Kushiel's Mercy

declared a state of mourning. They’re announcing it throughout the City.”
    “Just the City?” Phèdre inquired.
    “They’d only make a mockery of it outside the City’s walls.” Joscelin frowned. “Elua!
    Would that we knew what Alais and L’Envers did to make them turn against the Crown itself.”
    “Alais.” Phèdre shook her head. “I reckon myself a fair judge of character, but I’ll admit, I never expected this of her.” She glanced at me. “You were always close to her, Imri.
    Did you suspect she harbored such ambitions?”
    I cleared my throat. “Not . . . not in Terre d’Ange.” I saw Alais’ weary face in my memory, heard her words. I do not, want this responsibility . “I knew she aspired to overturn the law of matrilineal succession in Alba. It surprised me.”
    “It’s not just Alais and L’Envers,” Joscelin said grimly. “Talorcan’s backing them, the treacherous bastard. Somehow he’s managed to seize power in Alba. Drustan says he’s got seven hundred men in Turnone. If he sends more, this war’s truly going to be ugly.”
    “Must it come to that?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. They both stared at me. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . if the whole country is against us, do we even stand a chance?”
    “Yes, of course,” Phèdre said firmly. “I have every hope that the support for this rebellion is broad, but not deep. When the commonfolk see the cost of it, I believe they will come to their senses and beg Alais and Barquiel to surrender. And if they do not . . .” Her face took on an expression of stern dignity. “There are things in this world that are worth fighting and dying for, Imriel. Without respect for the rule of law, we are no better than the most savage of barbarians. What did we stand against Waldemar Selig for if not for this?”
    I bit my tongue and nodded.
    “You of all people should know that, Imriel.” Joscelin sounded disappointed in me. “Do you forget your own history?”
    “No,” I murmured. “I’m sorry.”
    “Poor boy.” Phèdre’s face softened. “It’s not your fault. He’s not himself, Joscelin.”
    “I blame those witches of the Maghuin Dhonn.” Joscelin’s jaw tightened. “He’s not been right since they sank their hooks into him. And Alais . . . I fear they got to her somehow.
    You recall, she seemed passing fond of that youngest son of the Lady of the Dalriada, the Maghuin Dhonn harpist’s get.”
    Phèdre shivered. “And through her to Talorcan.”
    Joscelin nodded. “I fear as much.”
    The damnable thing was that they made it almost seem plausible. We’d come up with a similar tale ourselves. I licked my dry lips. “I thought so, too. I gave Sidonie the croonie-stone that the ollamh gave me to protect her. I tried to copy the charm he wrought.”
    “Ah, love!” Phèdre gave me a sorrowful smile. “Your heart’s in the right place, no matter how misguided the object of its affection. It gives me hope.”
    “There is one hope.” I told them about Bodeshmun’s gem and his death-bed charge to Sidonie.
    Joscelin’s eyes brightened. “Do you really think it holds the power to protect the City?”
    “I do,” I said, meaning it.
    “I remember seeing it.” Phèdre gestured at her throat. “The Chief Horologist wore it on a chain around his neck. Every facet was inscribed. And there’s no denying that he was a man of surpassing gifts. The marvels he showed us . . .” She smiled at me, this time with gladness. “That is a piece of hope, love. Whatever happens outside these walls, if the City of Elua can hold, the heart of Terre d’Ange lives.”
    “For no one, man, woman, nor child, may be rightfully crowned sovereign of Terre d’Ange anywhere but here,” Joscelin said.
    “Nowhere,” Phèdre agreed.
    They exchanged glances, remembering. I could guess at their memories. Ysandre de la Courcel riding fearlessly toward the City amidst a shower of silver coins, each one bearing her likeness. They believed they were fighting to preserve her legacy, their legacy.
    And they were so very, very wrong.

Seventy-Five

    I endured the night.
    It felt terribly strange to sleep beneath the low roof of my boyhood bedchamber. I’d not slept there for years. I’d outgrown it in ways I couldn’t even number. And yet it held so many memories. Long nights conversing with Eamonn when he had fostered with us. My own sickly reflection in the mirror as I’d sawed at my Shahrizai braids