Kushiel's Scion (2 page)
Emile
—proprietor of the Cockerel
—proprietor of the Cockerel
Quintilius Rousse
—Royal Admiral
—Royal Admiral
Favrielle nó Eglantine
—couturiere
—couturiere
Bérèngere of Namarre
—head of Naamah's Order
—head of Naamah's Order
Amarante of Namarre
—daughter of Bérèngere
—daughter of Bérèngere
Brother Selbert
—chief priest in the Sanctuary of Elua (Siovale)
—chief priest in the Sanctuary of Elua (Siovale)
Gilles Lamiz
—Queen's Poet
—Queen's Poet
Roxanne de Mereliot
—Lady of Marsilikos (Eisande)
—Lady of Marsilikos (Eisande)
Gerard and Jeanne de Mereliot
—children of Roxanne (Eisande)
—children of Roxanne (Eisande)
Historical Figures
Baudoin de Trevalion
(deceased)—cousin of Queen Ysandre; executed for treason
(deceased)—cousin of Queen Ysandre; executed for treason
Isidore d'Aiglemort
(deceased)—noble; traitor turned hero (Camlach)
(deceased)—noble; traitor turned hero (Camlach)
Thelesis de Mornay
(deceased)—Queen's Poet
(deceased)—Queen's Poet
Waldemar Selig
(deceased)—Skaldi warlord; invaded Terre d'Ange
(deceased)—Skaldi warlord; invaded Terre d'Ange
Fadil Chouma
(deceased)—Menekhetan slaver
(deceased)—Menekhetan slaver
The Mahrkagir
(deceased)—mad ruler of Drujan; lord of Daršanga
(deceased)—mad ruler of Drujan; lord of Daršanga
Drucilla
(deceased)—Tiberian prisoner in Daršanga; chirurgeon
(deceased)—Tiberian prisoner in Daršanga; chirurgeon
Kaneka
—Jebean prisoner in Daršanga
—Jebean prisoner in Daršanga
Jagun
(deceased)—chief of the Kereyit Tatars
(deceased)—chief of the Kereyit Tatars
Ras Lijasu
—Prince of
Meroe
in Jebe-Barkal
—Prince of
Meroe
in Jebe-Barkal
Prologue
What does it mean to be good?
When I was a child, I thought I knew. It was easy then. I knew nothing of my birth or my heritage. My childhood was spent in the Sanctuary of Elua, where I was a ward. My days were spent in worklike play: scrambling the mountainsides and tending goats with the other children of the Sanctuary, climbing trees and swimming in the swift stream while our charges grazed.
I was steeped in the precept of Blessed Elua: Love as thou wilt. And I did. I loved without reserve, freely and easily—my playmates, the priests and priestesses of the Sanctuary, the goats I tended, the earth beneath my feet and the sky above my head. I am a D'Angeline; I loved Terre d'Ange, the country of my birth. With all my heart, I loved our gods, Elua and his Companions, and I knew myself loved in return. I was happy. I never thought to be anything else.
When I was ten years old, everything changed.
I was stolen by Carthaginian slave-traders and sent on a journey into hell. And I thought I'd die there, but I didn't. I was rescued. I was brought out of damnation into safety.
And everything changed again.
In a distant fortress on the far verges of Khebbel-im-Akkad, the D'Angeline Queen's delegate bowed his head and greeted me as Imriel de la Courcel, Prince of the Blood.
All that I knew of myself was a lie.
I learned my father was Benedicte de la Courcel, the great-uncle of Queen Ysandre. For many years, he was her closest living relative in House Courcel. But by the time I heard the news, he was long dead. He was a traitor to the throne, and if he'd lived to be tried, he would have been convicted of it. He didn't, though.
My mother was another matter.
When I was eight years old, before I knew who she was, Brother Selbert took me to La Serenissima to see my mother. He had told me that my parents had been D'Angeline nobles who had died of an ague during a ship crossing, bequeathing me with their dying breaths to the priest as a ward of the Sanctuary. He told me that this woman had been a friend of my parents and would stand as my patron when I came of age. And he told me that she had dangerous enemies and that I must never speak of her, for it would put her in grave danger.
That last bit, at least, was true. I believed him. Why shouldn't I? I'd spent my life trusting him. But everything else was a lie. And he didn't tell me that she had earned each and every enemy she made. My father's treachery pales in comparison to her deeds. In all its history, Terre d'Ange has never known a deadlier traitor than Melisande Shahrizai de la Courcel.
My mother, whom I learned to despise.
