Kushiel's Mercy

were the formal request made by adepts of the Night Court on completing their marques. The debt was not fully concluded until the marque was acknowledged. I gazed at Sidonie, the air quivering between us. She looked young and a little uncertain.
    “Present yourself,” I said.
    She undid the laces of her bodice and pushed her gown from her shoulders. It fell around her ankles in a shimmering pool of amber silk. She stepped neatly out of it and removed her undergarments. Candlelight made her naked skin glow. I forced myself to breathe slowly. Sidonie gathered her clothing and placed it carefully over the arm of the couch.
    And then she knelt as I’d taught her, clasping her hands behind her neck. But there was one difference. She turned and knelt with her back to me.
    My breath caught in my throat. “Ah, love!”
    A sunburst. Astegal’s scar formed the center of it, the pink disk turned to gold. Gold lines radiated outward, edged in black for definition. I walked forward and touched it. It was a bit larger than the span of my hand, perfectly centered between her shoulder blades.
    I remembered Amarante assuring her there was naught blasphemous in whatever they were plotting. Now I understood.
    “It’s your mark.” Sidonie’s voice shook. “Do you like it?”
    “No.” I circled her, stooped. Took her chin in my hands and tipped her face up toward mine. I kissed her until I felt her body sway toward me, yearning warring with obedience, fear warring with desire. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. I love it. And I love you.”
    She made a soft sound and slid her arms around my neck, kissing me. I gathered her in my arms and carried her into the bedchamber where a dozen more candles blazed. I laid her on the bed and opened the door of the cupboard that stood beside the bed.
    “What will you, Princess?” I asked gravely.
    “My choice?” Sidonie asked.
    I nodded.
    She withdrew a length of silken gold rope.
    “You’re sure?” I asked. I’d not bound her since Carthage’s spell had been broken. Too many memories of pain and fear, the ollamh ’s bindings and her wits slipping away. But tonight Sidonie placed her wrists together and nodded.
    “I’m sure.”
    I tied her wrists together, lashing them securely. Lashing them to the bedposts. I placed her on her belly first. I stripped off my own clothes, kissed her from the nape of her neck to the cleft of her buttocks, lingering over the sunburst. I fingered the slick cleft and bud between her thighs until she writhed beneath me, face pressed against the pillow. And then I pulled the pins from her hair and turned her over. The golden cord stretched her arms tight overhead, her breasts taut.
    “Imriel . . .” Sidonie said, breathless.
    “Ah, no.” I spread her thighs wide, sliding downward to taste her. “I’m only beginning.”
    Kushiel’s mercy, cruel and sweet. I had learned the art of patience making love to her.
    Mine. She was mine. I took her to the precipice of pleasure and abandoned her there, over and over, until she wept and begged.
    So good.
    And then I fitted myself between her thighs, propped on one arm. I rubbed the crown of my phallus between her slick nether-lips, over Naamah’s Pearl. I slid the tip of my shaft into her, only enough to make her body jerk and strain, then withdrew, over and over.
    Sidonie glared at me, her face damp with tears. “I hate you!”
    I smiled. “No, you don’t.”
    “Please?” she begged. “I need you.”
    I clutched my aching phallus, feeling it throb in my fist, rubbing it against her. “Tell me the truth.”
    “I love you.” Her back arched. “Always and always.”
    I sank into her, deep and true.
    “Oh, gods .” She began to climax, ankles locked around my hips. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t ever stop.”
    And I didn’t.
    Not for a long, long time.

Eighty-Nine

    Two days later, we were wed.
    The day before the wedding, we didn’t see one another. I knew Sidonie was being taken to Eisheth’s temple, where she would light a candle to Eisheth and beseech the goddess to open the gates of her womb and grant her children. It was a mystery in which men were not allowed to partake.
    I thought about that alone in my quarters. I thought about the unborn son who had died with Dorelei. Aniel. We had chosen that name for him. If Sidonie had a boy, I wondered if she’d consent to name him Aniel.
    I thought she might.
    Whatever fate saw fit to grant us, girl or boy, a lively horde or a