Kushiel's Mercy

patient, too. My opponent stalked me until he began to catch my rhythm. He landed a blow with the edge of his sword on my dagger-hand, scoring a nasty gash and causing me to drop my blade.
    His dagger swept my sword aside. I sensed the blow to follow and whirled away, instinctively taking up my heavy, borrowed sword in a two-handed grip. For a moment, we were both disoriented. The crowd grumbled as the Amazigh resumed his patient stalking.
    I listened for him. This felt right, the sword angled across my body. The memory of Prince Imriel practicing in the garden flashed across my thoughts, watching him move through a fluid series of movements. What do you call it? I’d asked him. Telling the hours . He’d moved in circles. Blood trickled down the back of my left hand, tickling my wrist. I concentrated, trying to remember more.
    I wondered if . . .
    Careless. The Amazigh blade clattered against my sword. I pushed back in a panic and felt the prick of a dagger at my throat as he slipped inside my guard. I dropped my sword and put my hands together in surrender.
    There was good-natured applause as I removed my blindfold. My Amazigh opponent readjusted the folds of his head-scarf. I bowed to him, my palms still pressed together. He returned the bow impassively.
    “Well done!” Astegal chuckled and tossed me a gold coin, as if I were one of his hired performers. “Spinning and dashing like a cornered hare. I’ve never seen the like. You were right, my dear,” he added to Sidonie. “He is entertaining. I can see why he made you laugh.”
    “Yes.” Her expression was unreadable, but there was somewhat working behind her eyes.
    Another memory stirred. “Thank you, Messire Maignard.”
    I bowed to her. “For you, your highness, anything.”
    Astegal waved a dismissive hand. “Go, go. Enjoy the revel.”
    I went.
    That night, I couldn’t sleep. Although I’d bound it, the gash on the back of my hand throbbed, keeping me awake. I played out memories of the night over and over in my thoughts. Dancing with Sidonie. The feeling of her in my arms, the inexplicable rightness of it. The duel with the Amazigh. Wondering if by some miracle I might have been able to re-create the elegant, deceptively simple movements I’d seen Prince Imriel perform.
    Realizing that it was a damned good thing I hadn’t.
    Harmless. I had to appear harmless.
    It was all right, I’d put on an amusing spectacle. All that Carthage had seen was a cornered hare—and that’s all I’d been, really. Still, I tried to remember what I knew of the Cassiline Brotherhood.
    Not much, really. Tales from childhood; but the Cassiline Brothers had fallen out of favor not long after I was born. I knew they were stern and celibate, and that they held strange beliefs. That they trained from the age of ten to be the best bodyguards in the world.
    And I knew that Joscelin Verreuil, the consort of Prince Imriel’s foster-mother, had been one such. In Terre d’Ange, he was reckoned a hero. In her ladyship’s household, he was reckoned an almighty irritant. I’d forgotten all about the fact that he was a Cassiline. It must have been he who trained the prince.
    And somewhat about a vigil . . .
    Yes, there had been a vigil. It wasn’t long after her ladyship had arrived on Cythera, where we had assiduously prepared for her. We got word her son the prince had taken sick after kneeling the whole night, the Longest Night, in the bitter cold. I remembered her ladyship being uncommonly distraught, uttering scathing words about the Cassiline Brotherhood in general and Joscelin Verreuil in particular. I remembered my mother commenting that it was likely one of the few things on which her ladyship and Phèdre nó Delaunay might agree.
    At the time, I’d agreed, too. It seemed utter folly.
    Now . . .
    Well, it was folly. But it held a strange, stark appeal. I was a stranger in a strange land, truly and figuratively. I didn’t know if I was D’Angeline or Cytheran. I was in love, and I didn’t know how to love. Blessed Elua did. And the longer I thought on it, the more the notion of laying this burden in his hands, of appearing before him in humility and subjecting myself to his will, appealed to me.
    I rose quietly and dressed in darkness. The door to Sunjata’s chamber was firmly closed.
    He had been invited to attend the festivities on this night, but he had declined the invitation. I didn’t even know why. We were growing distant to one another, and it