Kushiel's Mercy

my narrow window. The moon was very nearly full. Three days. In three days it would be full. I wondered if the spell’s strength waxed and waned with the moon. I thought about the emerald flash I’d seen before the madness on Sunjata’s needle took me and wondered if mayhap the gem would emit a spark by the rising moonlight.
    It seemed no less implausible than anything else, so I rose and went to saddle a horse. In the process, I awoke the sleeping stable-lad, who went to alert the guards. One went to fetch Joscelin, who came to stop me.
    “You can’t go out there alone, Imri,” he said. “It’s not safe.”
    I thought about all the dangerous places I’d ventured alone and I could have laughed until I wept. Instead I told Joscelin my notion about the moon affecting the gem.
    “I suppose it’s worth a try,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”
    And so we rode out together, starting our quest under the moon-shadow of the ancient oak tree in Elua’s Square, where the dirt was still clotted with Antonio Peruggi’s dried blood. I kept feeling myself drawn to the place where it had begun. But there was no emerald flash, only the rustling of the spring breeze in new leaves.
    We rode in aimless circles, making a rough outward spiral through the streets of the City.
    The City was restless, the sounds of harsh revelry and discordant music pouring from inns and wineshops open well past the usual hour. Atop Mont Nuit, the Houses of the Night Court were all ablaze with lamplight.
    “Soldiers,” Joscelin said, gazing toward the distant lights. “Bidding farewell to the pleasures of the flesh. One can’t begrudge them.”
    “No.” I thought about Sidonie lying in my arms the night before battle. As much as I’d like to make love to you until the sun rises, I’d sooner have you go into battle well-rested.
    I’d prayed to Blessed Elua for a hundred thousand nights to make up for that one. My eyes stung. “But I’m surprised Drustan and Ghislain don’t insist on better discipline.”
    “When did you start thinking like a commander of men?” Joscelin glanced at me. “Ah, well. I imagine they’ll have a good long march to sweat out the excesses of debauchery.
    And in the end . . .” He fell silent.
    “In the end it doesn’t matter,” I finished. “Because they’re all dead men.”
    “If it comes to it. Don’t make mock of their sacrifice,” Joscelin said in a somber tone.
    “One day, they’ll be remembered as heroes who fought to preserve all that we hold dear in Terre d’Ange. Their deaths will not be in vain if their valor lives on in the hearts of men.”
    “I’m not mocking,” I said wearily. “Just heartsick.”
    Joscelin nodded. “So are we all.”
    I wanted to say no, no you’re not. You’re all sick , poisoned by Bodeshmun’s vile spell, poisoned by this cursed demon-stone we’re trying so hard to find. But I knew it would do no good, so I held my tongue and kept searching, riding the moonlit streets, hoping to spot an emerald spark amid the bobbing torches and spilling lamplight.
    I didn’t.
    We made our way back to the townhouse at dawn. I watched the sun’s rays breaking in the east.
    Three days.
    Only three.

Seventy-Nine

    For two more nights, I continued to roam the City, accompanied by Joscelin or Hugues and Ti-Philippe. I didn’t really have much hope left, but sleep evaded me and I didn’t know what else to do with myself.
    Phèdre didn’t like it, fearing I was in the grip of a new obsession. For the first few days after Ysandre had declared an end to the search, folk in the City had continued to look for Bodeshmun’s gem in a furtive manner under the wary eye of the Royal Army. But that had faded as their thoughts turned increasingly to war.
    The mania to find the gem vanished as though it had never existed. War was the new mania.
    War.
    War.
    War.
    It was all I heard. In the townhouse, in the streets, spewing from the inns. An endless drumbeat of war. The City’s mood ranged wildly from fierce, deluded optimism to maudlin sentiment. Theories abounded and were analyzed tirelessly. Alais’ and L’Envers’ army would desert at the first show of strength. The battle would end in devastation and ruin, but poets would sing forever of the glorious sacrifice of the Royal Army of Terre d’Ange. Folk argued heatedly on every side of the argument; but on one point, all agreed. They were eager for it to begin.
    And I continued my futile, lonely search, Joscelin having