Kushiel's Mercy

startled me out of my reverie. “A terrible story, is it not? But I hear your condition is improved.”
    “Mavros!” I turned and blinked at him. He was wearing a doublet of Courcel blue with braided silver trim and the insignia of the silver swan on its breast. “Why aren’t you in mourning attire?”
    “I am.” Mavros showed me his black armband. “Officers of the Royal Army were given orders to remain in uniform.”
    “Royal Army?” I echoed.
    His handsome face hardened. “Do you expect me to stand by and do nothing while that ambitious chit and her snake of an uncle attempt to overthrow the throne? Yes, of course I put in my name for a commission. Every peer in the City with a shred of honor and courage has.”
    I glanced over in Joscelin’s direction. “I’m sorry. No one mentioned it.”
    Mavros followed my gaze. “Ah. Yes, well, I expect they’re being cautious around you.
    Joscelin did put in his name, but the Queen refused to allow it.” His next words eradicated any dawning sense of relief I might have had. “Ysandre has sworn that Alais will never take the throne while she lives. We will fight to our last breath, but if it comes to it, if L’Envers takes the City, she’s asked Joscelin to remain that he might perform the terminus for her.”
    “Surely not,” I whispered. “Phèdre would never consent to it.”
    His brows rose. “’Tis a grave sacrifice to be sure. But Joscelin Verreuil is the Queen’s Champion. It’s his duty.”
    I didn’t want to believe it, but I did. I remembered Sidonie aboard Deimos’ ship as we prepared to set it afire and attempt the harbor at Amílcar. Believe me when I tell you I would far rather die by your hand than be restored to Astegal . There was a streak of fierce pride in the women of House Courcel. Ysandre might make such a vow rather than cede the throne alive. And Joscelin . . . in his right mind, Joscelin would never honor it, nor would Phèdre consent to allow him.
    But they weren’t.
    Mavros misread my expression. “Don’t worry,” he said kindly. “No one expects you to serve, Imri. You’re ill. If your madness returned on the battlefield, it would endanger us all.” He smiled. “At any rate, I hear there’s hope for the City. Carthage may save her after all.”
    “Yes.” I had to get away from this stranger with Mavros’ face. “Will you excuse me?”
    I plunged into the sea of mourners, seeking Sidonie. Now that Mavros had mentioned it, I realized there were more familiar faces than I’d noticed wearing military uniforms. I did my best to avoid them, and in the process blundered into one of the few figures not clad in black or Courcel blue. I knew her by the gleaming fall of red-gold hair that hung down her back.
    “Amarante!” I said in relief.
    Elua, it was so damned easy to forget.
    She turned, the crimson silk robes of a Priestess of Naamah swirling gracefully around her. Her brows knit as though she were trying for a moment to place me, and then she inclined her head. “Prince Imriel,” Amarante said politely. “I was pleased to hear that you had returned safely.”
    “Yes.” We were within earshot of Sidonie. I glanced at her. Her expression was composed, but I could see the stricken look behind her eyes. From the first dawning of our liaison, even before it had begun, Amarante had known. She had been Sidonie’s sole confidante and conspirator.
    Amarante moved past me. “Sidonie.” Her voice changed, softening. “I’m so very—”
    “Please don’t.” Sidonie laid her fingers gently over Amarante’s lips. “I don’t think I can bear to hear another word of sympathy today.”
    “I understand.” Amarante took her hand and kissed it. “Would you like me to stay with you for a while?”
    “No.” Sidonie shivered. “No, thank you. It’s a kind offer.”
    “Of course.” Amarante studied her face, frowning slightly. She was a Priestess of Naamah and although it happened precious seldom, she knew withdrawal when she encountered it. For a mercy, whatever she saw, she chose to attribute it to grief. “You know you’ve only to send word to the temple if you need me.”
    “Yes. Thank you.” Sidonie watched her go. “I’m not sure how much longer I can do this.”
    “Your highness is weary,” Kratos said in Hellene. “You should retire.”
    She looked at him with hope. “Do you suppose I might?”
    He bowed. “I will speak to your lady mother.”
    Kratos strode through the crowd, gesturing