Kushiel's Scion (14 page)
After that, she withdrew, but she left orders for administering a series of foul-tasting brews. Whether they proved effective or the illness merely ran its course, I cannot say, but within three days, the fever broke for good.
It left me weak and irritable. There are worse things than being confined to a sickbed, but from the perspective of a fourteen-year-old boy, not many. Gilot and Hugues had been allowed to accompany me, which was a mercy, but it was dull duty for them, and I dismissed them as often as they would go.
I had visitors, of course. The Queen herself came to see how I was progressing, and Phèdre was there every day. She brought me books to read, and we played many of the study-games that she had either invented or learned from Anafiel Delaunay. We shared the same favorite, which was one of her own—the game of tongues, which involved reciting famous works of poetry to one another, back and forth, line by line, translating each line into a different language. It was fun, for there was a dual challenge in it. One could hope to stump the other in choice of poem, or outwit the other in strength of language. When pressed, both of us would resort on occasion to zenyan, the pidgin argot spoken in the zenana. It was not a proper language, but it was a private one, and it made us laugh in the way survivors do. Otherwise we played in polyglot tongues: D'Angeline, Caerdicci, Hellene, Cruithne, Skaldic, Jeb'ez, Habiru, Akkadian, and Aragonian.
Mostly, I lost; Phèdre was very good at languages. But every now and then I won. My Jeb'ez was as good as hers, and she spoke little Aragonian, which I had been studying.
There were other memory games, and those I knew were Delaunay's, having to do with the arts of covertcy. We played it on the Cassiline Brothers who had been present in the Temple on the Longest Night, and Phèdre made me speculate on their history.
"Their garments were worn and mended," I said. "They were older, in their forties, and unhappy to see Joscelin there." I shrugged. "At a guess, I would say they are two who found service with the Palace in their youth, and still resent its loss. Since they remain in the City, probably they found service with one of the lesser Houses of nobility, or one of the Great Houses fallen upon ill times. Still, they resent him for their dismissal."
She nodded. "Any danger?"
I thought about it. Once, the Cassiline Brotherhood had enjoyed considerable prestige. Old King Ganelon, Ysandre's grandfather, had been attended by two Brothers at all times. So had Ysandre, until one of them tried to assassinate her. It was Joscelin who prevented the assassination; but that was after the Brotherhood had declared him anathema.
"I don't think so," I said honestly. "Just a trace of ill will."
"Good," Phèdre said, knitting her brow. "You'd tell me if there was more?"
"Yes." I wrapped my arms around my knees. "Are you still mad at him?"
"Joscelin?"
"Yes." I rested my chin on my folded arms. "Are you?"
She sighed. "A little."
"It was my choice," I repeated, still stubborn. "He let me make it. Is that so wrong?"
"No." Phèdre's gaze deepened to that uncomfortable level of acuity. "I know, Imri, you need to make your peace with Elua. Believe me, I know. But until you reach your majority, your choices are not wholly your own. And Joscelin knows that as well as you do."
At that I squirmed, knowing it was all too true. "Where did he learn it?" I asked, casting out a question to distract her. "Delaunay, I mean. Where did he learn the arts of covertcy?"
It worked. She frowned, thinking. "I don't know," she said at last. "I've wondered at it, too. What he taught us, Alcuin and me…" Phèdre shook her head. "It's not taught in any academy nor army, not in Terre d'Ange. I cannot think he learned it here. That leaves—"
"Tiberium," I whispered.
"Tiberium," she agreed, favoring me with an absentminded smile. "He attended the University there. But who, and why? It's no part of the official curriculum." She gazed into the distance, remembering. "I asked Maestro Gonzago about it, once."
"What did he say?" I had never met the Maestro Gonzago de Escabares, but I knew his name. He was an Aragonian historian who had been one of Delaunay's teachers at the University of Tiberium. He had also been chosen by my mother as an unwitting messenger, many years later.
