Kushiel's Mercy

Mavros laughed humorlessly. “Well, and here’s your first chance.”
    After bidding Mavros farewell and donning clean attire, I accompanied the guard to my audience with Ysandre. It was early evening and the Palace was beginning to come alive with what revelries the coming night would hold: private fêtes, wagers in the Hall of Games, mayhap a performance in the theatre.
    I endured the gauntlet of stares and whispers. I was used to it; it had been my lot since I had first returned to Terre d’Ange as a child. I met the stares, returned them with a level gaze, trying to read the faces behind them.
    Some were sympathetic.
    A few were hostile and guarded.
    Most were simply curious.
    I wasn’t sure if it would be a state reception or a private one. It turned out to be somewhere between the two. The Queen received me in her private quarters, but Lady Denise Grosmaine, the Secretary of the Presence, was in attendance, which meant whatever transpired would be documented for the Royal Archives.
    I entered the Queen’s salon and bowed low.
    “We welcome you home, Prince Imriel.” Ysandre’s tone was even. Careful.
    I straightened. “My thanks, your majesty.”
    Ysandre de la Courcel had ruled Terre d’Ange since before I was born. She’d assumed the throne when she was no older than I was now, and she’d had a long time to learn to school her features into a polite mask. But I was Kushiel’s scion, and I could see a measure of what lay behind the mask—hurt, betrayal, and anger. It hadn’t gone away since I left. It had settled into a deep place inside her.
    Still, she was the Queen, and a very good one.
    “We—” She paused, then continued, her voice firm. “ I wish to thank you for avenging the death of my husband’s blood-kin. I wish to tell you that Drustan, that the Cruarch of Alba, sent a letter commending you for your courage and persistence. We are both grateful to know that the spirit of Dorelei mab Breidaia will rest peacefully thanks to your efforts.”
    “As am I,” I said quietly. “She was my wife. She would have been the mother of my son.
    I pray they are both at peace.”
    The Secretary of the Presence recorded our words, her pen scratching softly on paper. I gazed at Ysandre. Sidonie had inherited her mother’s fairness, although Ysandre’s hair was a paler hue. She had inherited her mother’s cool, reserved beauty. But she had not inherited a kingdom on the verge of being invaded and conquered due to the treachery of Melisande Shahrizai.
    Ysandre inclined her head. “You may go.”
    I spread my hands. “Your majesty . . .”
    Her expression hardened. “We will discuss the other matter at a later date. There will be a Priest of Elua seeking an audience with you to discuss these things. I recommend you grant it.”
    I opened my mouth to make a reply or an appeal, then thought better of it and inclined my head. “Of course, your majesty.”
    With that, I was dismissed.
    Outside of Ysandre’s quarters, I leaned against the wall and exhaled hard. Ah, Elua! Love shouldn’t have to be so hard .
    “Prince Imriel?” a cheerful voice asked. I squinted at the speaker. One of Sidonie’s guardsmen, a short, wiry lad with dark hair. He grinned at me. “That bad, eh? Her highness sent me to fetch you.”
    “That’s the best news I’ve had all day,” I said.
    His grin widened. “Thought you might think so.”
    The guard, whose name was Alfonse, led me to Sidonie’s quarters. It was the first time I’d entered them openly as her acknowledged lover, and it felt strange. I half expected to be halted. But no; Sidonie’s guard was loyal, and it seemed Ysandre wasn’t minded to intervene, at least not overtly, not yet. I suspected it had little to do with tolerance for the situation, and more to do with fear of driving Sidonie into open rebellion.
    Sidonie’s rooms were larger and finer than my own. There was an abundance of candles lit against the encroaching darkness. Covered platters sat on the dining table, and the succulent aromas seeping from beneath the domes made me realize I was hungry.
    “I hope you don’t mind.” Sidonie, seated on a couch, set down the sheaf of letters she was reading. “I thought it might be nicer to dine in my chambers than face the gawking horde on our first night.”
    “It’s perfect,” I said. “And I’m ravenous.”
    “Mmm.” She rose with deft grace. “How was Mother?”
    “Cordial.” I caught her hand. “How did you find