Kushiel's Mercy

we emerged. I heard fourteen voices gasp.
    There was only one face I recognized: Frederic Guillard, a young Azzallese baron who’d spent a summer at Court some years ago. I’d played piquet with him in the Hall of Games.
    I didn’t know the others. They were peers of the Lesser Houses, man and woman, old and young. It didn’t matter. They were there to represent their folk. They stared at us with wonder and uncertainty.
    “My lords and ladies,” Sidonie addressed them in a somber tone. “I wish to thank each of you for your courage in defending Terre d’Ange in a time of sorrow. And I wish to apologize for my own role in it.” She took a deep breath. “You have heard rumors that there is dire magic behind the madness that grips all who were in the City of Elua on that fateful night. We are here to tell you it is true. And we are here to tell you that it can and will be defeated.”
    I saw the first glimmers of hope in their faces.
    “The tale is long and time is short,” Sidonie continued. “I will leave the full telling of it to my royal kin. But know this: For months on end, I was in the grip of the same madness. I believed lies. Neither my wits nor my will were wholly my own. And yes, in the grip of this madness, I wed Astegal of Carthage.” She glanced at me, her eyes bright. “But love, true love, is a persistent and abiding force. Imriel de la Courcel found a way to break the spell and save me.” There was a second collective gasp. Sidonie held out one hand. “It is a method that will work only if the victim has been removed from D’Angeline soil,” she said gently. “It will not work on those poor afflicted souls in the City. But there is another method that may succeed and yet avert the shadow of war that hangs over us.”
    They listened hungrily.
    “I will make no false promises,” Sidonie said. “The challenge is a difficult one. Imriel and I will depart immediately for the City. We will do everything in our power to succeed.
    If we fail, the burden will fall to you—to you and to all the folk of Terre d’Ange.” Her voice was strong and steady. “And if we do fail, I call upon you to rise up and prevent the slaughter of innocents. To do whatever is necessary. I call for war.”
    There were nods and murmurs, looks of grim determination. As awful a choice as it was, there was a certain relief in hearing it stated aloud.
    “I call upon you to do so knowing that those who can be captured can be saved.” Sidonie gestured, showing her bindings. “There is magic in Alba that can shield against the effects of this foul spell. One way or another, it will be broken. And know this.” She took another deep breath. “We go forth in every hope of success. Over the past weeks, I have witnessed great and terrible things. And I bear glad tidings out of them. Carthage’s army has suffered a great defeat.”
    That caught them by surprise; I’d forgotten that they didn’t know. But we were the first bearers of the news, and we’d bade Marc Faucon and his men to stay silent.
    Sidonie smiled grimly. “Astegal of Carthage is dead. Even now . . .” She had to raise her voice to be heard above the rising excitement. “Even now, his head adorns a pike in the Plaza del Rey in Amílcar! And even as I speak, the bulk of the D’Angeline fleet hurries to Aragonia to honor our alliance and make war on those who sought to divide our fair country against itself!”
    It stirred their blood like strong spirits and brought them to their feet, cheering. And Elua, yes, it gave them hope. A fierce, proud, violent hope, but hope nonetheless.
    “We go now to the City in an effort to save her!” Sidonie shouted above the noise. “We ask that your prayers ride with us! We pray to Blessed Elua and his Companions that we may show the world once more that there is no magic so dire that love cannot defeat it!”
    I don’t think anyone heard her final words. It didn’t matter. They surged forward to offer their support and gratitude, weeping and laughing and clamoring. I couldn’t even see Sidonie in the throng that surrounded her, but they acknowledged me, too. I found myself embraced, my cheeks kissed, my hands clasped. It struck me more forcibly than I could have reckoned, and somewhere beneath it, I realized that for the first time in my life, I was being wholeheartedly accepted by my fellow countrymen.
    “I’ve thought dreadful things of you, Prince Imriel,” a beautiful old L’Agnacite woman