"Nothing," she said. "He disavowed any knowledge."
"Did you believe him?" I asked.
Phèdre smiled at me again. "No," she said. "Not for a minute."
I had other visitors, too. Alais came almost as often as Phèdre, and I was glad of her company. We played cards together and she chattered freely of Palace gossip. For a young girl, she overheard a great deal.
Most of it was inconsequential. Ysandre was a strong ruler; even I, who found it hard to love her, was willing to admit it. For as much as her early reign was fraught with challenge and upheaval, she had since presided over great peace and prosperity. Her marriage to the Cruarch of Alba lends strength to both realms.
And yet it was also the greatest abiding source of contention, for in Alba, the lines of succession were matrilineal.
So it had been from time out of mind among the Cruithne. There had been efforts to change it—indeed, Drustan's throne was usurped in one such. He reclaimed it at the battle of Bryn Gorrydum, triumphing over Maelcon the Usurper as the true and rightful heir of the old Cruarch, his uncle.
It was a sticking point, and a hard one. In accordance with Cruithne tradition, Drustan's heir should be his sister's son; and it was in his heart that it would be a betrayal of his people to do aught else. There was reason for it—Maelcon the Usurper was the old Cruarch's son. To violate tradition now would undermine the legitimacy of his own claim. Although Drustan had made no formal declaration, in Alba, his nephew Talorcan, the eldest son of his sister Breidaia, was widely regarded as his heir.
D'Angelines held a different view.
It sat ill with them to give the succession of Alba over to a complete and utter stranger, a Cruithne with no blood ties to Terre d'Ange. And it sat doubly ill because my cousin Sidonie, Drustan and Ysandre's daughter, had been, from the moment of her birth, the acknowledged Dauphine of Terre d'Ange. It was a double standard, and one that did not favor Terre d'Ange.
If the peers of the realm were willing to accept Sidonie as Ysandre's heir, half-Cruithne though she was, they wanted somewhat in return. They wanted Drustan to name an heir with D'Angeline blood, preferably Alais. They feared that if he didn't, Alba's influence in Terre d'Ange would grow, while our influence in Alba would dwindle.
"What is it your mother wants?" I asked Alais one day, curious.
She sat cross-legged at the foot of my bed, her small face serious. "Truly? She agrees, although she's not willing to say it publicly, not yet. She wants Father to name me his heir."
"Do you think he will?" I asked.
Alais shook her head. "No," she said somberly. "I don't think he can." She paused, furrowing her dark brows. "They're not like us, are they, Imri? Their women don't light candles to Eisheth."
"No," I agreed. "They don't."
We were silent a moment, both of us pondering the mysteries of procreation, of which we had no firsthand knowledge. It was one of Eisheth's gifts to the women of Terre d'Ange—they did not conceive ere they chose, lighting a candle in her name and praying that she open the gates of their wombs. But there were no guarantees, even so; a prayer might be years in the granting.
And a prayer, once made, could not be rescinded.
There were D'Angeline women who had gotten unwanted children.
Not many, for rape was a crime of heresy and punishable by death. Still, it happened; as did errors in judgment.
"What do you want?" I asked Alais.
She rested her chin on her propped hands. "I wouldn't mind," she said. "Alba, I mean. But it won't happen, so I don't know… do you know what I would like?"
I shook my head. "No," I said. "Tell me."
"I'd like to learn to use a sword." Alais' face brightened. "Would you teach me, Imri? No one else will."
I opened my mouth to demur, and the royal guards in attendance snickered. I watched the eager light fade from Alais' face. I thought about the stories I had heard; about Grainne of the Dalriada, who had ridden to war alongside her brother in her wicker chariot, fighting as fiercely as a man. I remembered Daršanga and the women there. I saw Kaneka's hand covering Gashtaham's mouth from behind, her dagger flashing. Blood spurting from the ka-Magus' throat, and Phèdre dragging me out of its spray.
