Kushiel's Mercy

pass beckoned. I had an overwhelming urge to snatch a pair of horses yet milling around us, grab Sidonie, and flee. I couldn’t, of course. Sidonie had come to them as an emissary of Terre d’Ange and Aragonia. She had to play the role in good faith on behalf of all the parties involved. Still, I yearned to move onward.
    All together, we made the long trek back to the village amid mixed jubilation and despair.
    There was more of the former than the latter. The women were somber, but the young, untried men among the Euskerri were filled with excitement, reliving the battle, while the older ones smiled with dour pride. The Amazigh horses were reckoned a serious prize.
    And beneath it all, everyone was buzzing at the prospect of a free and sovereign Euskerria. Even without understanding the language, I could feel it. I prayed they would reach a swift decision in the days to come.
    For a mercy, there actually was a guesthouse in Roncal. Paskal explained to us that it was used during times of celebration when Euskerri from neighboring communities would come to stay and mingle. A good many marriages were arranged that way. But for now, its lodging-rooms were at our disposal. Through Paskal, Janpier’s wife, Laida, introduced us to the etxekoandere , or mistress of the house, a dignified woman named Bixenta. And through Paskal, Bixenta assured us that we would be cared for in a manner befitting our stature.
    “Is it possible to have a bath?” I asked with longing.
    Bixenta unbent enough to smile a little when Paskal translated the question. “This will be arranged,” Paskal told us. “She recommends that I do the same once you have finished.”
    True to her word, Bixenta took good care of us. The hospitality was homely, but it was warm and unstinted. Sidonie and I took turns bathing in the wooden washtub in a tiny room off the guesthouse’s kitchen. Sidonie insisted on letting me go first.
    “I didn’t fight a battle today,” she murmured, undoing the buckles of my vambraces. “I want to see for myself that you’re all right.”
    I was.
    I had myriad bruises blossoming and a knot on my skull where a horse’s hoof had dented my helmet, but my skin was whole. I let Sidonie examine me to her satisfaction before I clambered into the tub and scrubbed myself thoroughly. Elua, it felt good. Afterward, the water was so filthy it had to be changed. While fresh water heated, Bixenta took my dirty things to be laundered and brought clean, simple clothing in the Euskerri style: black breeches and vest and a white shirt with loose sleeves. There was a shadow of sorrow in her dark eyes, and I wondered who the clothes had belonged to.
    And then it was Sidonie’s turn.
    “Let me see your back, love,” I said gently to her, unwinding bandages that hadn’t been changed for two days.
    “Elua,” she muttered, leaning forward in the bath and wrapping her arms around her knees. “Imriel, I look forward to the day when neither of us has to examine the other’s wounds.”
    It looked good. The disk of scabbed flesh between her shoulder blades was beginning to crack and peel, revealing pink new skin underneath. I soaped it carefully, kneeling beside the tub, watching water and suds run down her spine. “So do I.”
    Bixenta had brought clean attire for Sidonie, too. The dress had a fitted black bodice embroidered with elaborate needlework and a two-tiered skirt of white and crimson below. After I’d applied fresh salve and clean bandages that Rachel had given us, I helped Sidonie don the dress. It smelled of cedar, as though it had been carefully preserved in a clothes-press.
    We ventured out of the bathing-room to find Bixenta waiting. She pressed her hands together, raising them to her lips when we emerged. Her large dark eyes were bright with tears.
    “Etxekoandere.” Sidonie hesitated, then framed a halting question in the Euskerri tongue, augmented with many gestures. It seemed she’d put her time in the library of Amílcar to better use than I’d reckoned. Bixenta replied in a torrent of Euskerri, her hands flying and gesticulating.
    They communicated as women do, better than men. Bixenta pointed between the two of us, raising her brows and clasping her hands.
    “I think it was her wedding dress,” Sidonie said to me in a soft voice. “She reckoned it was the only finery that would suit the occasion. I’m not sure whether those are her husband’s clothes or her son’s that you’re wearing. If I understand