Kushiel's Mercy (76 page)

“No?” She regarded me. “Well, that would surely make the task easier. I’ll have to ask Sidonie’s opinion. Doubtless she came to know Bodeshmun quite well during her time in Carthage.”

“Doubtless,” I agreed.

“What about the Royal Treasury?” Joscelin suggested. “After all, where better to hide a single gem than amid a thousand others?”

Phèdre smiled at him. “That’s an excellent thought.”

I stifled a groan. That was one of the few places L’Envers
had
managed to search thoroughly; but I couldn’t very well say it, and I couldn’t think of a valid reason to discount the notion. I gazed out the window at the folk pelting through the city, spreading the word, searching haphazardly. A gem the size of a child’s fist. It could be hidden anywhere. I remembered the icy-hot pain of a needle piercing my kidneys, Sunjata’s voice hissing in my ear.

Go to Cythera
.

An emerald flash.

“Do you recall what Bodeshmun did after showing you the marvel?” I asked. “After the shadow had passed from the moon?”

“Everyone went . . .” Phèdre’s face went blank. “There was a fête, wasn’t there?” she asked Joscelin, who nodded uncertainly. “Elua! Between the wonder and the horror, I swear, the night’s a blur.” She stroked my hair. “I don’t remember much beyond hearing you’d been found unconscious and raving, I fear.”

“That was a bad night,” Joscelin murmured. “I’m sure others will recall it better.”

I wasn’t. I already knew Sidonie didn’t; we’d discussed it. But I held my tongue on the thought.

The reception took place in the Hall of Audience. The first thing I saw upon entering was the painting rendered in ground gems that had been the centerpiece of Carthage’s largesse. It was on prominent display, the frame draped in black crepe. I stood and gazed at it for a long time. Ptolemy Solon had said that the image had defined the essence of the spell. A tall man with black hair and a crimson beard, a blonde woman. Standing before an oak tree, their hands clasped in friendship.

Or love.

I’d assumed the woman was meant to be Ysandre; we all had. It could as easily have been Sidonie. Mayhap it represented both of them. I searched the image for clues, hoping to find an image of the emerald gem buried in the leaves of the oak tree or mayhap a word hidden in the glimmering whorls of its bark, but there was nothing. Like as not it was a futile hope. L’Envers had said he’d searched Elua’s Square and the great oak tree itself. It had been barren in winter with no crown of green leaves to hide a gem. If the demon-stone was in Elua’s Square, it could only be buried beneath the flagstones.

But a word . . . if there was a word hidden in the design, it was like to be written in Punic. I wouldn’t even recognize the alphabet. I resolved to tell Sidonie to examine it herself at the earliest opportunity.

“Cousin.” A familiar voice behind me startled me out of my reverie. “A terrible story, is it not? But I hear your condition is improved.”

“Mavros!” I turned and blinked at him. He was wearing a doublet of Courcel blue with braided silver trim and the insignia of the silver swan on its breast. “Why aren’t you in mourning attire?”

“I am.” Mavros showed me his black armband. “Officers of the Royal Army were given orders to remain in uniform.”

“Royal Army?” I echoed.

His handsome face hardened. “Do you expect me to stand by and do nothing while that ambitious chit and her snake of an uncle attempt to overthrow the throne? Yes, of course I put in my name for a commission. Every peer in the City with a shred of honor and courage has.”

I glanced over in Joscelin’s direction. “I’m sorry. No one mentioned it.”

Mavros followed my gaze. “Ah. Yes, well, I expect they’re being cautious around you. Joscelin
did
put in his name, but the Queen refused to allow it.” His next words eradicated any dawning sense of relief I might have had. “Ysandre has sworn that Alais will never take the throne while she lives. We will fight to our last breath, but if it comes to it, if L’Envers takes the City, she’s asked Joscelin to remain that he might perform the
terminus
for her.”

“Surely not,” I whispered. “Phèdre would never consent to it.”

His brows rose. “’Tis a grave sacrifice to be sure. But Joscelin Verreuil is the Queen’s Champion. It’s his duty.”

I didn’t want to believe it, but I did. I remembered Sidonie aboard Deimos’ ship as we prepared to set it afire and attempt the harbor at Amílcar.
Believe me when I tell you I would far rather die by your hand than be restored to Astegal
. There was a streak of fierce pride in the women of House Courcel. Ysandre might make such a vow rather than cede the throne alive. And Joscelin . . . in his right mind, Joscelin would never honor it, nor would Phèdre consent to allow him.

