Kushiel's Mercy

descended.
    Nothing happened when we stepped onto the wooden docks. When we stepped off the dock onto the cobbled stones of the harbor square, her body jerked and her hand tightened on mine. “They itch and burn,” Sidonie said in wonderment. She lifted her free hand and regarded the binding of red thread around her wrist. “And this . . .” She touched the croonie-stone lying in the hollow of her throat. “It feels heavy.”
    My throat tightened. “And you?”
    She let go my hand and reached up to cup my face, kissing me in answer.
    She knew me.
    She knew herself.
    I kissed her back with relieved, desperate ardor, then lifted my head to find that every D’Angeline sailor in the harbor had gone to one knee and bowed their heads. To her. To us . I saw tears in Sidonie’s eyes.
    “Your highnesses.” Henri Voisin rose to his feet, his face grave. “I am not entirely certain what has transpired here this day, but I sense the hand of Blessed Elua in it. Tell Princess Alais and his grace the Duc that the Royal Navy of Terre d’Ange has obeyed the orders of the Dauphine. We wish you the gods’ own speed.”
    Sidonie drew a deep, shaking breath. “And you, my lord. And you.”
    Our escort mounted.
    Kratos opened the carriage door and ushered us inside. The stiff cushions creaked as we settled ourselves. Kratos himself took a seat atop the carriage alongside the driver. A whip cracked and hooves drummed on the paving-stones.
    We were off.

Sixty-Nine

    We made our way in haste to Turnone.
    The city lay some sixty leagues west of the City of Elua, perched atop a steep hill. Marc Faucon, the sensible young lieutenant that Henri Voisin had appointed to lead our escort, told us that Barquiel L’Envers had selected it because it was easily defensible.
    “So he would make a stand if my mother makes good on her threat?” Sidonie asked soberly.
    Faucon, riding alongside the carriage, glanced through the window at her. “Nothing is certain, your highness. If it comes to it, he’s chosen a place that could be defended for long months without engagement. But in the end . . .” He shrugged and didn’t finish the thought.
    “She couldn’t possibly succeed.” I felt sick at having to utter the words. “Not against the entire country.”
    “No.” Faucon’s expression was grim. “But her majesty has a very large, very well-trained army at her disposal. If she will not relent, we face the choice between suffering ourselves to be ruled by madness and lies or enduring terrible bloodshed.”
    Sidonie buried her face in her hands. “Oh, gods! It’s not their fault. The spell . . . it’s like an awful sickness.”
    “Then I pray your highnesses possess the cure in truth,” Faucon said gently. “Because if you don’t, I fear thousands may die of this disease.”
    We eschewed the towns and made camp along the roadside, choosing isolated stretches.
    Neither Sidonie nor I wanted word of our return to be known—not until we knew what we were going to do. Marc Faucon apologized profusely for the discomfort. Sidonie, who had endured worse during our sojourn among the Euskerri, waved his apologies aside.
    For my part, I couldn’t have cared less.
    At night we watched the moon rise.
    In a little less than three weeks, it would be full; and Ysandre would make good on her threat.
    War.
    I checked Sidonie’s bindings obsessively, still half-disbelieving that the charm had worked. It seemed too good to be true. I’d seen the hours and hours that it had taken Ptolemy Solon to wreak his charm of semblance, and I knew the horrific measures to which Bodeshmun had gone to create his vast spell. It was true that Aodhan’s charm had been wrought as swiftly as mine, but he was an ollamh . It took years and years of study to attain that rank.
    “Mayhap the magic lies in the croonie-stone,” Sidonie offered. “After all, it was an ollamh ’s gift.”
    I shook my head. “It wasn’t enough alone. Morwen was able to summon me when one of the bindings broke.”
    “Well, mayhap there’s an untapped gift for magic in your bloodline,” she said. “Or mayhap it was some arcane gift of the Maghuin Dhonn in exchange for granting Berlik a noble death and urging mercy for those who remained. Mayhap it’s because the spell that lies over the City wasn’t meant for me and me alone.” She rubbed her left wrist. “Or mayhap it’s simply that every now and then the gods do grant our prayers. Whatever it is, I’m