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

I shook my head experimentally, feeling the braids fly. My head felt strange and heavy, the way it had on the Longest Night when I had worn the costume of Baldur. And yet there were no masks here. I was only me, but different.

"Thank you," I said to Roshana.

A mischievous smile flirted across her lips. "You look beautiful."

Mavros clapped his hands. "Come!" he said decisively. "Let's go."

We went, piling into two carriages. Mavros and Roshana I knew; there were others, Aprilios and Thiela and Sonoril, all young Shahrizai gentry, none of them much over twenty. Their own outriders accompanied them, and Gilot came, too, following slowly and leading the Bastard by the reins.

It was not hard to guess where we were bound.

They laughed and gossiped and kept themselves from telling me, and I kept myself from knowing it. And yet, as our carriages ascended the slope of Mont Nuit, in my heart, I knew. When the drivers drew rein before the gates of Valerian House, I was not surprised. I wanted to be, but I wasn't. Anything else would be a lie.

"Mavros." I stirred against the padded seats of the carriage. "I don't want to go here."

"Yes, you do, Imri." In the shadows, his face was unexpectedly sympathetic. "You needn't do anything you don't want. But you need to see. It's time." He paused. "Or are you afraid?"

"Yes," I said honestly.

He clapped his hand on my shoulder. "All the more reason."

So I went to Valerian House.

The entrance is a long one, warded by trees on either side. In the courtyard, we were met by a pair of adepts, male and female. They ushered us into the receiving room with downcast eyes, and there the Dowayne met us. He wore tight-fitting leather breeches and a loose shirt of sheer linen, and he bowed low before the Shahrizai.

"My lords and ladies," he murmured. "Your quarters await you as always. Shall I send a selection of adepts?"

Mavros drew him aside, whispering.

"Very good, my lord." The Dowayne bowed again, then beckoned to Gilot. "Come, messire. We will make you comfortable while their lords and ladyships take their pleasure."

Gilot hesitated, glancing at me. "Imri? Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," I said, though I wasn't. "Go."

He departed, led by a pair of adepts.

Didier Vascon, the Dowayne of Valerian House, bowed low. "This way."

We followed him down a hallway, then a narrow, winding stair. The Shahrizai chattered among themselves, clearly at ease. It was only at the bottom of the stair that they fell silent, kneeling one by one.

I saw why.

There was an altar to Kushiel there; a niche with a raised dais and a bronze sculpture contained within, an offering bowl on the dais at his feet. Once the others had departed, I stood alone, gazing at Kushiel. His face was stern and calm, filled with implacable mercy. His hands were crossed on his breast, one holding a rod, the other a flail.

Mighty Kushiel, of rod and weal…

I knelt, shivering.

"Come." A sympathetic voice sounded in my ear. Kind hands encircled my upper arms, lifting me. I turned to face Didier Vascon. "You have known his touch, have you not?" asked the Dowayne of Valerian House. "In all its cruelty?"

"Yes," I said softly. "I have."

"Go." He gave me a gentle nudge. "Know his mercy."

I went, stumbling a little, following my Shahrizai kin. In the dimly lit hallway, Mavros paused, waiting for me. "Come on, Imriel!" he said. "This will be fun."

I hadn't reckoned on it; any of it. I should have. But it was more than I had imagined. Here at Valerian House, the Shahrizai maintained their own quarters—a private dungeon appointed for their usage. There was a fireplace with a roaring fire on the hearth, rendering the room stiflingly warm. Lush carpets covered the stone floors, woven in the black-and-gold interlocking key device of the Shahrizai.

On the barren walls, there were… other devices. Manacles and chains, a whipping cross. A wooden wheel with clamps.

"Behold!" Roshana said happily, opening the doors of a tall cabinet. "The toy chest."

It was a well-stocked flagellary, filled with whips and tawses and paddles, all manner of bonds and blinds and gags, collars and pincers, rings and pleasure-beads and aides d'amour. They were all beautifully crafted and maintained, the leather oiled, the metal gleaming.

The Mahrkagir had such toys in Daršanga, rusted and dark with old blood.

I stared at them, my shivering intensifying. I could smell the fetid water of the zenana's stagnant pool and there was a foul taste in my mouth.

