Kushiel's Mercy

myself at last and what had been done to me.”
    There was another stunned silence, this one longer. It broke at length in a multitudinous clamor of questions and statements.
    “. . . can we be sure this isn’t a Carthaginian trick?”
    “. . . about the spell binding the City of Elua?”
    “. . . seen the wound with my own eyes!”
    “Enough!” Serafin L’Envers y Aragon pounded on the table. He leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Why was Carthage pursuing you? Were you discovered?”
    “Not exactly, my lord.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Sidonie was racked by a fresh onset of shivers. Whatever good the willow-bark tea had done, it wasn’t enough. “We killed the horologist who wrought the spell and obtained the key to undoing it, then fled. Carthage seeks to thwart us. But if it lies within your power to get us from Amílcar to Terre d’Ange, we can undo the spell and restore our alliance with Aragonia.”
    “We don’t need Terre d’Ange,” Liberio muttered.
    “We need some ally,” another voice countered.
    “Do you swear to this?” Serafin asked without heeding them. “Both of you. Do you swear to it in the name of all your gods?”
    “I do,” I said.
    “Yes!” Sidonie got the word out in a gasp, her knees buckling. I caught her before she hit the floor.
    “Do you really doubt?” I asked Serafin with disdain.
    “No.” He met my gaze squarely. “But we need to discuss this amongst ourselves all the same.”
    “Do,” I said, cradling Sidonie in my arms and exiting the hall.

Fifty-Three

    “Imriel, I hate this.” Sidonie lay on her belly, chin propped on her hands, her face suffused with impatience.
    “Too bad,” I said ruthlessly. “You’re not moving.”
    The chirurgeon Rachel had applied a poultice the evening before, a disgusting mess of bread mold and mashed burdock root. She’d ordered Sidonie to remain motionless for a solid day, allowing the poultice to work undisturbed. Over the course of the night, it had done a great deal of good, and now Sidonie was restless.
    She made a face. “I feel much better.”
    I drew a lock of hair away from her brow, feeling her skin. It wasn’t nearly as hot as it had been, but it was still overly warm. “So you do. But you fell into a dead faint in front of Serafin’s council yesterday. You’re not moving until sundown.”
    There was a knock at the door, and I went to admit Lady Nicola.
    “How is she?” she asked.
    “Better,” I said. “Irritable.”
    Nicola smiled. “I would have expected Ysandre’s children to be strong-willed.”
    “My lady, will you please come tell us the news!” Sidonie’s voice called from the bedchamber.
    We went into the chamber. It tugged at my heart seeing her like this. She wore a shift of fine white linen with the back cut out, a thick crust of dried poultice slathered between her shoulder blades. The garment also had a disconcertingly low decolletage that tugged at other parts, particularly when Sidonie propped herself on her elbows as she did now, revealing the cleft of her cleavage.
    I cleared my throat. “Don’t do that, love. You’ll crack the poultice.”
    She shot me an amused look. “It’s fine. What news?”
    “Not much, I fear.” Nicola sat in the chair I drew up for her, brows knitted. “The trouble is that Amílcar’s a city under siege. You’ve seen the blockade at the mouth of the harbor.
    Would that I could tell you there’s some secret egress from the city proper, some tunnel escape into the foothills, but there’s not.”
    “What about a sortie?” I asked. “Is there any chance we could slip past Astegal’s lines in the midst of a sally?”
    Nicola nodded. “’Tis the only chance, I fear. Not everyone is willing to take that risk.”
    I frowned. “Why not? It doesn’t seem like Amílcar’s got many choices here, my lady.
    Forgive me for speaking bluntly, but Astegal’s got a good portion of Aragonia well in hand. He’s not lacking for supplies. Unless the current balance tips somehow, he can afford to wait you out until you starve.”
    She sighed. “Yes, and for the moment, Amílcar is amply supplied. Betimes it takes desperate times to drive men to desperate measures. In the eyes of some, we’re far from it.
    And then there’s the problem to the north.”
    “What problem to the north?” Sidonie asked suspiciously.
    “The Euskerri,” Nicola said. “They’ve ranged far enough to hold all the mountain passes.”
    “What?”