Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [9]
It did hurt, though. I never thought it would, but it did.
Ah, Elua! Jealousy is a hard master. I'd known love and I'd known desire, but never the two at once; not this kind, the kind that shut out the world. And there was a darker strain, too. Like it or no, I was my mother's son; Kushiel's scion, albeit a reluctant one. It was there, it would always be there. Phèdre was Kushiel's Chosen, born to yield; Naamah's Servant and a courtesan without equal. It was there between us, it would always be there. My mother had written of it.
When, I wonder, will you read this? Not soon, I think. You are too angry now. I think you will be older. I think you will be a man grown.
I should speak of Phèdre nó Delaunay.
You will wonder, did I love her? No …and yes. I will tell you this, my son: I knew her. Better than anyone; better than anyone else.
I let out my breath in a sigh, wondering what Phèdre had made of those words. When all was said and done, I do not think she disagreed. Still, whatever lay between them, it was Joscelin she loved. And he knew her, too. I watched her withdraw from him, smiling. In the lamplight spilling from the open doors, I could make out a faint flush on her cheeks.
"Are you coming, love?" she called to me. "It's perishing cold out here.”
"I'm coming," I said.
How is it that two people so unlikely, so unsuited, find one another? I thought about it that night, watching them at the dinner table. And I thought about the fact that I was unlikely to do the same. I had met my bride-to-be, Dorelei mab Breidaia, the Cruarch's niece. She was a sweet young woman with a lilting laugh, and I couldn't possibly imagine sharing the kind of all-consuming passion that I craved with her.
I heaved another sigh.
"Why so somber?" Hugues asked me. "Did Messire Cassiline give you a drubbing?”
"No," I said, then amended it at Joscelin's amused glance. "Well, yes." I flexed my bruised hand. "It's not that, though. I think…I think I would like to go to Kushiel's temple on the morrow.”
"What?" Joscelin stared at me in disbelief. "Are you mad?”
I hadn't known what I was going to say until the words emerged from my mouth. I mulled over them. "No," I said slowly. "I think I need to make expiation.”
"For what?" He continued to stare.
I thought about my recent excursion into extortion and blackmail. I thought about the soldiers I had killed in Lucca, about Canis with the javelin protruding from his chest and Gilot after the riot, battered and broken. I thought about cuckolded Deccus Fulvius and mad, dead Gallus Tadius standing above the maelstrom, meeting my distant gaze as he dropped his death-mask. I thought about the night Mavros took me to Valerian House and the morning after, when I grabbed Phèdre's wrist and felt the pulse of desire leap.
"Things," I said.
Joscelin shook his head. Phèdre rested her chin on one hand and fixed me with a deep look that gave away nothing. I returned it steadily. "You're sure?" she asked. "It's like to stir memories. Bad ones.”
"You go," I said. "What do you find in it?”
She smiled slightly. "Oh, things.”
I nodded. "I'm sure.”
I wasn't, not really; at least not on the morrow. I couldn't even say of a surety what had prompted the urge. After Daršanga, I would have said I would never voluntarily submit myself to any man's lash, nor any woman's. And yet, the idea had fixed itself in my thoughts.
By morning, Joscelin was resigned. "You know, betimes I think you are a little mad, Imriel nó Montrève," he said to me in the courtyard outside the stable, holding the Bastard's reins.
"You never said that to Phèdre," I reminded him.
"Ah, well." He grinned despite himself. "In her case, there's no question." His expression turned sober. "Imri, truly, I know the dead weigh on you. I know it better than anyone. And I may be Cassiel's servant, but I don't deny Kushiel's