Kushiel's Mercy

inward delight for having arranged this so neatly. Now I was merely relieved to have it done.
    How odd.
    It was the difference, I supposed, between training and being engaged in the actual practice of the arts of covertcy. They say callow soldiers either become men or die quickly on the battlefield. This was a different field of battle, but the stakes were no less high. I’d never known real danger before. Bored and idle on Cythera, a hawk on a tether, I’d thought to crave danger and excitement.
    Now I’d had a surfeit of it.
    And then there was Sidonie.
    That was the oddest thing of all. I truly hadn’t believed one could form such strong feelings for another in such a short time. It seemed an impossible fancy, a poet’s tale.
    Now I was awash in emotion, fairly drowning in it.
    I sent a letter to notify her that my own plans for travel to New Carthage were in readiness. She sent a reply in short order, confirming the time of departure. A total of six ships would be escorting her to New Carthage, and she invited me to join their small fleet in the interest of safety. I sent a polite reply accepting with thanks, and dispatched Kratos to notify Captain Deimos.
    Gods, I wanted to see her.
    And it would be worse in New Carthage. I had to prepare myself for that. There was somewhat between us, and I knew Sidonie felt it. That spark of desire when she had touched me. Even when she’d grasped my wrist in fear the day of the hunting party. I could still feel her grip. On my flesh, in my bones.
    But time and distance strained the spell, Bodeshmun said. He was convinced that she would forget her fears once she was reunited with Astegal. I wasn’t, not entirely.
    Bodeshmun saw her as a pawn, not a person. Her curiosity was merely an annoyance to be managed. He hadn’t truly seen the sharp intellect struggling against the magics that bound her thoughts. Beyond whatever purpose she served, he couldn’t have cared less about Sidonie herself. And for that, I was profoundly grateful, because if he had, Bodeshmun might have seen what I did.
    Still, it wasn’t likely he was entirely wrong, either. Likely the spell would exert new strength.
    And Astegal . . .
    I’d have to see her with Astegal, this ambitious Carthaginian general styling himself a king in Aragonia. The man she thought she loved. I would have to witness it and smile pleasantly. The thought was unbelievably galling.
    On the night before our departure, I went through my things once more. One of the trunks her ladyship had given me had a false bottom, a standard practice as such things went. It was there that I’d stowed the Amazigh garments and the ring Sunjata had made for me.
    I took a moment to study the latter. I hoped to hell it was an accurate copy. Like as not it was. Sunjata had had the original in his possession, and he had an eye for detail trained by her ladyship.
    A simple thing, a knot of gold. A love-token. Sidonie had given Prince Imriel the original.
    I slid the copy on my finger, wondering what it had meant to them. Some bit of girlish folly, I’d assumed when Ptolemy Solon had explained it to me. That seemed a very long time ago, when I’d been a different Leander Maignard, a callow young man still capable of imagining a Sidonie de la Courcel prone to girlish folly.
    Lamplight gleamed softly on the gold. I felt a knot tighten in my throat, tighten around my heart. I tightened my hand to a fist.
    “Astegal,” I said aloud. “I’m coming for you.”

Thirty-Seven

    We departed for New Carthage on a sullen day, the skies grey and cloudy, spitting fitful bouts of rain. I stood beside my borrowed palanquin, watching hired porters carry my trunks onto Captain Deimos’ ship. Everything was packed away, the Amazigh garb and the false ring safely hidden once more.
    I’d arrived early, hoping for a glimpse of Sidonie. A glimpse was all I got. I saw her ornate palanquin in the midst of a considerable entourage, flanked by her Amazigh guards. They escorted her aboard the House of Sarkal’s flagship. Her figure was cloaked and hooded against the chilly drizzle.
    Still, I knew her.
    I knew her by the way she moved, at once controlled and deft. There was a neatness to it, a precise grace. I’d seen it every time she left or entered a room. I’d seen it sitting opposite her, a chess board between us, in the way she had made her choices and moved the pieces.
    Oddly, it made me think of the time my father had taken me to see the Cruarch’s