Kushiel's Mercy

me. And I need this to be the one place where I don’t have to be strong.”
    I smiled again. “I know. And in that, love, I’m more than happy to oblige in any way that will ease your burden.”
    This time, Sidonie smiled back at me with a trace of genuine amusement. “I can think of quite a few. Unfortunately, the most pressing would be helping me with this proclamation.
    Will you?”
    I rose, pulling her to her feet. “Of course.”
    Sidonie stood without moving for a moment. I could feel her gathering her strength, gathering her will. She glanced up at me, somber once more. “Do you think we’ll ever truly recover from this? All of us, I mean, not you and I.”
    “Yes,” I said honestly. I placed her hand on my chest. She spread her fingers, feeling the ridges of the scars beneath my doublet. “I don’t think things will ever be the same. They can’t be. But we’ve survived. We’ll grieve. We’ll heal. We’ll remember that there’s laughter and joy and love and desire in the world. Enough to drive out the grief and sorrow. Enough to banish guilt and shame.”
    “Do you promise it?” she asked.
    “Yes.” I slid my arms around Sidonie’s waist, pulling her against me. She put hers around my neck and clung to me, fierce and hard. I rested my cheek against her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. “I promise.”

Eighty-Five

    My heart rose at the sight of Isabel de Bretel and her escort departing the City of Elua, a thicket of white pennants flying above them. Sidonie had been right to insist on them. It was a strong image, a powerful message of peace. No one cheered—the mood was still far too sober—but there was a feeling like a collective sigh of relief. A step toward normalcy had been taken.
    We returned to the Palace to hold an audience.
    Mere hours had passed since the demon had been freed from the stone and the spell broken. It felt like a great deal longer. I was weary for lack of sleep. My head ached, a tender lump having risen on the back of my skull. My entire backside stung with a hundred pinpricks. My stomach still roiled.
    Given the choice, I’d far sooner have told the tale quietly to a chosen few in a private salon, and I know Sidonie would, too. But it wouldn’t have been fair. It wasn’t only our story. The entire City was confused and hurting and scared, desperate to learn how they’d been brought to the brink of civil war, to learn what the terrible whirling presence that had fled the City had been, to learn how in the world they’d imagined themselves to be grieving for Astegal of Carthage.
    And so once more the Hall of Audience was packed. This time it was Sidonie and I who stood on the dais alone, gazing out at a sea of faces. It felt strange to stand there and see Drustan and Ysandre’s faces among them, gazing back at us.
    “My lords and ladies,” Sidonie said. “Elua’s city awoke from a fearful dream today. We are here to tell you who cast us into this nightmare and how our long sleep was broken.”
    They listened, hushed.
    She spoke of Carthage and the night of the marvel. Of the memories all of them shared, of waking to believe herself in love with Astegal. Of sailing away with him while crowds cheered. “Not all your memories are a lie,” she said in a low voice. “These things happened. I believed as you did. In Carthage, I wed Astegal of the House of Sarkal.”
    A sound somewhere between a hiss and a moan arose.
    “But there is one among us whose memories of that night differ,” Sidonie continued, turning to me.
    I told the story as I’d told it in Amílcar, leaving out the details of the Unseen Guild. They already knew about my madness. I told them what had preceded it—the needle and the whisper, the stolen ring. This was Terre d’Ange. When I told them the words Sunjata had spoken— You’re lucky your mother loves you —there was a gasp. Still, there was no blame in their eyes. I kept going and spoke of waking from my madness to find the City in the grip of a delusion. I told them how I’d sought Barquiel L’Envers’ aid and fled to Cythera.
    My mother.
    Ptolemy Solon, the Wise Ape, picking apart the spells that had been wrought, giving me the key to undoing them. Leander Maignard and the spell of disguise that Solon had wrought.
    Carthage, and Kratos’ true identity.
    And then Sidonie picked up the thread of the tale and continued it. There were no theatrics this time, no shock of revelation as I shed Leander’s guise. Only