Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [144]
"I think it is in your heart to do otherwise," Breidaia said to Phèdre, her voice gentle with compassion. "But I think what you say is wise. Let the folk learn to love the children on their own merits, in their own time. Then, when a pair of D'Angeline heroes out of legend grace Clunderry's threshold—in the spring, mayhap, when the babe is due…" She smiled, her cheeks dimpling like her daughter's. "…your presence will be received as a blessing.”
"Why wouldn't it be now?" Alais asked, bewildered.
"Because people can be foolish," Drustan said. "And fearful of heroes not their own.”
So it was decided. We would depart for Clunderry, and Phèdre and Joscelin would return to Terre d'Ange. Or at least I thought so; I still wasn't entirely certain what they'd concocted with Hyacinthe.
On our last day together, I scavenged an hour's brief privacy and attempted to write a reply to Sidonie. That much, at least, I owed her. It wasn't the hardest letter I'd ever written—that, I'd written to Phèdre and Joscelin in Lucca, when I thought there was a good chance I'd not survive the siege—but it was awful in its own way.
I'd run a fearful risk once; I didn't dare remove any of the ollamh Aodhan's protections. And so I struggled with pen and ink and guilt, scratching at my itchy bindings, trying to find access to my own charm-bound feelings and give voice to them. It was as hard as chewing on rocks, and what I wrote was an absolute muddle.
Dear Sidonie,
There is so much I would say to you, and so much I cannot, for reasons that would take far too long to explain. I have stumbled afoul of strange magics here. Ask Phèdre or Joscelin; they will tell you what I mean.
You will hear this, so I will say you were right; a child changes things. I cannot make any grand promises and I cannot, in fairness, ask you to await me. What is in my heart has not changed; and yet it has grown to encompass things I did not imagine. If you seize some other chance for happiness, I will understand; even if it is Maslin, although the thought makes me ill, or it should. I cannot feel what I feel.
I sound like an idiot. I'm sorry.
You would be better off without me. I love you, though. Right now, I don't know how to make all of this work. But I swear to Blessed Elua, if I can find a way to be with you, I will. It may not be the way we would choose, but things aren't always.
None of this is making any sense. Just…ask P&J to explain. I will come when I can, although it will not be for a year, at the least. If you find it in yourself to save a place in your heart for me, I will be glad. If you do not, I will understand. Either way, I love and miss you. Nothing will change that, ever.
It was so dreadful, I nearly destroyed it. But there was no time to draft another, and the thought of leaving her forsaken with no reply at all filled me with an ache of remorse so vivid I could feel it through the charms that bound me. So I sealed it and penned a swift response to Mavros, which was equally oblique but not nearly as tortured, then sealed them both together in a packet.
I managed to catch Joscelin alone in the guest-chamber he shared with Phèdre, sorting methodically through their things and packing their trunks. I gave him the packet. "Will you see this is delivered to Mavros?”
Joscelin weighed it in his hand. "Mavros.”
My face felt warm. I scratched my left wrist. "I promised that you and Phèdre could explain …" I plucked at the yarn. "This.”
"To Mavros?" Joscelin eyed me. "Imri, come with me.”
I followed him through the castle, up the southeastern tower to the top of the fortress. There were guards posted in the tower chambers, but the parapet was unmanned. Joscelin leaned against a crenellation and folded his arms, the sea breeze tugging at the braided cable of his blond hair.
"All right." I faced him.