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

Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3) Page 90

Alais bowed her head. Ysandre placed the medal around her neck, then kissed and embraced her daughter. Drustan put his arms around them both and said somewhat in a voice too low for anyone else to hear. Alais nodded, her face hidden. A soft sigh of approval ran through the crowd.

Terre d’Ange was whole.

We would endure.

The Medal of Valor was likewise presented to Barquiel L’Envers, who received it with a modesty I didn’t think was feigned. This ordeal had altered him, as it had all of us. He looked tired and relieved, a man spared a dreadful burden. But Alais . . . when Alais turned to face the crowd, she gave a smile so bright and dazzling, so utterly genuine, that I felt myself smiling in reply.

We would heal.

The ceremony was concluded. I watched Hyacinthe pay his respects to Drustan and Ysandre. There was somewhat reassuring about his presence there, a reminder that there were benign forces in the world able to match Carthage’s magic. I thought about the mysterious journey that Phèdre and Joscelin had undertaken at his behest some years ago. Somewhere, I suspected, the pages of the Book of Raziel from whence his arcane knowledge came lay hidden and guarded. Mayhap they would vanish forever, or mayhap they would become a thread in someone else’s tale.

I didn’t know for sure.

I didn’t want to know.

All that I wanted, I had. I glanced sidelong at Sidonie and caught her doing the same. She laughed.

“What are you thinking, Sun Princess?” I asked.

Her eyes sparkled. “Guess.”

I smiled. “I think I can.”

“Likely.” Sidonie reached up to kiss me, and there were no murmurs of disapproval from the slowly dispersing crowd, no underlying current of suspicion, only quiet smiles and nods. The fact that we were together had become emblematic of the fact that all was well in Terre d’Ange. Our love had been woven into the fabric of the realm.

My arm resting around Sidonie’s waist, I watched Hyacinthe approach Phèdre and Joscelin.

“Tsingano,” Joscelin said in greeting.

Hyacinthe nodded at him. “Cassiline.”

He didn’t speak to Phèdre, only folded her in his arms. I watched her cling to him, holding him hard, taking solace in his presence. He was the Master of the Straits, but he was her oldest friend, too. Their story reached back a long, long way. Across the crowd, I met Joscelin’s eyes. He shrugged, the hilt of his sword rising over his left shoulder. Joscelin understood.

Everything was intertwined.

If Phèdre had never cared so deeply for Hyacinthe, she would never have set out on a quest to free him from his curse. Never have found herself in Menekhet, where the threads of our stories intertwined. Never have gone to Daršanga to free me. And if Joscelin hadn’t loved her beyond all reason, he would never have accompanied her. Never have defended us all in a dark and terrible hall that stank of death and ran red with blood.

None of us would be here.

“Imriel.” Sidonie’s voice broke my reverie. I realized that the official participants of the ceremony were waiting on us. They wouldn’t leave before we gave the signal. That was something else to which I’d have to grow accustomed, a taste of the future to come. Sidonie’s regency would end in a month, but I had fallen in love with the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange, heir to a throne that my mother had coveted and I had never wanted. One day she truly would rule in her mother’s stead, with me at her side. “Are you ready?”

“No,” I said. “But I will be.”

Eighty-Seven

The month passed swiftly.

There was an endless amount of work to be done, but the arrival of Alais and L’Envers and their shadow Parliament was a great help. With their aid, we were able to assemble a Court of Assizes willing and qualified to review the multitude of petitions. There were a handful of cases in which Alais admitted to questioning her own judgment—she knew a great deal more about Alban law than D’Angeline—but many could be dismissed out of hand by the Court. The rest, Sidonie agreed to review herself.

The moon waned and waxed. The trade routes grew busy. Life in the City began to resume some of its normal rhythms.

Alais met with her royal parents to speak to them about her desire to end her betrothal to Talorcan and pursue her studies to become an ollamh. Sidonie and I attended the meeting. They heard Alais out in silence.

“I am willing to give my blessing to this plan,” Drustan said when she had finished. “As an ollamh, her stature and influence will be greater than that of a Cruarch’s wife. But I do not know if that would be understood in Terre d’Ange.”

“Far better than it would have been a year ago,” Ysandre murmured. “Though there is still the question of succession.”

