Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [12]
Hands grasped my wrists, stretching my arms above my head. I willed myself not to struggle as they lashed rawhide around my wrists, binding them tight to the ring atop the whipping-post. The incense was so thick I could taste it on my tongue, mingled with the memory of stagnant water, rot, and decay.
The chastiser stepped forward, his bronze-masked face calm and implacable. He held forth the flogger in both hands, offering it like a sacrament. It was no toy intended for violent pleasure, no teasing implement of soft deerskin. The braided leather glinted and metal gleamed at its tips. It was meant to hurt.
My teeth were chattering. All I could do was nod.
He nodded in acknowledgment and stepped behind me.
I braced myself.
Ah, Elua! The first blow was hard and fast, dealt by an expert hand. White-hot pain burst across the expanse of my naked back. I jerked hard against my restraints, feeling my sinews strain near unto cracking. Again and again and again it fell, and I found myself wild with panic, struggling to escape. I flung myself against the coarse wood of the whipping-post, worrying at it with my fingernails. And still the flogger fell, over and over.
I saw Daršanga.
Dead women, dead boys. The Mahrkagir's mad eyes, wide with glee.
Phèdre, filled with the Name of God.
Brightness.
Darkness.
All of the dead, my dead. Daršanga, Lucca. Everyone's dead.
Kushiel's face, wreathed in smoke.
"Enough." The tall priest raised his hand. I had ceased to struggle, going limp in my bonds. On my knees, aching in every part, I squinted up at him. "Make now your confession.”
I craned my neck. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "And I will try to be good.”
There was a pause; a small silence. I let my head loll. From the corner of my eye, I saw the tall priest gesture. There was the soft sound of a dipper sinking into water, and then another voice spoke. "Be free of it.”
A draught of saltwater was poured over my wounds. I rested my bowed head in the crook of my elbows, sighing at the pain of it.
It was done, then. My penance was made. The anonymous hands untied my wrists and helped me to stand. Patted dry my lacerated back, helped me to dress. Though I stood on wavering feet, strangely, I felt calm and purged.
"So." The tall priest regarded me. "Is it well done, Kushiel's scion?”
If I had wished it, I thought, he would have spoken to me as a man, mortal to mortal, both of us grasping with imperfect hands at the will of the gods. I didn't, though. I bowed to him instead, feeling the fabric of my shirt rasp over my wounded flesh. It was a familiar feeling. I'd known it well, once. This was different. I had chosen it.
"It is well done, my lord priest," I said.
He nodded a final time. "Go, then.”
Hugues leapt to his feet when I entered the foyer. "Are you …how are you?”
I ran my tongue over my teeth, thinking. I could taste blood where I'd bitten the inside of my cheek, and the lingering taste of incense. Nothing else. I hurt, but no worse than I'd hurt after a rough training session with Barbarus’ squadron. The weals would fade. And I wasn't scared inside. "I'm fine," I said, surprised to discover it was true. I smiled at Hugues. "Come on, let's go.”
Chapter Three
Some days after my visit to Kushiel's temple, the Queen threw a fête to celebrate my return to the City of Elua.
It was a small affair as such matters went. Given free rein, she would have thrown a larger one—and I daresay Phèdre would gladly have aided her—but I had left the City under a lingering cloud of suspicion and recrimination, and as glad as I was to be among my loved ones, my return was tainted by what had gone before. I preferred a smaller engagement.
Duc Barquiel L'Envers would not be in attendance, which was good. My unwelcome nemesis was the Queen's uncle on her mother's side. The plot he had conceived against me had been simple and effective. A mysterious messenger, a whispered password, a note indicating