Kushiel's Mercy

d’Ange, and Alba might together force Aragonia into a peaceable surrender and build the beginnings of a mighty empire. That offer, we refused.”
    No one hissed this time. They listened.
    “Astegal appeared to accept our refusal with good grace.” Her voice hardened. “But he had promised that his horologists would show us a marvel on the night that the moon was obscured. He insisted on keeping his pledge. We allowed it.” Sidonie paused. “My lords, I cannot tell you what marvel I witnessed that night. It seemed to me that I saw somewhat wondrous, but when pressed to describe it, I cannot. All I can tell you is this: Blessed Elua knows, gossip carries. Much of this part of the world has known that for the past year, Terre d’Ange had been divided over my desire to wed my royal kinsman, Imriel de la Courcel. I ventured out that night very much in love with him. I awoke the next morning with no memory of his existence.”
    There was a short, shocked silence.
    “That,” Sidonie said thoughtfully, “I believe was unique to an intimate spell that bound me, and me alone. But no one noticed, because we’d all been caught in a greater magic.
    One that bound the entire City of Elua, man, woman, and child. I awoke that morning believing that Carthage and Terre d’Ange were allies. That Aragonia had committed an act of aggression against Carthage. And worst of all, that I’d fallen in love with Astegal of Carthage and gladly agreed to wed him.” She glanced up and down the table. “So I believed. So everyone in the City of Elua believed. I had no memory that things had ever been otherwise. And two days later, I was escorted to the harbor with great fanfare, where I boarded a Carthaginian ship without a single D’Angeline guard, without a single attendant, and sailed away to marry Astegal.” She paused again, steadying herself.
    “Which, as you well know, I did. And I didn’t begin to truly suspect aught was amiss until a man named Leander Maignard entered my life.”
    My turn.
    I rose, while Sidonie sat gratefully, careful not to rest against the back of her chair. “My lords,” I said. “My name is Imriel de la Courcel, but the face I wear belongs to Leander Maignard. Listen, and hear what befell me.”
    They did.
    I told them what had befallen me the night of the marvel, although I glossed over certain details. The Unseen Guild, Sunjata’s identity. But I told them of the needle and the whisper, the stolen ring. The madness that followed. I told them about seeking Barquiel L’Envers’ aid and fleeing to Cythera. My mother. Ptolemy Solon and his knowledge, how he had deciphered the spells that bound Sidonie and Terre d’Ange. The spell he’d wrought to conceal me from myself.
    “A spell undone with a kiss,” I said.
    One of the Aragonian lords scoffed. “A poet’s tale! Why should we believe any of this nonsense? Simple greed’s a lot more likely.”
    Sidonie and I exchanged a glance.
    “Now?” I asked.
    She nodded. “Now.”
    This time I played it for dramatic effect. I removed Leander’s shirt first, smoke-scented and scorched. I knew what Serafin and his council saw. Leander Maignard, bare-chested before them, his torso smooth and lean. I’d put in his ruby eardrops, and I made a show of removing them. I wasn’t wearing much else of his.
    “You know me,” I said to Lady Nicola. “Imriel. You told me once to know myself. Do you see me?”
    Nicola shook her head, eyes wide and wondering. “I see a man like to have Shahrizai blood in him. Not Imriel de la Courcel.”
    Ptolemy Solon wove a tight spell.
    I dragged off Leander’s boots and stockings, then stood barefooted and -chested in the great hall of the Count’s palace. There are few merits to having survived an attack by a bear—or a shapeshifting magician in a bear’s form—but it makes for a fairly strong impression.
    Nicola gasped and covered her mouth.
    Liberio came out of his seat.
    “What you see, I saw!” Sidonie’s voice was urgent as she rose to join me, standing before them. “And I knew him. I didn’t remember, but I knew . So I stripped myself bare, thinking the same had been done to me.” Her mouth twisted. “It hadn’t. Astegal set his seal on me in a different way. He had the insignia of the House of Sarkal etched into my skin. A mockery of the marques the Servants of Naamah bear. The mark that made me his willing bride.” She shuddered. “I begged Imriel to cut it out of me. He did. And I knew