Kushiel's Mercy

Hugues said kindly to me. “That must hurt inside.”
    “Yes,” I murmured. “It hurts.”
    We finished our winding circuit and retraced our steps. Circles. I thought about training with Joscelin, telling the hours on my own. Riding in an endless circle around the besieged city of Lucca on night patrol with Eamonn. The chambered nautilus shell on Master Piero’s desk. Elua, that seemed like a long time ago. A golden ring, a coiled knot.
    Shackles of love, shackles of madness, shackles of protection, shackles of punishment.
    My mind wandered in circles.
    It was an hour or so shy of dawn when we arrived back at Elua’s Square. No emerald flash, no gem. I dismounted and knelt in the loose dirt, bowing my head and praying to Blessed Elua.
    “This is your city,” I whispered. “The city you founded, the city that bears your name.
    These are your people whom you have always loved dearly. I pray, if there be any way to save them, show me. Use me as you will.”
    And then I prayed to his Companions: to Naamah to spread her grace on true lovers, to Eisheth for the balm of healing, to Azza to avenge the pride of a nation deceived, to Shemhazai for the wits to avert this tragedy, to Anael to restore the sense of care and husbandry that war destroyed, to Camael to stay his martial hand in favor of compassion.
    And although it was a thing seldom done, I prayed to Cassiel, the Perfect Companion. “I know you do not like to be beseeched in prayer,” I whispered, “but you will lose your greatest servant if we cannot turn aside this fate. If you hold any influence, I pray you wield it.”
    Last I prayed to Kushiel, echoing the prayer I’d offered the night I’d entered the City.
    “Grant them mercy,” I pleaded. “Grant us all mercy.”
    The moon was paling in the sky by the time I rose stiffly. Another perfect circle. I gazed at it while Hugues and Ti-Philippe waited with ill-concealed impatience. They had indulged my madness. They were weary of it.
    “Imri,” Ti-Philippe said at last. “We’re due at the Palace in a little over an hour.”
    “Yes, all right.” I swung astride the saddle and took up the reins. “I’m finished. Let’s go.”

Eighty
    At the townhouse, I scoured my face in the washbasin, pressing a cool cloth to my burning eyes. I changed into fresh clothing: more black mourning attire, this time commissioned by Phèdre. I was lightheaded with grief and lack of sleep—and like as not, hunger. I’d been eating as poorly as I slept. I summoned Clory and sent her to bring me bread and honey.
    While I waited, I fetched Bodeshmun’s leather talisman from my purse. The lacquer had crackled and the ink was fading with wear. I studied the image, the faint inscription in Punic. A whirlwind sprouting horns and fangs, a word to bind or free it.
    More circles, a mad gyre of circles.
    “I killed you too quickly, Bodeshmun,” I murmured. “If you were alive, I’d wind your entrails on a stick until you told me where that goddamned gem was.”
    Somewhere, in whatever passed for hell among Carthaginians, I imagined Bodeshmun was smiling his dour smile.
    Clory returned and I hid the talisman back in my purse. I drizzled honey on Eugènie’s fine, crusty bread, watching the amber-gold coils melt into themselves. I thought about the bee-skeps I’d ordered built in Clunderry. Coils of golden straw. Dorelei’s laughter and the round, rising circle of her belly.
    Honey and gall.
    I thought about Sidonie and the first time I’d awoken in her bed. Tousled locks of golden hair spread across the pillow. Her face, smiling at me in the sunlight, still soft with sleep.
    Love.
    You will find it and lose it, again and again .
    I’d been fourteen years old when a Priest of Elua had said those words to me, and if I’d had any idea how much it would hurt, I might have killed myself to spare the pain. But I wasn’t the damaged, brooding boy I’d been. I’d failed Dorelei, and I’d very nearly failed her a second time in Vralia. While my heart yet beat, I didn’t mean to accept failure again.
    And when it didn’t . . . well.
    As Kratos had said, it would be a noble death.
    So I forced myself to eat, although Eugènie’s good bread tasted like ashes and the sweet honey was bitter in my mouth. When it was done, I felt a trifle less lightheaded. I heard Phèdre’s voice calling for me downstairs. I buckled my sword-belt around my waist, the old rhinoceros-hide belt that Ras Lijasu had given me many years ago