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

Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3) Page 70

I thought about Astegal in New Carthage, playing at being a king. Feasting and tossing coins to dancing-girls in the evenings, sparring and jesting with his men in the palaestra during the days. I remembered what Kratos had said. If Astegal had been more diligent in drilling his army, he might have been victorious yesterday.

The war wasn’t over. Astegal’s wounded army would retreat to New Carthage, where they held the city and a good number of potential hostages. We’d arisen to find that the navy blockading Amílcar’s harbor had fled, likely for the same destination.

But Bodeshmun was dead and Astegal soon would be. It was the arcane skills of the former and the determined ambition of the latter that had driven Carthage to seek empire. There had been men uneasy with the scope of Astegal’s goals. After my time there as Leander Maignard, I thought there was a chance the matter could be resolved diplomatically.

I prayed so.

There was a ceremony that afternoon to mark the historic transfer of sovereignty to Euskerria. It broke my heart to see how few of the village headmen who had pledged their acceptance in Roncal were there to see it.

Serafin spoke well. “There has long been enmity between our people,” he said. “Yesterday that history was erased in a tide of blood. If we take no other lesson from this tragedy, let it be this: We have learned we are alike. We suffer and bleed alike. We grieve alike for our lost brethren. And we value our freedom above our safety.” He paused. “Euskerria has earned the freedom we bestow on her this day. As you well know, it is not wholly mine to give on behalf of Aragonia. But I pledge to you on behalf of all here assembled that we will accept no terms that do not honor this agreement. And that which Euskerria has earned that is mine to grant, I pledge freely. My friendship, honor, and respect.”

There were tears in the eyes of many of the Euskerri present when his words were translated. One of them rose to speak.

“Yesterday we gained a nation and lost the flower of a generation,” he said simply in accented Aragonian. “We will strive to make Euskerria into a nation worthy of their sacrifice.”

“Your highness?” Ramiro Zornín de Aragon said to Sidonie.

She rose. “On behalf of Terre d’Ange, this concord is heard and witnessed. Like my kinsman, I lack the full weight of authority to speak for my country. But as I am my mother’s heir, I swear in the name of Blessed Elua and his Companions that while my memory lives, I will do all in my power to see that this accord is kept in good faith.”

So it was done.

There was no rejoicing among the Euskerri; the cost had been too high. And Amílcar was a city torn between victory and loss, aware of the struggle that lay ahead. But it was done.

Afterward I yielded to wisdom and retired to my bed to ease my leg. The wound appeared clean enough, but it felt as though someone were holding a hot poker to my thigh. And I reckoned if there were any folk who could be trusted to make travel arrangements with swift efficiency, it was Sidonie and Lady Nicola. I slept fitfully and woke to find Sidonie perched on the side of the bed and gazing at me.

“Well?” I asked.

She smiled for the first time in days. “I found Captain Deimos. With Lady Nicola’s aid, he’s procured a new ship and reassembled his crew, and he’s willing to carry us to Marsilikos.”

I pushed myself upright. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Sidonie said. “He’s impatient to be free of Amílcar and he thinks the seas will be calm enough. He also thinks your mother will have his head if he doesn’t see you home safely.”

“That’s good news,” I said. “Did you find Kratos?”

“Oh, yes.” Her smile deepened. “He was very excited. He embraced me and turned fifty shades of red while apologizing for the importunity. His burns are well on their way to healing. He wishes to travel to Terre d’Ange with us and plans to meet us tomorrow.”

“Can Deimos make ready to sail on the morrow?” I asked.

“He thinks so,” she said. “At least by noon.”

“After Astegal’s execution,” I said.

Sidonie took my hand. “I spent an hour in the infirmary visiting the wounded. It’s . . .” She shook her head. “It’s awful, Imriel. I’m willing to cede my own need for vengeance. But I need to see him die. For everything he did.” She was quiet a moment. “I talked to several of Duke Leopoldo’s men in the infirmary. Paskal fought alongside them after he brought word of our plan. One of them remembered seeing him slain on the battlefield. And I asked after Captain Aureliano and his men, the ones who helped us escape. They never returned.”

