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

It touched me. “I’ll do my best.”

“Imriel!” Sidonie joined us, eyes sparkling. She greeted my exiled kinsman. “You must be Lord Marmion. Well met, my lord.”

He bowed. “Just Marmion, your highness.”

“Then I will be just Sidonie,” she said. “Since it is my hope that we will be near-kin one day.”

Marmion smiled. “I do believe that would please me, too. Blessed Elua hold and keep you, Sidonie. And when you see your mother . . . tell Ysandre that I think fondly of her.”

“I will,” Sidonie promised.

With that, he took his leave of us. I gazed thoughtfully after him. “Do you suppose he was ever your mother’s . . . ?”

“No.” Sidonie shook her head. “No, I actually asked her about that one of the few times we spoke about you without acrimony. I remembered hearing that he was one of her favorite courtiers before he was exiled. She was fond of Marmion. He made her laugh. But she never took him as a lover.” She gave me one of her quick, flickering smiles. “’Tis a pity. She might have been more sympathetic toward us if she had.”

I slid one arm around her waist, pulling her against me. “Do you suspect your mother of harboring perverse desires?”

Sidonie looped her arms around my neck. “Doesn’t everyone?”

All in all, Lady Nicola’s fête was a considerable success. We were all strung tighter than overtuned harps, and we needed the distraction. None of us forgot about Carthage’s army camped outside Amílcar’s walls. None of us forgot that come the first clear night, we would attempt a desperate venture. But for now, we were alive and free, and we celebrated that fact, Aragonian and D’Angeline alike.

If the food was scant and the great hall dim and a trifle cool for a scarcity of lamp-oil and hearth-wood, it didn’t matter. Keg after keg of wine was breached, and Ramiro Zornín de Aragon urged folk to drink with mournful enthusiasm, making everyone laugh and Lady Nicola smile with fond indulgence. The musicians played until sweat dripped from their brows.

We were alive.

We were free.

And at the end of the night, I got to retire with my beloved.

“Imriel.” In our darkened bedchamber, Sidonie breathed my name. I found her mouth and kissed her. She tasted like wine and honey on my tongue.

“What’s your desire, Sun Princess?” I whispered.

“You.” She sank to her knees, her hands gliding over my chest. I felt her fingers undoing my breeches. I felt my taut phallus spring free. I groaned as she licked the underside, swirling her tongue around the crown like a child with a sweet. Groaned louder when she took me into her mouth, sinking my hands into her hair and freeing its coils, feeling her nails digging into my buttocks.

“Stop!” I gasped.

Sidonie’s eyes gleamed in the faint light. “Is that a signale?”

“No.” The word emerged as a growl deep in my throat. “Come here, Princess.”

Beneath her gown, Sidonie was still bandaged, clean strips of white linen laced across her shoulders, crisscrossing her breasts. For the first time since I’d wounded her, I ignored her injury. I laid her on her back and spread her thighs, fitting myself between them, propped on one arm. I teased her, taking my phallus in my hand and rubbing its swollen crown against her slick cleft until she gasped and begged, her back arching, hips thrusting helplessly.

Then I took her.

Deep.

Hard.

“Elua!” Sidonie’s last ragged gasp burst in my ear, her inner muscles milking my shaft. I burst in her, spending myself, seeing a sparkling darkness behind my closed eyelids. Good, so good. Where did Sidonie begin and Imriel end? I couldn’t even tell anymore. This could be the last time. I didn’t know.

I never wanted to know.

Our bodies quieted in the aftermath of pleasure.

“Your back?” I murmured.

“I think it’s all right.” Her voice was low and different. It always was after love-making. “If it’s not, it was worth it.”

I rolled off her, sliding my arm beneath her. “Sleep, love.”

Sidonie lay in the crook of my arm. “Look at the window. It’s almost dawn.” We watched the light seep through the shuttered window. “It looks as though the weather might have cleared.”

“Mayhap,” I agreed.

We looked at one another. “Right.” Sidonie nodded. “Sleep.”

