"Killed a lot of people," he murmured, scraping at the rocky es carpment with a jagged piece of stone. "Conquered the world."
"And laughed." I propped my chin on my hands. "He'd have thought it great sport."
Imriel nodded. "He would have laughed."
"Well." I took a breath. "He's not laughing now. And it's because of you, Imri. Had it not been for you—for who you are, for the terrible thing that befell you—the Mahrkagir would be alive, and laughing. So. I am not so quick to curse the gods, least of all Blessed Elua."
He gazed stubbornly into the chasm beneath his feet. "But it's not
fair."
"No." My heart ached for him; for me, for Joscelin, for all of us. "It's not. Ah, Imri! Even gods may falter, and I am only mortal. I would have spared you any harm, but I failed to protect you in Darśanga, and I failed here, too. I am sorry. I did my best."
His shoulders twitched. "You were hurt worse. In Daršanga."
"Mayhap." I flinched at the memory, knowing he couldn't see, and made sure my voice was steady. "But it was of my choosing, Imri, and it was worth it in the end. The Mahrkagir is no more. And you . . . you are safe, and will soon be with the Queen, who has yearned these many years to welcome you into her household as kindred. I can ask no more."
"It's still not fair," he muttered.
"I know." Reaching out with one hand, I stroked his hair. "Ah, love! I know."
"I want to stay with you." Abruptly, Imriel lifted his head, his expression at once belligerent and vulnerable. "With you and Joscelin. I don't want to go back with Lord Amaury, to be her son and his, where all the world will hate me! I don't care about thrones and all that! I don't care about the Queen! I want to stay with you."
"You can't," I said gently. "Like it or not, it is true. You are Imriel de la Courcel, a Prince of the Blood, and you have a future awaiting you. Right now, there is a caravan awaiting your pleasure, and a pony picked out just for you. Uru-Azag saw to the trappings himself. And there are injured women awaiting, who would be better served by the chirurgeons of Nineveh than my poor endeavors. Will you keep them waiting all day?"
"No." Sober at the reminder, Imriel got to his feet at the verge of the yawning gorge. I swallowed my fear and rose, holding out my hand.
He took it gravely, crossing the gap between us. "I'm sorry, Phèdre," he said, looking at me with guilt-stricken eyes. "Will they hate me for it, do you think? Because I am my mother's son?"
"No." I held his hand hard, my heart aching. "I won't let them."
SIXTY
SINADDAN-SHAMABARSIN DID not wish us to enter Nin eveh with fanfare, and therefore we passed through the gates in the small hours of the night, when the horned moon hung white and distant overhead, diffusing a silver light over the clay buildings, casting odd shadows on the empty streets.It was the only way. A company of our size, mainly comprised of unveiled women from a dozen nations, would have drawn attention. I was glad of it, for it meant the Lugal had taken the warning I'd sent ahead by courier to heart. He would not act until he had heard me out.
Still, it was strange, everything muffled by night, the faces I'd come to know so well rendered indistinct. And stranger still when we parted ways at the Palace of Nineveh. Valère L'Envers, the Lugalin, had or dered an unused wing of the women's quarters thrown open and made ready for their arrival, and there they would be housed, while their fates were decided.
A different welcome awaited the D'Angelines.
The rest of us—Amaury, Joscelin, Imriel and I—would be treated as royal guests, and Amaury's three comrades quartered within the Palace. And despite the lateness of the hour, we were formally received as such by the Lugalin herself.
"Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève." Color stood out on Valère L'Envers cheeks as she sat like a gilded effigy on the throne in her private audience hall, and I could not say if she was pleased to see me or not. "My lord Trente, Messire Cassiline." The jewel-bedecked headdress dipped, and her voice changed. "Prince Imriel de la Courcel."
We all made obeisance. Imriel bowed stiffly, wary. "Your highness."
In the cloistered hall, I saw him anew—saw what Valère saw, the gemlike beauty, the blue-black hair of House Shahrizai, his eyes the color of sapphires, the hue of twilight. His mother's face, carved in miniature.
Her mouth twisted as she regarded me. "So again, despite all odds, you return alive, Comtesse. It seems I will not have to undertake the grievous task of composing notice of your death to my cousin Ysandre after all."
"It seems," I said, "that you will not, my lady. We are grateful for your hospitality."
"Yes." Valère contemplated us. "I have arranged for you and Messire Joscelin to share quarters, Comtesse. I trust it will not displease you. As far as the Akkadian nobility is concerned, you may as well be considered wed. And the prince shall be housed in adjoining quarters. I am told you have grown . . . close."
