Kushiel's Scion (25 page)
"Mayhap." Alais sounded unconvinced.
"You are a diplomat's wife," Phèdre murmured. Nicola glanced over her shoulder and smiled at her.
"Well, yes." She turned to me. "And I am reminded, Prince Imriel, that I have a gift for you. A small token from the House of Aragon."
"It's not necessary," I muttered.
"It is." Nicola's violet gaze was disconcertingly frank. "I would that we had done more to prevent what happened in Amílcar."
I looked away. It was not something I cared to remember. "It wasn't your fault."
"Ah, well." She touched my arm lightly. "I have a gift for you nonetheless."
It was agreed that Nicola would call upon us within a few days. I paid scant heed to the conversation, making an escape with Alais on the pretext that Celeste must needs be walked in the gardens. A quartet of guards accompanied us.
There, I breathed easier in the fresh, cool air. The royal gardens were filled with a riot of autumn blooms. We strolled along its paths, and I taught Alais the commands with which Celeste had been trained. She learned them quickly, her small, dark face intense with concentration.
"I do love her, Imri," Alais said to me as we sat side by side on a garden bench, Celeste sitting obediently at her feet. The guards waited at a respectful distance. "I truly, truly do. I wish Father were here to see her."
"He's gone back to Alba?" I asked.
She nodded. "They argued a lot this summer. About the succession there."
"Has anything"—I hesitated—"been determined?"
"No." Alais shook her head, bending to pet Celeste. "Why don't you like the Lady Nicola?"
I pulled a face. "Was it that obvious?"
"Yes," she said, reflecting. "She's nice, I think, I like her."
I shrugged. "Mayhap."
"Well, I do." Alais scratched behind Celeste's ears the same way Nicola had. The wolfhound laid her lean jaw on my young cousin's knee, rolling her brown eyes at her new mistress. "Is it because of what happened in Amílcar?"
"No," I said, and sighed. "Oh, Alais! It doesn't matter."
"That's where they sold you, isn't it?" Her voice was low. "The Carthaginians?"
Alais knew the story. She had been there, although I had not known her for my cousin and a Princess of the Blood, when we told it to Thelesis de Mornay, who was the Queen's Poet. Thelesis is gone now. She died of a long wasting illness, not so very long after Phèdre broke Rahab's curse. I was sorry I had not known her better.
"Yes," I said to Alais. "That's where they sold me."
"Celeste would have protected you," Alais said to the pup. "Wouldn't you?"
Celeste beat the hairy whip of her tail in agreement, stirring the dried leaves that littered the paving-stones.
"She would have tried," I said fondly. "Alais, why is the Lady Nicola here?"
"I don't know, not for sure." She stuck out her legs and frowned at her shoes. "I heard Mother say there is a chance her son Serafin might inherit. A long chance, though."
"Inherit?" I felt stupid.
"The throne of Aragon." Alais glanced at me. "The King doesn't have an heir of his own get. But it's a long chance. So I don't know." She knocked the heels of her shoes together, contemplating them. "Mayhap they are courting Sidonie for Serafin. Or mayhap they want me to wed Raul. I don't know."
I felt strange and sick. "Oh, Alais! What do you want?"
She shrugged. "I don't know, Imri. Do you?"
"No." I regarded her bent head, the spring of her black curls. The sight filled me with tenderness. "We'll figure it out together, shall we?"
"All right." Alais frowned in thought. "What about Sidonie?"
"What about her?" I asked.
"Will you help her, too?"
I laughed. "Alais, I don't think Sidonie needs my help, or anyone's, in that regard."
Alais looked at me out of the corner of one eye. "You don't know her very well, do you?"
"No," I said. "I suppose not."