“Ah, Elua!” I whispered.

“I know.” Sidonie sighed with sorrow and regret. “Do you know, I begin to understand my mother better. I pray to Blessed Elua that the likes of this never comes again in our lifetimes. But if one of our haughty girls declared herself in love with Astegal’s son, I suspect my reaction would be less than rational.”

I squeezed her hand. “Your father tried to tell me as much.”

“He’s a wise man,” she murmured.

My throat tightened. “Are you sorry?”

“About you?” Sidonie gave me a quick look. “No! Gods, no. About a thousand other things, yes. I wish I’d had the courage to trust in Blessed Elua’s precept years ago and defy my mother. I wish I’d argued more forcefully against letting Bodeshmun show us his damned marvel. I wish I didn’t have the weight of thousands of dead Euskerri on my conscience.” She freed her hand and laid it on my breast. “But I will never, ever regret loving you.”

“Nor I,” I said.

“Always and always,” Sidonie said. “I understand more, that’s all.”

“All knowledge is worth having,” I observed. “So on the morrow we watch Astegal die, then sail for home?”

She nodded. “That’s the plan.”

Sixty-Six

We greeted the dawn in the Plaza del Rey.

There was a massive crowd in the main square at the center of Amílcar. Everyone in the city—everyone within ten leagues of the city—wanted to see Astegal of Carthage executed.

A certain macabre enthusiasm pervaded the square. I understood it, although I didn’t share it. Not quite. It wasn’t just that I’d had my surfeit of death. I did want to see Astegal die. He’d earned his death a thousand times over. But I would take no joy in it. As with Amílcar’s hard-won victory, there would be only a grim satisfaction.

It would be done.

Finished.

The skies were still leaden when we assembled. Sidonie and I would be very close to the executioner’s block, standing with Lady Nicola and her husband and son, with the council members and Duke Leopoldo of Tibado, his weathered face seamed by a sword-cut. There were a good many of the walking wounded in that crowd. I myself leaned on a gilt-headed walking stick that the chirurgeon Rachel had procured for me, and I was grateful for its aid.

Dawn broke in the east, streaking the skies with fire. Along the route from the palace’s dungeon, drums began to beat. The crowd chanted.

“As-te-gal! As-te-gal!”

I glanced at Sidonie; her chin lifted, her profile achingly pure. “Are you all right, love?”

She nodded, wordless and pale.

The executioner waited, his heavy broadsword angled over his shoulder. His face was impassive. The wooden block, with a niche for Astegal to lay his neck, sat at his feet. I thought about Berlik kneeling in the swirling snow, baring his neck for my blade. This was different, so different. When all was said and done, I’d understood why Berlik did what he did. Why he’d killed Dorelei, why he’d killed our unborn son. And I had wept for his death.

No one here would weep for Astegal.

The drums continued beating, steady and unrelenting. The blood beat in my veins. A rush of sound in my ears, a bronze clash of wings. I saw Astegal of Carthage drawing near.

His hands were bound behind his back beneath his battle-frayed purple cloak, but his head was high, his eyes glaring. Proud. He was a proud man. The crowd pushed and shoved, clamoring for his blood. Astegal ignored them. There was only one person his gaze sought. As the guards ordered Astegal to halt before the executioner, Sidonie took a step forward.

I would to Elua she hadn’t.

Everyone there knew the tale that lay between them. A hush fell over the crowd. And in that moment, Astegal moved, quick and sure. His shoulders jerked and the ropes binding his wrists parted and snapped. Somehow he’d managed to fray his bonds during his imprisonment and hide his handiwork. Astegal grabbed the executioner’s sword by the blade with his bare hand and wrested it from him, heedless of the wound it inflicted. In two swift strides, he seized Sidonie and held her pinned against him, the blade to her throat.

“Don’t!” Astegal shouted at the surging guards. His face was suffused with rage. “She’ll be dead before you can strike!”

My head rang.

“Hold!” Serafin ordered the guards. He ground his teeth. “What the hell do you think to accomplish, Carthaginian?”

