Kushiel's Scion (46 page)
"Oh, he'd hate that." Joscelin grinned.
I thought about the suspicion in Bertran's eyes, the way former friends avoided me at Court. "It's not enough," I said. "Barquiel L'Envers smeared my name with treason. I want a public apology from him."
"You won't get it." The Queen's voice was candid. "I know my uncle, and he doesn't bend easily. This"—she waved the letter—"this is insufficiently damning. It's third-hand innuendo from a source admittedly biased toward Phèdre nó Delaunay."
"Then we'll find Barquiel's man," I said. "And make him testify."
"You might," Ysandre said. "Or Barquiel might put him out of reach, or worse. Do you think he doesn't keep a watch posted over his estates? One move from House Montrève in that direction, and I wouldn't give a fig for the man's chances."
My blood ran cold. "So you'd just condone this? Let him get away with it?"
"That's not what I said." Her eyes flashed. "Name of Elua! Imriel, he slandered you. It's unpleasant and underhanded, but it's not a crime against the realm. If you pit yourself against him openly, you will earn his outright enmity. I do not want House Courcel torn apart over this. Use your head," she said grimly. "Barquiel will acquiesce if I reckon with him privately. He won't want to force my hand. And I will make a public proclamation that our investigation has proved you to be the butt of an unfriendly jest by unknown persons. Such is my offer."
I glanced at Phèdre, who looked troubled. "What do you think?"
She addressed Ysandre instead of answering me. "My lady, are you scared of him?"
"Of Barquiel?" The Queen's lids flickered slightly. "Of course not."
It was one of the tell-tales of a lie. Because of what Phèdre had taught me, I knew it. With an effort, I stepped away from my anger and stood outside myself, regarding Queen Ysandre. I beheld a woman who had been thrust into the role of greatness unprepared, who had faced tremendous challenges, who had fought long and hard with all the courage of her convictions to do what was best for her realm.
But the Ysandre de la Courcel who had ridden fearlessly between the ranks of a rebellious army was not the woman who sat the throne today. The burden of the Crown had taken a long, exhausting toll. She was afraid—afraid for her daughters, afraid for the future of relations between Terre d'Ange and Alba, afraid of what her ruthless uncle Barquiel L'Envers would do if openly provoked.
Afraid for me.
I sighed and wished I had seen less. And I thought about my oath to Sidonie, and what it would do to her if I forced House Courcel into schism—and to Alais, the one member of my kin who had always trusted me unreservedly.
"Your majesty, it will suffice." Though my heart was heavy and the words left a bitter taste in my mouth, I said them. "As to the other… I'll think about it."
Ysandre inclined her head. "Thank you."
"Imriel." Drustan hesitated, then spoke. "I think you would like Dorelei. I would never have proposed this if I thought you were ill-suited."
I had always liked and admired the Cruarch of Alba. Today, I didn't. "Do you know what, my lord?" I said to him. "Right now, I don't care."
With that, I turned on my heel and made my exit.
Chapter Twenty-Six
All was done as the Queen promised. Within a day, her proclamation of my innocence was released. Several days later, it was quietly put about that Duc Barquiel L'Envers was stepping down from command of the Royal Army, citing a desire for respite after years of long service. Ghislain nó Trevalion, Bertram father, was named in his place.
No one at Court thought it overly strange. After all, L'Envers was rising sixty and had held the command for most of my lifetime. And Ghislain nó Trevalion had proven himself an able commander during the Skaldic War and a loyal Queen's man during his father's insurrection. I daresay some of L'Envers' enlisted men wondered at it, but they kept their mouths shut. As a leader, he was admired, but not greatly loved.
My lot improved… somewhat. The Queen's proclamation was accepted by some, and regarded with mild skepticism by others. In turn, I was not inclined to forgive my former friends their betrayal, and my relationship with Bertran remained awkward. An open admission from Barquiel L'Envers would have been infinitely more satisfying, and I wondered every day if I had made the right choice.
I asked Phèdre about it.
"I don't know, love," she said gently. "Some things are never given us to know, and some choices are not between right and wrong, merely different paths. You chose with a great deal of maturity, and that will have to suffice."
It was true, I know, but not terribly reassuring.
We tarried in the City that summer, delaying our departure for Montrève. My plans for Tiberium lay idle. Simmering with inward resentment, I kept my word to Ysandre, attending affairs at Court. I made an effort to be pleasant to Prince Talorcan's sister, Dorelei mab Breidaia.
It wasn't hard.
