Kushiel's Mercy

was a spell,” I said. “Dire magics. Half of Terre d’Ange hasn’t gone mad, and Sidonie didn’t willingly betray Aragonia. We’ll gladly explain the entire matter to you, but Sidonie needs to be seen by a chirurgeon. She has an injury that’s healing badly and she’s burning up with fever.”
    Nicola looked at me in bewilderment. “Who are you?”
    I’d forgotten half of my scorched attire was yet Leander’s. Ptolemy Solon wove a tight spell. “Imriel, my lady.” I sat on the cot and began hauling off Leander’s boots. “’Tis another piece of sorcery—”
    “Wait.” Sidonie touched my arm. “You’ll only have to go through it again. Better to do it all at once, so they’ll believe. Your son Serafin’s taken charge of the resistance and declared himself regent in exile?” she asked Nicola.
    “Yes.” She regarded us with continued bemusement.
    Sidonie took a deep breath. “Then we need to speak with him and whoever else is in command here.”
    “After you see a chirurgeon,” I added.
    I daresay Lady Nicola thought we were both mad or fevered, but she escorted us both quickly from the tent and into her carriage. There the three of us sat in awkward silence.
    Sidonie was still shivering. I read the doubt and uncertainty on Nicola’s face.
    “You gave me a spotted horse,” I said to her. “You said his name was . . .” I searched my memory. “Hierax. Hierax, but the Tsingani who bred and trained him called him the Bastard.”
    Her violet eyes widened. “Blessed Elua! Imriel ?”
    I nodded. “I know it’s hard to believe. But please, trust us long enough to hear us out.”
    Nicola leaned out the window and called to the driver. “Hurry, please.”
    She took us to the Count’s palace—or what had been the Count’s palace. Count Fernan had been killed in a skirmish outside New Carthage. It was a solid building of grey granite, located in the Plaza del Rey at the heart of the city. There, she led us to a pleasant guest-chamber where we were able to wash the worst of the soot and smoke from our skin, and sent for her own chirurgeon, a capable Eisandine woman named Rachel. Lady Nicola stayed in the room while Rachel examined Sidonie. She caught her breath at the sight of the inflamed wound.
    “What did this to you?” the chirurgeon asked.
    Sidonie met my eyes. “A paring knife. Does it matter?”
    “I suppose not.” Rachel swabbed the wound. “I need to apply a poultice to draw the poisonous humors. You’ll have to be still for a full day and not disturb it.”
    “Not yet.” Sidonie shifted restlessly. “Not until I’ve addressed Serafin and the others.”
    The chirurgeon made a disapproving sound.
    “It’s important,” I said to Rachel.
    She sighed. “I’ll clean and dress it, and give you willow-bark tea for the fever. But mind, if you don’t heed me quickly, it will start to putrefy. And once that happens, a mere poultice won’t suffice. I’ll have to induce maggots into the wound to devour the rotten flesh. Do you understand?”
    Sidonie merely nodded. “My thanks.”
    The chirurgeon Rachel sent her young Aragonian assistant to brew the tea, then finished binding the injury. Sidonie was sitting up and drinking the willow-bark tea obediently when a man who could only be Serafin L’Envers y Aragon entered the room unceremoniously. His olive-skinned features and straight black hair were Aragonian, but he had the violet eyes that marked so many of House L’Envers.
    “Why didn’t you await my orders?” he asked his mother.
    Nicola raised her brows. “To receive my kinswoman, the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange? I wasn’t aware it was necessary.”
    “We’re at war with the woman’s husband, Mother.” Serafin turned to us. “You’re Sidonie?”
    “Yes,” she said. “Cousin Serafin, I presume?”
    He ignored the question. “You’ve one hell of a nerve coming here to beg sanctuary.”
    “You’ve no idea,” Sidonie said dryly. “Would you care to summon a council to find out what Carthage has done to both our nations, and what we might do about it, or do you wish to berate me a while longer?”
    Serafin’s nostrils flared, but he held himself in check. “You’ve knowledge that might shed light on this ungodly affair?”
    “I do,” she said. “We both do.”
    He gave me a hard look. “Who are you?”
    I gave him a brief bow. “Imriel de la Courcel.”
    We’d never met, so Serafin took me at my word, but it startled him nonetheless. “The