Kushiel's Scion (Imriel's Trilogy #1)

"Be like you?" I asked.

"No." Head bowed, he regarded his hands, resting loosely on his thighs. "Not for that."

"You think I am, then?" I asked. "Like you?"

"No." Joscelin raised his head and gave me his wry half-smile. He uncoiled to rise with an easy grace I would envy until I died, extending his strong right hand. I took it and got to my feet. "I think you're like you, Imriel. Quick to admire kindness and courage and loyalty in others; slow to see it in yourself. At your age, I promise you, I was quite the opposite. And I think you've room in your heart for more than I ever did."

"Phèdre—" I began.

"Takes up a lot of space," Joscelin agreed. "And the rest is yours."

My eyes stung. "Joscelin…"

"Oh, hush." He embraced me, then loosed me, tousling my hair as he used to do when I was younger. "Go to bed, will you? I'll see to the fire. I don't want to be blamed if you're exhausted on the morrow."

"I'm going, I'm going." I reached for railing and began mounting the stairs. "See?"

"Imri?" Yes?

Joscelin looked up at me. His summer-blue eyes were wide and clear. Whatever shadows lay behind them—and I knew, now, that they were there—he'd learned to live with them. "When you tell Phèdre whatever else there is to tell…" He shook his head. "Don't tell her about rescuing Eamonn. It was a foolhardy thing you did."

"All right," I promised. "I won't."

"Oh, she'll know." He smiled at me. "Or she'll guess. But you don't need to tell hen. Not the details of it. She worries enough as it is." "And you don't?" I asked. "Always," he said simply. "But I'm used to it."

Chapter Seventy-One

In the morning, I presented myself at the Palace. I'd learned, rather to my relief, that the news from Lucca had been kept fairly quiet. It had leaked out, of course, but it was only rumors. Ysandre didn't want the fact that her wayward young kinsman was trapped in a besieged Caerdicci city to become common knowledge.

"Who knows?" I asked at the breakfast table.

"Officially?" Phèdre counted on her fingers. "The Queen's Guard, and Sidonie and Alais. And House Shahrizai."

"She told them?" It surprised me.

"You sent a message for Mavros," she reminded me.

"Elua!" I set down the piece of jam-smeared bread I'd been holding. "That letter… I'm so sorry."

"Don't be." Phèdre reached across the table and took my hand. "Imri, if you hadn't come back…" She shook her head, unable to finish the thought. "Don't be sorry."

I squeezed her hand. "You told Mavros, then?"

"Mmm." She nodded. "And Roxanne de Mereliot."

"The Tsingani?"

She smiled. "Only Emile. After all, they've found you before. You saw the boys at the gate?" I nodded, and Phèdre laughed. "He promised them I'd give a gold ducat to the first to bring word you'd been sighted. Only he didn't bother to tell me."

"Did you?" I asked.

Her smile deepened. "Of course."

"So what might I expect today?" I smiled back at her. "Will Ysandre be angry with me, do you think?"

"Over yesterday?" Phèdre let go of my hand, propping her chin on her fist. "No, I don't think so, Imri. I know you have your quarrels with her, but Ysandre's not petty."

"She was with you," I said.

"Ah, well." She raised her brows. "That wasn't pettiness. I gave her cause."

It was true, so I didn't argue. "What about Barquiel L'Envers?" I asked, pronouncing his name with distaste. "Will he be there?"

"No, I doubt it." Phèdre looked thoughtful. "He's not been much in evidence this autumn. What that means, I can't say, but he's not likely to be there."

"Well, he got what he wanted, didn't he? By this time next year, I'll be out of his way in Alba, exactly where he wanted me." I picked up my bread and put it back down. "Has my… betrothal… been announced?" The word sounded strange to my ears.

"Not officially, no. She was awaiting your return." Her voice was quiet. We hadn't spoken of it yet.

"Unofficially?" I asked.

"Well, you know Alais was delighted." She hesitated. "She took the other news, the news of the siege, hard."