Somewhat to my annoyance, Drustan was right—I did like her. Although D'Angelines made her shy, she had a lively, curious mind, and I suspected in Alba she was far more forthcoming. When she laughed, there was somewhat infectious about the way her laughter broke to end in a whimsical giggle. I found it hard to brood around Dorelei. I found it hard to envision her as a bride, too. Although she was seventeen, she seemed younger. Somewhat about her put me in mind of Alais as she'd been as a child, fond and impulsive.
And then there was Sidonie.
On the surface, nothing had changed between us. After all, what had happened? Nothing. And yet everything was different. I found myself looking for her without thinking when I entered a room. When she looked for me, I felt her gaze like a touch.
I felt Maslin's, too; only it was more like a blow. He was there, too often, escorting her. They made a pretty pair, the Dauphine and her handsome lieutenant. Already there were murmurs beginning—that they were lovers, that she had promised to make him her Captain of the Guard and keep him on as her consort no matter who she wed. Such things had been done before in Terre d'Ange.
At a fete in honor of Roxanne de Mereliot, the Lady of Marsilikos, I was watching them together and thinking about those very rumors when a voice interrupted.
"It's not true, you know."
I glanced at Amarante of Namarre. "What's not?"
She smiled, the kind of smile one would expect from someone whose mother was a Priestess of Naamah. "What you're thinking."
I folded my arms. "And how would you know what I'm thinking?"
Her smile deepened. "Go ask her to dance, your highness."
I felt unaccountably nervous at it. For some idiotic reason, the words Eamonn had spoken the last time I asked Sidonie to dance rang in my head. Mind you don't get chilblains, he had said with a chuckle. At the time, I had laughed, too. Now I found myself constructing an argument with him in my thoughts, and it got in the way of my tongue.
"Do you… ?" I pointed at the dance floor, words failing me.
Sidonie looked bemused. "Are you all right, Imriel?"
I nodded. "Will you dance with me?"
She smiled. "Yes, all right."
It was so strange; like and unlike. Sidonie was scarce less formal than before, and yet. Her fingers quivered slightly in mine. The space between us was charged. I was acutely aware of my hand on the small of her back. My palm felt hot and I yearned to press her to me, feeling her young body firm against mine. My cousin, my near-sister. I didn't, but I wanted to. Instead, as I swept her across the floor, I broke the silence between us.
"Are we going to speak of this, Sidonie?" I asked.
For a moment, she didn't answer, and I thought mayhap she would pretend ignorance. Then her chin rose, and I saw her dark eyes were filled with pain and regret. "I don't know," she said. "Mayhap it's better if we don't."
"Is that Naamah's counsel?" I asked. "Or your own?"
She glanced involuntarily toward Amarante. "No. I don't know." She changed the subject. "Will you wed Dorelei? I know what my parents are plotting."
I bared my teeth in a smile. "I don't know. What's Maslin de Lombelon to you?"
"One of the only people at Court who never lies to me," she said honestly. "A safeguard, often. A friend, betimes. Nothing more, yet, and mayhap ever. I cannot say for sure. Why do you care? Why do you hate one another so?"
"I didn't want to." I tightened my grip on her hand; too tight. This time, though her eyes widened, she didn't protest. "Ah, Elua! Sidonie, I only ever wanted him to like me. And you…" The music ended and I let her go. "And you," I repeated softly, bowing to her. "Imriel…" she began. I waited.
Sidonie shook her head, impatient and despairing. "It's not that simple!"
"No," I said. "It's not. Mayhap if we obeyed naught but Blessed Elua's precept, it would be. Elua cared naught for thrones or mortal politics." I paused, remembering where I had heard those words before. "You know," I said, wondering, "Phèdre once told me that when she asked Melisande what Elua would make of her treason, my mother said that very thing in reply. The older I get, the closer I come to understanding her." I saw Sidonie's look of alarm and laughed softly. "Don't worry, your highness. I will keep my oath to you. On pain of death, I will keep it. You see," I said to her, "I always keep my promises."
On that ironic and self-righteous note, I strode away, ignoring the wrench of pain in my heart, the subtle tug that urged me to stay.
I thought about going home, and didn't. If Eamonn was there, I would have confided in him, but he wasn't. For a good hour, I wandered the City with only a worried Gilot to attend me. And then I made up my mind and turned to the only people I knew would understand my bitter, complicated mood.
The Shahrizai maintain a multitude of domiciles in and near the City. I went to Lord Sacriphant's townhouse, where I knew Mavros abided. Gilot was uneasy at accompanying me, though once we arrived, he relented, awed by the effortless grace of the household. Everything moved so smoothly there, the polite servants with their eyes downcast, in stark contrast to the free and informal nature of Montrève's household.
"Cousin!" Mavros greeted me effusively, kissing me on both cheeks. His blue eyes glinted, ambiguous as twilight. "Have you sewn up any good dogs lately?"
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