Kushiel's Mercy

down at our entangled limbs. “Imriel, are you still wearing your boots?”
    I pried them off, kicking off my breeches. “I was in a hurry.”
    Her quick smile came and went. “So I noticed.”
    “I love you.” I tightened my arms around her. “Elua help me, I love you so much it hurts.”
    “I know.” Sidonie kissed my throat. “I do, too.” She shuddered again, a latent tremor of pleasure running through her. “Gods! That’s a sharp spice. I’m not sure I’m ready for a steady diet of it.”
    “Occasional cravings?” I suggested.
    “Oh, yes.” She gave me a look that set my heart to hammering again. “Definitely.”
    I slid one arm under her knees and scooped her into my arms, rising and heading for the bedchamber. Sidonie laughed softly, kissing my face, her fingers working at the buttons of my shirt. I hadn’t bothered to take that off, either. Her body was naked and warm in my arms, nestled contently against mine. I could have carried her forever, except for the urgent, rising need to be inside her again.
    “I thought you were sated,” she said.
    I tossed her onto the bed. “So did I.”

Six
    Summer gave way to autumn.
    Drustan returned to Alba, where matters were still unsettled in the wake of Dorelei’s death. It was uncertain whether or not Sidonie’s younger sister, Alais, would wed Talorcan, Drustan’s heir.
    A lot of things were uncertain.
    Aragonia was uncertain, fraught with rumors of a Carthaginian invasion. Euskerria was uncertain, fraught with rumors that the House of Aragon meant to press the Euskerri into battle to defend against a possible Carthaginian incursion, struggling to establish their territory as a sovereign state. Queen Ysandre, trying to negotiate between the two, worried about the succession in Alba, worried about her own recalcitrant heir, was uncertain.
    I, on the other hand, had never been more certain in my life.
    Ah, Elua! Those were good days and better nights.
    Some were gentle and sweet and tender. Others . . . weren’t. Together, Sidonie and I embarked on an exploration of the full spectrum of all of the pleasures of Naamah’s arts.
    Neither of us tired of the other. Neither of us could get our fill. For two years, for too long, we’d been parted. Again and again, we made up for lost time.
    And again and again, I was filled with amazement and wonder. I’d spent so long fearing my own nature. Now I could scarce remember why. The nightmare of Daršanga was a long, long way away.
    Sidonie was fearless, but she wasn’t reckless. She didn’t hesitate to use her signale. The first time it happened, the first time she gasped, “Always!” I found myself responding instantly. I didn’t even need to think—the word penetrated the madness of desire, halting me like a brake thrown on a runaway wagon. I soothed her until she caught her breath and told me to continue. Before it happened, I’d been apprehensive. Afterward, it was easier. The threshold had been crossed. Nothing terrible lay on the other side.
    I learned to trust myself, even as Sidonie trusted me.
    It was such a strange and unlikely thing, this trust between us. We had spent so many childhood years disliking one another. Sidonie had been cool and dismissive, filled with mistrust. It had always galled me.
    Things had changed slowly . . . and then all at once. We’d bickered at a fête and I’d pledged loyalty to her on a perverse impulse. She hadn’t believed me, but she hadn’t entirely disbelieved me, either. Then came the day of the hunting party, when we startled a wild boar and Sidonie’s horse had bolted. I’d gone after her, found her thrown. There had been a rustling in the wood. Thinking it was the boar returning, I’d flung myself atop her, seeking to bear the brunt of its tusks.
    And everything had changed.
    In hindsight, it was a wonderment that I hadn’t ravished her then and there, with her willing encouragement. But it was only the beginning of my realization that my infuriatingly composed cousin wasn’t at all what she seemed. And I hadn’t been anywhere near ready to embrace my own nature. I’d run away from it, reckoning myself damaged goods.
    Not anymore.
    The scars of the damage were still there. They would always be there. I bore scars, figurative and literal. The faint tracks of old weals, administered by a whip that was never intended to bring pleasure. The puckered scar of a Tatar branding iron that had gotten me thrown in gaol in Vralia, mistaken for a