Kushiel's Mercy

“I will try, my lord. But I have passed a good many anxious nights myself of late.”
    “Of course,” Solon said. “I understand.”
    “No.” I shook my head. “I don’t think you do. You’ve built a pleasant place here on Cythera. Imagine it altered overnight at a single stroke, plunged into uncertainty and confusion. Imagine my mother leaving you gladly for a man you despise. Imagine knowing that all her formidable will and intelligence have been violated and turned against her. Because if Carthage succeeds in Aragonia and Terre d’Ange, this will be only the beginning. Astegal dreams of empire. Cythera would be a pretty plum.”
    Solon snorted. “Would Carthage be a worse master than Khebbel-im-Akkad? One overlord is much the same as another. You speak as a man whose country has never been a vassal nation.”
    “True.” I set down my fork. “And I would like to remain thus. Do you wish me to beg, my lord? I will.” I got out of the chair and knelt at his feet. “You spoke of happiness. For the first time in my life, I had it. And it has been snatched away from me. I beg you, please, to tell me how to undo what was done. I will give you anything in my possession.
    I will do anything in my power that you wish.”
    “Anything.” His round eyes glinted. “What if I told you I knew of a spell that could give one man the semblance of another? What if I asked for your beauty in exchange for my ugliness? Would you give it?”
    “Yes,” I said promptly.
    Solon’s brows rose. “Truly?”
    I sat back on my heels and spread my arms. “Take it.”
    “Hmm.” He regarded me a moment. “You’re fortunate that I have spent my life adhering to the wisdom of restraint. Or perhaps merely that your mother would take it amiss to find me wearing her son’s face.” He shook his head. “I don’t want your face, Imriel de la Courcel. What I want is to choose wisely in this. If I aid you, there are those who will recognize my handiwork. Undoing the spell will be difficult. If you fail, it is I—and Cythera—who will pay the price.”
    “I won’t fail,” I said.
    “Stubborn.” Solon smiled a little. “Much like your mother. And impulsive, much unlike her. Sleep, and go to see her. Whatever you think of her, Melisande is not made of stone.
    For ten years and more, she has grieved deeply, knowing what befell you when you were taken as a child, knowing what role her own actions played in it. I do believe it is the pain that finally taught her a measure of compassion.”
    I got wearily to my feet. “I hope so.”
    His eyes glinted again. “Given that she appears ready to forgive you for seeking her life, I do believe I am right.”

Nineteen
    I spent a fitful night, tossing restlessly in my bed at the widow Nuray’s lodging-house, going over my conversation with Solon in my mind. I didn’t think it had gone well. He was an odd and disconcerting man.
    Small wonder my mother liked him.
    At least it was better than dwelling on the sure knowledge that Sidonie had wed Astegal.
    I couldn’t think about that without a tide of black, murderous rage rising in my heart, and the feeling was uncomfortably close to my madness.
    I rose early and broke my fast, then spent the better part of an hour practicing my Cassiline forms in Nuray’s garden, trying to quiet my mind. I forced myself to focus on the movements; telling the hours, they called it. Step after flowing step, tracing arcs with my blade. It worked well enough that I didn’t notice my mother’s messenger enter the garden.
    “Interesting, that,” an insouciant voice said. “What do you call it?”
    I halted and turned, then stared.
    It was a young man around my age. He’d spoken in Hellene with a native accent, and he wore billowy trousers caught at the ankles and an embroidered Cytheran vest, but he was D’Angeline. His face was narrower than mine, and his eyes a lighter shade of blue, but the stamp of House Shahrizai was there in the angle of his cheekbones, the sensuous mouth.
    One of hers.
    “Telling the hours,” I said stupidly. “It’s a Cassiline practice.”
    “Cassilines!” He snapped his fingers. “I’d forgotten about them.” He came over to greet me, extending a hand. “I’m Leander, by the way.”
    “Imriel.” I clasped his hand, frowning in perplexity. “Are we . . . kin?”
    “Distantly, by way of the wrong side of the blanket.” Leander laughed. “It’s a long story.” He studied my face. “By the Goddess! You