Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [141]
Once they had gone, I tried to wake Dorelei, who murmured in protest. So I scooped her into my arms. She nestled her warm brown cheek against my bare chest as I mounted the stairs, ignoring the ribald jests from below.
"Imriel," she whispered. "I do love you.”
"I know." I kissed her brow. "So do I.”
"You don't." One hand scrabbled at my chest, then fell limp, dangling. "Not really.”
"I do," I avowed. "As best I can, and a bit more beside.”
Our bedchamber was decorated with shriveled flower petals and the lamps were burning low. I laid Dorelei gently on our nuptial bed and eased her out of her kirtle. She heaved a great sigh, curling onto her side, one hand resting on her lower belly. It had begun to evince a bulge, only the tiniest bit. I drew the blankets over her and laid down beside her.
And there I lay.
And lay.
I was awake; I was wide awake. I listened to Dorelei's soft, rhythmic breathing. I listened to the sounds of the fortress settling into slumber. The last of the straggling celebrants quieting; the last of the Cruarch's servants clearing the detritus of our nuptials.
At last I gave up and rose.
I pulled on my breeches and retrieved Mavros' letter, padding barefoot and bare-chested down to the great hall, where the torches yet smoldered. A good many Albans were strewn about, snoring hard.
I cracked open the seal of House Shahrizai and read.
Mavros had penned a brief letter, lighthearted and typical, filled with snippets of idle gossip. It was only a cover, an excuse to send a letter from Sidonie, written in Caerdicci for discretion's sake. I'd known, I suppose; or at least suspected. I just hadn't allowed myself to think on it.
I skimmed her opening words and felt nothing.
No; not true.
I felt, for the first time in weeks, my bindings itch and constrict. Somewhere, I was aware of a vague, distant pain, but it was as if it belonged to someone else. I scratched my wrists and my ankles, shifting the letter that the torchlight might fall more fully on it. I read Sidonie's opening words again.
The croonie-stone around my neck felt hot and heavy, entangled with the golden tore. I ran one finger beneath the leather thong to free it, sweating. It came free so easily; so easily. Almost without thinking, I ducked my chin and yanked. The leather thong stretched. I hauled it over my head, scraping my cheeks and ears.
I didn't feel any different, only mildly shocked at my own impulsive actions and aware that my heart was beating faster. I held the polished croonie-stone in my hand, staring at it. Already, it felt cooler and lighter. I strained my ears, listening for the sound of pipes, for Morwen's laughter. There was nothing. The Maghuin Dhonn had left the city, had gone far away. At the moment, I was safe.
Surely, I thought, for a few minutes, there was no harm in this.
I read the beginning of Sidonie's letter for a third time.
Dear Imriel,
You may laugh if you like, but I have wasted several costly sheets of paper trying to find the words to write to you in a manner befitting the correspondence of Remuel L'Oragen and Claire LeDoux. Like as not, I would still be trying if Amarante had not finally observed with some asperity that I have never been given to poetic sentimentality, and there is no reason to suppose that would change just because I miss you. I do believe I was beginning to irk her, which is no small feat.
So if you are expecting a paean celebrating everything from the drowning-pools of your eyes to the sinewed arches of your feet, lingering over the veined glory of love's throbbing scepter, you will be disappointed.
But I do miss you, and it is an ache that never goes away. Life continues, day by day. I pretend to be someone I am not, wearing my self like a mask, stretched over the aching void that is your absence in my life. I miss you. Waking, sleeping, eating, riding, talking, breathing; I miss you. It is a simple, constant fact of my existence. The fact that I hate and resent it makes not the slightest difference at all. I miss you.
It struck me like a punch to the