Kushiel's Mercy (17 page)

We left the Palace in open carriages, escorted by the Queen’s Guard. In the courtyard, one could already see that it had begun. The full moon stood high overhead, a faint shadow beginning to blur one edge. The sight made me profoundly uneasy.

The streets of the City were packed with folk gazing at the night sky, talking in excited tones. It was a good thing that Ysandre had sent the Royal Army to secure Elua’s Square, because a solid wall of people surrounded it. If Ghislain’s soldiers hadn’t held a corridor open, we’d have had a difficult time getting through. By the time we did, the encroaching shadow had eaten a good chunk of the moon.

It was an unnerving sight. The outer rim and the missing piece were still faintly visible, dull and red, the color of drying blood. Near the oak tree, the vast silver mirror gleamed. The angle of the moon was such that it was reflected perfectly in the mirror.

We were given places of honor around the perimeter of the mirror, as were a select number of other folk. I was pleased to see that Phèdre and Joscelin were among them.

There, we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

It was indeed a slow and stately dance. We peered into the mirror, gazed at the sky. We ceded our places briefly to others, letting them catch a glimpse. We strained our eyes gazing toward the distant walls of the City, trying to spot the other twelve mirrors. The bloody stain spread slowly over the moon, creeping gradually toward total obscurity.

There was only a thin sliver of silver-white moon yet visible when a voice at my ear whispered, “A word, your highness. Behind the oak. Believe me, it is more important than this so-called marvel.”

The damned eunuch.

I turned, but he was already gone, a lithe, dark figure slipping through the throng. I glanced at Sidonie beside me. She was absorbed in watching the mirror, but she looked up and met my eyes.

“Sunjata,” I murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.

“Now?”
she asked in disbelief.

I nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

“Be careful,” she said.

I grabbed the nearest person behind me, a surprised Siovalese engineer. “Have a quick look,” I said, squeezing past him. “It’s nearly time.”

I left him stammering thanks and worked my way through the throng to the far side of the oak tree. Sunjata was there, pressed against it, barely visible in the shadows. I made my way to him, forced against him close as a lover due to the crush of people. His dark eyes gleamed, inches from mine.

“What the hell do you want?” I said through gritted teeth.

The crowd surged. Sunjata swayed, steadied himself with a hand on my waist. I felt his lips at my ear once more. “I’m sorry.”

“For wha—” I began.

Pain, thin and piercing, seared my side. It felt like he’d driven an enormous needle into my kidneys. I tried to gasp, but my tongue was cleaved to the roof of my mouth. The sky overhead whirled, rotating around the bloody moon. Ice-hot fire ran in my veins.

“Listen to me,” Sunjata whispered urgently. “I’m sorry. This was the only way to shield you from it. You’re going to lose your wits. It’s madness, but it will pass. The fever will break in a month.”

The needle was withdrawn.

Cold flames continued to race through my veins. It felt like my skull was on fire. I tried to raise my hands to claw at it, but my knees were threatening to give way beneath me. Sunjata grasped my shoulders, holding me upright.

“Go to Cythera,” he hissed. “Ask Ptolemy Solon how to undo what’s done here tonight. He may even tell you.” He released my shoulders, and I began to slump.

Somewhere, an emerald glow arose.

Brightness flashed.

The crowd gave a collective gasp.

I heard it, but I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t see anything but the roots of the oak tree that were rushing up at me, gnarled and writhing. A tangle of serpents. Deep in my throat, I mewled with fear. Serpents. Roots. I scrabbled at them. A dark hand caught mine. There was a tug on my finger, somewhat removed. A tangle. A knot of gold. A hand knotted in my hair, lifting my head.

“I’m sorry about this, too,” Sunjata whispered. “But I don’t dare disobey. It’s a hard business serving two masters.”

He let go my hair. My head fell. All around us, no one noticed, staring rapt at the bloody sky or shoving for a peek at the mirror.

“You’re lucky your mother loves you,” the eunuch whispered. “Go to Cythera.” And then he was gone and madness took me.

That was the last thing I understood for a long, long time.

Thirteen

I
had gone mad before.

When Dorelei was slain, I lost my wits. I remember bits and pieces of that terrible night. Running through the woods, my sword in hand. Charging the bear. Berlik’s blow laying me open. Dorelei, dead.

I don’t remember much of what followed, which was a mercy.