Truly, we were back in the world, and all the politics that it entailed. I remembered the genuine kindness she had shown me before we left; Valère L'Envers, I feared, had liked me a good deal better when she thought I was dead. I made a graceful curtsy, wondering if she'd already written my eulogy in these months gone by. "My lady is too gracious."
She waved a disinterested hand. "It is the least I can do. My lord Sinaddan is eager for your report, once you are rested. My lord Trente, quarters have been prepared also for you. My lords, my lady ... be welcome in Nineveh."
And with that, we were dismissed and escorted to our quarters. I was bone-weary, too tired to think it through. With Joscelin and Imriel, I followed the attendant eunuch to our appointed quarters, luxuriant and generous. There was a single door dividing our rooms from Imriel's. The last I saw as I laid my head upon soft cushions on a down pallet was Joscelin silhouetted by lamplight, standing in the dividing doorway and asking a question. As I sank into dreams, Imriel's voice followed me, giving an answer . . .
. . . and then I slept, and knew no more.
In the morning, Valère's personal physician, an Eisandine chirurgeon who had travelled with her into virtual exile in Khebbel-im-Akkad, came to examine us. After so long, it was a relief to surrender to his expertise. With careful fingers, he unwrapped the bindings on Joscelin's arm, examining the set of the bone and grunting.
It was something of a shock to see how the muscles had dwindled with disuse, the skin pallid and sloughing. At the chirurgeon's bidding, Joscelin moved his arm, clenched his left hand into a fist. The chirurgeon merely grunted, bathing the injured limb with care and letting it dry before he reapplied bindings of clean white cotton, splinting them in place. Drucilla's shawl, he cast away in disdain, replacing it with an elegant sling of brocaded cloth.
"Will he regain the use of his arm?" I asked.
"Like as not, though he'll favor it all of his days." The chirurgeon shrugged. "It's well set, barbarian work or no."
I gathered Drucilla's shawl, travel-stained and creased into greasy folds, to my breast. Barbarian work. "I set it myself, my lord chirur geon," I said. "Under the direction of a physician of Tiberium."
"You did well enough." He beckoned. "Come, then, and let me have a look."
Joscelin left the room when the Eisandine chirurgeon examined me. For all his brusqueness, his touch was gentle and impersonal. He kept his head bowed, and made no comment until it was done.
"I saw worse, among the others," he said, washing his hands in a basin. "Her majesty sent me last night. Wouldn't have thought so, if I understood aright what you've undergone. Comfrey, and oil of lavender—I'll have my assistant make a salve. But you're healing anew, where they've scarred. Your tissues . . . Kushiel's gift?"
"Yes." Sitting up, I smoothed my skirts over my knees. "If you want to call it that."
He nodded, an unexpected compassion in his grey eyes. "I've heard. I'll give you a balm, too, to rub on yon Cassiline's arm, when the time comes. Three more weeks, mind, before the bindings come off. It will help the blood flow, and aid healing. Don't tell him I gave it you, or he'll be out of the sling in a heartbeat. I know his kind."
"Thank you," I whispered. "My lord chirurgeon, thank you."
"You needn't. I've taken a vow, like you." He paused. "I saw the boy, earlier."
"And?" Anxiety made my heart beat a little faster.
"He'll heal." The chirurgeon gathered up his things. "The brand will leave a scar, but his welts are clean and he is young, and strong of spirit. 'Tis the bitterness that festers worst. Let him talk of it, if he wishes. As he comes to manhood ..." Remembering of whom he spoke, he let his words trail into silence. "Well. He'll be cared for, no doubt."
"No doubt," I echoed. "Thank you, my lord chirurgeon. I will take your words to heart, and see that they are passed on to those who need hear them."
The salve came within the hour, and Joscelin's balm with it, stop pered in an earthenware jar and smelling of camphor and wintergreen.
I hid it among my things. Valère L'Envers sent gifts of clothing, gor geous robes and veils in the Akkadian style, and unguents and cosmetics. After a welcome soak in the waters of the bathhouse, I had myself properly attired. Elua knows, it was strange. My own skin felt unfamiliar to me, clean and fragrant with perfumed oils. The touch of silk against my flesh was unwontedly luxurious.
"My lady." It was one of Valère's eunuchs at the door, eyes down cast. Behind him stood Joscelin, exotic in a long, broad-sleeved tunic of garnet, worn over trousers. He looked manifestly uncomfortable, and not because of the brocaded sling. "The Lugal will see you."
One does not argue, when a prince commands. I donned my veil and went.