Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3)

Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3) Page 57

The youngest of the Aragonian lords actually had the temerity to hiss. Serafin shot him a look. “Shut your mouth, Jimeno,” he said. “Go on.”

She inclined her head. “Last summer, we received a suit from General Astegal, Prince of the House of Sarkal, wishing to pay tribute to Terre d’Ange on behalf of Carthage. With some misgivings, Parliament voted to receive his delegation. My mother took the precaution of bringing the Royal Army within the City’s walls and ensuring the Carthaginians were escorted by Admiral Rousse and several of his war-ships.”

“That we know,” Liberio said laconically.

Sidonie ignored him. “During the course of his visit, Astegal made an offer for my hand. He implied that Carthage, Terre d’Ange, and Alba might together force Aragonia into a peaceable surrender and build the beginnings of a mighty empire. That offer, we refused.”

No one hissed this time. They listened.

“Astegal appeared to accept our refusal with good grace.” Her voice hardened. “But he had promised that his horologists would show us a marvel on the night that the moon was obscured. He insisted on keeping his pledge. We allowed it.” Sidonie paused. “My lords, I cannot tell you what marvel I witnessed that night. It seemed to me that I saw somewhat wondrous, but when pressed to describe it, I cannot. All I can tell you is this: Blessed Elua knows, gossip carries. Much of this part of the world has known that for the past year, Terre d’Ange had been divided over my desire to wed my royal kinsman, Imriel de la Courcel. I ventured out that night very much in love with him. I awoke the next morning with no memory of his existence.”

There was a short, shocked silence.

“That,” Sidonie said thoughtfully, “I believe was unique to an intimate spell that bound me, and me alone. But no one noticed, because we’d all been caught in a greater magic. One that bound the entire City of Elua, man, woman, and child. I awoke that morning believing that Carthage and Terre d’Ange were allies. That Aragonia had committed an act of aggression against Carthage. And worst of all, that I’d fallen in love with Astegal of Carthage and gladly agreed to wed him.” She glanced up and down the table. “So I believed. So everyone in the City of Elua believed. I had no memory that things had ever been otherwise. And two days later, I was escorted to the harbor with great fanfare, where I boarded a Carthaginian ship without a single D’Angeline guard, without a single attendant, and sailed away to marry Astegal.” She paused again, steadying herself. “Which, as you well know, I did. And I didn’t begin to truly suspect aught was amiss until a man named Leander Maignard entered my life.”

My turn.

I rose, while Sidonie sat gratefully, careful not to rest against the back of her chair. “My lords,” I said. “My name is Imriel de la Courcel, but the face I wear belongs to Leander Maignard. Listen, and hear what befell me.”

They did.

I told them what had befallen me the night of the marvel, although I glossed over certain details. The Unseen Guild, Sunjata’s identity. But I told them of the needle and the whisper, the stolen ring. The madness that followed. I told them about seeking Barquiel L’Envers’ aid and fleeing to Cythera. My mother. Ptolemy Solon and his knowledge, how he had deciphered the spells that bound Sidonie and Terre d’Ange. The spell he’d wrought to conceal me from myself.

“A spell undone with a kiss,” I said.

One of the Aragonian lords scoffed. “A poet’s tale! Why should we believe any of this nonsense? Simple greed’s a lot more likely.”

Sidonie and I exchanged a glance.

“Now?” I asked.

She nodded. “Now.”

This time I played it for dramatic effect. I removed Leander’s shirt first, smoke-scented and scorched. I knew what Serafin and his council saw. Leander Maignard, bare-chested before them, his torso smooth and lean. I’d put in his ruby eardrops, and I made a show of removing them. I wasn’t wearing much else of his.

“You know me,” I said to Lady Nicola. “Imriel. You told me once to know myself. Do you see me?”

Nicola shook her head, eyes wide and wondering. “I see a man like to have Shahrizai blood in him. Not Imriel de la Courcel.”

Ptolemy Solon wove a tight spell.

