until he subsided under her touch. "Imriel must make his own choices." She set about the work of rebraiding his hair. They were half-siblings, both of them born to my mother's first cousin, Fanchone. That much I had learned. Mavros was the youngest son of Sacriphant, who was my mother's uncle. "Do you still have the letters?" she asked me.

I glanced involuntarily toward Phèdre's study. It was there, somewhere, the coffer containing every letter my mother had written to me. Phèdre hadn't spoken of it since my mother vanished, but she always travelled with it. She still believed I would want them one day. "Yes," I said. "I have them."

"Well, then." Roshana smiled. "Mayhap they hold the answer."

"Mayhap," I muttered. "Her answer." I watched her deft fingers fly, the miniature braids taking shape beneath them. Baptiste had his eyes half-closed, luxuriating under her touch. If he was a cat, he would have purred. "Why do you do that?" I asked. "Why only to the men?"

"This?" Her smile deepened. "It teaches patience, cousin. It is a lesson all men need to learn." Roshana ran one finger along Baptiste's nape, making him shiver. "And for us, it improves dexterity," she added, a note of mischief in her tone.

"He's your brother!" I exclaimed, half-horrified.

Mavros chuckled.

"Oh, aye." Roshana laughed softly. "We're not meant for one another. Still, we may learn from the game. And who knows who will reap the benefit of it? Such is the purpose of such games." She glanced sidelong, sensing a presence, and somewhat in her voice shifted toward composed politeness. "Is it not so, my lady?"

Standing in the doorway, Phèdre regarded her mildly. "Indeed, so they say in the Night Court. I did not know they said it in Kusheth."

"Ah, we Shahrizai are adepts after our own fashion, my lady." Mavros, sprawling on a sheepskin rug, propped himself on his elbows and flashed a lazy white grin. "Surely, no one would deny we pay Naamah her due and honor her to the fullest."

Phèdre smiled despite herself. "Surely not," she said. "Imriel, 'tis late, and I've dismissed the household. Will you be sure to snuff the lamps?"

"Yes, of course." I found myself on my feet. It was still disconcerting to look down at her. I laid my hands on Phèdre's shoulders. "Thank you," I said. "Don't worry, all is well here. These are things I need to understand, no more."

"I know, love." There was a shadow of sorrow in her gaze. She touched my cheek gently. "Good night to you. I'll see you anon."

When she had gone, Mavros flopped back down on the rug, blowing out his breath. "Name of Elua!" he sighed, folding his arms under his head. "Kushiel's Chosen, alive and in the flesh. Surely, Imri, you must have wondered—"

Roshana made a warning sound.

"No," I said. "And don't. Just… don't."

Mavros blinked at me, his eyelashes long and sooty. "Ah, but surely…"

There was a high-pitched ringing sound in my head. I hunched my shoulders against it, tensing. Memories haunted me; the pervasive stench of stagnant water in the zenana, the searing odor of my own flesh. Phèdre's voice, aboard a ship bound for La Serenissima, where she granted my deepest wish, warning me that it carried a danger.

You've Kushiel's blood in your own veins. One day, you will know it.

"No," I said firmly. "Never. "

"No?" Mavros sounded disappointed. He closed his eyes. "I do," he murmured. "I cannot help it. I wonder and wonder."

I glanced toward Roshana for aid, but she averted her head, concentrating on Baptiste's braids. The youngest of my Shahrizai kin was oblivious, lost in the pleasure of her grooming. "I wish you wouldn't, cousin," I said to Mavros, hearing a note of despair in my voice. "Please. I truly wish you wouldn't."

"I know." His eyes opened, slitted. He regarded me through his lashes. "But it is who I am. I cannot help it. And it is who you are, cousin."

Another voice swam to the surface of my memory, accompanied by a gust of frosty air and the image of stars, cold and distant, glittering above the Temple of Elua, where the old priest had spoken of my fate.

What you make of it is yours to choose.

"You don't know me," I said, my voice trembling. "What I am. Who I am."

"Do you?" he asked.

"Mavros." Roshana spoke his name like a command. He turned his head and stared at her. "Let him be."

"I'm only—"

She shook her head at him.

"Oh, all right." With a single motion, he unfolded himself from the floor and stood upright. "I'll take myself off to bed, then, since it seems I'm not fit for pleasant company this evening."

"You would be if you'd stop baiting me," I said.

"Don't be angry at me, cousin." Mavros gave me the disarming smile he used to charm kitchen-maids and stable-lads. "I'm only trying to help." When I made no reply, his smile faded, replaced by something deep and wondering. "What did they do to you in that place, Imriel?" he asked, genuinely curious. "What did they do to make you so afraid of what you are?"

I had never told him any of it; I have never told anyone all of it, except for Phèdre.

"You don't want to know," I said.

"I do, though." He touched my arm. "We understand these things."

Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds.

"No," I said gently, no longer mad at him. "You think that you do, but believe me, Mavros, you don't. Not these."

After a moment, he nodded. "If you ever want to speak of it, I've a willing ear."

When he had gone, I sat down and watched Roshana's deft hands at work. There was something soothing in the rhythmic motion of it. Baptiste had fallen into a peaceful doze, his half-braided head drooping, lips parted. The sight made me smile.

"Patience, is it?" I asked Roshana.

"Well." She smiled back at me. "Patience, like love, takes many forms."

Chapter Twelve