Kushiel's Mercy

parties and began to talk of wintering at the Palace. The endless stream of petitions abated. The D’Angeline fleet returned from Aragonia with the glad news that King Roderico had agreed to honor the Euskerri treaty and name Serafin his heir, settling the discord overseas. The ordinary rhythms of life slowly took precedence.
    Terre d’Ange continued to heal.
    The paving-stones were replaced in Elua’s Square. All across the City, the signs of damage wrought in the quest to find Bodeshmun’s gem were erased. People began to gather in wineshops and inns. Trade in the Night Court, which had slowed for all of the Thirteen Houses save Balm House, resumed at a livelier pace.
    There were reminders. The swathe the demon had cut on its passage through the City was visible, cobblestones and the sides of buildings scoured clean and smooth. Where it had crossed the outer wall, the stones gleamed especially white.
    And there was the charred foundation in Night’s Doorstep where a humble dwelling had been burned to the ground and a family of Tsingani killed. During her tenure as regent, Sidonie had ordered it left untouched.
    Never forget.
    None of us ever would. But bit by bit, we learned to live with the memories.
    The plans for Sidonie’s and my wedding got under way in earnest. It was to be a grand fête, the greatest celebration the realm had seen since Phèdre had staged a celebration for the entire City on the occasion of Hyacinthe’s freedom. Like an idiot, I expected Sidonie to take a deep and abiding interest in the process.
    She wrinkled her nose at me. “Why would you think that?”
    “Well,” I said, feeling foolish. “In my experience, women do. There’s naught Phèdre likes better than planning a fête. Your mother, too.”
    We were lying in bed. Sidonie shook her head, her hair loose over her bare shoulders. “I used to hate formal occasions. All the stares, folk muttering about Ysandre’s half-breed heirs tainting House Courcel’s pure bloodline. It was worse for Alais because she looks less D’Angeline than I do. I told you how much I hated the fact that I couldn’t keep the gossip from hurting her.” She traced the scarred welt on my left thigh. “It’s different now.
    I’ve learned to enjoy fêtes and I’m looking forward to ours. But I’d rather plan somewhat larger. And I’d rather do it with you.”
    I ran my fingers through her hair. “An academy of magic?”
    “Mayhap.” She shot me a look. “We could start smaller. I did promise Amarante to see a new Temple of Naamah dedicated in the City if she would return and stay. And she has.”
    “Ah.” I smiled. “Well, if there’s anyone owes Naamah a temple, it’s you and I.” I circled the pink disk between her shoulder blades. “Kratos is of the opinion that the City of Elua needs a palaestra. I fear he’s growing bored.”
    Sidonie shivered. “Don’t, please.”
    “Talk of Kratos?” I asked.
    “No.” She peered over her shoulder. “I hate it, that’s all.”
    I flattened my palm against her skin. “It’s a badge of honor, love.”
    “I know.” Sidonie sat upright, quick and deft. “But I still hate it. More than I hated gossip.” She straddled my lap and stroked my chest, her eyes dark and grave. “Your scars are a reminder of love and loss, of struggle and sacrifice and honor. Mine’s just a reminder of Astegal.”
    I pulled her against me and kissed her. “Who?”
    Her gaze softened. “No one.”
    Fall turned into winter; a quiet season, a fallow season. The Palace was filled with a fresh crop of young peers embarking on the Game of Courtship. The Hall of Games was filled once more with activity, though its jocularity wasn’t quite the same.
    For the most part, Sidonie and I ignored it. We made love and we made plans. A temple, an academy, a palaestra. Anything and everything was possible. She’d had a taste of what the burden of rulership would be like, and I of what it would be like to share it with her.
    Now, before the burden fell on our shoulders in earnest, we had time to dream and begin the work of bringing our dreams to life.
    Some would be easily brought to fruition, like the temple. We had in mind that it would be a haven dedicated to oppressed lovers, a cozy little sanctuary. It was a fitting tribute. I proposed building it on the site of the burned Tsingani house.
    “It would still serve as a reminder,” I said. “But it would be a more uplifting one. There’s enough guilt and