"Mavros." I clutched the front of his doublet. "I can't do this."

"Here." He steered me to a couch near the fire. "Sit." Glancing around, he snapped his fingers. An adept appeared almost instantly, a shy lad as graceful as a fawn, proferring cordial on a tray. "Drink this," Mavros ordered.

I obeyed, downing the glass. It was perry brandy, sweet and spicy. I wondered if it had been distilled at Lombelon. I could hear my cousins laughing and chatting pleasantly among themselves. A tightness in my chest loosened and the memories of Daršanga receded. This was Terre d'Ange, and there was no Three-Fold Path here.

"Better?" Mavros asked, crouching before me.

I nodded.

"Good." He frowned. "Imriel, listen to me. These are Naamah's Servants, bound to her worship in their own way. And yes, they serve Kushiel, too, and find pleasure in it. No one is here against their will. All here have chosen this. You need not take part in it. But it is time you understood your heritage. Are you willing?"

I drew a breath, feeling better. "I'm willing, Mavros. It's just…"

"I know," he said softly. "A little of it, anyway. But I swear to you, we honor Blessed Elua's precept here. Any one of us would sooner die than dishonor it."

"I understand," I said faintly. "Believe me, I do."

Mavros nodded. "We have a standing agreement with Valerian House. By coming here with us, you agree to abide by it." Rising to his feet, he ticked off the points on his fingers. "No maiming, ever. No branding and no flechettes; no wounds that will scar unless it has been agreed upon in separate contract beforehand. You will ascertain the signale of any adept with whom you engage, and honor it on pain of death. Is that clear?"

I looked away. Valerian adepts moved gracefully throughout the dungeon; lighting sconces, stoking the fire, proffering wine and cordial. Others lit lumps of opium, letting them smolder in fretted incensors. Thin threads of blue smoke rose, rendering the air heady.

That, too, reminded me of Daršanga. I pushed the thought away.

"Yes, I understand," I said to Mavros. "It won't be necessary."

"As you say." His twilight gaze rested on me. "I only ask that you abide."

"I will," I said stubbornly.

Mavros bowed to me. "So be it."

What ensued was an orgy. If there be any other name to give it, I do not know it. I sat there, glued to my couch, and watched all manner of love given license. And ah, Elua! I yearned at what I saw; yearned until it hurt.

This is what I saw.

Valerian's adepts, filing into the Shahrizai dungeon and presenting themselves to the Shahrizai, their eyes downcast. And yet, oh Blessed Elua! There was pride there in a manner I failed to expect. I saw it in the set of their shoulders, in their covert sidelong glances. They wanted to be chosen.

They wanted to be challenged.

And they were. Oh, gods above and beyond, they were! I watched my Shahrizai kin smile, their fingers beckoning. They played dangerous games, shameless before one another. Chains jangled and leather snapped, the wooden wheel spun. Flesh, nubile flesh, was laid bare. I groaned at the sight of emerging weals. Ah, Elua! There was a terrible beauty in it. For the first time, I saw it. A part of me yearned to claim it for myself; another part yearned to reject it. Torn by my own conflicting desires, I watched in helpless fascination.

"My lord!" A naked adept knelt on the floor alongside me, her golden hair spilling over her bare shoulders. She gazed up at me in entreaty. "Why do you hold yourself apart? Is there nothing here that pleases you? No one?"

I stared past her, gritting my teeth. Aprilios Shahrizai had another adept on the wooden wheel, laughing as it spun, slinging his arm sidelong with a cat-o'-nine-tails, his aim unerring. Each knot raised a welt.

"It's not that," I said shortly.

The adept lowered her eyes. "Do you find me displeasing, my lord?"

"No." I drained my glass and set it down. "No, of course not." I touched her cheek, raising her chin. "What's your name?"

"Sephira, my lord." Her eyes were hazel, her tawny brows a shade darker than her golden hair. Sidonie's coloring, except for the eyes.

"Mine's Imriel," I told her.

She blushed, the blood rising visibly beneath her fair skin. There was somewhat appallingly erotic about her kneeling there, naked and vulnerable, while I sat fully clothed. "Yes, my lord, of course."

