Kushiel's Mercy

nervous.
    The day after the fête, Astegal had a private meeting with Ysandre and Drustan. He made a candid offer for Sidonie’s hand, pointing out that a strategic alliance between Terre d’Ange, Alba, and Carthage would make for an axis of unparalleled power in the west.
    “With Aragonia caught betwixt and between,” I observed when Sidonie told me, having gotten a full accounting from Ysandre.
    She nodded. “Carthage dreams of empire. He didn’t deny it. Mother says he pointed out—very smoothly—that under pressure from three strong nations, Aragonia could easily agree to become a vassal state without a drop of blood spilled.”
    “Aha!” I said. “So that’s what this is about.”
    “Mm-hmm.” She looked troubled. “There was the implication that matters could go very differently if we declined this offer, and that the blood of slain Aragonians would be on Terre d’Ange’s conscience.”
    I whistled softly. “That’s damn nigh blackmail. Aragonia was right to be worried.”
    “He didn’t quite say it,” Sidonie said. “But it was there.”
    “Tempted?” I asked.
    “No, of course not,” she said, but her expression was still troubled. “It’s just . . . Elua! If it comes to that—and I pray it doesn’t—I’m bound to think it now.” She took my hand, twisting the knotted gold ring I wore. “What if I could have averted it? How many more people have to die for our happiness?”
    “Sidonie.” I caught her fingers, stilling them. “It happened last time because we didn’t trust ourselves. Will you risk betraying Blessed Elua’s precept a second time?”
    “Do you know what else Astegal said?” She laughed humorlessly. “He said it had come to his attention that I had already taken a lover. He said that he had the utmost respect for the customs of Terre d’Ange, and that if I wished to surround myself with a bevy of beautiful young men, he had no objection so long as I took care not to conceive aught but heirs of his blood.”
    I stared at her. “He didn’t.”
    “Oh, he did.” She was silent a moment. “It doesn’t matter. Terre d’Ange cannot allow itself to be coerced into betraying its allies and supporting Carthage’s imperial aspirations.
    It’s just . . . ugly.”
    “Very,” I agreed. “What did Ysandre say to him?”
    She smiled ruefully. “She told him that while Terre d’Ange has indeed grown less insular under her rule, D’Angelines hold their descendance from Blessed Elua and his Companions as a sacred trust. That it was already a matter of considerable concern that her heir was half-Cruithne, and that she couldn’t possibly betray that trust further by seeing me wed to aught but a pure-blooded D’Angeline, or the peers of the realm would rise in rebellion.”
    I stroked her hair. “I’m sorry.”
    “It’s all right.” Sidonie shrugged. “It was the best response in diplomatic terms. It may even be true. Father backed her.” She gave a quick smile. “She said beyond that, he didn’t say much. Just sat and listened with that quiet, deadly look on his face that makes grown men squirm.”
    “I know that look,” I said. “Did Astegal squirm?”
    She shook her head. “Not much. He’s a cool one. He thanked them for hearing his offer, expressed hopes that whatever the future held, these new friendships would continue . . .
    the usual diplomatic pap, all very cordial. No further mention of bloodshed in Aragonia.
    Mother’s chosen to keep this quiet for now. She’ll take counsel with Parliament after Astegal’s gone.”
    “Huh.” I thought about it. “I’ll be glad when this is over.”
    “So will I,” Sidonie murmured. “But I don’t like thinking about what comes next. I wish those damned Guild people weren’t so secretive and evasive.”
    “I wish the whole lot of them would fall into the sea and take my damned mother with them,” I said, and she laughed.
    The following day, I found myself with diplomatic duties of my own. It seemed Astegal had been entirely sincere in his desire to sample the pleasures of the Night Court, and in desiring my company while so doing.
    We set out from the Palace in the early hours of the evening; Astegal and I and a half dozen other Carthaginian lords, escorted by a score of Sidonie’s guardsmen. It was to have been the Queen’s Guard escorting us, but Claude de Monluc had intervened and come to an arrangement.
    “You don’t have to do this,” I’d told him. “It’s not your