Kushiel's Mercy

feet.”
    “Do you plan on attempting to break his will?” I asked.
    “No,” Melisande said simply. “No, there is a time when I would have tried it for the sheer joy of the challenge. Now . . . I am not entirely sure I would win. And I am not entirely sure it would please me if I did. Ptolemy Solon and I enjoy one another. After the tedium of my years claiming sanctuary in the Temple of Asherat, I am content to be . . . content.”
    She looked amused. “You’re full of questions. Are there more?”
    “Yes.” I met her gaze and held it. “What fault-lines do you see in me?”
    My mother looked at me for a long, long time. The mantle of sorrow settled back over her. “Many,” she said at length, her voice gentle. “Fault-lines of grief and loss and despair, and fault-lines of pride and yearning. A strong, bright vein of indomitable courage and strength that with the wisdom of experience, even I would be reluctant to cross.” Reaching across the table, she touched my cheek. “Imriel. I swear to you, in Kushiel’s name, that I would never do aught to exploit you. And I keep my promises.”
    “I know,” I said. “So do I.”
    Melisande nodded. “What do you see?”
    I looked into her.
    I saw passion and pride, humor and ambition. Regret and sorrow. A surprising reserve of measured joy, and a chilling amorality. A profound capacity for impersonal cruelty.
    Unexpected generosity. A lack of conscience, and a growing awareness of that lack.
    Thoughtfulness. Curiosity.
    Me.
    I was my mother’s fault-line. I was the kernel of vulnerability at her core. I could hurt her far, far more than she could ever hurt me. And she could be hurt through me. What I suffered hurt her. She had loved others in her own way, and there were profound ties there, most especially to Phèdre. That bond, I daresay only the gods themselves understood. But I was the only person she had ever loved with all the deep, abiding wonder and ferocity of her mortal soul.
    I pitied her.
    It hurt; it hurt us both. I was the first to look away. I knew myself, and I was sane. I took no pleasure in her pain.
    “Now you know,” Melisande said in a low, steady voice.
    “Yes.” I took a deep breath and forced myself to meet her gaze. “And I am grateful for your love, Mother. Despite everything, I am grateful for it.”
    Her generous lips curved in a smile. “Let us hope that it is enough to bring down Carthage.”
    “Let us.” There was a pitcher of cool white wine on the table. I filled both our cups, hoisting my own in toast. “Between the two of us, let us hope.”
    No word came from Solon that day. I returned to the widow’s lodgings and passed the night there. In the morning, Leander came to fetch me, finding me in the garden once more. This time, I heard him enter and halted my exercises.
    “Word from the palace?” I asked.
    He shook his head, braids dancing. “Her ladyship thought you might fancy an excursion to the Shrine of Aphrodite. ’Tis only a league or two.”
    It was a kind thought. I was restless and impatient, eager to be doing instead of waiting.
    At least this would serve to keep me occupied; and too, it was always wise to pay respects to the gods of a place. I had the Bastard saddled, and Leander and I set out, following the road eastward along the Cytheran coast.
    I had to own, it was beautiful here. It was autumn. In Terre d’Ange, there would be a chill in the air, a promise of frost to come. Here in Cythera, it was warm and sunny. The wind off the sea tangled my hair, making me envy Leander his braids. The folk we passed saluted us cheerfully. The Bastard, recovered at last from his ordeal, pranced and snorted.
    “Good-looking horse,” Leander observed, eyeing him.
    “He was a gift,” I said. “From the House of Aragon.”
    He whistled. “That’s got to sting, thinking on it, what with Terre d’Ange betraying its alliance.”
    “It does, in fact.” I looked curiously at him. “Does it trouble you ?”
    “Truly?” Leander shrugged. “Not really. Blessed Elua wandered the world without a care.
    Why shouldn’t I?”
    I couldn’t think of a reply, so I didn’t give one.
    It took a little over an hour to reach the shrine of the goddess, situated on a windswept promontory overlooking the sea. It was built in the classic Hellene style, simple and elegant, open to the elements. Myrtle grew in abundance around it, the sun-warmed leaves releasing a pleasing fragrance. Bees droned around the flowering