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

Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3) Page 27

My heart leapt. “So Sidonie—”

He shook his head. “That’s part of the bad news. I fear she has been bound with a different spell, a simpler spell.”

“My ring,” I said grimly.

Solon nodded. “That is doubtless one part of it. Astegal bears your love-token. He will have placed some token of his own on her to seal the bond.”

My mother stirred. “But in Terre d’Ange, all that is needful to break the spell is to ferry everyone affected across the sea? Mayhap to Alba?”

“Yes and no.” He looked apologetic. “Forgive me. I do believe I overstated the good news. The problem is twofold. Unless the spell is undone, it will reclaim anyone who returns to D’Angeline soil. Of greater concern, there is malevolence at its core. Any attempt to struggle against it will cause the spell to tighten like a snare, and those caught within it will grow angry and violent.”

I thought about Ysandre shouting at Barquiel L’Envers. “So logic and reason will prove little use.”

“I fear you would have a very difficult time convincing anyone caught in Carthage’s coils to sail away in pursuit of their sanity,” Solon said.

I frowned. “Quintilius Rousse had put to sea. It didn’t restore his wits.”

“Did he cross to a foreign shore?” Solon asked.

“No,” I said. “He was anchored in the harbor.”

“Not far enough,” he replied. “One would have to cross the sea itself.” Solon opened a large book on the table, its pages dark with age, and pointed to an engraving. “This is what lies at the heart of the spell.”

Melisande and I gazed at the image. An infant lay on a slab of rock in a desert, a gaping slit in its belly. Beside it was what appeared to be a whirlwind sprouting horns, fiery eyes, and four reaching arms with clawed hands. A robed man hid behind a boulder, watching.

“This tells how to make a ghafrid-gebla.” Solon ran one finger from right to left along a line of unfamiliar script. “It requires a flawless gem, emerald or ruby, cut into twelve facets, with the symbols of the twelve Houses of the Cosmos etched onto its facets. The jewel is placed in the belly of an infant. When the ghafrid”—he tapped the image of the whirlwind—“devours the infant, the magus utters a word of binding, trapping the ghafrid in the very stone it has swallowed.”

I stared in sick fascination. “What exactly is a ghafrid?”

“It is what we call an elemental,” Solon said. “A desert spirit. Very powerful, capricious, and cruel. Once it is trapped within the stone, it must do its master’s bidding.” He looked thoughtful. “Understand, this is very difficult to do. The infant must be alive when it is devoured. And given that one must slit its belly to insert the jewel, this is a tricky proposition.”

I swallowed. “I begin to perceive the wisdom in your restraint of exercising knowledge, my lord.”

“Indeed,” my mother murmured. “So the business with the moon and the mirrors mattered naught?”

“No, no.” Solon shook his head. “It’s all part and parcel. This is a puzzle with many pieces. The placement of the mirrors established the compass of the spell, setting the framework for binding the entire City and all in it. The occlusion of the moon increased its power a thousand-fold. And the painting you described defined the essence of the spell. Each piece is important. But this”—he tapped the engraving again—“this is the key.”

“How so?” I asked.

Solon smiled. “To undo the spell, all you must do is free the ghafrid. And to do this, all you must do is take possession of the gem-stone and speak the word of binding, which is also the word of unbinding.”

My mother eyed him wryly. “Somehow I suspect you’ve overstated the good news once more.”

He spread his hands. “I have no way of knowing the word. Bodeshmun—I’m sure this is his work—would have chosen it.” He turned back a page, pointing to an image depicting a drawing of a ghafrid with a single word inscribed beneath it. “Symbology. Somewhere, likely on his person, Bodeshmun possesses a similar image. It is necessary to maintain the bond.”

I studied the page. “What if the image were destroyed? Would that free the ghafrid?”

“Well reasoned,” Solon said approvingly. “But alas, no. It would merely bind the elemental into the stone for all eternity.”

“Why wouldn’t Bodeshmun do so?” Melisande inquired. “It seems simpler.”

