Kushiel's Mercy

host.
    Sidonie and I fumbled our way to one of the reclining couches, trying to hush our laughter. We took our places. I slid my arms around her, resting my chin on her shoulder.
    I wanted to be able to feel her every reaction.
    “You may begin,” Mavros called.
    We watched.
    It was the same, but different, so different! The only other time I’d attended such a Showing, I’d been abominably drunk, wallowing in misery. And even then, it had been good. Now . . . Elua have mercy, it was so much more.
    We watched the pair of Valerian adepts enter the staging area and kneel, abeyante , heads bowed and hands clasped before them. We watched the Mandrake adepts stride onto the stage. “Strip,” one ordered ruthlessly.
    The Valerian adepts obeyed.
    I felt Sidonie’s breathing quicken, her ribcage rising and falling beneath my encircling arms. I could tell by her subtle responses whether or not what she was viewing pleased and aroused her.
    Most of the time, it did.
    A few times, it didn’t.
    I took note of everything. It was beautiful; it was all beautiful. These were Naamah’s Servants, reveling in their art—and it was an art. There was a calculated beauty to the arc of a Mandrake adept’s arm as she swung the flogger. There was a pattern to the emerging welts, a rhythm to the gasps and pleas. Every pose struck had its own beauty, its own internal tension. Every order, every plea was part of a ritual. Still, I took note. The blindfold, yes; the gag, mayhap not. The crack of the whip, the slap of the tawse, the smack of the paddle—yes. Even the keen whistle and sharp cut of the cane.
    “Really?” I whispered in Sidonie’s ear.
    “Mmm.” There was a smile in her voice. “We’ll see.”
    One of Mandrake’s adepts tossed a rose, gave an order. A Valerian adept crawled on all fours, retrieved it in his mouth. He raised his head for approval, lips bleeding from the stem’s thorns. His mistress retrieved it, stroked his cheek with the rose’s petals. He bowed his head, kissing the tips of her boots. I felt Sidonie’s body tense.
    “No?” I murmured.
    “No.” She tilted her head back. “I’ll kneel for you, but I won’t crawl.”
    I stroked her hair. “Good to know.”
    When it was over, after I gave Mavros a purse to present to the adepts as a patron-gift, all three of us shared a cordial in the salon. For the first time, he looked at Sidonie with frank curiosity. She returned his regard with perfect equanimity.
    “Did you enjoy the Showing, your highness?” Mavros inquired, studiously polite.
    “Very much so, my lord Shahrizai,” she replied, echoing his tone exactly. Mavros narrowed his eyes at her, trying to decide if she was teasing him. Sidonie laughed and finished her cordial, then got to her feet. “Yes, Mavros,” she said in her own voice, bending down to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for arranging it. I’m glad Imriel has a kinsman he can trust.”
    “Of course,” he said, bemused. “You’re welcome.”
    We didn’t act on what we’d seen that night, nor for several nights. I wanted to approach this with a mind clear of other images, and a heart purged of fear. I made offerings at the temples of Blessed Elua and all his Companions. In the Temple of Kushiel, I stood for a long time, simply gazing at the effigy’s face. I had come once to offer penance, making expiation for the lives I’d taken in Lucca, for all my dead. I hadn’t been there since.
    Kushiel’s marble arms were crossed on his breast, his rod and flail held in either hand.
    His gaze was fixed on the distance, his features stern and calm. There was a trace of sorrow in his marble eyes, hinting at a compassion beyond the mortal compass. I thought about Berlik of the Maghuin Dhonn, whom I had killed in Vralia. He had knelt beneath a barren tree, bowing his head as the snow swirled around us. After I’d killed him, I’d wept.
    I hadn’t done penance for his death. I didn’t think it would be fitting. That one, I was meant to carry.
    And I thought, too, about Sidonie. About her strength and determination, and the unexpected desires that accompanied them. About the wondrous gift of her trust, and what I needed to do to be worthy of it. Trusting her, trusting myself. That was the hardest part of all. The thought of engaging in violent play with her thrilled me to the very marrow of my bones, so deep it made me shudder, stirring echoes of my worst fears. It was a dark, surging desire, tinged with cruelty and laced