Kushiel's Mercy

City.
    “What now, my lord?” Kratos asked soberly.
    “Do your best to protect her.” I rested my aching head against the cushions. “The charm I wrought . . . it’s beginning to fail. And it hurts. She’s afraid to sleep for fear she’ll tear the bindings loose. You can watch over her, at least give her the solace of sleep. Her guard trusts you; they’ll not quibble at it. It might help.”
    Kratos nodded. “I’ll tell her.”
    “I think . . .” I rubbed my temples. “I think we have to begin to prepare for failure.”
    “There’s a tight lock on the city,” he observed. “No one’s allowed to come or go without a thorough inspection.” Kratos met my gaze and shrugged. “I’ve been checking. It won’t be easy to get her out, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
    “I don’t know what I’m thinking,” I said slowly. The image of Joscelin performing the terminus leapt unbidden into my mind. I’d never seen it done, but I’d heard it described.
    The graceful turn, the steady hands. One dagger hurled, the other slashing his own throat.
    I closed my eyes, willing it to be gone. Joscelin would do his duty and Phèdre would follow him into death. I knew that as surely as I knew the sun rose in the east. “It’s not just Sidonie.”
    I wasn’t sure I could abandon them.
    I wasn’t sure of anything.
    “We can’t save them all, my lord,” Kratos said gently. “And mayhap none of them. I’m sorry. But we’re only mortal. You have to choose.”
    “I know.” I buried my face in my hands and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Sidonie, then. The City’s defenses will be stretched thin once the army departs. If she can hold on long enough, at least there may be enough of her left to aid us. And mayhap . . . mayhap we can think of some way to help the others.”
    “Mayhap,” Kratos said. “Mayhap, my lord.”
    The kindness in his voice nearly undid me. “I’m not giving up, Kratos,” I said. “Not while there’s breath in my body.”
    He smiled with sorrow. “I never thought you would, my lord. If it comes to it, I’d be proud to die trying beside you. ’Tis a far nobler death than I’d ever thought to earn these many years.”
    We rode the rest of the way in silence.

Seventy-Eight

    Once the Queen declared an official end to the search for Bodeshmun’s gem, a strange mood settled over the City: proud, defiant, hostile, despairing. All of these things at once.
    War was coming.
    The full moon was a week away.
    Companies of the Royal Army patrolled the streets, keeping order. They drilled in the City gardens, trampling the new spring growth. Drustan mab Necthana and Ghislain nó Trevalion would be sharing command—the Cruarch of Alba and the Royal Commander of Terre d’Ange. Wherever they went, they were hailed with fierce shouts.
    On an unofficial level, the search did continue. I took part in it, hoping against hope, desperate for the distraction. On the heels of Phèdre’s latest inspiration, I searched the river wharf with a company of Montrève’s retainers. Alas, to no avail. I prowled the City, muttering the word under my breath in the hopes that it might unexpectedly release a demon. Ptolemy Solon had said it was needful to take possession of the gem to break the spell, but mayhap he was wrong. Over and over, I whispered the word of unbinding.
    Emmenghanom .
    Beholden.
    And, ah, gods! I was beholden. Every day, rising under Phèdre and Joscelin’s roof, I was reminded of it. I owed them my life. Almost everything I was, I owed to them. The thought of abandoning them, of being unable to save them, hurt more than I could say.
    Kratos came regularly to the townhouse. When we could snatch a private moment, he reported on Sidonie’s condition, his homely face grave, dark circles under his eyes. He was giving up his own sleep to safeguard hers, catching naps during the day.
    At first it helped.
    And then it didn’t.
    “We’re losing her, my lord,” Kratos said simply. “Bit by bit.”
    I fought down a welling surge of helplessness. “Does she still trust you?”
    “Aye. Sometimes she forgets for a moment and addresses me as though I truly were Astegal’s man. Either way, she trusts me.” He withdrew a flask from the inner pocket of his doublet—new livery in Courcel blue, freshly tailored to fit his broad frame. “She’s stubborn. She’s fighting it as best she can. This is a sleeping draught she had the Palace chirurgeon prepare.” Kratos smiled ruefully.