“Oh, because the ghafrid would go mad with rage,” he said cheerfully. “Violently, horribly mad. And because Bodeshmun would be bound to it, he would slowly succumb to madness himself. No, no. He’ll keep the talisman safe until such time as he deems it reasonable to release the ghafrid. It’s a dangerous business, trafficking with elementals. I suspect he plans to free it at some point, perhaps when Carthage’s ascent is secure and the Queen’s daughter has provided Astegal with a few heirs.”

“That,” I said, “will not happen.”

Solon glanced at me, sobering. “Forgive me. It’s begun, though. I heard word late this morning. Carthage’s fleet has set sail for Aragonia.” He cocked his head. “The good news is that General Astegal has left his young bride in Carthage. So I suppose that reduces the chances of begetting an heir, unless she’s already with child.”

I gritted my teeth. “So in order to undo Carthage’s spell, I need to obtain the word of binding and unbinding, which Bodeshmun is likely to have on his person. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “And speak it in the presence of the ghafrid-gebla once you have claimed possession of the stone.”

Irony piled on irony. I’d travelled to the far ends of the earth with Phèdre and Joscelin to find the Name of God, a word capable of binding an angel. Now it seemed I sought a word that would loose a demon from its bindings. The bright mirror and the dark reflected one another: good and evil, the sacred and profane.

I sighed. “And the stone lies in Bodeshmun’s possession?”

“No, no.” Solon pursed his lips. “That I neglected to mention. The gem must remain in Terre d’Ange to be fully effective. Bodeshmun will have hidden it somewhere.”

“What if it were removed?” my mother asked with interest. “Would it diminish the effects?”

“Diminish, yes,” Solon said. “Undo, no.”

“You should have said that at the outset,” I muttered. “What about Sidonie?”

“Ah!” His wizened face brightened. “Now that’s easy. She’s safe beyond the ghafrid’s reach. All you need to do is obtain the ring from Astegal, find his token, and remove it from her.”

“Another ring?” I asked.

“Perhaps.” Solon shrugged. “A ring, a necklace, a pair of eardrops, a ribbon. . . . whatever it is, it will be something of significance that he’s given to her and bade her never remove. A ring is likely. If you were able to obtain even one of the tokens, it would weaken the binding.”

I rose to pace the room, restless. “So Sidonie is in Carthage. Astegal is, or will be, in Aragonia. Where’s Bodeshmun?”

“I don’t know,” Solon admitted.

“Carthage,” Melisande said. She met his glance with amusement. “Oddly enough, I received word this morning, too.”

“Then I need to go to Carthage,” I said slowly, thinking. “I’ll send word to Barquiel L’Envers. I can tell him to try his damnedest to get Ysandre and anyone who will go to Alba—”

“Or Aragonia,” my mother interrupted me. “Let him agree to send the Royal Army and all of Rousse’s fleet in support of Carthage’s invasion. It won’t matter. Once they’re on Aragonian soil, the spell will lose its hold, yes?”

“Oh, well reasoned, my love!” Solon said in delight.

“Aragonia, then,” I agreed. “And I’ll tell him to find that thrice-cursed jewel and take it with him, away from the City. But I need to go to Carthage.” I paced, still thinking. “There are two pieces of the puzzle there, Bodeshmun and Sidonie. And I can reach her. I know I can. I was bound by magic in Alba. I never forgot that I loved her. Even through the bindings, I knew it.”

“Imriel.” The gentleness in Melisande’s voice halted me. “You can’t go. Bodeshmun knows you.”

Solon blinked. “That’s true. Perhaps Sunjata—”

“No.” I raked a hand through my hair, still wind-tangled. “I don’t trust Sunjata. He’s the one who took my ring. If he’s caught serving two masters, he’s not like to risk himself on Sidonie’s behalf.” I narrowed my eyes. “Solon, you said you knew a spell that could give one man the semblance of another.”

“Yes.” He furrowed his brow. “But a mere glamour will not suffice to fool Bodeshmun. Ordinary folk, yes. Not a magus.” He hesitated. “Unless it were done so that you believed it yourself.”