I dragged off Leander’s boots and stockings, then stood bare-footed and -chested in the great hall of the Count’s palace. There are few merits to having survived an attack by a bear—or a shapeshifting magician in a bear’s form—but it makes for a fairly strong impression.

Nicola gasped and covered her mouth.

Liberio came out of his seat.

“What you see, I saw!” Sidonie’s voice was urgent as she rose to join me, standing before them. “And I knew him. I didn’t remember, but I knew. So I stripped myself bare, thinking the same had been done to me.” Her mouth twisted. “It hadn’t. Astegal set his seal on me in a different way. He had the insignia of the House of Sarkal etched into my skin. A mockery of the marques the Servants of Naamah bear. The mark that made me his willing bride.” She shuddered. “I begged Imriel to cut it out of me. He did. And I knew myself at last and what had been done to me.”

There was another stunned silence, this one longer. It broke at length in a multitudinous clamor of questions and statements.

“. . . can we be sure this isn’t a Carthaginian trick?”

“. . . about the spell binding the City of Elua?”

“. . . seen the wound with my own eyes!”

“Enough!” Serafin L’Envers y Aragon pounded on the table. He leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Why was Carthage pursuing you? Were you discovered?”

“Not exactly, my lord.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Sidonie was racked by a fresh onset of shivers. Whatever good the willow-bark tea had done, it wasn’t enough. “We killed the horologist who wrought the spell and obtained the key to undoing it, then fled. Carthage seeks to thwart us. But if it lies within your power to get us from Amílcar to Terre d’Ange, we can undo the spell and restore our alliance with Aragonia.”

“We don’t need Terre d’Ange,” Liberio muttered.

“We need some ally,” another voice countered.

“Do you swear to this?” Serafin asked without heeding them. “Both of you. Do you swear to it in the name of all your gods?”

“I do,” I said.

“Yes!” Sidonie got the word out in a gasp, her knees buckling. I caught her before she hit the floor.

“Do you really doubt?” I asked Serafin with disdain.

“No.” He met my gaze squarely. “But we need to discuss this amongst ourselves all the same.”

“Do,” I said, cradling Sidonie in my arms and exiting the hall.

Fifty-Three

“Imriel, I hate this.” Sidonie lay on her belly, chin propped on her hands, her face suffused with impatience.

“Too bad,” I said ruthlessly. “You’re not moving.”

The chirurgeon Rachel had applied a poultice the evening before, a disgusting mess of bread mold and mashed burdock root. She’d ordered Sidonie to remain motionless for a solid day, allowing the poultice to work undisturbed. Over the course of the night, it had done a great deal of good, and now Sidonie was restless.

She made a face. “I feel much better.”

I drew a lock of hair away from her brow, feeling her skin. It wasn’t nearly as hot as it had been, but it was still overly warm. “So you do. But you fell into a dead faint in front of Serafin’s council yesterday. You’re not moving until sundown.”

There was a knock at the door, and I went to admit Lady Nicola.

“How is she?” she asked.

“Better,” I said. “Irritable.”

Nicola smiled. “I would have expected Ysandre’s children to be strong-willed.”

“My lady, will you please come tell us the news!” Sidonie’s voice called from the bedchamber.

We went into the chamber. It tugged at my heart seeing her like this. She wore a shift of fine white linen with the back cut out, a thick crust of dried poultice slathered between her shoulder blades. The garment also had a disconcertingly low decolletage that tugged at other parts, particularly when Sidonie propped herself on her elbows as she did now, revealing the cleft of her cleavage.

I cleared my throat. “Don’t do that, love. You’ll crack the poultice.”

She shot me an amused look. “It’s fine. What news?”

“Not much, I fear.” Nicola sat in the chair I drew up for her, brows knitted. “The trouble is that Amílcar’s a city under siege. You’ve seen the blockade at the mouth of the harbor. Would that I could tell you there’s some secret egress from the city proper, some tunnel escape into the foothills, but there’s not.”

“What about a sortie?” I asked. “Is there any chance we could slip past Astegal’s lines in the midst of a sally?”

