Kushiel's Mercy

away from the Aragonian coast.
    Sidonie shivered. “I thought we had enough of a lead to get away.”
    I took off the cloak I was wearing—Leander’s cloak, striped and gaudy—and draped it over her shoulders. I didn’t like her color. Her face was unwontedly pale, hectic slashes of pink high on her cheeks. “So did I. Lord Gillimas must have known enough to realize we took Bodeshmun’s talisman and sent one of their fastest war-ships after us.” I felt at her brow. “You’re hot.”
    She shivered again. “I feel cold.”
    “Let me have a look at your back.” I led her to our cabin and examined her. The wound was worse, swollen and inflamed. I bathed it and dressed it as best I could, wishing I were one of Eisheth’s scions with healing in my bones and trying not to let her hear concern in my voice. “Just think, if you were an anguissette , this would be healing cleanly.”
    Sidonie made a face. “Yes, and you’d have to worry about me bedding your mother.”
    I shot her a mortified look. “Perish the thought!”
    She laughed. “Well, at least mayhap I’d be racing toward Terre d’Ange with the Name of God rolling like thunder on my tongue, prepared to grapple with a servant of the One God himself, instead of hoping to free a demon from a stone using a term from my latest Punic language lesson.”
    “Beholden,” I said. “Lift your arms.”
    “Emmenghanom.” She said the word aloud. “Say it, Imriel.”
    “Emmeghamon,” I echoed, winding the bandages around her.
    “Em-men-gha-nom.” Sidonie enunciated each syllable with deliberate clarity. “Say it.”
    I tied the last knot and met her overbright gaze. “Em . . . Emmenghanom .”
    “Say it again.” She pulled up her gown and began lacing the bodice.
    “You’re going to survive this, Sidonie,” I murmured. “Both of us are.”
    “I’m just being practical,” she said. “Say it again.”
    She was right, of course. Practical and right. I said the word over and over, Sidonie correcting my accent and inflection.
    When I had it to her satisfaction, she nodded. “Good. You won’t forget?”
    “No,” I said. “I won’t.”
    It was a long, unsettling day. Not long after we’d turned into the open waters, a fierce headwind sprang up against us. There was a good reason Captain Deimos had feared this passage, a good reason precious few ships undertook major journeys during the winter months. Our ship bucked and surged like an unbroken horse, riding the waves, struggling to sail in the face of battening winds.
    And our pursuer followed.
    There was no doubt of it, not now. By the time the shrouded sun sank below the horizon, it had drawn near enough that we could all see the crimson-striped sail that marked it as Carthaginian and the triple bank of oars that lent it speed.
    I slept fitfully that night, holding Sidonie in my arms.
    Her skin was too hot, worrying me.
    In the morning, our pursuer had drawn nearer. Our oarsmen rowed, groaning. Captain Deimos paced the deck. It didn’t matter; none of it mattered. The headwinds from the north were too strong. The Carthaginian war-ship with its striped sail gained steadily on us.
    I prayed for something, anything. I prayed for good winds. I prayed we’d find the balance of the D’Angeline fleet awaiting us.
    No luck.
    The Carthaginian ship overtook us. It came along broadside, blocking our passage. A trebuchet mounted on its central tower thrummed, sending bolts our way. One tore through our topmost sail.
    We turned tail and fled.
    Back, back the way we’d come, racing before the wind now behind us. Deimos tried to make for land, but the Carthaginian ship raced alongside us, herded us onward. In the distance, I saw the harbor of Amílcar, blocked by a solid blockade of Carthage’s fleet.
    Our pursuer was driving us into their arms.
    “We’re done.” Captain Deimos accorded Sidonie an exacting bow. “Forgive me, your highness. I did my best.”
    Her voice rose. “My lord, we cannot surrender!”
    “You’ll not be harmed,” Deimos said. “Either of you. You’re too valuable as hostages.”
    “Once, mayhap.” Sidonie shook her head in impatient despair. “Not now. Astegal would never let either of us go, not knowing we have the key to undoing Bodeshmun’s spell.
    The only reason to keep us alive is to keep Terre d’Ange and Alba from acting by threatening them with our deaths.” She eyed the rough seas. “At this point, I’d serve my country better by drowning than