“I’ve thought about that, too.” Alais hesitated. “Aunt Breidaia . . . we’ve grown close since Dorelei’s death. I think she would be pleased to adopt me as a foster-daughter. And if she did . . .”

“You’d be Talorcan’s sister in the eyes of Alban law,” Drustan mused, finishing the thought. “Your children would be eligible to be named his heirs.”

Alais nodded without speaking.

“Ah, love!” Ysandre studied Alais’ face. “Is it truly your heart’s desire?”

“It is,” Alais said in a steady voice.

Ysandre smiled with sorrow. “Then I think I too must consent to give my blessing. If we have learned naught else, of a surety we have learned the dangers of placing politics over love.” Her gaze fell on Sidonie and me. “So one oft-postponed wedding is to be cancelled and one much-thwarted one announced. I think it would be best if we waited until I’ve resumed the throne to issue both proclamations. I want there to be no question that this was in accordance with my will and done with my blessing.”

“And mine,” Drustan said quietly.

So it was decided.

The waxing moon grew full. In a small, modest ceremony, Sidonie relinquished the regency and Ysandre reclaimed the throne. The banns were posted announcing our betrothal. The wedding would take place the following summer, in one year’s time. All of us reckoned the realm needed time yet to heal, and Sidonie and I would sooner be wed in joy than sorrow. For now it was enough that our betrothal was recognized and accepted.

There were no protests, no mention of Melisande Shahrizai. Carthage’s treachery had overshadowed hers. The love affair that had strained the realm had proved its salvation.

The world had changed.

A few weeks after Ysandre resumed the throne, word came from Aragonia. Pressed by the presence of the D’Angeline fleet and fearful of further military support coming from Terre d’Ange, bereft of its ambitious general and his sorcerous kinsman, Carthage was cutting its losses and negotiating for a truce.

Aragonia itself was in disarray. There were factions supporting Serafin L’Envers y Aragon and factions supporting the deposed king, Roderico de Aragon. There were factions that held that the best compromise was for the childless Roderico to name Serafin his heir. There were factions supporting the accord with the Euskerri and factions opposing it. After consulting with Sidonie, Ysandre sent a sharply worded message indicating that if Aragonia failed to honor its bargain with the fledgling sovereign nation of Euskerria, Terre d’Ange would withdraw its naval support, leaving their ports defenseless.

Beyond that, it was their story to tell.

There was talk of retribution against Carthage. As spring wore onto summer, Ysandre convened Parliament to discuss the matter—a Parliament altered and expanded by circumstance. The members of the shadow Parliament who had helped Alais govern had been inaugurated as official members under Ysandre’s rule. The debate was waged by old members and new, the bright mirror and the dark.

All voices were heard. Sidonie and I spoke against war. We’d both seen too much bloodshed. We both carried our own scars. No amount of further blood would erase them.

In the end it was Hyacinthe’s voice that decided it.

He had elected to stay until Drustan returned to Alba. I daresay there was a part of him that missed the land of his birth. The Master of the Straits was reckoned the equal to the Queen and Cruarch, and his counsel was always welcome.

“It is my thought that our nations have seen enough war for one lifetime,” Hyacinthe said, sitting at Drustan’s right hand. “I, too, speak against it. You are within your rights to demand some manner of restitution.” He shrugged slightly, and the air around him seemed to shudder. “And you are within your rights to decide that the tribute-gift with which Carthage gained entry to the City suffices. As to that, I do not care. But I will say this.” His voice rose, threaded with ominous thunder. “Carthage’s deeds threatened and damaged the lives of those I love. If that had been known to me, I would not have hesitated to use any and all power against them.”

The hall was hushed and breathless.

Hyacinthe smiled grimly. “I consider it a debt owed. If Carthage should ever think to raise its hand against the least citizen of Terre d’Ange or Alba while I live, I will sink it beneath the waves.”

There was no further talk of retribution.

With the matter settled, Drustan returned to Alba, escorted by the soldiers who’d come to defend Terre d’Ange against itself. Alais and Hyacinthe went with them. Before they left, I’d remembered a promise unkept. I spoke to Phèdre, who sent Ti-Philippe and Hugues to Montrève to see it fulfilled. Unlike in other years, there was no great farewell fête for the Cruarch, but there was a small gathering of family and friends. It was there that I fulfilled my promise. Sidonie laughed at me, but she willingly consented to be part of it.

