Kushiel's Scion (47 page)
"Mavros." I returned his embrace. "You have always offered me the solace of family. May we speak?"
His expression sobered and sharpened at once. "Of course," he said, guiding me inward with a sweep of his arm. "Enter, and speak. What you say shall not pass these threshholds." He glared at a passing servant. "Shall it?"
The servant shook his head. "No, my lord," he murmured. "Never."
"So!" Mavros slung his arm around my neck, escorting me into the inner salon. It was gorgeously appointed with tapestries on the walls depicting scenes from the history of Kusheth and muted lamplight gleaming on gilded statuary. Mavros gestured to a couch and sent the servant to bring a cordial. "Speak, Cousin Imriel."
I told him everything, or almost.
I told him about the hunt and what had transpired between Sidonie and me, and the tension between us that followed it. I told him about Dorelei and the Queen's request. And I told him about what Barquiel L'Envers had done.
Mavros listened silently, moving only to refill my glass. Only when I told him about L'Envers did he seem surprised, hissing through his teeth.
"Sodding bastard!" he spat. "He should know better than to cross the Shahrizai!"
His lamplit face was suffused with demonic cunning. "Mavros, no," I pleaded. "Don't do anything rash. I made my choice to keep the peace and I'll abide by it."
"Very noble." He eyed me wryly. "For Sidonie's sake?"
I shrugged. I hadn't told him about my oath. "For the sake of House Courcel."
"House Courcel!" he scoffed. "They don't do a very good job of protecting their own, do they? If it were us…" He shook his head, a myriad of braids shifting.
"Well, it's not." I cradled my half-empty glass in my hands.
"Mores the pity." Mavros poured cordial into the glass. "Fine, I'll behave. So do you fancy yourself in love with the young Dauphine?"
"Love? No," I said. "I don't know. Betimes, I don't even like her. But I think about her. A lot. Too much. And I…" I raised my glass and took a gulp of cordial, shuddering. "I want her."
"She's a cold one," Mavros observed.
I remembered the way the blood had risen beneath her skin as I lay atop her in the Queen's Wood, her pulse quickening in the hollow of her throat. "Oh, I don't believe it. But, Mavros! Name of Elua, she's only sixteen, and nearly my sister."
He looked amused. "Oh, please! She's playing the Game of Courtship, isn't she? And she's—what? Your father's great-niece. By Shahrizai standards, that's barely related."
"We have the same eyebrows," I informed him.
"So?" he said. "All the better to recognize one another. What about the little Pictish princess?"
I drained my cordial in a second gulp. "Lorelei?" I frowned, realizing I was a little drunk. "Dorelei. She's a sweet girl. A child."
"You don't want to marry her, then."
"No." I set down my empty glass. "I don't want to marry anyone. I want… I don't know what I want."
"Oh, you do." Tilting his head, Mavros regarded me through his lashes. "Barquiel L'Envers' head on a stake, and Sidonie de la Courcel whimpering in your bed."
I opened my mouth to deny it, but a rush of heat flooded me at his words, and I closed my eyes instead. Anger and desire were all bound up together in a knot inside me, urgent and pulsing, making my tongue thick and my limbs heavy. I bit my lip, willing it to subside.
"Come on." Mavros got to his feet. "It's early yet. We're going out."
I opened my eyes, gazing at his extended hand. "Where?"
He smiled. "Out."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In some part of me, I knew.
But I would sooner lie to myself and claim ignorance; and Mavros gave me the pretext to do so, refusing to tell me where we were bound and making a mysterious game of it. We travelled by carriage to another of the Shahrizai domiciles, where Roshana's mother Fanchone kept a household. There were several of the young Shahrizai gentry in residence, Roshana among them.
"Imri!" She greeted me with a lingering kiss, sinking both hands into my hair. "You have such beautiful hair," she whispered. "Will you let me braid it tonight?"
"All right," I agreed. "Why not?"
Mavros waved a magnanimous hand. "There's time."
So while other members of the household primped and made ready, I sat cross-legged in the Lady Fanchone's salon while Roshana hummed, brushing my hair and dividing it into an infinity of small locks, braiding each one deftly and tying off the ends with waxed thread. It took nearly an hour. Gilot, who had followed on horseback, looked on with marked disapproval.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Imri?" he asked me.
I shrugged, careful not to disturb Roshana's work. "Do what? Allow my hair to be braided? Gilot, do me a favor. Go back to the townhouse and let Phèdre know I'm here. I don't want her to worry."
He raised his brows. "Young Lord Shahrizai has already sent a messenger," he said, nodding toward Mavros. "I'm staying with you."
"As you like." I shrugged again.
Roshana moved around to my front, blocking my view of Gilot. I kept my gaze on her face and my head still, breathing slowly, admiring her concentration and the speed of her dexterous fingers. She gave me a quick smile.
"You've good discipline," she said. "Have you done this before?"
I smiled back at her, thinking of the vigils I had endured in the Temple of Elua, kneeling on the frozen ground. "Something like it. This is easier."
"And more fun, I'll warrant." She planted a kiss on my brow. "There, you're done."
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.
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