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

Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3) Page 35

“No.” I grinned. “But that will be the fun task.”

His voice rose. “It’s not a jesting matter.”

“I know.” I finished my braids. “Believe me, Bodeshmun impressed that on me quite strongly yesterday. I have no desire to lose my eyes and tongue, and if I’m jesting, it’s because I’m nervous inside. But, Sunjata, I have to try.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because . . .” I frowned. The reasons I’d set out with seemed distant and a bit childish now. A grand adventure, a chance to spread my wings at last. The desire to humble the brooding prince and expose his hypocrisy. Even the desire to make her ladyship proud. Instead, I thought of the Aragonian boy in the slave-market, his stricken face. The princess in the palanquin, fed a diet of lies. Terre d’Ange, land of my birth, teetering on the brink of civil war. “I just do.”

“Just be careful,” Sunjata said.

“So her ladyship bade me,” I replied.

“Yes.” His expression was unreadable. “She cares very deeply for you.”

“Do you think so?” I smiled. “It’s a nice thought.”

With that, I collected the pretty inlaid box that contained the chess set, summoned Kratos and the lads, and went off to my audience with the princess, wishing I wasn’t so damnably nervous and unsettled.

At the villa of the House of Sarkal I was met by a polite steward who escorted me into a sunlit salon that overlooked a garden. The scent of lemons wafted through the tall, arched windows, mingling rather unfortunately with the overly sweet floral odor of pomade still clinging to my hair.

“Please be comfortable,” the steward said, indicating an alcove with a low table and chairs. “I will inform her highness of your arrival.”

I sat and waited. Once, I heard footsteps and rose to bow, but it was only a maidservant bringing a cup of sweet mint tea. I sipped it slowly, waiting. Wishing I didn’t reek subtly of rotting roses. Wondering if the princess was playing some game, making me wait. Gods, I wished I’d taken the time to wash the pomade out of my hair.

And then she came, one of her Amazigh guards trailing behind her.

She wore a gown of pale yellow silk, a necklace and earrings set with canary-yellow diamonds. Her hair was coiled in a coronet, glinting in the sunlight. A golden girl, but for the shock of those black, black eyes.

I rose and bowed, my heart thudding.

“Messire Maignard, I pray you forgive my rudeness,” she said, speaking Hellene with a near-flawless accent. A light voice, cool and controlled. I had an immediate urge to know what it sounded like unstrung with passion. Instead, it took on a hint of amusement. “I fear I was in the midst of a lesson, and my steward chose to wait rather than inform me that my mysterious D’Angeline had arrived.”

I laughed. “Not so mysterious, I fear.”

Her brows rose slightly. “Do tell.”

I accorded her another bow. “As my letter indicated, I am in the service of his eminence Ptolemy Solon, Governor of Cythera.” I lifted the inlaid box and opened the lid. “He sends his congratulations to you and Prince Astegal on the occasion of your nuptials, and this small token of Cythera’s goodwill.”

“This is lovely.” She took a piece from the box, examining it. An onyx knight, his ruby eyes sparking. “You must convey my gratitude to his eminence. It is a thoughtful gift.”

“Do you play?” I asked.

“Yes, of course.” The princess smiled. Her lips were pink, the sort of shape that begs to be kissed. The spark of lively intellect in her dark eyes suggested it wasn’t something to be undertaken rashly. “But it’s a rare man thinks to gift a woman with a game of wits. And you continue to be mysterious, Messire Maignard.” She returned the knight to the box and gestured at the chairs. “Pray, sit and tell me. How does a D’Angeline come to be in the service of Cythera’s governor?”

I set the inlaid box on the table. “His lordship is a rare man.” I waited until she sat, then sat opposite her. Her Amazigh guard remained on the opposite side of the room, but he watched us with folded arms, his expression hidden behind the folds of his burnoose. Princess Sidonie ignored him. I cleared my throat. “My lord Solon is kin to Pharaoh of Menekhet. My father served as the master chef to the D’Angeline ambassador in Iskandria.”

She tilted her head. “Marcel de Groulaut?”

“No.” The question threw me off stride. I blinked, trying to remember the timeline for the tale I’d concocted and what I knew of Terre d’Ange’s presence in Menekhet. “Before him.”

