Kushiel's Mercy

for people to keep their distance from Sidonie.
    They deferred out of respect for their beloved Astegal’s most trusted bodyguard.
    “Sidonie,” I said in a low voice. “Before you go, I want you to look at the gem-painting that Astegal presented at the fête. It’s part and parcel of the spell. See if there are any words hidden in it written in Punic.”
    “Punic.” She nodded, closing her eyes briefly.
    “Are you all right?” I asked.
    “Yes.” She opened her eyes. “But I can feel it. And I’m afraid of slipping away.”
    “Don’t.” I caught her hand and squeezed it hard. “Stay.”
    She returned the pressure. “I’m trying.”
    Across the hall, Ysandre was gesturing and Drustan was shaking his head. Kratos’ face was flushed. He offered them a curt bow. Drustan made his way toward us. I released Sidonie’s hand and moved a few feet away.
    “Sidonie.” Drustan rested his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. “I understand that you are weary and heart-sore. But you need to be strong.” His fingers flexed. “We stand on the eve of war. This is the greatest test any ruler might face. And I know you cannot fathom what that truly means, but you are your mother’s heir. The people need to see that neither grief nor betrayal will bow your head.”
    “Yes, Father,” Sidonie murmured.
    And so she stayed, and I stayed near her, offering the meager comfort of my presence as the reception wore on and on and an endless line of well-wishers came to proffer their sympathies. Over and over, they offered the same regrets and platitudes; over and over, Sidonie accepted them with forced gratitude. Many of them asked if there was a chance she yet carried Astegal’s child. Their faces fell when she shook her head.
    What another piece of bitter irony it was. The peers of the realm, the lords and ladies of the Great Houses of Terre d’Ange, had always held reservations regarding Ysandre de la Courcel’s half-Cruithne heir. If Sidonie had truly fallen in love with a foreign prince, they would have shrieked to the heavens about the sacred bloodline of Blessed Elua being further diluted. And yet here they were, offering her adulation, mourning the loss of Astegal of Carthage.
    I willed myself not to hate them. It was the spell, only the spell.
    I can feel it . I’m afraid of slipping away .
    Those words made my blood run cold.
    At last the reception ended, the crowds thinning, departing with multitudinous vows to find Bodeshmun’s charm. Phèdre came to find me.
    “Will you not come home with us, love?” she asked plaintively.
    I shook my head. “I need to stay here.”
    “Have no fear, my lady.” Kratos’ arm descended over my shoulders, heavy and solid.
    Whether or not he understood all the words spoken, he read the situation well. He smiled at her. “As her highness has bidden me, I’ll make certain that the prince comes to no harm.”
    Phèdre cocked her head and replied in Hellene. “You don’t have a Carthaginian accent.”
    “No.” Kratos’ smile never wavered. “I was born in Hellas and taken in battle many years ago, serving as a mercenary. Bad luck. On the day Astegal was born, his father freed me.” He removed his arm from my shoulders and pressed his clenched fist to his heart.
    “Hence, my loyalty.”
    Her expression eased. “I see.”
    Once the hall was emptied, Sidonie went to stand before the gem-painting. She gazed at it for a long time as though lost in contemplation. The guards surrounding her, and even Drustan and Ysandre, waited with respect.
    I lingered, hoping.
    But no. At length she turned away, giving her head an imperceptible shake. There was no hidden clue.
    The hunt continued.

Seventy-Seven

    For five days the hunt for Bodeshmun’s gem continued at a frantic pace. The City looked like it had been sacked and looted.
    At first the mood was one of fierce jubilation. After conferring with Phèdre and hearing her thoughts on a more logical approach, Ysandre ordered the Royal Army to assist with the search. They began by digging up the whole of Elua’s Square, removing the massive paving-stones and hauling them away, sifting through the dirt below.
    They found nothing.
    The mood didn’t sour all at once, but day by day the tension mounted. The search continued. The wing of the Palace in which the Carthaginian delegation had lodged was stripped bare. Following Joscelin’s suggestion, the Royal Treasury was moved piece by piece to an array of empty storage