Kushiel's Scion (23 page)
But there was Mavros.
In some ways, we were the most alike. He was older, and understood the burden of obligation imparted by his birth, even as I was forced to contend with my status as a Prince of the Blood. Over the course of their visit, he had given a good deal of helpful counsel on dealing with Court intrigue and nobles who looked sideways at me and muttered under their breath. But Phèdre had spoken truly; he was seventeen, with a head full of seventeen-year-old thoughts, and a belly full of desire.
And he was living under her roof.
We were outside the mews when it happened, watching Ronald Agout transfer the hawks to their blocks, where they crouched and sidled, hooding their eyes and preening in the warm sun. I was telling him about keeping Elua's vigil with Joscelin on the Longest Night.
"It sounds perishing dull if you ask me." Mavros laughed. "And to think, your mother once—" He broke off his words, glancing toward the manor house.
"Once what?" I asked when it became evident that he wasn't continuing.
"Nothing." Mavros stroked the peregrine's speckled feathers with one careful finger, avoiding my gaze. "If Phèdre never saw fit to tell you, it's not my business to do so."
"Saw fit to tell me what?" I bristled. The peregrine shifted restlessly, ruffling. Across the yard, Ronald made a disapproving sound.
Mavros shrugged, taking a step backward. "It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago, Imriel, before either of us were born."
"But you know," I said, growing increasingly irritated with him.
"Well." There was an edge to his smile. "It's family lore, you know. I daresay half of Kusheth knows."
"So tell me," I said. "There's no point in being coy."
"You wish to know?" Mavros gave me a long look. "All right, I will, then. Better you should hear it from me than some backwater Kusheline lordling. Your mother contracted Phèdre for the Longest Night and brought her to the Duc de Morhban's fete on a velvet leash."
"No," I said automatically. "It's not true. You're lying."
"I'm not lying!" he said impatiently. "Name of Elua, Imri! Phèdre's an anguissette, and she was sworn to Naamah's Service. What do you think that meant? It's what she does to earn a livelihood—or did, at any rate, before Queen Ysandre made her a peer. And yes, it's true. On the Longest Night, your mother paraded her before the Duc de Morhban, in order that he might be consumed with envy and understand that in certain matters, the Shahrizai will always be his betters. Melisande put a collar around her neck, a velvet collar with a diamond the size of—"
He got no further, for I lowered my head and charged him.
Mavros grunted under the impact, and I bore him down hard. The two of us flailed in the dust while Ronald shouted ineffectually and the birds, alarmed, bated and strained at their tethers. We rolled over and over, and I came up on top. Hugues, kindhearted as he was, had taught me well. In Siovale, wrestling is reckoned a science. I clamped both of Mavros' legs with mine and braced one forearm across his throat.
"Take it back!" I hissed, leaning my weight on him.
He glared at me, eyes slitted. "I won't lie for you, cousin!"
"Imriel!"
It was Joscelin's voice—his battle-voice, clear and carrying. I had scarcely time to process the fact before his hand descended, grabbing the back of my shirt and lifting me by main force off Mavros.
I dangled briefly in mid-air, meeting Joscelin's furious summer-blue gaze. "I didn't—"
He slammed me down onto my feet. "Intend to disgrace the hospitality of Montrève?" he asked, hard and intent.
"No," I said in a small voice.
Mavros sat up, coughing. Joscelin turned to him. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, thank you." He sounded subdued. "It was a misunderstanding, that's all."
"He said—" I began.
Joscelin cut me off. "It doesn't matter, Imri. He's your guest, and you're responsible for honoring the rules of hospitality. They don't extend to throttling visitors." He let go of my shirt and wiped his hands, eyeing me with disgust. "Phèdre will not be pleased."
"Do we have to tell her?" I asked in dismay.
