Kushiel's Mercy

harmless, a useful fool. But Sidonie . . . Sidonie was another matter. Gods, what was it she’d overheard the Amazigh say yesterday that had disturbed her? I wished I’d had time to learn Punic. If I’d had any idea I’d be in this position one day, I would have learned it years ago.
    And what if she didn’t send for me again?
    The thought of not seeing her made my heart ache. And the thought of failing—of leaving her a spell-bound pawn in Carthage’s hands, happily spreading her legs in Astegal’s bed—filled me with sick fury.
    When a letter inviting me to dine with her that evening came later in the day, I nearly laughed aloud with relief. It was ludicrous. Never in my life had I felt such absurd, soaring joy.
    I’d heard it described, though.
    That was the awful irony of it. The day I’d accompanied Prince Imriel to the Temple of Aphrodite on Cythera, I’d asked him what it was like to be in love. And impossible as it seemed . . . yes. That was how I felt. As though my heart could burst, flaying my chest.
    As though I could leap off a cliff and take wing.
    And then it changes , he had said. It becomes a part of you.
    He had been speaking of Sidonie.
    She loved him. Not me—him. What I’d said to her yesterday was true. Whatever I felt for her, it didn’t matter. Whether I succeeded or failed, this would end with Sidonie de la Courcel in another man’s arms, and me broken-hearted. The only difference was whether or not her happiness would be a faltering lie or joyous truth. And astonishingly enough, that had begun to matter to me.
    I gazed at myself in the mirror before I departed for her villa. What I’d told Sunjata was true; there was a resemblance between the prince and me, at least a bit. I remembered his face well, as it was so much the mirror of her ladyship’s. Mine was thinner, more aquiline.
    My eyes were blue, but I hadn’t inherited that deep, dazzling hue that marked so many of House Shahrizai.
    I looked older than I remembered.
    Older, and more . . . intense. I wondered if it strengthened the resemblance between us.
    And I wondered, if it did, could she ever come to love me in his stead?
    I reached out and touched the mirror, bracing my fingertips against its cool surface.
    Gazed at my mirror-fingertips touching my own. “Blessed Elua,” I murmured. “I’ve been away so long, I scarce remember how to pray to you.”
    Somewhat in my heart stirred. Memories of home. Of fields of lavender and bees buzzing under the golden sun. Drowsing on my belly before our household shrine, the scent of sweet-peas in the air. Elua’s enigmatic smile offered in loving benison.
    Be worthy of her .
    The words floated through my mind, and whether they came from the depths of my unconscious thoughts, or Blessed Elua himself, I couldn’t say. I only knew that my eyes stung. “I’ll try,” I whispered. “Whatever else happens, I will try.”
    I presented myself at the villa as dusk was settling over the city. It was the first time the princess had invited me to dine with her. The steward escorted me to an inner courtyard.
    It was hung about with oil lamps providing a soft illumination, set with multiple braziers to chase off the evening chill. Sidonie was there, clad in the pale yellow gown in which I’d first seen her. She turned her head as I entered, and our eyes met.
    I bowed to her. “Your beauty outshines the sun, Princess.”
    The words hung between us, echoing strangely. Her eyes brightened as though with tears, and mine stung again. Worthy. I would try to be worthy. I watched her gather herself.
    “If you flirt overmuch, I shall have to send you away, Messire Maignard,” she said in a cool tone.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the Amazigh positioned against a vine-decked courtyard wall, his robed and veiled figure almost invisible in the dim light. “I will try to restrain myself, your highness.”
    She smiled slightly. “Then you may join me.”
    We sat opposite one another at the dining table. Servants came and went, bringing wine and an array of dishes. Sidonie’s manner was guarded and careful in a way I couldn’t quite fathom. It was subtle and inexplicable, somewhat only a Guildsman might notice. I made innocuous conversation, speaking of Cythera’s fine wines, praising the dishes, inventing delicacies allegedly devised by my late father the chef and describing them in detail. She listened and made all the appropriate comments.
    It looked and sounded like a