Kushiel's Mercy

someone sending guards to retrieve me for my own safety.
    “Can you ride?” L’Envers asked pragmatically. “You look half-starved and weak as a day-old kitten.”
    I shrugged. “I’ll manage.”
    He snorted. “I’ll arrange for passage by barge. Think you can convince your keepers to let you make a healing-offering at Eisheth’s temple in three days?”
    “I think so.” I smiled ruefully. “It’s not a bad idea, actually.”
    “All right.” There was noise in the corridor outside L’Envers’ quarters. He turned his head. “Ah. That would be someone come to make sure I’ve not gutted you, I suspect. I’m surprised it took so long.” He put out his hand. “Eisheth’s temple, three days.”
    I rose and took his hand. “Thank you, my lord.”
    Barquiel L’Envers tightened his grip. “Just don’t fail.”

Fifteen
    It wasn’t hard to convince Phèdre and Joscelin to take me to Eisheth’s temple; indeed, they thought it an excellent idea. I’d regained enough strength that Lelahiah Valais reckoned the outing would do me no harm, and Phèdre and Joscelin both thought it a hopeful sign that I realized I was yet in need of healing.
    I felt awful about it.
    I hated to betray their trust. As if I hadn’t reason enough to love them, they’d stood by me during my madness, tending me with care while I ranted and raved. The things I’d said were seared into my memory. And when I’d come out of it, they’d welcomed me back with heartbreaking joy, forgiving every word without a thought.
    Now I was leaving.
    I couldn’t see any way around it. I’d tried, over and over, to convince them of the truth about Carthage. Elua knows, they had to have doubts. Barquiel L’Envers wasn’t alone.
    Although he was the only one to take it up with the Queen thus far, there was a realm full of bewildered folk outside the walls of the City.
    But they wouldn’t hear it, not from me. The madness that had protected me worked against me. I had been insane—barking-mad, as L’Envers had said, frothing at the mouth.
    And every memory that contradicted the beliefs that Carthage’s magics had instilled was gone, vanished. When I reminded Phèdre of her research into Cythera, when I reminded Joscelin how he’d thought of sending Ti-Philippe to scout among Rousse’s sailors, they looked grave and worried, and quietly changed the subject.
    I could imagine the memory that it evoked.
    Me, tied to a bed and screaming about Cythera.
    They would never let me go, not now. Mayhap in time I could wear them down. Once L’Envers assembled a delegation, once they realized that outside the walls of the City, my seeming delusion was shared by thousands, things would begin to change. But even at that, my tale would seem half-mad. L’Envers was willing to take a chance on it only because he was desperate and he didn’t care if I lived or died. There was no way I could prove the truth of my tale. Folk outside the City could attest to my relationship with Sidonie, my quest to find my mother. Not the existence of the Unseen Guild, shrouded in deadly secrecy. Not the admission I’d forced from Gillimas of Hiram. And of a surety, not my encounter with Sunjata the night of the full moon. It would take a long, long time before any of that began to sound like aught but fever-dreams to anyone caught in the grip of Carthage’s spell.
    I couldn’t afford to wait.
    Not while Astegal . . . ah, gods! I couldn’t bear to think on it.
    So I gave up and behaved like a model patient. I spent the long, tedious hours of my recuperation writing a letter expressing my apologies ten thousand ways over. Begging forgiveness. Telling them I loved them. And three days after my meeting with Barquiel L’Envers, two of the people I loved best in the world escorted me gladly to Eisheth’s temple, where I meant to betray them.
    The temple was built around a spring whose waters were said to have healing properties.
    It was an expansive and gracious place. Many people came to stay for days at a time, partaking of the healing waters. The head priestess met us in the temple courtyard, a brown-haired woman of middle years, clad in sea-blue robes. I recognized her; she had been present at my hearing in the Great Temple of Elua, when all the orders of Blessed Elua and his Companions had elected to acknowledge Sidonie’s and my love. She gave no sign of having met me before.
    “Be welcome, Prince Imriel,” she said, bowing. “May you find healing here.”
    My