“Ah.” The princess thought a moment. “That was the Comte de Penfars, I think.”

“How do you know that?” I asked stupidly.

Sidonie de la Courcel raised her brows, higher, this time. “Messire Maignard, since the day I gained my majority, it has been expected that I should be prepared to assume the throne of Terre d’Ange at a moment’s need. To that end, I am reasonably well informed about the workings of my own nation.”

I flushed. “Of course. Forgive me.”

Her lips quirked. “Rare men are . . . rare. But pray, continue.”

Gods, it galled me. I’d expected . . . what? A victim, a hapless pawn, easily manipulated. She wasn’t. Spell-bound and ignorant, yes. But still, disconcertingly self-possessed and acutely intelligent. I stammered through my tale of how Ptolemy Solon had come to dine at the Menekhetan ambassador’s home and grown enamored of his chef’s cuisine, wooing him away, thus establishing the Maignard clan on Cythera.

When I finished, I was sweating; and very much aware of the aroma of my ill-advised pomade hanging in the air.

“So you’ve never known Terre d’Ange?” the princess asked.

“No.” I shook my head. It wasn’t going to be easy to avoid speaking of Terre d’Ange when she brought it up herself. “No, but Cythera is beautiful. Mayhap you’ll visit one day.”

“I’m sure that would be very pleasant,” she said politely.

“Yes, indeed.” Hot and uncomfortably aware that I was failing at being charming, I fanned myself, waves of scent wafting from me. Her expression turned slightly peculiar. “Ah, gods!” I blurted. “My lady, forgive me. I fear I’ve doused myself in a most cloying pomade. Believe me, I regret it.”

She laughed.

It was an unexpectedly deep-throated laugh, rich and resonant. My heart rolled over in my chest, whispering the word “always.” Her black eyes came to life, sparkling at me. “And why did you do that, Messire Maignard?”

“Because I was anxious,” I murmured. “Because you are very, very beautiful, your highness. And by the presence of yon glowering guard, I suspect you have a jealous husband.”

“Actually, Astegal is quite reasonable,” the princess said with amusement. “The guards are merely for the sake of appearances. As I recall, at one point during our courtship, he told me I was welcome to keep a harem of beautiful young men if I chose.”

I eyed her, trying to tell if she was teasing me. “And do you?”

“Are you volunteering?” she asked.

“Would you have me?” I countered.

A wicked smile flickered over her face. “Not smelling like that.”

I flushed a second time. “I’m sorry, my lady!”

“No, I apologize.” She laughed. “You’re ill at ease and I’m baiting you unfairly. In truth, Messire Maignard, my husband is a rare man himself, and I’ve felt no temptation to test the boundaries of his tolerance.”

I felt a profound pang of sorrow. “Not even a little, Sidonie?”

Why I’d called her by name, I couldn’t say. It was wildly inappropriate . . . and yet, something shifted between us. She gazed at me, frowning like someone trying to remember a forgotten tune. I held her gaze, my heart hammering in my chest, suffused with a strange tenderness. Fear, hope, desire? The air between us felt charged, as though lightning were about to strike.

And then she closed her eyes and shuddered, and it passed.

“Oh, gods!” I said in anguish. “Forgive me. That was appallingly overfamiliar. I’m sorry, your highness, I don’t know what came over me. Will you please forgive me?”

“I think I’d better.” A wry edge crept into her tone. “I deserved no less for baiting you. Are you always this graceless and blunt in practicing the art of flirtation, Messire Maignard?”

“No,” I said. “Are you always this acerbic?”

“No.” It was only one syllable, but it was accompanied by that same wicked little smile: a quick, maddening flicker.

“Ah.” I fanned myself and glanced at her Amazigh guard. He stared impassively back at me. “You mentioned a lesson. May I ask what your highness is studying?”

“Punic,” she said. “One can get by with Hellene, of course, but I find it unwise not to at least attempt to learn the mother tongue of a land. In fact, that was one of the reasons my mother replaced the Comte de Penfars as the ambassador to Menekhet. She discovered he’d not bothered to learn Menekhetan after the Comtesse de Montrève and her consort were there to . . .” The princess blinked, her voice trailing off. A perplexed frown creased her brow.