I felt a bit guilty at it; it was true, although I spared a sympathetic thought for the young Dauphine's plight, I had not gotten to know my cousin Sidonie well. Perhaps if I had, she would not have reacted as she did that day last winter, with distrust and horror. But then we returned to the Queen's drawing room, where the adults were laughing and chatting like old friends, and the young people were making quiet conversation. When Alais and I entered with Celeste, Sidonie raked me over once with her cool, measuring gaze, and any feelings of guilt vanished.
Thus I returned to the City, and found myself once more treading warily amidst the coils of intrigue. I had learned more than I reckoned from my Shahrizai kin. They had returned to Kusheth for a time, but the summer's lessons stayed with me. At Court, I bethought myself of Mavros' counsel. I was pleasant and polite to everyone I encountered, but I remained mindful of my own status. Let them think me aloof; it did not matter. As a Prince of the Blood, I held an edge of power over almost every peer of the realm.
To use it would be unwise; but it did not hurt to know it.
All knowledge is worth having.
At home, it was another matter.
The Lady Nicola called upon us within days of our Court reception, and I found out what gift she had brought me. Like my long-promised gift to Alais, hers took living form.
It was one of the spotted horses of Aragon; like the Salmon, whom I had admired at the fair the day I learned of my mother's disappearance, over a year ago. Phèdre, it seemed, had seen fit to mention it in a letter. But I had known nothing of it.
I walked into the front courtyard, and my mouth went dry.
He was two years old, broken to the saddle, but still a little green with it. Unlike the Salmon, he was mostly white, generously speckled with reddish spots, the color of old blood. Secured on a lead-line in the narrow courtyard of the townhouse, he glared, rolling eyes that showed the whites, stamping striped hooves, making the courtyard ring. His strong neck arched, particolored mane breaking like a wave over his spotted hide. As I drew near, he wrinkled his lips, showing teeth like ivory plates.
"Do you like him?" Nicola L'Envers y Aragon leaned out of the open carriage door, laughing. "Phèdre said you would."
I loved him.
I hated her.
"Name of Elua!" Gilot breathed fervently. He had been moping ever since we had left Montrève; now he grabbed my shoulders and shook them in an excess of excitement. "Ah, Imri, look at him, will you!"
"His name is Hierax," Nicola said, descending lightly from the carriage. "Though Ramiro says the Tsingani who bred him called him the Bastard."
I knew Phèdre and Joscelin were watching. I walked forward. I wished someone else had given me this horse; I wished I had found him by myself. I grabbed his coarse mane in both fists, bowing my head and leaning against him, feeling the hard, bony plate of his forehead against mine.
"Hello, Bastard," I whispered.
He whuffed hard through dilated nostrils, our breath mingling.
Mindful of courtesy's demands, I made myself release him and turned, bowing deeply to Nicola. "My thanks, my lady, to you and the House of Aragon. He is a splendid gift."
She smiled. "You're quite welcome."
After that, of course, nothing would do but that Nicola was invited inside. Phèdre called for cordial, and I served it myself. We sat on couches in the salon and made polite conversation. It was a double agony, for all I wanted to do was acquaint myself with my magnificent new horse, and what I least wanted to do was be pleasant to the Lady Nicola.
It was unfair, I know. She had done nothing to merit my dislike, and I had cause to be grateful to her. But I hated knowing what I knew, and I hated the way Phèdre's eyes sparkled in her presence. They bantered, light and teasing and fond, but there was an undercurrent of tension between them. I could feel it on my skin, the way one feels lightning's charge in the air before the flash.
How Joscelin could bear it, I do not know; and yet he seemed untroubled. Perhaps, I thought glumly, it was my own heritage that made me sensitive to it. Although they are mostly Naamah's line, there is old Kusheline blood in House L'Envers. But no; although Joscelin harbored no dark desires—indeed, in the eyes of the realm, he harbored unnaturally few desires—he was no fool, and he knew Phèdre too well. For whatever reason, he willingly tolerated Nicola L'Envers y Aragon.
