Kushiel's Mercy

persisted. It had nothing to do with overexerting myself. It was a fear that I’d been given one burden more than I could carry. I had failed in Vralia. I’d given up and prepared to abandon my hunt for Berlik. In the end, he’d come to me.
    This was different, though. I’d wanted vengeance for Dorelei, very much. I’d wanted to let her spirit rest peacefully. I’d needed to assuage my grief. And I’d wanted to do my utmost to ameliorate the shadow of guilt that lay between Sidonie and me. Still, I could have lived with the failure, bitter and awful though it would have been.
    Not this one.
    So I pushed my body until my muscles quivered, taking a grim solace in my returning strength. I forced myself not to think about Sidonie and Astegal. It was too dangerous, filling me with fury and despair, making me fear for my sanity once more. There was darkness lurking in me, spilled out by the prick of a eunuch’s needle. I couldn’t give in to it.
    We reached the wide mouth of the Aviline, opening onto the sea. The barge turned east along the coast, making for Marsilikos. I gazed out at the vast expanse of water to the south, thinking about the lands that lay beyond.
    Cythera.
    Carthage.
    Like Tiberium, Carthage had ruled a vast empire once. Long ago, in the days before Blessed Elua wandered the earth, Carthage had conquered Aragonia. It had made alliances with our forebears in the land that would become Terre d’Ange; it had marched on Tiberium. Armies of both nations had fought one another to a standstill.
    In the end, the pendulum had swung. Carthage’s army had been vanquished on Tiberian soil, its dream of empire destroyed. Tiberium’s star had risen for a time, until it too had fallen.
    Now Carthage sought to rise again, armed with dire magic.
    It could be stopped, though. I had to believe it. Whatever the horologists had done, it wasn’t as deadly as what I’d witnessed in Drujan. The Âka-Magi there had used madness as a weapon to destroy an entire Akkadian army, turning it against itself. They had been able to kill with a thought. And Phèdre had managed to bring them down nonetheless— Phèdre, Joscelin, and the brave folk of the zenana.
    I had to believe.
    The gilded Dome of the Lady was shining brightly the day we reached Marsilikos. The harbor was busy, filled with an unwarranted number of Quintilius Rousse’s ships. His men were swarming everywhere. I didn’t dare roam the docks, seeking passage to Cythera. Once the Bastard was unloaded, I thanked Gilbert and his men and took my leave of them. I rode into the city, struggling with my fractious horse, sweating beneath my concealing cloak. I’d regained a good measure of strength, but not nearly as much as I’d have liked.
    The streets of Marsilikos were filled with uneasy talk. I took a room at a modest inn and gave a false name. I paid a lad to carry a note to the Lady of Marsilikos’ daughter, Jeanne de Mereliot, then sat in the tavern, drinking ale and eavesdropping.
    All the conversation was the same. Roxanne de Mereliot, her son, Gerard, and every member of their retinue had returned from the City of Elua under the conviction that Terre d’Ange was Carthage’s ally, speaking in vague, glowing terms of a marvel they had witnessed, speaking happily of the love-match between Astegal and Sidonie.
    No one could fathom why.
    There was speculation about a bribe of unimaginable proportions, fueled by the accounts of Carthage’s generous gifts. Here and there, a few stalwarts insisted that it had to be some ploy Ysandre and Drustan had concocted to confuse Carthage, lulling them into complacency, but no one could explain how that would play out in a manner that would justify Sidonie’s sacrifice.
    And there were whispers of dark magic performed beneath a bloody moon, about Carthage itself, a land with gods terrible enough that they had once demanded the sacrifice of babes and children.
    I listened, gritting my teeth until my jaw ached.
    It wasn’t long before the tavern-lad returned with a message from Jeanne de Mereliot, bidding me to meet her in all haste at the Academy of Medicine. I’d nearly forgotten she was a chirurgeon in her own right. She was of Eisheth’s line, with healing in her blood.
    Since it wasn’t far, I made the journey on foot, cloaked and sweltering in the heat, pushing my body to further endurance. There weren’t many folk in Marsilikos who could put a name to my face for a surety, but there were a few. I’d