"I would be honored," I said, drawing my bedclothes around me and bowing. "Princess."
Alais beamed.
The following day, I sent Gilot to fetch a pair of wooden practice-swords from the townhouse, but it was Joscelin who brought them. I was so happy to see him, I clambered out of bed and flung my arms around him.
"Gently, love!" He laughed. "You're meant to be a-bed still."
I made a face. "I'm weary of bed rest. Are you in disgrace? I've missed you."
"Only a bit." Joscelin lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.
"I'm sorry," I said.
He grinned at me. "I know. Well, now we've both been punished for our folly. What's this about teaching Princess Alais to use a sword?"
"She asked," I said simply. "And I said I would."
Joscelin nodded as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world. "I brought the daggers, too," he said. "Better to start with those; the swords are a bit heavy."
So it was that I regained my strength by teaching my young cousin to wield a blade. I started with the simplest rudiments, reckoning her interest would flag. If nothing else, I could teach her how to hold a weapon, and those areas on an opponent which are least guarded and easiest to strike.
To my surprise, I found it was fun. Alais was a quick study, and neat-handed. One I had taught her a few basic thrusts and parries, we made a game of it, playing out roles of villains and heroes, chasing one another around the bedchamber under the amused gazes of her guards. At first I found them galling, but it brought Alais such joy, I was hard put to resist. In time, I learned to forget their presence.
And she was clever; skipping around charcoal braziers, ducking behind hanging drapes, vaulting atop the bed. I stumbled after her in pursuit, dizzy and easily winded. On a few early occasions, I was forced to surrender, laughing and gasping for air. It took several days before I was steady enough on my feet to catch her without a considerable effort.
It was in the midst of such a game that the Princess Sidonie paid a visit.
The guard announced her at the precise moment that a cornered Alais let out an earsplitting shriek and launched an attack at me. I was laughing too hard to hear aught else. I took the brunt of her onslaught, staggering and catching her dagger-hand. We both fell backward onto the bed and I twisted, falling uppermost and pinning her.
"Surrender, villain!" I cried, raising my wooden dagger.
Alais giggled breathlessly, hiccoughing.
"Let her go!"
The words rang with the unmistakable tenor of command, brittle and furious. I turned my head and saw Sidonie standing in the doorway. Her slight frame was rigid, and her face was pale and taut. Her black Cruithne eyes were stretched wide, blurred with terror and fury.
I knelt on the bed, opening my hands and dropping the dagger. The guards moved forward uncertainly.
"Hold," I said to them, and to Sidonie, carefully, "Greetings, cousin."
She drew a short, sharp breath and looked past me. "Alais?"
"I had him!" Alais complained. "Or I would have, anyway." Scrambling to her knees, she smacked me hard on the shoulder with the wooden blade of her dagger. "You ruined it, Sidonie!"
"Ah, you weren't even close." I ruffled her hair and gave her a nudge. "Go on to your sister, villain." I watched her flounce her way off the bed. "It's a game," I said to Sidonie. "One we've been playing for days." I rapped my knuckles against the wooden dagger. "See?"
She nodded, slow and wary. "I see. Forgive me, cousin."
"Highness?" one of the guards interjected, sounding nervous. "We've been watching all along. There's been no cause—"
Sidonie held up one hand. "I see," she repeated. "Cousin Imriel, I'm pleased that you are convalescing. Perhaps it would be best if I came another time."
I felt at once tired and sad. "Why would you think it was anything else, Sidonie? Who told you to be afraid of me?"
Alais glanced between us and kept wisely silent.
"Too many," Sidonie murmured. "I'm sorry, Imriel." For a moment, her slender shoulders slumped; with an effort, she squared them and reached out a hand to her sister. "Come, Alais."
I watched them go, two small figures, fair and dark. I wanted to be angry, yet I was not. At that moment, anger seemed too heavy a burden to lift. Their guards trailed after them, casting dubious glances behind at me.
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