Kushiel's Mercy

chanted.
    “As-te-gal! As-te-gal!”
    I glanced at Sidonie; her chin lifted, her profile achingly pure. “Are you all right, love?”
    She nodded, wordless and pale.
    The executioner waited, his heavy broadsword angled over his shoulder. His face was impassive. The wooden block, with a niche for Astegal to lay his neck, sat at his feet. I thought about Berlik kneeling in the swirling snow, baring his neck for my blade. This was different, so different. When all was said and done, I’d understood why Berlik did what he did. Why he’d killed Dorelei, why he’d killed our unborn son. And I had wept for his death.
    No one here would weep for Astegal.
    The drums continued beating, steady and unrelenting. The blood beat in my veins. A rush of sound in my ears, a bronze clash of wings. I saw Astegal of Carthage drawing near.
    His hands were bound behind his back beneath his battle-frayed purple cloak, but his head was high, his eyes glaring. Proud. He was a proud man. The crowd pushed and shoved, clamoring for his blood. Astegal ignored them. There was only one person his gaze sought. As the guards ordered Astegal to halt before the executioner, Sidonie took a step forward.
    I would to Elua she hadn’t.
    Everyone there knew the tale that lay between them. A hush fell over the crowd. And in that moment, Astegal moved, quick and sure. His shoulders jerked and the ropes binding his wrists parted and snapped. Somehow he’d managed to fray his bonds during his imprisonment and hide his handiwork. Astegal grabbed the executioner’s sword by the blade with his bare hand and wrested it from him, heedless of the wound it inflicted. In two swift strides, he seized Sidonie and held her pinned against him, the blade to her throat.
    “Don’t!” Astegal shouted at the surging guards. His face was suffused with rage. “She’ll be dead before you can strike!”
    My head rang.
    “Hold!” Serafin ordered the guards. He ground his teeth. “What the hell do you think to accomplish, Carthaginian?”
    “I am a Prince of the House of Sarkal and I’ll not be executed like some common galley slave,” Astegal spat. “Bring me a horse or I’ll cut her throat.”
    I gazed at Sidonie. She wasn’t struggling; he had the blade pressed hard enough to her flesh that a thin line of blood was visible. But she wasn’t frightened, either. She was furious. Our eyes met and the ringing in my head quieted, leaving a strange sense of calm in its wake.
    I dropped my walking-stick and stepped forward. “Let her go, Astegal.”
    “You!” His eyes widened. “How?”
    I’d forgotten Astegal didn’t know. “I’ve been here for a while. You knew me as Leander Maignard in New Carthage. Your cousin Bodeshmun isn’t the only man on this earth to master sorcery.” I drew my sword. “Let her go, and I’ll grant you what you don’t deserve.
    A warrior’s death.”
    He bared his teeth at me. “I think not.”
    “Look around you, Astegal.” I gestured with my blade. Members of Vitor Gaitán’s Harbor Watch had pushed through the crowd to surround us, crossbows drawn and trained on Astegal. “You’re a dead man. Do you think you can mount a horse without withdrawing that sword from Sidonie’s throat?”
    “Then we’ll walk,” Astegal said grimly. “My dear wife and I.”
    Sidonie’s eyes flashed with fury.
    Elua help me, I almost smiled. “All the way to New Carthage?” I asked. “Then you’d best not lower your blade for an instant, because one of us will be there to kill you the moment you do. And you’d best not sleep, because Sidonie will slit your throat herself.” I watched the knowledge sink into him and spread my arms. “Come. Surely you’re not afraid?”
    “Of a man half-crippled?” he asked in contempt. “Ba’al have mercy, no.” Astegal tightened the blade against Sidonie’s throat. “Make it worth my while, D’Angeline.
    Because right now, I’ve no reason to do aught but die knowing I caused you grief.”
    “All right.” I nodded. “Kill me and you’ll be given a sporting chance to live. A swift horse and an hour’s lead.”
    The crowd had been spell-bound and silent, but that raised a gasp. “You can’t make that offer,” Serafin said in a tight voice. “Aragonia will not countenance it.”
    I looked at him. “I won’t lose.”
    There were a hundred debates we could have had, but I couldn’t marshal the will to argue them. The ringing in my head had quieted, but I could feel Kushiel’s