Folding his arms, Joscelin glanced around the yard. Mavros was on his feet, beating dust from his clothing, trying to appear unobtrusive. The hawks were still in an uproar, and poor old Ronald Agout bustled from block to block, trying to calm them. Two young goshawks were near-frantic, and I knew such an incident could set their training back by weeks or months.
"Oh, I think we do," Joscelin said coldly.
It was a rare thing to see Joscelin truly angry. It was not that he lacked the temper for it—indeed, I have gathered from things I have heard that he was fairly ill-tempered during his younger days as a Cassiline Brother. Perhaps it was the celibacy that caused it; of a surety, it had done little for my mood. But I believed that the trials he has undergone since those days were so severe that they established a threshold for anger, true anger, that was much higher than it is for ordinary mortals.
In some ways, Daršanga was harder on Joscelin than anyone.
So it was rare, and frightening; but it was doubly rare to see Phèdre angry. Joscelin marched us to the manor house, and there, in her study, he made me relate the incident. She listened to my account without expression, then turned to Mavros.
"My lord Shahrizai, please accept my deepest apologies on behalf of House Montrève," she said, her voice grave and sincere.
"Yes, of course," he said awkwardly. "It was just a misunderstanding."
"He said you let my mother parade you on a leash!" The words burst from me in anguish. "It's not true, is it?" At the back of the room, Joscelin made a small, unintelligible sound. Phèdre turned her head to regard me.
I wanted so badly for Mavros' words to be a lie. Under the weight of her dark, luminous gaze, I knew they were not. She had done what he said. And yet, somehow, she bore no shame for it. She was Kushiel's Chosen; an anguissette. Shame could not touch her. She rose above it, beyond it. It rolled off her and clung to me, and I could not even say why.
In the zenana, they called her Death's Whore. Every depravity the Mahrkagir visited upon her, she bore willingly. I knew that. In the zenana, everyone did.
The first time I met Phèdre, I spat in her face.
Across the study, Mavros began to smirk.
"Oh yes, it's true," Phèdre said quietly. "I made my marque that Longest Night." She turned her gaze back to Mavros, and his smile ebbed. "But I do not think," she said, "that House Shahrizai has had cause to boast of it since."
He looked at her for a long moment, his face naked beneath her steady regard. I knew what he saw. The whole entangled history of their Houses—of Phèdre, my mother, Anafiel Delaunay—lay between them; and yet, it was somewhat more. Phèdre nó Delaunay walked into hell willingly, and walked out alive. And somehow—Blessed Elua alone knows—she retained the ability to love. She carried the Name of God in her thoughts, and there was nothing in the human soul that could be concealed from her.
There were times when all she needed to do was lay it bare.
"Forgive me, my lady." Mavros' voice was hoarse. "I was cruel."
"Youth is cruel." Phèdre caught Joscelin's eye. Something passed between them and she sighed, shaking her head. "Go on, get out, the both of you. And mind, no more fighting."
We went with alacrity.
For a time, by common accord, neither of us spoke. We walked together, wordless and aimless. I stole a glance at Mavros and found him looking uncommonly pensive. As we departed from the manor grounds, our unplanned course took us to the river. We walked alongside, following it toward the northern end of the valley. I found a sturdy stick and slashed at the reeds that grew along the river's edge, watching them bend without breaking, springing upright as we passed.
"I'm sorry," Mavros said abruptly, breaking our long silence.
I halted, watching the water tumble over gleaming rocks. "The fault was mine."
"Not entirely." He stood beside me. "I begin to think mayhap the Shahrizai have an imperfect grasp of what it means to be Kushiel's Chosen."
I prodded the ground with my stick. "It's true, though. What you said."
"You wish it were not?" he asked. "Why?"
I nodded. "I can't help it. Mavros…" I sighed and tossed the stick away. "It's hard. I cannot explain it."
He sat down on a dry tussock of grass. "I told you that Kushiel is merciful," he said slowly. "It is a hard and demanding mercy. If we are the dark mirror of the world's desire, then I think mayhap Phèdre is the bright mirror of ours, showing us those things we cloak in pride and vanity. I beheld my own pettiness in her gaze, and I did not like what I saw."