This was different.

I lived in a world of fever-racked terror. I knew no one. Not the ones who found me after the moon’s shadow had passed. Not the ones who took me back to the Palace and tended me. Not myself. I knew only that I lived in a world bent on destroying me.

Things came alive.

Sweat-damp bedsheets sought to strangle me. Fat globules of wax slid from candles to scald my skin. Demon-filled shadows lurked in every corner.

My voice came back. I screamed and ranted until my throat was raw. The fever ebbed and flowed. My strength came and went in waves. When it came, I tried to escape. I struggled with my captors. A tall man with blond hair held me down.

They tied me to my bed, tied my wrists and ankles. I strained at my bonds until my muscles threatened to burst and my ligaments to crack. I bent my back like a bow. A dark-haired woman wept. I cursed her.

“I have to go to Cythera!” I shouted at her. “Let me go!
I have to go to Cythera
!”

She laid a cool compress on my brow, her hot tears falling on my face. They burned.

“Let me go, you weeping bitch!” I raged.

They didn’t. They kept me there, day after day. When I was weak, they untied me. So I learned. I feigned weakness. One day, I broke free. I burst past them, laughing like a madman. They didn’t expect me to be that quick.

They caught me, though, caught me in the hallway. Men with sheathed swords barred my way. I don’t know why they didn’t draw on me. Too slow, too stupid. The tall man grabbed me from behind, pinning my arms. I thrashed in his grip, cursing him, but he was strong.

“I’ll take him,” he said to them.

“You don’t have to do this, Joscelin,” one of them said. “Let us do it.”

“He’s my son,” he said in a low voice. “At least in my heart.”

I laughed and spat on the floor. “You wish!” I shouted. “My father was the north wind and my mother was a jackal!”

The tall man didn’t answer, only tightened his grip. I struggled and kicked and scratched until others came to help him. They wrestled me into bed, tied my limbs. I went limp and stared up into his summer-blue eyes, hating him.

“Joscelin,” I crooned. “That’s your name, isn’t it? I’ll remember it.” I rolled my head, rolling my gaze around the chamber. “She’s your woman, isn’t she? The weeping bitch.” I saw fear in him and laughed. “You’re scared of me, aren’t you? Too scared to kill me. You ought to, you know.”

“Imriel.” He gazed at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Try to sleep.”

“I have to go to Cythera!” I shouted at him.

Somewhere, the woman wept.

“Later, love,” the tall man said gently. “When you’re well.”

I tugged steadily at my bonds, feeling the ropes bite into my skin. A serpent-tangle, fibrous teeth. Gnawing my flesh until it was blood-slick. “I’ll cut out your heart,” I said to him. “
Joscelin.
I’ll get free, and I’ll do it. I’ll take your woman.” I bared my teeth at him, inspiration coming from deep inside me. “I’ll take her with my rusted iron rod, I will, and I’ll make her beg for it like the whore she is.”

He turned away with a choked sound, fists clenched.

Oh, that had hit hard, it had! I laughed.

“Joscelin.”
She
was there, weepy-eyed, gentling him. “It’s not his fault. He’s borne too much for anyone’s lifetime. Something broke inside him.”

They held one another, consoled one another.

I jeered at them.

Days came and went. Others came and went. A tall woman with fair hair, a studied look of worry in her eyes. A man with a face like a blue mask and eyes like polished stones. Some bitch pretending to be a chirurgeon, a liar who called me cousin. People I didn’t know.

I hated them.

I hated them all.

“I
will
kill you!” I raged, my fever spiking. I yanked at the ropes that bound me. Blood and sweat mingled. “All of you! I need to go to Cythera!”

“Hush, love.” The dark-haired woman sat beside my bed. She had dark eyes, too. A scarlet mote swam on the outskirts of her left iris, vivid as a rose petal. For some reason, it maddened me further. She dipped a cloth in cool water, laid it on my fevered brow. “It’s all right, Imri.”

Since I couldn’t move my limbs, I snapped my teeth at her.

Liars and hypocrites. They pretended to know me, pretended to be kind. They talked in worried tones, prayed and moaned and wept over me, but they kept me tied like an animal. They tried to feed me broth, and I spat it back in their faces. My body grew weak and wasted, ravaged by fever.

I memorized their names.

