Kushiel's Scion (10 page)
"No, that's all right." I shook my head. Among those who served in Phèdre's household, discretion was paramount. Women know how to keep secrets. I learned that in the zenana. "I don't mind."
Clory, resuming her duties as masseuse, clicked her tongue against her teeth; doubtless responding to some slight tension in Phèdre's body. She had trained at Balm House, and she took a great deal of pride in her skills. It was soothing to watch. In the warm candlelight, Phèdre's skin glowed like new cream, the black lines and crimson accents of her marque in stark contrast. I perched on my stool in silence, watching Clory's strong, clever hands at work, while Phèdre watched me, patient and waiting.
At last I met her eyes. "I want to give him Lombelon."
Phèdre folded her hands beneath her chin. She didn't look surprised. "You know his claim will have to be substantiated."
"Yes." I took a deep breath. "I know. Do you doubt it?"
"No." She smiled wryly. "Not really. He looks like d'Aiglemort."
I watched a candle gutter and die. "Could you see to it, then? That part?"
"Yes." She shifted one shoulder. Clory halted and, without a word, went to wash her hands in the basin. Wiping them dry, she picked up Phèdre's silk robe, spreading it open and obscuring my view. With the ease of long practice, Phèdre stood and slid into it, knotting the sash. "Thank you, Clory."
"Always, my lady." Clory's smile was warm. As she left, she touched my shoulder lightly with one fragrant, oil-scented hand. "Young highness."
When she had gone, Phèdre sat cross-legged on the thick cushions of the table. She arranged the graceful folds of her robe, studying me. "Why, love?"
"Because I don't need it." I picked at some pooled wax with my thumbnail. "I don't even want it. And if it was meant to be his—it's not fair, that's all." I lifted my chin. "That's a good thing, isn't it? To set right something that's wrong?"
"In theory, yes," she said. "It doesn't always work as simply as it ought. For one thing, the Queen may not approve."
I frowned. "But it's my decision, isn't it?"
"Yes." Phèdre twisted her damp hair into a coil, smiling with a trace of rue. "And mine, since you've not reached your majority."
"She'll be angry ax you." I hadn't thought of that.
"No more than usual." A flicker of genuine amusement crossed her features. "I was thinking of you, love. Ysandre does not like to have her generosity rebuked. And then there is Maslin."
I found her jeweled hairpins and handed them to her. "What of him?"
"He may not be grateful," she said. "He may even be angry."
It made no sense, and I felt my frown deepen. "Why would he? He loves Lombelon, I could see it. And it's nothing to me."
"You answer your own question," Phèdre said softly, affixing her hairpins.
I sat and thought about it until I came to understand how Maslin of Lombelon might hate me for giving him his heart's desire. For caring so little that I could afford to toss it to him as a sop, the least of my undeserved holdings. How my careless charity might be a hateful reminder of the disparity in our status. How he might hate me for being forever in my debt, and how his pride would gall him at the sight of me.
"Do you see, Imri?" Phèdre asked after a while.
I nodded.
"Do you still want him to have it?"
"Yes." I rubbed my eyes with the heel of one hand. "It's still the right thing to do, isn't it?" I blinked at her, clearing my stinging eyes. "Isn't it?"
Phèdre shook her head and slid from the table. "Come here," she said, opening her arms. I walked into her embrace, resting my chin on her silk-clad shoulder. I had grown tall enough to do that now. She hugged me hard, kissing my temple. "Yes."
After a moment, I freed myself. "Phèdre? What would you have done?"
"Me?" One corner of her mouth curved upward. "Ah, well, love… remind me, sometime, to tell you the story behind Favrielle nó Eglantine and her notorious ill-temper."
I smiled at her. "Joscelin told me that one."
She ruffled my hair. "Then you know."
Chapter Six
In the months that followed, the matter was slowly concluded. Phèdre sent Ti-Philippe to make discreet inquiries in the area of Lombelon, where he learned that Maslin's mother was one Anne Livet. Her father, who had died some years ago, had been the master gardener in d'Aiglemort's day. The dalliance had been an earnest one, well-known by the L'Agnacite folk in the area, and d'Aiglemort had claimed the child in the womb. No one doubted that he would have acknowledged Maslin had he lived to see his birth.
Autumn came, and Drustan the Cruarch sailed back to Alba. Phèdre sought a private audience with the Queen to discuss the matter. What she said, I do not know, but if Ysandre was angry or hurt, she held her tongue.