"There was a scene," Joscelin added wryly.

"Poor little thing." I pushed my plate away, no longer hungry. The gossip of the Court could be cruel. "No wonder there are rumors. What…" I cleared my throat and schooled my voice to casualness. "What about Sidonie? I nearly expect she'd be glad to be rid of me."

"Imri!" Phèdre sounded shocked. "That's unkind."

"What?" I shrugged. "You know there's never been any love lost between us."

"You do her an injustice," she said softly. "She didn't take it lightly. No one did."

I met her gaze, feeling at once guilty and glad. "I know. It's just… no mind. What of House Trevalion? Bertran was courting Sidonie, wasn't he?"

"He was and is," Phèdre said. "Not with much success, I believe."

She met my eyes. "He's wintering at Court, though. And so is his mother."

"She's not in Azzalle?" I asked, surprised.

She shook her head. "Not since Ghislain was named Royal Commander."

I thought about it. "Well, good. That will make this simpler."

"Come on." Joscelin pushed his chair back and rose. "Enough idle speculation. The Queen is waiting. Let's get you to Court."

It struck me harder than I'd reckoned.

I'd never had any great love for the Palace, or at least I hadn't thought so. But when we disembarked from the carriage in the courtyard, a lump rose to my throat. It was a beautiful building, massive and proud, overlooking the Aviline River. Its white marble walls glistened, maintained with loving pride. I tilted my head and gazed at its high towers, silhouetted against the cold, grey sky. If I had died in Lucca, I would never have seen it again.

D'Angelines had built this.

I thought about Lucca, and how Gallus Tadius had been willing to die a second time in defense of the city he'd made his own. I wouldn't gladly lay down my life for the City of Elua, for this building. But I would do it for Phèdre or Joscelin; I would do it in a heartbeat.

And I would do it for Terre d'Ange itself.

A pretty folk, Eamonn called us, teasing. We were. And a vain folk, too. Proud; proud of our beauty, proud of our heritage, proud of our knowledge and skills. The world chided us for it, and rightly so. Some of it was folly, some of it was conceit.

Not all. Never all.

"Prince Imriel!" One of the Queen's Guard greeted me with a deep bow, snapping his fingers at a comrade. "Welcome home, your highness. Comtesse de Montrève, Messire Verreuil, welcome. Her majesty awaits you."

We were ushered into the Palace. It was busy; it was always busy. The marble halls rang with the sounds of merriment from other rooms. I turned my head as we passed the Hall of Games, remembering Gilot dicing there, swearing cheerfully as he lost his wages. D'Angeline gentry strolled the halls, heads turning as we passed, speculation rising in our wake.

Like the first time, only different.

Elua, how they had stared! And I'd cared, then. I'd cared so much, hating them. It all seemed a long time ago. I'd struggled to ignore them, keeping my chin up and my eyes fixed forward, rehearsing in my mind the words I meant to say. I'd snuck covert glances at Phèdre, drawing strength from her intent fixity of purpose. At Joscelin, taking heart from his careless glower.

It was easier now. There's not much to be said for the experience of standing one's ground before the onslaught of a charging army, but it put matters into perspective.

I'd thought we were bound for the throne room, but no. The reception took place in the Queen's private chambers. The room had tall windows that looked out onto a garden, sere and frostbitten. Ysandre paced before them, her hands clasped behind her back, pensive and anxious. Even as the guard announced us, she turned.

"Imriel!" she said with pleasure.

Phèdre was right, there was no pettiness in Ysandre de la Courcel. Her face was alight with gladness, and I was ashamed. I bowed deeply, muttering words of gratitude and apologies for yesterday's rudeness. Ysandre laughed and clasped my shoulders, raising me to give me the kiss of greeting, sweetly and nicely.

"Ah, no," she said, overriding my protestations. "I'm glad you're well, cousin. After your travail, there's naught I begrudge you. I should have known to wait. After all, I've had long dealings with House Montrève." The Queen of Terre d'Ange cast an affectionate glance in Phèdre's direction, then turned her head toward the far door. Her profile was still as clean and lovely as an image on a coin. "Alais!" she called. "He's here!"