Oh, hells.

“On their quest to free the Master of the Straits, was it not?” I inquired. “Even in Cythera, we heard of it.”

“Yes, of course.” Her brow cleared, though a touch of uncertainty lingered. “I imagine you would have, given his eminence’s ties to Ptolemy Dikaios.”

I sighed inwardly. “Indeed.”

Gods above, I felt like a rabbit in a field of snares. How exactly was one to avoid speaking of Terre d’Ange to a woman raised from birth to inherit its throne? And all the topics that touched on Prince Imriel’s life . . . all the very things I needed to reach her, the very things Bodeshmun had forbidden me to discuss.

Which left flirting as the only safe ground, except that I was stumbling over my own feet there, awkward and graceless.

“Are you well?” the princess asked. “You look pained.”

“I think it’s the pomade,” I said. “Your highness, his eminence has asked me to conduct other business in Carthage, and I will be here for some time yet. If I were to promise to scour myself quite thoroughly, is there any chance that I might beg another audience of you? Mayhap to play a game of chess?”

She laughed. “Do you promise to be as unwittingly amusing?”

I winced. “By the Goddess, I hope not.”

“I rather enjoyed it.” Her eyes sparkled. “It’s a pleasant change of pace from the usual bland courtesies.”

I rose and bowed to her. “Very well, my lady. If the lifeblood of my dignity serves to brighten your days, then by all means, puncture it. Bleed me dry of every peck of self-respect, and I shall languish at your feet, a glad fool.”

“Ah.” She rose. “Eloquence surfaces.”

“Belatedly,” I admitted. “Truly, your highness, I’m terribly sorry for the impropriety. And if you give me a chance to make amends, I will be most grateful.”

“Come tomorrow afternoon,” the princess said. “We’ll see how you fare at chess.”

“Thank you.” I smiled at her. “Very much indeed.”

She smiled back at me, sincerely, this time. “You’re welcome. And Messire Maignard, you may stop apologizing. There was somewhat I quite liked about the way my name sounded when you spoke it, although I couldn’t for the life of me say why.”

Nor could I.

I bowed again. “Then I wish you would do me the kindness of calling me Leander, and I aspire to the honor of using your name one day in earnest friendship.”

She inclined her head. “On the morrow.”

Thirty-One

I walked out of the House of Sarkal’s villa feeling more profoundly disoriented than I had in my life.

Sidonie.

Why in the name of all the gods and goddesses in heaven had she had such a disturbing effect on me? I’d played the most dangerous man in Carthage like a master, then tripped over my own tongue when sparring with a young woman who’d had a large piece of her memory ripped from her.

All my expectations had been wrong. Weak. I’d thought she’d be weak-minded. Why? Because she’d fallen prey to Carthage’s magic, I supposed. I was an idiot. I’d sought to flatter Bodeshmun, but the truth was, he had wrought a spell sufficient to impress even Ptolemy Solon. It had ensorceled an entire city. I’d have been a victim had I been there. And Sidonie . . .

Well, she wasn’t bound by the ghafrid-gebla. Not here. It was a simpler magic, awful and powerful in a different way. It was the very force of her love that had been turned against her. Two days ago, I’d doubted. I hadn’t been sure that love was genuine.

Now . . .

A girlish infatuation. Gods! No, no. If I’d ever met a woman who knew her own mind, it was Sidonie de la Courcel.

Except for the parts she didn’t.

It was in there, I thought. I could see it. That perplexity, a sense of something missing. Something withheld, something denied. Knowledge trapped within her. Like a butterfly battering its wings against a glass jar.

I wanted to smash that glass.

I wanted to free her. I wanted to kiss her until she couldn’t breathe. I wanted to taste her, to bury myself in her. I wanted, desperately, to find out what lay behind that quick, wicked smile.

I wanted to kill Astegal.

A rare man . . . gods! Oh, yes, it took a rare man indeed to set a country against itself, to abduct a young woman and turn her against her will with dark magics. All to further his own ambitions. Dreams of empire. And he’d been doing his best to get heirs on her. Soon he’d send for her again.