“Is that possible?” I asked.

“It is.” Solon’s tone was reserved. “But it is dangerous. Of a surety, you would risk losing yourself.”

“Solon,” my mother murmured. “I think this unwise.”

“Who would I be?” I asked him, ignoring her.

“Leander would be a good choice,” he said without looking at Melisande. “Your mother has trained him well. He knows Sunjata. Carthage is likely to accept him as my emissary, since the infernal Guild knows of our circumstances here. And he’s bored and ambitious and handsome enough to consider seducing Astegal’s wife.”

I nodded curtly. “So I’d think myself Leander?”

“You would,” Solon confirmed. “Until such time as the spell was broken. It would be necessary to create such a key.” He rubbed his chin, thinking. “A kiss, perhaps?”

“From Sidonie?” I asked.

The Wise Ape of Cythera studied me. “Are you that confident, Imriel de la Courcel, that this woman you love, this cousin of yours, will succumb to your charms no matter what face you wear, no matter who you believe yourself to be?”

“No,” I said softly. I thought about my encounter in the temple that morning, the priestess pressing my hand to her breast. If your heart knows its true desire, you must trust it. “No, my lord. But I am very, very sure that I love Sidonie enough to take any chance.”

Melisande sighed. “I mislike this. Imriel, you’ve suffered one ordeal of madness. Your mind is fragile.”

I laughed shortly. “What happened to that bright vein of indomitable strength you spoke of yesterday?”

“There are limits to what the mortal mind was meant to bear.” Her face was grave. “I fear you challenge them.”

I glanced at Solon. “What do you say, my lord?”

He shrugged. “As I said, it is dangerous. There is a chance you would succeed. There is a chance that you would fail, but that this Duc L’Envers will succeed in your stead with the keys I have given you, and you could be thus freed from the spell. And there is a chance that your wits would snap, and you would spend the balance of your life believing yourself to be Leander.”

“I’ll take it,” I said.

Twenty-Three

That evening, I acceded to my mother’s wishes and passed the night at her villa. I couldn’t maintain the will to refuse her, and in truth, if this was the last night in which I would know myself for many days, I didn’t wish to spend it alone in rented lodgings.

I was scared.

After what had happened in Alba, I’d sworn I’d never suffer myself to be bound by strange magics; and it was true, the memory of my madness was fresh and raw. The prospect of losing myself filled me with dread. But the prospect of doing nothing was worse. Someone had to get to Bodeshmun, and while Sidonie was in Astegal’s thrall, she was in danger. Mayhap it wasn’t immediate, but the moment aught went awry with Carthage’s scheme, Sidonie became a hostage in deadly earnest.

I wrote a long letter to Barquiel L’Envers, detailing everything I knew. I tried to compose a letter to Phèdre and Joscelin, but in the end, I couldn’t think of anything I hadn’t already said. I settled for asking L’Envers to tell them I loved them. I paid a visit to Captain Oppius of the Aeolia. I released him from his pledge to wait for me, and he promised to see my letter delivered. Beyond that, I told him only that I would be staying on Cythera for a time.

Melisande was unwontedly quiet and subdued. Although she misliked the plan, she had consented to assist. Leander had been told. He had no real quarrel with it, although he was envious and a bit irritated that Ptolemy Solon had sent a request for all his clothing.

“Why not simply send me, my lady?” Leander asked Melisande. “It’s a good deal simpler and less risky. And I wouldn’t have to purchase a new wardrobe.”

“If it were my choice, I would,” she replied. “But this is Imriel’s.”

“I have to try it,” I said. “I’ll go just as mad if I don’t.”

Leander studied me. “You know, once you’re convinced you’re me, you won’t give two figs for the girl.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

Melisande and I dined alone, and I couldn’t have said what we ate, although it was good. I was sufficiently on edge regarding the morrow’s prospects that I forgot to be uneasy in her company. She spent long moments watching me without speaking.

“Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you?” she asked me at last, when the dinner plates had been cleared and cups of a strong Cytheran cordial served. “Leander is right. The risk is unnecessary.”