In hindsight, it seems strange that I didn't recognize her at the time. And yet how was I to know? There were no mirrors in the Sanctuary of Elua. Betimes we children used to lean over the goat-bridge and peer at our wavering reflections in the stream's surface, but that was all. I was as ignorant of my features as I was of my identity.
Of course, that was before the slave-traders took me. Then I had ample opportunity to hear myself described. In the country of Drujan, they were looking for perfect, unblemished sacrifices. I was sold to one of the bone-priests who served the Mahrkagir, the ruler of all Drujan. The Mahrkagir was cruel, ruthless and utterly mad. And I was bought for his foul harem, the zenana in the palace of Daršanga. Beauty is scant comfort on a descent into hell.
I resemble my mother.
I know it now. I see it in mirrors—there are always mirrors, in my foster-mother Phèdre's household—and I hate it. I wear my mother's face. My eyes are her eyes, a deep twilight blue. My skin is her skin, a shadowed alabaster, the color of old ivory. I see the generous curve of her mouth reflected in my lips. My hair, like hers, grows in gleaming, blue-black waves.
The resemblance cannot be denied.
There are those—even now, after all she has done—who marvel that I don't welcome it. Although she was the greatest traitor our nation has known, Melisande Shahrizai was one of its greatest beauties, too. A deadly beauty, bright as the sun, keen as a blade. In certain circles, she is still admired for it. If there is a nation on the face of the earth with a people more vain than Terre d'Ange, I've yet to find it. And in my twelve years, I've seen more of the world than most D'Angelines will ever glimpse.
But I have seen beauty, and it does not wear my mother's face.
When I gaze in the mirror and see her features reflected in mine, I am filled with uncertainty. What does it mean to be good? When I look inside myself, I see only darkness and confusion. I do not know why what happened to me, happened. I do not know what I did to deserve it, or if I am bearing the price of my mother's sins. I fear the resemblance between us. I fear that one day I may prove to be like her. But when I look outside myself, it is easy to point to goodness. I was stolen out of paradise and sent into the depths of a depravity the likes of which decent folk couldn't begin to comprehend, but I was rescued. The ones who rescued me… when I think about what it means to be good, I think about them.
Phèdre.
Joscelin.
Phèdre.
I don't know—I will never know—where they found the courage to do what was needed to save me. Phèdre says that although it is my mother who charged her with the task, it was the will of Blessed Elua himself that sent her forth across that terrible threshold. I cannot reckon the cost. I know what the Mahrkagir did to her. All of us who were slaves in the Mahrkagir's zenana knew what he did to his favorites. I don't know how she endured it. And I don't know how Joscelin, Phedre's consort and protector, survived knowing the abuse she suffered at the Mahrkagir's hands without succumbing to madness.
I love them so much that it hurts inside.
I am theirs, now; their foster-son. Queen Ysandre allowed it, although she has little liking for the arrangement. My mother consented willingly to it; indeed, she made a concession that it might come to pass. As far as I know, it is one of the only concessions my mother has ever made in her life. Although they have been opponents in her intrigues, there is a bond of long standing between her and Phèdre. I don't understand it, and I don't want to; I think, somehow, that I will rue the day I ever do. My mother remains in sanctuary in the Temple of Asherat-of-the-Sea in La Serenissima. Unlike my father, she was tried and convicted of high treason long before I was born. Her life is forfeit if ever she sets a foot beyond the temple walls.
She writes me letters, which I don't read. I tried to burn the first letter she sent, but Phèdre snatched it from the brazier. After that, she began keeping them for me. She says that I will want them one day, and mayhap it is true. In my short life, I've seen many things no one would have believed possible. But I cannot ever imagine wanting to read my mother's words.
It doesn't happen often, but sometimes Phèdre is wrong.
It is strange, now, to think how I despised her at first. In the zenana of Daršanga, Phèdre nó Delaunay, the Comtesse de Montrève, did not look like a heroine bent on my rescue. She looked like a D'Angeline courtesan, delicate and lovely, and willing to wallow in the foulest depravity the Mahrkagir offered. It was true, too. For that, I hated her. I hated her so much I could barely stand to look at her. And Joscelin… Joscelin, too. I thought he had betrayed all that was noble and good about Terre d'Ange, sinking as low as a warrior can go.
I was wrong.
They were more, so much more. They were my salvation, and the salvation of many others. Not all, but many. A deadly evil was removed from the world the night that we—all of us together in the zenana—overthrew the Mahrkagir's forces. It was Blessed Elua's will, Phèdre says. Perhaps that, too, is true. I wish to believe it. In the daylight, enfolded in their affection, it is easy. We are a family. We emerged from the terrible stronghold of Daršanga, the three of us, damaged and broken, and healed ourselves into a new whole.
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