Kushiel's Mercy

It’s a powerful draught; she won’t wake for hours.”
    “Yes.” I let my knees give way and slid down the door, hoping I looked more like a man settling in for a long vigil than a man collapsing. “I promised.” I tried to find Leander Maignard’s insouciant tone somewhere inside me. “One should always keep a promise to a lady, messire.”
    Girom shrugged. “As you like. Send one of the guards to fetch me if there’s any difficulty before I arrive.”
    With that, he took his leave. The Amazigh regarded me with impassive disinterest. There were two of them on guard. They exchanged a few words in their native tongue. One went to stir the fire in the hearth, then took up a post where he could keep an eye on both me and the outer door. The other stretched his length on a couch, clearly prepared to nap.
    I couldn’t have cared less.
    Imriel.
    I was Imriel.
    The knowledge pounded through me, over and over. I remembered everything. My madness, the flight to Cythera. My mother. Ptolemy Solon’s spell. I remembered everything I’d done as Leander, vividly. I even remembered Leander’s own memories, although they’d grown faint and ghostly, like somewhat read in a tale. But I remembered what I’d felt as Leander.
    And it was nothing to what I felt now.
    I was going to have to act fast. Ptolemy Solon hadn’t thought a mere semblance would fool Bodeshmun, and that was all I had now. I leaned the back of my head against the door, staring into the dim salon. The gouge in my skull throbbed. I had to get Sidonie out of here.
    And I had to get Bodeshmun’s talisman.
    Ah, gods! What was happening at home? There hadn’t been word of Terre d’Ange since Carthage. The thought made me shiver. Leander Maignard hadn’t cared overmuch.
    I did.
    It was a long night. I stayed awake, thinking. At some point, the Amazigh warrior on guard yawned and woke the other. They traded roles. Some hours later, another pair came to relieve them altogether. I watched the process through slitted eyes, thinking about the Amazigh garb hidden in my trunks.
    A little after dawn, a Carthaginian chambermaid came with a tray of tea and fruit. She made to pass me and enter the bedchamber. I shook my head at her.
    “No one passes,” I said. “I promised.”
    The door opened behind me. “It’s all right,” Sidonie said quietly. “Elissa may enter.”
    I got stiffly to my feet. “Did you sleep well, your highness?”
    “Yes.” There were violet shadows under her eyes, but her gaze was clear and calm.
    Sidonie de la Courcel had come to a decision. “Thank you, Messire Maignard. Your presence helped. Would it be too much to ask you to return tonight?”
    “No, my lady,” I said, bowing. “Not at all.”

Fourty-Five

    I made my way wearily to my own chambers, praying I didn’t encounter Bodeshmun on the way. For a mercy, I didn’t. I was going to have to avoid him, at least up until the minute I killed him.
    And I was still working on that plan.
    Sunjata was there, muttering over his latest manifest. The gem trade had fallen off since Astegal had pulled the army out of New Carthage. I stopped dead, staring at him and remembering.
    “You knew,” I said.
    His head jerked up and he stared at me, recognition slowly dawning. “You . . . ?”
    “Imriel,” I said. “Yes. I know myself.”
    “Ah,” Sunjata said. “Yes. It was in her ladyship’s letter.”
    I regarded him with a convoluted mixture of Leander’s fondness and my own bitter memories of his voice whispering in my ear, the stab of a long needle, his hand tugging a ring from my finger. “Why did you have me strip?”
    He looked away. “I had to know. To see.”
    I raised my brows. “You could have refused me.”
    “Leander would have been hurt,” Sunjata murmured. “It would have been hard to explain.
    And . . . you nearly were him, at least at first. Even after I saw you.” His throat worked.
    “This is a lonely business, your highness.”
    “Call me Imriel,” I said wryly. “We’ve been lovers.”
    Sunjata’s dark skin flushed darker. “I have something for you,” he said, rising and going to his own bedchamber. He returned with the trunk I’d brought from Cythera, the one inscribed with his name. “These are yours.”
    I was just opening the trunk as Kratos stumbled from the servant’s chamber, yawning and scratching himself. “What’s all this?” he asked as I withdrew a pair of fawn-colored woolen breeches.
    “My things,” I said. Beneath