I had to sign the deed before the Chancellor of the Exchequer, sealing it with the stamp of the signet ring Ysandre had given unto my possession after we returned from Jebe-Barkal, with the swan insignia of House Courcel. It felt very strange. Phèdre signed it, too, pressing the seal of Montrève with its crescent moon and mountain crag below mine. When it was done, the Chancellor wrote out a fair copy, signing and stamping it with his own seal. This he gave to me. One way or another, it was mine to deliver.
I agonized over the decision. How to do it? A courier would be impersonal; and yet, if there was hatred in Maslin's eyes, I wouldn't have to see it. And yet, if he were pleased—if he were willing to accept the gesture in the spirit of goodwill and kinship I intended it—I would miss that, too. I would miss that half a chance to befriend the only person I had met who labored under a burden of unwanted heritage similar to mine.
It was Alais who forced the matter, although not, in the end, who decided it.
"You're not paying attention," she said, rapping the back of my hand with the fan of cards she held. "I played trumps, Imriel! You're not paying attention at all." She paused. "Will you tell me why?"
I raked one hand through my hair. In truth, I didn't mind these days, when the Queen bade me to Court and decreed the scions of House Courcel must further their acquaintance. I was fond of Alais, and Sidonie—well, Sidonie left us well enough alone, content to read a book while Alais and I played cards under the watchful eyes of the Queen's Guard.
"I'm sorry," I said to Alais. "I was thinking of somewhat else."
"Yes," she said impatiently, "I know. What?"
I told her, then; a shortened version, one fit for a child. Alais listened gravely. She could be serious, when she wished; sometimes she had dreams that came true. That came from Drustan's side and his mother's blood.
"I think you should tell him yourself," she said. "It's nice, what you're doing. What are you afraid of?"
I explained, as best I could. Alais knew a good deal of what I had endured—Ysandre did not want her daughters sheltered from knowledge of the world's ills, and Alais had heard it long ago. But she was born of a love-match, and young, and it was hard for her to understand.
"Well, I think he should be happy," she said.
"Yes," I said. "But we do not always do what we should."
Sidonies voice intervened, cool as water over rocks. "I have heard many things of you, Cousin Imriel, but never that you were a coward."
I stared at her, furious.
She raised her brows; gold, a deeper hue than her mother's. Unlike Alais, the Dauphine looked almost wholly D'Angeline. Only her eyes were pure Cruithne, dark and unreadable.
"That," I said coldly, "I am not."
"Well, then." Sidonie returned to her book, dismissing me.
By what right a twelve-year-old girl who had never known a day's fear or hunger or want of any kind thought to insult the courage of a fourteen-year-old boy who had endured a hell that would break many a grown man, I cannot say. It was, however, singularly effective. I was still chafing at the condescension in her tone when I made my decision to go to Lombelon.
There was a good deal of discussion. I wanted to go alone, with only a pair of men-at-arms, which Phèdre adamantly refused to allow. In turn, I argued against the entire household appearing in a show of force. Sidonie had pricked my pride, and I did not want Maslin to think I was afraid.
In the end, I was allowed to go with a handful of men-at-arms under Ti-Philippe's command, although Phèdre did not like it. Neither did Joscelin, but he understood.
The day was blustery, with a chill edge to the wind hinting at the winter to come. We departed in the early morning under dull grey skies. It was strange to see the City quiet and empty; the shop doors bolted, the streets almost deserted. Only a few scattered members of the City Guard were about, and a few weary revelers weaving their way home from a late night's debauch. One of them greeted Ti-Philippe, calling out a slurred salute.
He grinned in reply. "To the flowers of Orchis!"
I felt myself redden. Orchis was one of the Thirteen Houses of the Night Court, where Naamah's finest Servants plied their trade. Phèdre was raised in one such—Cereus House, First among Thirteen.
"Philippe?" I cleared my throat. "What's it like there?"
He glanced at me. "Orchis House?"
"The Night Court."
"Well, it depends on the House." He shrugged. "I like Orchis. They're lighthearted; merry. It suits me."
"What about the others?" I asked.
"They're all different." Ti-Philippe smiled. "Heliotrope's nice. The adepts there will make you feel like the only man ever to touch their hearts. And Eglantine—it's worth visiting for the poets and players alone. Jasmine… ah, there's adepts at Jasmine will leave you limp as a dishrag, half-drowned in the sweat of desire."
Phèdre's mother was an adept of Jasmine House, but she left. And when she sold her daughter into indentured servitude, it was to the First among Thirteen; to Cereus House. "What about Cereus?"
"Ah." His gaze sharpened. "Well, all beauty's transient, so they say; but I'm not one to ache at its passing—or at least not to relish the ache."
"No," I said slowly. "I suppose not."
Ti-Philippe chuckled. "Ah, don't worry, Imriel, you've got plenty of years to choose."
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