In the morning—or later in the morning—when we arose, we found it was true. The weather had broken and the day was clear and bright, giving every promise of a clear, cloudless night.

“I don’t think they’ll do it tonight,” I said to Sidonie. “Not after the fête.”

I was wrong.

In the early afternoon, Captain Aureliano, the soldier I’d met atop the walls of the city, sought us out, finding us in the palace library. He’d struck me as a competent, easygoing fellow when I’d met him. Today he was as serious as death.

“Well met, your highness,” he said when I introduced him to Sidonie. “General Liberio sent me to confer with you.”

Sidonie paled. “Is it tonight?”

“It is.” Aureliano took a deep breath. “The general had us let the word slip to Astegal’s men that there was a fête last night. We do a fair bit of taunting back and forth, you know. Not much else to do. But he reckoned that in the event the weather cleared today, they’d never expect us to pull a stunt tonight.”

“Clever,” I said.

“Liberio’s a clever fellow,” Aureliano said. “I’ll be in command of your company. He’s sent me to go over every instruction with you to be sure there are no mistakes made tonight.”

“Tell us what we need to know,” Sidonie said in a resolute tone.

Aureliano went over the plan step by step. Saddlebags would be delivered to our quarters. We were to pack our things and be ready by nightfall—nothing more than we could carry on horseback. That part at least was simple—neither of us possessed more than we could carry.

“What about supplies?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Your guide will be carrying enough to get you through the first night or so. Once you’re north of Amílcar, you’ll find villages willing to trade. Carthage’s sway lies to the south yet.”

The sortie was to take place some hours after midnight. Aureliano and his men would come to fetch us and escort us to the western gates of the city.

“You’re opening the gates?” I asked, startled.

“No choice,” he said grimly. “There are sally ports to the north and south, but they’re too small to admit aught but foot-soldiers. Not horses, and surely not that movable gangplank.”

The balance of the plan was simple. Liberio’s infantry men would essay a pair of sorties; the first from the southern sally port to provide a distraction, and the second from the northern port. Once the latter had secured the trench, the gates would be opened. A company of soldiers would rush forth with the gangplank to bridge the trench. As soon as it was in place, we’d follow. A second company, the one that would scatter across Aragonia, would follow in our wake.

“Getting across the plank’s going to be the worst of it,” Aureliano warned us. “We’ll have to go single file. Do you ride well, your highness?”

“Tolerably,” Sidonie said.

“Good.” He gave a brusque nod. “Getting to the bridge proper is the second worst. We’ll be crossing ground held by Carthage. With luck, they’ll be too confused and in disarray to act swiftly.”

“And Astegal will be fuming his way from Montero,” I observed. “Where he’s been careless enough to ensconce himself.”

“Indeed.” Aureliano smiled briefly. “There are ten of us escorting you. Once we’ve crossed the plank, I want you to fall into the following formation. Four lines of three abreast. Your highness, you’ll be in the middle of the second rank, directly behind me. Prince Imriel, you’ll be in the middle of the third rank. The last rank will form your rearguard. Is that too difficult to understand?”

The question was directed at Sidonie. On any other occasion she would have shot him a cool look. Today she shook her head somberly. “No, my lord captain. I think I can manage it.”

To his credit, he took her at her word. “Good. Once we’ve crossed the bridge, we ride like hell. There’s a squadron of archers will try to follow in our wake. They’ll hold the bridge behind us as long as they can to delay pursuit. When your guide Paskal gives the word, you’ll split off from the company. Do you have any questions?”

“No,” Sidonie said.

“I do,” I said. “You and the men who drew this assignment . . . how were you chosen?”

Aureliano met my eyes. “We volunteered. What do you reckon our odds are?”

I thought about the Amazigh guards beheading the assassin in the garden. Desert justice. “Do any of you speak Hellene?”

“I do,” he said.

“Give yourselves up before the Amazigh catch you of their own accord,” I said. “Don’t give them an excuse to kill you out of hand. Try to convince them you’ve information you’ll give only to Astegal.”

