Kushiel's Mercy

succeeded in convincing Phèdre that this obsession was at least harmless.
    By the dawn of the third day, the last day, I felt hollow inside. I’d done my best. It hadn’t been enough. There was one more night. Tonight the moon would be full. If there was any merit to my theory, tonight would be the last, best chance. I took to my bed, willing my weary body to succumb to sleep. A few hours would be enough to sustain me. I had to keep trying.
    It felt like my head had scarce touched the pillow before Phèdre shook me awake.
    “Imriel.” Her face was grave. “There’s a delegation from Alais. Ysandre and Drustan are receiving them at the Palace in an hour’s time. I thought you’d want to be there.”
    I blinked. “Yes, of course.”
    I was still stifling yawns when we entered the Hall of Audience an hour later. It was an open audience and the Hall was crowded, but people made way for the Comtesse de Montrève and the Queen’s Champion and, I suppose, poor mad Prince Imriel.
    It was a formal affair. Drustan and Ysandre were seated in twin thrones on a dais, emblematic of their shared rule. Sidonie stood between them, the acknowledged heir to Terre d’Ange, her features composed. That damnable gem-painting was displayed on an easel behind her, still draped in mourning crepe. Astegal and a blonde woman, their hands entwined before the oak tree.
    I met Sidonie’s gaze. She nodded at me with polite courtesy. There was nothing else there, nothing that I could see.
    And no bindings of red thread at her wrists.
    I’d lost her.
    And, ah, Elua! As if that weren’t terrible enough, I saw that Alais and L’Envers had chosen to send a delegate that might present no threat, that might move a hardened heart.
    I recognized her. She was a member of their shadow Parliament, the elderly L’Agnacite woman who had wept and apologized for thinking terrible things of me. She held herself with dignity and grace, surrounded by an escort of some twenty men in humble attire.
    None of them were armed.
    “We recognize the Baronesse Isabel de Bretel as an emissary of the avowed traitors Alais de la Courcel and Barquiel L’Envers,” Ysandre announced coolly. “Do you bring word of their surrender?”
    “Your majesties.” Isabel de Bretel sank into a deep curtsy, then rose. “We come in peace.
    I bring one last plea for sanity.”
    “We ask for nothing more,” Drustan said with deceptive mildness, resting his chin on one fist. “Have they renounced their mad quest?”
    “There is madness, but it does not lie outside the City’s walls.” Her voice quavered, then strengthened. “Your majesties, we beg you to see reason! These men . . .” Isabel de Bretel gestured. “These men surrounding me, they are farmers and tradesmen and merchants, fathers and husbands and sons. We come to beg you to listen.”
    “Listen to what ?” Ysandre’s voice rose. “More sedition?”
    A thousand voices murmured in agreement.
    “You’re ill!” The old baronesse’s voice broke. “All those outside the City’s walls know it.” I could tell by the angle of her head that she sought Sidonie’s eyes, but there was nothing there she could speak to. “Please, we’re searching for a cure. We’re all searching.
    We beg you stay your hand—”
    Drustan made an abrupt gesture. “Do you bring terms of surrender?”
    Isabel de Bretel bowed her head. “No, your majesty.”
    “Then there is nothing to discuss.” Ysandre nodded to the Palace Guard. “Throw her in chains. Throw them all in chains and lock them in the dungeon.” She paused. “No, wait.
    Save one of these farmer’s sons to carry word to our youngest child. We will give no quarter. We will accept no terms save surrender.”
    Ah, gods! I was cold, so cold. Guards moved forward, chains at the ready. They’d been prepared for this. The outcome had never been in question.
    I daresay Isabel de Bretel had expected it. It had been a desperate measure. They knew reason held no sway here, but they’d been compelled to try. I would have felt the same.
    She said a quiet word to her escort, then stood with her back proud and straight, holding out her hands to accept the shackles.
    None of them protested. The guards handled them roughly nonetheless. They wrestled all but one of her party into chains, singled out a lanky young fellow with silken brown hair and cornflower-blue eyes, young enough that he was still rawboned with it.
    “You.” Drustan pointed to him. “Come here.”