I knew what she had done. It was not just the aid she had given in Amílcar. Long before, she had entrusted Phèdre with the password of House L'Envers, the phrase that its members are compelled to honor. And Phèdre used it, too—twice. She used it to compel Barquiel L'Envers to hold the City against Percy de Somerville's army, and she used it to compel his daughter in Khebbel-im-Akkad. Valère L'Envers, who is wed to the Khalif's son, petitioned her husband for aid in retrieving me from Drujan because of it.
He didn't grant it, though. Even the Khalif's son feared the bone-priests of Drujan, having lost two armies to them. All he did was give Phèdre and Joscelin a guide to Daršanga. And when they brought me out of that living hell, Valère L'Envers tried to have me killed.
It was small wonder, I suppose, that I had trouble with the Queen's kin.
All except Alais.
She would love the Bastard, I thought. Perhaps we could go on a hunting excursion together. I could teach Celeste to course hares, as we did in Montrève. At eleven, Alais was old enough to begin learning such pastimes.
"Imriel."
The sound of Phèdre's voice made me startle. Curled into the corner of her couch, she regarded me with bright amusement, then nodded toward the door.
"Go," she said. "Off to the stables with you. You're not fit for conversation."
Not needing to be told twice, I went.
In the stables, I found the Bastard stamping and tossing in his new stall, churning the sweet-smelling straw. Gilot hung on the half-door of the stall, watching and admiring, while the stable-keeper Benoit cursed and wrapped a bandage around his left hand.
"Careful, highness," he said. "He's a hellion."
I approached the door. The Bastard ceased his stamping and stood, eyeing me. Gilot nudged me with his elbow. "Want to go for a ride?"
"Just the two of us?" I knew Phèdre and Joscelin would disapprove.
Gilot shrugged. "A quick one, eh? Just to try his paces."
I took on look at the Bastard, who pricked his ears at me. "All right. Let's do it."
He was docile enough while being saddled, but when I swung astride him and took up the reins, I could feel him quivering with tension. Gilot rode a tall, rangy bay gelding that he favored. We jogged into the courtyard. With a dubious look on his face, Benoit opened the gates.
"Go!" Gilot shouted.
I gave the Bastard his head. He sprang forward, bursting off his haunches, hooves clattering on the paving-stones. I laughed like an idiot, exhilarated. It was a foolish thing to do; I knew it, and knew it at the time. And yet it was thrilling. Together, Gilot and I raced like madmen through the City of Elua, reckless and swift. For all his unruly temperament, the Bastard had a gait as smooth as silk. Gilot's bay mount caught a taste of the Bastard's fervor, and together they were like swallows on the wing. We crossed the arched bridge over the AvilineRiver, heading for Night's Doorstep. Pedestrians scattered before us and carriage-horses reared in their traces, alarmed.
Here and there, people shouted, waving to us.
I heard my name. "Im-ri-el! Prince Imriel!"
It felt good, bringing a fierce grin to my lips.
In Night's Doorstep, we halted. Gilot's mount was lathered and blown. The Bastard arched his neck and pranced, huffing. He was not even tired. The spotted horses of Aragon were known for their endurance.
"Come on." Gilot raked a hand through wind-tangled brown curls, then patted the money-pouch that hung from his belt. "We need to breathe them a spell; or at least I do. I'll stand you a round at the Cockerel, Imri."
"You said a short ride," I reminded him.
"I know." He grinned at me. "But you looked like you needed a bit of an escape, and I've heard the Lady Phèdre herself say none of her household would ever come to harm at the Cockerel. If you're scared, we can head back."
It stung my pride. "I'm not scared?"
"Come on, then."
Inside the Cockerel, there was a great deal of shouting. I whispered a word to Gilot, promising restitution, and he stood a round for the inn. Here they remember Hyacinthe, the Prince of Travellers, who became the Master of the Straits.
"Ah, my prince!" A barrel-shaped man came toward me, weeping openly, arms outstretched. "You came! You remember!"
"Emile," I said, exhaling his name as he embraced me hard. "Yes, of course."
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