Nicola nodded. “’Tis the only chance, I fear. Not everyone is willing to take that risk.”

I frowned. “Why not? It doesn’t seem like Amílcar’s got many choices here, my lady. Forgive me for speaking bluntly, but Astegal’s got a good portion of Aragonia well in hand. He’s not lacking for supplies. Unless the current balance tips somehow, he can afford to wait you out until you starve.”

She sighed. “Yes, and for the moment, Amílcar is amply supplied. Betimes it takes desperate times to drive men to desperate measures. In the eyes of some, we’re far from it. And then there’s the problem to the north.”

“What problem to the north?” Sidonie asked suspiciously.

“The Euskerri,” Nicola said. “They’ve ranged far enough to hold all the mountain passes.”

“What?” Sidonie stared at her, lips parted. “Do you mean to tell me that despite everything that’s happened, Aragonia is still at odds with Euskerria?”

“You speak of it as though it’s a sovereign nation,” Nicola said dryly.

Sidonie swore softly and made to rise from the bed. “I swear to Elua—”

“Oh no!” I grabbed her by the nape of the neck, pinning her down. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until the chirurgeon grants permission.”

She glared at me. “Imriel . . .”

I shook her. “Promise.”

She blew out her breath. “Fine. I promise.”

Lady Nicola was staring at both of us. “You two are oddly well suited to one another, aren’t you?”

“Oddly, yes,” I agreed.

Sidonie settled back down, propping her chin on her fists again. “Tell me why Serafin hasn’t sought an alliance with the Euskerri, my lady.”

“He was planning to make overtures,” Nicola said. “But he changed his mind when he learned they were continuing to negotiate behind our back. The Euskerri offered to betray us to Carthage in exchange for sovereignty.”

“Why do they want sovereignty so badly?” I asked.

“They’re an ancient folk,” Sidonie said. “Like the Maghuin Dhonn in Alba, they were here long before the Tiberians or the Carthaginians settled in Aragonia. They have their own language, their own laws. For centuries, they had an agreement with the kings of Aragonia that they’d be given the right to govern themselves according to their own customs, but that was broken too many times for them to trust. Now all they want is sovereignty at any cost.”

It was my turn to stare at her.

“I sat in on the negotiations my mother oversaw,” Sidonie reminded me. “Don’t you remember me asking what you knew about them the night . . .”

Her voice trailed off.

“Oh!” I was struck by the sudden, vivid image of Sidonie kneeling, naked and obedient, her hands clasped behind her head. That was a conversation we hadn’t ended up having. “Um. Yes.”

“So Carthage wasn’t willing to meet their terms?” Sidonie inquired of Nicola.

Nicola shook her head. “No. No, Astegal was confident that once he had Aragonia under his thumb, he could roll easily over the Euskerri. I suspect he underestimates them. There were a good many skirmishes between us before Carthage invaded. The Euskerri won as many as they lost. They’re not terribly well organized, but they’re fearless, stubborn fighters.”

“Do you think the Euskerri’s forces combined with Aragonia’s would be able to defeat Carthage?” Sidonie asked.

“Possibly,” Nicola allowed. “I’m not a military strategist.”

“What are you thinking?” I asked Sidonie.

“They’re not asking for much,” she said slowly. “It’s a very small territory. Part of it lies on D’Angeline soil, and my mother was willing to cede it. No deal was brokered because King Roderico’s ambassador refused to do the same, and the Euskerri refused to accept aught less. I’m thinking Serafin is a fool not to make the offer. Begging your forgiveness, my lady.”

“No need.” Nicola shrugged gracefully. “Men tend to be proud, stiff-necked, and impractical. I agree. Unfortunately, my son is not as easily influenced as my husband.”

“And more ambitious,” I observed.

“Yes.” She glanced sidelong at me. “That too. But I think he might be convinced to relent on this point after what you’ve told us.” She was silent a moment. “My younger son, Raul, was in the City of Elua that night, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, gods!” I’d forgotten. “Yes. I’m sorry, my lady.”