I would make them suffer for treating me like this. I plotted ways to kill them, ways to torture them before they died. I told them in exacting, foul detail, relishing the pain and fear it evoked in them. Day after day, I tormented them, while my body grew wasted and the ropes etched bloody channels into my wrists and ankles.

And then I woke up sane.

It was the moonlight that did it, a silvery wash of it spilling over my bed, so bright it woke me in the middle of the night. My bedsheets were soaked with sweat, but my body felt cool. I turned my head and gazed through the balcony doors. There was the full moon, round and bright as a silver coin.

It’s madness, but it will pass. The fever will break in a month.

It had.

And I remembered everything.

My stomach seized. I turned my head and vomited, but nothing came out save a trickle of bile.

“Imriel?” In a chair in the corner, a shadowy figure stirred and rose. Phèdre wiped my mouth tenderly with a clean cloth, eased the soiled pillow from beneath my head. “It’s all right, love.”

“Oh,
gods
!” I whispered, my eyes burning. “Oh, Blessed Elua and his Companions have mercy on me, ah, gods! Phèdre, I’m
so sorry
!”

She went very still, a moonlit statue. “For what, love?”

“Everything I’ve said and done in the past month,” I said wearily, exhausted past the point of shame. “It’s all right. It’s passed. The fever’s gone.”

Phèdre kindled a lamp. In the warm glow, I could see her beautiful face was tired and worn, shadows like bruises beneath her eyes. She swallowed visibly, not quite daring to hope yet. “Do you know who you are?”

“Yes,” I said. “Your foster-son, Imriel nó Montrève.”

She covered her face with both hands, drew a shuddering breath. “And where you are?”

“In the bedchamber of my quarters at the Palace.” I flexed my stiff hands. “Tied to my bed because I’ve been a stark raving lunatic since the last full moon.”

“Oh, Imri!” The anguished tone of hope in Phèdre’s voice nearly broke my heart. She laid a hand on my brow. “Is it true?”

Tears trickled from the corners of my eyes. “I promise.”

“Joscelin!” Her voice rang out, filled with urgency. “
Joscelin!”

He came at a run, startled out of sleep. For the past month, they’d been taking turns keeping watch over me. “What is it?”

“The fever’s broken.” Tears gleamed on Phèdre cheeks. “He knows himself.”

Joscelin turned his bloodshot gaze on me. “Truly?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Joscelin, you look like hell. You look worse than I did when you found me in Vralia.”

“Oh,
Elua
!” Joscelin dropped to his knees beside the bed. There were tears in his eyes, too. “I thought we’d lost you. Wherever it was you went, I didn’t think you were coming back.”

“I’m back,” I said hoarsely. “I just wish I didn’t remember.”

He shook his head. “Don’t . . . just don’t. It was the fever talking.”

Phèdre sent a guard to fetch the Court chirurgeon while Joscelin worked at the ropes binding me to the bed. My struggles had rendered the knots impossible to untie, and he had to saw at them with a dagger, working with tender care not to further injure my abraded flesh. Between the two of them, they helped me sit upright, propped against pillows, and drink a cup of water. I was so weak, Phèdre had to hold the cup for me. I could feel the water blazing a cool trail into my shrunken belly.

“Thank you.” I leaned back against the pillows and closed my eyes, exhausted by the effort. “Where’s Sidonie?”

There was a brief silence.

“Sidonie?” Joscelin asked in a puzzled tone.

I opened my eyes.

“Like as not in Carthage by now.” Phèdre refilled the cup from a ewer. “Why, love?”

“Carthage?”
I stared at her. “No.”

“To wed Prince Astegal,” she reminded me, holding the cup to my lips.

“No.” I pushed it away feebly. “No, no, no! Have you all lost your wits?”

Their faces fell. “It’s all right,” Joscelin said to Phèdre. “He knows himself, and us. The rest will come.”

“I just thought . . .” she murmured.

“I know,” he said.

“No!” I shouted at them. “Gods above,
I’m
fine!” I saw the fear in their eyes and caught myself, falling silent. I made myself look at the memories of my month-long madness.

Sidonie wasn’t in them.

This was the only way to shield you from it.

“Astegal,” I muttered. “What did you do? What did they do, those damned Carthaginians? What did they do?” I repeated, addressing Phèdre and Joscelin. “The full moon, the mirror? What did they
do
?”

“Hush.” Phèdre stroked my cheek. “It’s all right, love.”