"I'm familiar with the feeling," I murmured.
"And yet you are ashamed of her?" he asked, curious.
"No." I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. "I don't know! Why did it have to be my mother?"
"Oh." Mavros' tone changed. "Yes, well… yes. That must be awkward."
I lowered my hands and glared at him. "Awkward?"
He shrugged. "What do you wish me to say, Imri? The situation is what it is; I cannot change the past, any more than you can. You're carrying around a world of fear. I cannot help you if you refuse to confront it. No one can," he added, "not family, not Phèdre. You have to face the mirror yourself."
"Which one?" I asked dryly. "Bright or dark?"
"Both of them." He laughed. "Listen to me! Deigning to speak to you of fear."
I smiled a little. "Ah, well, you're not wrong."
"No." Mavros rose, dusting his hands. "But you're not ready. And as Roshana reminds me, I am supposed to practice patience." He held out his hand. "Are we friends?"
"Friends," I said slowly, clasping his hand. "All right, yes."
"Good." He grinned. "I don't fancy going another round with you! You're a nasty fighter, cousin."
So it was that our final days passed in amity. In the end, I was both saddened and relieved to see the Shahrizai depart. I had grown fond of them, fonder than I had reckoned. Mavros had spoken truly; they were a dark mirror, and there was much of myself I saw in them that I did not disdain. But too, there were other things.
Their escort came for them on the appointed day, and we gathered in the front courtyard to bid them farewell. They looked as splendid as they had when they arrived, and I could not help but feel a certain pride at their beauty. Baptiste whooped and shouted, standing in his stirrups and turning his mount in a tight circle; Roshana smiled and blew me a kiss. Mavros raised his hand in farewell, winking.
"I'll see you at Court, cousin!" he called.
Once again, nothing had changed, yet everything was different. I had a sense of myself that was different and new. I was a member, albeit at a distance, of a strange and exotic family. And if I was not prepared to embrace this bond wholeheartedly, neither did I regard it in abject horror.
Other things had changed, some to my sorrow. In the month of my Shahrizai cousins' visit, I had grown apart from Charles. Although our friendship endured, he seemed to me younger than he had before, and simple and rustic in his desires. At the same time, Katherine had grown more mature. Whatever else had transpired in the meadow, Roshana had spoken truly; Katherine had learned somewhat of herself during their visit that she had not known before. She moved with a new surety, aware of her own blossoming sensuality and confident in the knowledge. It made me wonder at the cause.
After the Shahrizai had gone, I watched her set her sights once more on Gilot.
This time, there was no simpering. She stood, easy and sure, and crooked her finger at him; and he trailed after her, blindsided and besotted.
It would have made me laugh, had it not hurt. I'd had my chance, there in the meadow, and I let it slip through my fingers. There beside the lake, Katherine had offered herself, had dared to make herself vulnerable, and I had spurned her. And yet she accepted it without blaming me and moved on with ease. It was no more and no less than the old priest of Elua had foretold when he spoke to me of love on the Longest Night.
You will find it and lose it, again and again.
With a heart full of youthful rue, I watched it go.
We finished the summer at Montrève. After a month's indulgence with the Shahrizai, I flung myself into labor. I helped Charles with chores around the estate, and if our camaraderie was less than it had been, still, he was glad to have my aid. I sparred with Joscelin, who spoke well of my progress. And I resumed my studies with Phèdre.
There were no more tutors, and we did not practice the art of covertcy. Instead, sensing my need to lose myself undisturbed, she gave me a series of texts to read—histories and philosophies, for the most part. I liked reading the arguments of old Hellene philosophers.
After her anger, I was careful with Phèdre. It was not that she held a grudge, not by any means. There was no one in the world quicker to forgive. But it was because she understood human failing all too well; and in the bright mirror of her regard, I was reluctant to gaze upon my own shortcomings.
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