Alais’ eyes widened when she saw us enter. The wolfhound paced before us on a leash, tall and dignified, no longer a pup. “Oh, Imri!” She pressed her cheeks with both hands. “You remembered.”

“Ah, Elua,” Ysandre murmured in fond despair.

I handed the leash to Alais. “We chose her a year ago. Her dam was one of Celeste’s littermates. Artus Labbé said she was the best of the lot. He called her Allegra.”

“Allegra,” Alais whispered, stroking the dog’s head. Its plumed whip of a tail beat. “Thank you.”

It was another thing brought around full circle. I’d mocked myself after that day long ago when Alais’ dog Celeste, my gift to her, had been gored by a boar and I’d sought to protect Sidonie from a harmless deer. Imriel, savior of dogs, defender against deer. Later, when it truly mattered, I had failed. Failed to protect Dorelei, failed to protect Celeste. The bear that had killed my wife and our unborn son had slain Alais’ dog, too.

The bear-witch.

Berlik.

So many sacrifices, great and small. Had they been needful to bring us to this moment? I would never know. All I could do was mourn and honor them, great and small. The Cruithne princess who taught me what it meant to love selflessly. The noble-hearted dog who died trying to defend her.

“Thank you,” Alais repeated. She gave the wolfhound a hug and straightened, unselfconsciously brushing dog hair from her gown. “I thought . . .” She hesitated. “When I return, I thought I might stay at Clunderry. It was a place of happiness, once. I’m ready to remember it thus.”

I smiled. “I’d like that. I’d like to think of you there.”

“Not alone, surely?” Sidonie inquired.

Alais shook her head. “No, of course not. Aunt Breidaia and I talked of it before I left. And Firdha or one of the other ollamhs would have to consent if I’m to continue my studies there.”

“Ah.” I raised my brows. “So you might invite Aodhan of the Dalriada, who wrought my bindings. And mayhap his pupil, Conor mac Grainne, the son of the Lady of the Dalriada and a certain harpist?”

“I might in time.” Alais flushed. “I told you I believe the Maghuin Dhonn know things we’ve lost. Mayhap it’s time to reclaim them. To work together in peace and understanding.”

I eyed her until her flush deepened. “Mayhap.”

Mayhap it was, I thought. Mayhap Dorelei’s death and Berlik’s sacrifice were part of another pattern yet to emerge, one in which Alais played a role no one could have guessed. Or mayhap her role was a bridge to another tale, one that would be told by generations yet to be born.

I hoped it would be a joyous one.

Eighty-Eight

Summer gave way to fall. In the countryside, it was harvest time. In the City, the peers arranged hunting parties and began to talk of wintering at the Palace. The endless stream of petitions abated. The D’Angeline fleet returned from Aragonia with the glad news that King Roderico had agreed to honor the Euskerri treaty and name Serafin his heir, settling the discord overseas. The ordinary rhythms of life slowly took precedence.

Terre d’Ange continued to heal.

The paving-stones were replaced in Elua’s Square. All across the City, the signs of damage wrought in the quest to find Bodeshmun’s gem were erased. People began to gather in wineshops and inns. Trade in the Night Court, which had slowed for all of the Thirteen Houses save Balm House, resumed at a livelier pace.

There were reminders. The swathe the demon had cut on its passage through the City was visible, cobblestones and the sides of buildings scoured clean and smooth. Where it had crossed the outer wall, the stones gleamed especially white.

And there was the charred foundation in Night’s Doorstep where a humble dwelling had been burned to the ground and a family of Tsingani killed. During her tenure as regent, Sidonie had ordered it left untouched.

Never forget.

None of us ever would. But bit by bit, we learned to live with the memories.

The plans for Sidonie’s and my wedding got under way in earnest. It was to be a grand fête, the greatest celebration the realm had seen since Phèdre had staged a celebration for the entire City on the occasion of Hyacinthe’s freedom. Like an idiot, I expected Sidonie to take a deep and abiding interest in the process.