“And tell Astegal you were forced into cooperating,” Sidonie added. “Tell him Serafin and Liberio threatened to kill your wives and children. Tell him you want to swear loyalty to him.”

“Will it work?” Aureliano asked.

Sidonie shrugged. “It might. He takes a certain pleasure in getting folk to betray their loyalties.”

“My thanks.” He bowed. “I’ll see you anon. Take some sleep if you can. It’s going to be a grueling night.”

Fifty-Eight

At the hour of midnight, we gathered in the great hall to wait.

The mood was quiet and subdued, the palace nearly empty. Most folk were either sleeping or elsewhere along the city walls. But Lady Nicola waited with us, for which I was grateful.

“You’ve everything in readiness?” she asked for the third or fourth time. It was unsettling to see her unsettled.

“Everything,” I assured her.

“I’m sorry.” Nicola shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s the waiting. It drives one mad, doesn’t it?”

Sidonie didn’t comment. I watched her gathering herself, gathering her courage. Mostly I just watched her, etching her features on my memory over and over again. I wasn’t afraid for myself, but I was terrified for her sake. I wondered if Joscelin had felt that way. Probably, I thought, and with a great deal more regularity.

Still, it was awful.

It almost seemed too soon when Aureliano and his men came for us. He introduced us to Paskal, our guide. Paskal was a short, dark, broad-chested fellow who seemed disconcertingly young. I’d hoped for someone steady and authoritative, someone like Urist. But Paskal’s mother was Euskerri. He knew the language and the territory. I supposed that was more important than age.

“Ready?” Aureliano asked.

“Yes.” Sidonie glanced at me, then reached for my hand, gripping it hard. “Let’s go.”

We bade farewell to Lady Nicola, who embraced us both. “I’ll not say good-bye to you,” she said steadily. “We’ll meet again. But yes.” She forestalled Sidonie’s question. “Emmenghanom. I remember. And I have it written and saved in a safe place.”

Sidonie smiled quietly. “Thank you, my lady.”

Another leavetaking.

Gods, I hated them.

We rode through the moon-silvered streets of Amílcar, the city silent and tense. The first sortie hadn’t been launched yet. General Liberio wanted to be certain every element was in readiness. Once they struck, things would move very quickly.

Our company gathered inside the western gate, behind the stalwart company of soldiers responsible for maneuvering the gangplank into place. I didn’t envy them their task. They’d be slow-moving and exposed.

A runner went to inform the General that we were ready. We waited. My horse shifted under me, cocking one hip. I wished I had the Bastard. He’d make a target, though, his speckled white hide gleaming in the moonlight. We rode dark horses, wore dark clothing. Our armor was darkened with ash and grease. Sidonie was shrouded in a man’s black cloak, the hood drawn up to hide her hair.

We waited.

The first sortie struck.

On the far side of the wall, a clamor of chaos and confusion arose to the south of us. The sound of bowstrings twanging. Shouts of pain and anger, battle-cries. A clash of weapons. Horns blaring an alarm. I wished I could see what was happening.

Then the second sortie.

The sounds of battle intensified. South and north. Men screaming, men dying. We’d be riding through it. I glanced at Sidonie. She met my gaze, her eyes wide: twin pools of blackness in her pale face.

“Whatever happens, I love you,” she said.

I nodded. “Always.”

“You won’t let Astegal have me?”

I shook my head. “Never.”

More horns blared—ours, in the tower of the gatehouse. “Be ready,” Aureliano said briefly.

It was a proper portcullis, massive and heavy. Somewhere in the gatehouse a gear cranked, raising the grate. Two men wrestled with the heavy bar of the inner gates. Four men in concert shoved at the doors themselves, hurling them open.

“Go, go, go!” someone shouted.

The infantry soldiers carrying the portable bridge raced forward, dashing for the trench some thirty yards away. The fighting was north and south. Before us, the moon-shadowed ground was open. At Aureliano’s signal, we moved forward into the open gateway. He raised one hand, bidding us wait.