There was a choked sob in the other room, and a flurry. Alais barreled into me, hard and fast. Her head butted into my chest, and her thin arms wrapped around my waist. I wouldn't have fallen if it wasn't for the wolfhound Celeste bounding after her, tangling my legs. We went down in an undignified tumble.

"You promised, you promised, you promised!" she chanted.

I could barely make out her words, uttered through sobs and muffled against my doublet. "I know, I know! And Alais, I did. I came back." I hugged her and stroked her black curls, which was all I could see of her, sprawled on my back as I was. "See, here I am."

She lifted her tearstained face, laughing and sniffling. "I knew you would!"

"Oh?" I teased gently. "That's not what I heard."

"I was scared." Becoming self-conscious, she extricated herself and knelt on the floor beside me, folding her hands in her lap. For all that her face was blotched with crying and her nose was running, Alais had grown older. I'd been gone for half a year, and the awkward girl I'd left behind was turning into a young woman, although I daresay she'd forgotten it for a moment. Not for long, though. "I'm very glad you're home, Imriel," she said in a formal tone.

"So am I, my lady Alais." Sitting up, I took her hand and kissed it in a courtly gesture. "And you were right, you did dream a true dream. Do you remember the man with two faces? I met him."

Her eyes widened. "You did?"

The wolfhound sat beside me, and I scratched her ears. "I did."

Alais smiled and wiped at her tears. "And my other dream, too… it's true, isn't it? You're to be my brother after all."

"I am," I said solemnly.

"Cousin Imriel." Sidonie's voice, light and composed. It sent a tingle through me. "Have you not saved a greeting for me?"

I got to my feet and bowed. "Hello, Sidonie."

"Welcome home." She gave me the kiss of greeting, her lips cool and soft; so soft! It might almost have been impersonal, except it wasn't. Our fingers touched briefly. I could see her pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. She, too, had grown while I'd been gone. There was knowledge stirring behind those dark Cruithne eyes that hadn't been there before; knowledge and power, a woman's power. "We've missed you."

Oh, but I'd had practice, too. I knew all about the banked heat of an illicit love affair. I could be patient and predatory. I could lie and dissemble in the service of desire. I had Claudia Fulvia in all her amorous glory to thank for it.

How do you like your first lesson?

"My thanks." I smiled at Sidonie. "And I you, cousin."

Her lips twitched in a slight answering smile.

"Well!" the Queen said brightly. "I think this calls for a fete."

We spent the better part of the day at the Palace. I told parts of the story of Lucca—Alais wouldn't have forgiven me if I hadn't told her about the man with two faces—but I begged off on the rest and promised to tell it later. Ysandre began planning immediately for the fete at which my return to Terre d'Ange would be celebrated and my betrothal to Dorelei mab Breidaia would be announced.

It brought her pleasure, simple and pure.

I watched her confer with Phèdre, their heads bowed in merry conspiracy, laughter spiraling upward as they plotted together. To this day, there are those who believe Phèdre is the Queen's lover, due to the intimacy between them. It wasn't true, though; or at least to my knowledge. I don't think it ever was. It is true, there is Kusheline blood in the veins of House L'Envers, but I suspect Ysandre was wary of it.

I watched Joscelin's gaze linger on them, quiet and content.

All was well in Terre d'Ange; or at least it would be.

In Lucca, it was Lady Beatrice who'd clung to simple pleasures, drawing strength from the ability to spread joy to those around her. She'd taken such care planning Eamonn and Brigitta's wedding. But it was Gallus Tadius—and Lucius—who had borne the heavier burdens. The ones that called for sacrifice, right or wrong. I had not forgotten the night of the firestorm, atop the walls with Deccus Fulvius, gazing in horror at the soot-smeared face of the conscript racing across the burning fields with Valpetra's cavalry on his heels. Whether or not it had been needful, I could not say. It was a ruler's burden to make such choices.