“I am a Prince of the House of Sarkal and I’ll not be executed like some common galley slave,” Astegal spat. “Bring me a horse or I’ll cut her throat.”

I gazed at Sidonie. She wasn’t struggling; he had the blade pressed hard enough to her flesh that a thin line of blood was visible. But she wasn’t frightened, either. She was furious. Our eyes met and the ringing in my head quieted, leaving a strange sense of calm in its wake.

I dropped my walking-stick and stepped forward. “Let her go, Astegal.”

“You!” His eyes widened. “How?”

I’d forgotten Astegal didn’t know. “I’ve been here for a while. You knew me as Leander Maignard in New Carthage. Your cousin Bodeshmun isn’t the only man on this earth to master sorcery.” I drew my sword. “Let her go, and I’ll grant you what you don’t deserve. A warrior’s death.”

He bared his teeth at me. “I think not.”

“Look around you, Astegal.” I gestured with my blade. Members of Vitor Gaitán’s Harbor Watch had pushed through the crowd to surround us, crossbows drawn and trained on Astegal. “You’re a dead man. Do you think you can mount a horse without withdrawing that sword from Sidonie’s throat?”

“Then we’ll walk,” Astegal said grimly. “My dear wife and I.”

Sidonie’s eyes flashed with fury.

Elua help me, I almost smiled. “All the way to New Carthage?” I asked. “Then you’d best not lower your blade for an instant, because one of us will be there to kill you the moment you do. And you’d best not sleep, because Sidonie will slit your throat herself.” I watched the knowledge sink into him and spread my arms. “Come. Surely you’re not afraid?”

“Of a man half-crippled?” he asked in contempt. “Ba’al have mercy, no.” Astegal tightened the blade against Sidonie’s throat. “Make it worth my while, D’Angeline. Because right now, I’ve no reason to do aught but die knowing I caused you grief.”

“All right.” I nodded. “Kill me and you’ll be given a sporting chance to live. A swift horse and an hour’s lead.”

The crowd had been spell-bound and silent, but that raised a gasp. “You can’t make that offer,” Serafin said in a tight voice. “Aragonia will not countenance it.”

I looked at him. “I won’t lose.”

There were a hundred debates we could have had, but I couldn’t marshal the will to argue them. The ringing in my head had quieted, but I could feel Kushiel’s presence over me like a mantle. This was what I was meant to do. I was as certain of that as I’d ever been of anything in my life. And Serafin L’Envers y Aragon was half D’Angeline. There was Kusheline blood in the line of House L’Envers. He returned my gaze for a long moment, and mayhap the bronze wings beat faintly in his blood, because in time he nodded.

“A swift horse and an hour,” Serafin said. “I swear it.”

There was a roar of protest at his words, but Astegal jerked the blade again. Blood trickled down Sidonie’s throat and she closed her eyes. The roar faded. “I don’t trust you,” Astegal said to Serafin.

Serafin shrugged. “Bring him a horse.”

It was done. I watched Astegal weigh the decision, wondering if he could trust Serafin’s word, wondering if there was some other way. I picked my words carefully, driving them like a wedge into the fault-lines on his soul. “I killed your kinsman, Astegal. I watched Bodeshmun die. I led your Amazigh into ambush and killed three of them with my own hand. Are you sure you’re not afraid?”

He lowered the sword and shoved Sidonie violently from him. “Come and see!”

Fingers tightened on the triggers of crossbows. “Hold!” Serafin shouted. “Give him his chance!”

“Are you all right?” I asked Sidonie, steadying her.

“Yes.”

“Good.” I kissed her lips and went to fight her husband.

Astegal was waiting for me. He’d wrapped his cloak around his left arm to serve as a makeshift shield. The end was dangling and I thought he might try to use it to foul my blade or distract me. He had the hilt of the executioner’s sword firmly gripped in his bleeding right hand. I wished I’d donned my vambraces and I wished my leg didn’t hurt so damnably much. It would slow me down, and my speed had always been one of my advantages. Astegal was reasonably quick, too. I’d seen him spar. And he was a tall man. He had a few inches of reach on me.