Kushiel's Mercy

address the council and the crowd: Rafael de Barbara. He was an older Aragonian lord with a dignified bearing and a tutored rhetorical style. He spoke of Sidonie’s youth and lack of experience in terms that were at once disparaging and sympathetic, reminding everyone that with Terre d’Ange in disarray, its heir was in no position to negotiate with the Euskerri for safe passage over the border, let alone a major treaty.
    “So send your own ambassador,” I muttered. Sidonie hushed me.
    Rafael de Barbara held the floor for a long time, recounting the long history of animosity between the Euskerri and Aragonia, culminating in recent battles. He reminded them that when the most recent skirmishes had erupted, Terre d’Ange’s only concern was that it not spill over the border into Siovale. And he finished by urging them not to undertake a desperate measure that would destroy the very realm in the process of attempting to save it. At that, there was scattered applause.
    When he had finished, Serafin’s father, Ramiro Zornín de Aragon spoke out in support of the plan, confirming his belief that other cities would seize the opportunity to rise up against Astegal. He wasn’t eloquent, but he was precise, with names and facts and figures at his disposal. I saw Lady Nicola smile with quiet pride.
    After Ramiro, there was another opposing member, an undistinguished, mousy fellow who made many of the same points as Rafael, only with less skill. Still, I could hear murmurs of agreement in the crowd behind me. I wished I could turn in my seat and gauge their faces.
    General Liberio, the grizzled veteran, followed him. He stood to speak. “What we are facing is a choice between a slow loss or a desperate victory,” he said bluntly. “In my opinion, this can be done. And we can use it to our advantage.” He pointed one thick finger at Sidonie. “What is the one thing we need to draw away some of Carthage’s forces? A bait Astegal cannot resist. His wife.”
    I felt the blood drain from my face. I hadn’t considered that .
    At my side, Sidonie met Liberio’s gaze without flinching.
    She’d considered it.
    The instant Liberio sat, the last opponent was on his feet, Jimeno de Ferrer, the youngest of the council. “Precisely,” he spat. “Astegal’s wife . Serafin, I know she is your kinswoman, but can you ask us to trust to this tale of madness and parlor tricks? If there’s an ounce of truth to it, it’s that an impetuous young woman agreed to an ill-advised marriage. Now she seeks to flee home. Shall we spend precious Aragonian lives to help her?” Jimeno shook his head. “I think not. And I think there is no more to the tale than that.”
    He sat to mixed applause.
    Serafin nodded at Sidonie. “You may speak.”
    She rose and inclined her head toward the council, then walked to the corner of the table, turning so she could address council and crowd alike. “What is more likely, my lords and ladies?” she asked. “That I am a fickle bride, or that half of Terre d’Ange was plunged overnight into madness and betrayal for no reason whatsoever?”
    There was a tense, waiting silence. Sidonie let it stretch until I could feel my heart thudding in my chest.
    “I have spoken to the council of the spell that bound us,” she said at last. “Hear now of my first suspicion that somewhat dire was amiss. I had ventured out to make an offering at the temple of Tanit. As I returned through the streets of Carthage, I overheard my guards directing my bearers to turn aside lest our route take us through the slave-market.
    At that moment, I began to know fear.”
    She swept her gaze over them, letting it rest last on Jimeno de Ferrer.
    “Prince Imriel told me later what I would have seen there,” Sidonie continued. “What he saw. Aragonian folk taken as spoils of war at the sack of New Carthage, sold into slavery.
    A ten-year-old boy. There was a noblewoman looking for a pretty child to adorn her household. She declined to purchase him because he didn’t speak Hellene. There was no way to determine whether or not he was sufficiently biddable .”
    There were hisses, but they were meant for Carthage, not her.
    “That is the war you are fighting, my lords and ladies,” she said steadily. “That is the opponent you face. Amílcar has resisted Astegal. The siege has only just begun and your spirits are high. But there is no help coming from any quarter. None . And if none comes, week after week, month after month,