"You may use it, you know," I said. "My name."

Sephira shook her head. Averting her gaze, she leaned away and picked up a decanter of perry brandy, neatly refilling my glass. Her hair trailed over my clad legs, making my skin prickle all over. "Oh no, my lord. I couldn't."

"Why not?" I asked.

She replaced the decanter and folded her hands in her lap. "It's not done, my lord."

"So?" A wave of recklessness overcame me. I drank off the brandy, slamming down the glass. "Elua's Balls! Does it always matter what's done? Must we always be bound with restrictions? Look at this, this"—I waved my hand at the participants—"utter carnal madness. How can it matter what's done in the midst of this?"

"It matters to me, my lord." A note of stubborn pride crept into Sephira's voice.

"Why?" I asked, then sighed. "Never mind. I don't care." I tangled my fingers in her hair, gripping it hard, forcing her head up. It felt horribly good. "Why are you here?" I asked. "What do you want of me?"

"To please you, my lord," she breathed.

I tightened my grip. "That's not good enough."

"All right." A flare of defiancé crossed her face. "I want to see what Melisande Shahrazai's son is capable of."

I swore aloud and nearly slapped her. Sephira never flinched. Her breathing quickened, her breasts rising and falling visibly, pink nipples erect. I felt a thread of tension binding us together. It grew tighter as I gazed at her.

"This is a game of wills, isn't it?" I said slowly. "One I am losing."

"My lord." Sephira turned her head, kissing my palm that had nearly struck her. She took my hand in hers, stroking and kissing it. "It is within your power to give me what I crave," she whispered. "And it is within your power to withhold it. That is the only game that matters here." Her voice dropped lower. "Do you want me to beg you? I shall. Please, my lord. Allow me to please you."

"I can't." I looked at the scene beyond her. "Not like this."

"There are private chambers, my lord," she murmured.

Across the dungeon, Mavros met my gaze. He stood, legs braced, one hand twined in the hair of a kneeling adept who performed the languisement on him. Male or female; I couldn't tell from the bare slender back and glossy brown hair. Mavros' eyes were at once fever-bright and strangely grave. Roshana whispered in his ear, a crop held loosely in her hand.

I looked into the dark mirror of my desire and beheld my reflection.

"All right," I said. I got to my feet, swaying, dazed and a little drunk, dizzy from the opium fumes. "All right, then. Why not?" At my feet, Sephira knelt, looking hopefully up at me. I held out my hand to her. "Show me."

She led me first to the flagellary, opening its doors wide. "Will you choose, my lord?"

"I don't…" I swallowed hard. Almost of their own accord, my hands rose, touching the objects within. I selected a few items. My skin was hot and they felt cool to the touch. "Go on," I said, my voice thick.

Sephira led and I followed. Firelight danced over her naked skin. She had already begun to make her marque, a scrolling base of Valerian leaves etched on the small of her back, beginning to climb her spine. I watched the way her buttocks moved beneath it, round and enticing. With each step, it felt as though I were falling into an abyss, as though the floor was opening beneath me. And yet I kept going, following her to a private chamber, lit by flickering torches and warmed by a charcoal brazier. The floor was strewn with thick cushions, and there was a whipping cross on one wall. When she closed the door behind us, it was blessedly quiet, save for the sound of my own harsh breathing resounding in my ears.

"Here, my lord." She turned to me, smiling.

"What…" I cleared my throat. "What is your signaled"

"Sunshine," she said.

"Sunshine." I echoed the word, thinking inadvertantly of Daršanga, remembering the day Phèdre had convinced Erich the Skaldi to help pry away the boards walling off the garden; the day I had seen the sun for the first time in months, cold and grey and unspeakably marvelous. I shuddered.

"My lord?" Sephira took a step closer. "Are you well?"

"Yes." I thrust one of the items I had chosen at her, a black silk blindfold. "Put this on."

She obeyed, tying it in place. When it was done, a thick swathe of silk obscured her features. She might have been any woman. She might have been Katherine, playing at one of Phèdre's covertcy games back at Montrève. With her golden hair loose and unbound, she might have been Sidonie. I took a harsh breath.