But they weren’t.

Mavros misread my expression. “Don’t worry,” he said kindly. “No one expects you to serve, Imri. You’re ill. If your madness returned on the battlefield, it would endanger us all.” He smiled. “At any rate, I hear there’s hope for the City. Carthage may save her after all.”

“Yes.” I had to get away from this stranger with Mavros’ face. “Will you excuse me?”

I plunged into the sea of mourners, seeking Sidonie. Now that Mavros had mentioned it, I realized there were more familiar faces than I’d noticed wearing military uniforms. I did my best to avoid them, and in the process blundered into one of the few figures not clad in black or Courcel blue. I knew her by the gleaming fall of red-gold hair that hung down her back.

“Amarante!” I said in relief.

Elua, it was so damned easy to forget.

She turned, the crimson silk robes of a Priestess of Naamah swirling gracefully around her. Her brows knit as though she were trying for a moment to place me, and then she inclined her head. “Prince Imriel,” Amarante said politely. “I was pleased to hear that you had returned safely.”

“Yes.” We were within earshot of Sidonie. I glanced at her. Her expression was composed, but I could see the stricken look behind her eyes. From the first dawning of our liaison, even before it had begun, Amarante had known. She had been Sidonie’s sole confidante and conspirator.

Amarante moved past me. “Sidonie.” Her voice changed, softening. “I’m so very—”

“Please don’t.” Sidonie laid her fingers gently over Amarante’s lips. “I don’t think I can bear to hear another word of sympathy today.”

“I understand.” Amarante took her hand and kissed it. “Would you like me to stay with you for a while?”

“No.” Sidonie shivered. “No, thank you. It’s a kind offer.”

“Of course.” Amarante studied her face, frowning slightly. She was a Priestess of Naamah and although it happened precious seldom, she knew withdrawal when she encountered it. For a mercy, whatever she saw, she chose to attribute it to grief. “You know you’ve only to send word to the temple if you need me.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Sidonie watched her go. “I’m not sure how much longer I can do this.”

“Your highness is weary,” Kratos said in Hellene. “You should retire.”

She looked at him with hope. “Do you suppose I might?”

He bowed. “I will speak to your lady mother.”

Kratos strode through the crowd, gesturing for people to keep their distance from Sidonie. They deferred out of respect for their beloved Astegal’s most trusted bodyguard.

“Sidonie,” I said in a low voice. “Before you go, I want you to look at the gem-painting that Astegal presented at the fête. It’s part and parcel of the spell. See if there are any words hidden in it written in Punic.”

“Punic.” She nodded, closing her eyes briefly.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Yes.” She opened her eyes. “But I can
feel
it. And I’m afraid of slipping away.”

“Don’t.” I caught her hand and squeezed it hard. “Stay.”

She returned the pressure. “I’m trying.”

Across the hall, Ysandre was gesturing and Drustan was shaking his head. Kratos’ face was flushed. He offered them a curt bow. Drustan made his way toward us. I released Sidonie’s hand and moved a few feet away.

“Sidonie.” Drustan rested his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. “I understand that you are weary and heart-sore. But you need to be strong.” His fingers flexed. “We stand on the eve of war. This is the greatest test any ruler might face. And I know you cannot fathom what that truly means, but you
are
your mother’s heir. The people need to see that neither grief nor betrayal will bow your head.”

“Yes, Father,” Sidonie murmured.

And so she stayed, and I stayed near her, offering the meager comfort of my presence as the reception wore on and on and an endless line of well-wishers came to proffer their sympathies. Over and over, they offered the same regrets and platitudes; over and over, Sidonie accepted them with forced gratitude. Many of them asked if there was a chance she yet carried Astegal’s child. Their faces fell when she shook her head.

What another piece of bitter irony it was. The peers of the realm, the lords and ladies of the Great Houses of Terre d’Ange, had always held reservations regarding Ysandre de la Courcel’s half-Cruithne heir. If Sidonie had truly fallen in love with a foreign prince, they would have shrieked to the heavens about the sacred bloodline of Blessed Elua being further diluted. And yet here they were, offering her adulation, mourning the loss of Astegal of Carthage.

