Kushiel's Mercy

remember a forgotten tune. I held her gaze, my heart hammering in my chest, suffused with a strange tenderness. Fear, hope, desire? The air between us felt charged, as though lightning were about to strike.
    And then she closed her eyes and shuddered, and it passed.
    “Oh, gods!” I said in anguish. “Forgive me. That was appallingly overfamiliar. I’m sorry, your highness, I don’t know what came over me. Will you please forgive me?”
    “I think I’d better.” A wry edge crept into her tone. “I deserved no less for baiting you.
    Are you always this graceless and blunt in practicing the art of flirtation, Messire Maignard?”
    “No,” I said. “Are you always this acerbic?”
    “No.” It was only one syllable, but it was accompanied by that same wicked little smile: a quick, maddening flicker.
    “Ah.” I fanned myself and glanced at her Amazigh guard. He stared impassively back at me. “You mentioned a lesson. May I ask what your highness is studying?”
    “Punic,” she said. “One can get by with Hellene, of course, but I find it unwise not to at least attempt to learn the mother tongue of a land. In fact, that was one of the reasons my mother replaced the Comte de Penfars as the ambassador to Menekhet. She discovered he’d not bothered to learn Menekhetan after the Comtesse de Montrève and her consort were there to . . .” The princess blinked, her voice trailing off. A perplexed frown creased her brow.
    Oh, hells.
    “On their quest to free the Master of the Straits, was it not?” I inquired. “Even in Cythera, we heard of it.”
    “Yes, of course.” Her brow cleared, though a touch of uncertainty lingered. “I imagine you would have, given his eminence’s ties to Ptolemy Dikaios.”
    I sighed inwardly. “Indeed.”
    Gods above, I felt like a rabbit in a field of snares. How exactly was one to avoid speaking of Terre d’Ange to a woman raised from birth to inherit its throne? And all the topics that touched on Prince Imriel’s life . . . all the very things I needed to reach her, the very things Bodeshmun had forbidden me to discuss.
    Which left flirting as the only safe ground, except that I was stumbling over my own feet there, awkward and graceless.
    “Are you well?” the princess asked. “You look pained.”
    “I think it’s the pomade,” I said. “Your highness, his eminence has asked me to conduct other business in Carthage, and I will be here for some time yet. If I were to promise to scour myself quite thoroughly, is there any chance that I might beg another audience of you? Mayhap to play a game of chess?”
    She laughed. “Do you promise to be as unwittingly amusing?”
    I winced. “By the Goddess, I hope not.”
    “I rather enjoyed it.” Her eyes sparkled. “It’s a pleasant change of pace from the usual bland courtesies.”
    I rose and bowed to her. “Very well, my lady. If the lifeblood of my dignity serves to brighten your days, then by all means, puncture it. Bleed me dry of every peck of self-respect, and I shall languish at your feet, a glad fool.”
    “Ah.” She rose. “Eloquence surfaces.”
    “Belatedly,” I admitted. “Truly, your highness, I’m terribly sorry for the impropriety.
    And if you give me a chance to make amends, I will be most grateful.”
    “Come tomorrow afternoon,” the princess said. “We’ll see how you fare at chess.”
    “Thank you.” I smiled at her. “Very much indeed.”
    She smiled back at me, sincerely, this time. “You’re welcome. And Messire Maignard, you may stop apologizing. There was somewhat I quite liked about the way my name sounded when you spoke it, although I couldn’t for the life of me say why.”
    Nor could I.
    I bowed again. “Then I wish you would do me the kindness of calling me Leander, and I aspire to the honor of using your name one day in earnest friendship.”
    She inclined her head. “On the morrow.”

Thirty-One

    I walked out of the House of Sarkal’s villa feeling more profoundly disoriented than I had in my life.
    Sidonie.
    Why in the name of all the gods and goddesses in heaven had she had such a disturbing effect on me? I’d played the most dangerous man in Carthage like a master, then tripped over my own tongue when sparring with a young woman who’d had a large piece of her memory ripped from her.
    All my expectations had been wrong. Weak. I’d thought she’d be weak-minded. Why?
    Because she’d fallen prey to Carthage’s magic, I supposed. I was an idiot. I’d