I willed myself not to hate them. It was the spell, only the spell.

I can feel it
.
I’m afraid of slipping away
.

Those words made my blood run cold.

At last the reception ended, the crowds thinning, departing with multitudinous vows to find Bodeshmun’s charm. Phèdre came to find me.

“Will you not come home with us, love?” she asked plaintively.

I shook my head. “I need to stay here.”

“Have no fear, my lady.” Kratos’ arm descended over my shoulders, heavy and solid. Whether or not he understood all the words spoken, he read the situation well. He smiled at her. “As her highness has bidden me, I’ll make certain that the prince comes to no harm.”

Phèdre cocked her head and replied in Hellene. “You don’t have a Carthaginian accent.”

“No.” Kratos’ smile never wavered. “I was born in Hellas and taken in battle many years ago, serving as a mercenary. Bad luck. On the day Astegal was born, his father freed me.” He removed his arm from my shoulders and pressed his clenched fist to his heart. “Hence, my loyalty.”

Her expression eased. “I see.”

Once the hall was emptied, Sidonie went to stand before the gem-painting. She gazed at it for a long time as though lost in contemplation. The guards surrounding her, and even Drustan and Ysandre, waited with respect.

I lingered, hoping.

But no. At length she turned away, giving her head an imperceptible shake. There was no hidden clue.

The hunt continued.

Seventy-Seven

F
or five days the hunt for Bodeshmun’s gem continued at a frantic pace. The City looked like it had been sacked and looted.

At first the mood was one of fierce jubilation. After conferring with Phèdre and hearing her thoughts on a more logical approach, Ysandre ordered the Royal Army to assist with the search. They began by digging up the whole of Elua’s Square, removing the massive paving-stones and hauling them away, sifting through the dirt below.

They found nothing.

The mood didn’t sour all at once, but day by day the tension mounted. The search continued. The wing of the Palace in which the Carthaginian delegation had lodged was stripped bare. Following Joscelin’s suggestion, the Royal Treasury was moved piece by piece to an array of empty storage chambers, every gem within it scrutinized. Routes from the Palace to the Square were scoured obsessively. Every crack and crevice along the white walls of the City where Bodeshmun’s mirrors had been placed was examined.

Nothing.

As hope dwindled, tempers flared. The semblance of looting became a reality and there was widespread fighting in the streets of the City. A rumor went around that a wandering Tsingani
kumpania
had found the gem and stolen it away, sparking riots in Night’s Doorstep. A house was burned, an entire family killed in their sleep. The Cockerel closed its doors for the first time in memory.

Rumor ran rampant, fueled by the fact that no one could quite remember the details of the night surrounding the marvel.

Even the Night Court wasn’t immune. Someone remembered that Astegal and a group of Carthaginians had visited there. A fresh rumor went around that Bodeshmun had accompanied them, that he had entrusted the gem to the safekeeping of Bryony House, whose treasury was renowned for being more secure than the Royal Treasury itself. An irate crowd stormed the gates of Bryony House, demanding that the Dowayne allow them to search the treasury. When she refused, claiming that her own household had already conducted a thorough search, the altercation turned violent. The Dowayne’s skilled guards skirmished with the mob.

The incident killed three and wounded many others.

Every day brought irate petitioners to the Palace: robbed merchants, injured citizens, a furious Janelle nó Bryony. Every day, the Hall of Audience rang with shouting.

Every day was worse than the last.

And worst of all, Sidonie
was
slipping away.

There was never enough time to talk. She sent for me when she could, but we didn’t dare spend much time closeted without arousing suspicion. If it hadn’t been for Kratos, I’m not sure we’d have managed at all. The members of her personal guard had been recalled from the duties to which they’d been assigned when she left for Carthage. All of the goodwill I’d managed to earn had vanished, lost along with the memories of an affair that had divided the nation. The first time I saw Claude de Monluc, he regarded me with cool wariness. Still, so long as I only met with Sidonie with Kratos in tow, they were willing to allow it.

As long as it was brief.

As long as we did naught to arouse suspicion.

“Imriel.” It was on the fifth day that Sidonie greeted me at her door with a momentary look of blankness. She shuddered, her gaze clearing. “Thank you for coming. Please, come in.”