Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [118]
The goddess Tanit was akin to Asherat-of-the-Sea, an ancient goddess who had taken many forms and many names. Her ladyship had spent many, many years claiming sanctuary in the Temple of Asherat in La Serenissima. I thought about that when we arrived at our destination, awed once more by her capacity for patience.
The priests scurried and bowed, eyeing the Amazigh warily, offering the princess solicitous advice. One priest was sent running, his sandals slapping against the marble floor. He returned carrying a white rooster by its legs. It was alive, its wings flapping awkwardly. I saw the princess’ mask of politeness slip as she recoiled.
“Name of Elua, man!” I said to the priest. “They don’t offer blood sacrifice in Terre d’Ange.” I fished in my purse for a gold coin. “Surely the goddess finds the scent of incense pleasing?”
He bowed. “Yes, yes, of course.”
“Thank you, Leander.” The princess was slightly pale. “I’d forgotten they made live offerings in Carthage. That was careless of me.”
“I doubt that happens often,” I said. “You hardly seem the careless type.”
“No.” My words seemed to strike some chord within her, her puzzled look returning. “Not often.”
We made our offerings of incense, gazing at the face of the massive effigy. The goddess Tanit’s features were calm and unreadable, her eyes fixed on the unknowable distance. She didn’t look like a goddess who craved blood and suffering. Divine Tanit, I prayed silently, if you have compassion and mercy in you, do not suffer your children to do ill in your name. Help me to undo what has been done.
What prayer the princess offered, I couldn’t say. I only knew her face looked very solemn.
And she had called me by name.
I longed to hear her say it again.
Afterward, she seemed oddly melancholy. I directed the bearers to take us to the flower market, where I purchased another absurdly large bunch of roses and laid them at her feet on the floor of the palanquin.
It made her laugh. “Now you’re just being foolish.”
I bowed elaborately. “If you will not accept it as a tribute to your beauty, accept it as a tribute to your victory today.”
“You’re magnanimous in defeat. Nonetheless, I cannot accept this gift.” Princess Sidonie picked up one of the roses. There were children loitering at a distance, wide-eyed and curious. She tossed the rose to a pretty little girl who caught it with a shriek of delight. The others began to beg. Smiling, the princess tossed the rest of the roses, one by one until they were gone.
It was a nice piece of subtle diplomacy. It was also so damned charming, I caught a couple of the Amazigh guards with eyes crinkled in the suggestion of hidden smiles. “Well played, my lady,” I said to her.
She gave me a sidelong glance. “Tell me, Leander Maignard, what game is it you think we’re playing?”
“One that I hope will while away the hours and alleviate your tedium.” I placed my hand on my chest. “Have no fear, I know how it ends. With you in the arms of your husband and me broken-hearted.”
I’d spoken in a light, jesting tone—or at least I’d meant to. But she heard somewhat more in it. Whether I succeeded or failed, there was a bitter truth to my words, somewhat I’d not yet begun to consider. She studied me for a moment, then looked away. “It grows late. I should return home.”
“As you wish,” I said.
We sat in silence in the palanquin. Gods, I wanted to touch her so badly. Cut through the banter, cut through the spell that bound her. And I couldn’t. Not here, not in public, not with guards watching. I needed to get her alone somehow, and I couldn’t think how to do it.
I was pondering the problem when the palanquin jolted to an abrupt halt. The two Amazigh preceding us were giving orders in Punic to the bearers, pointing and gesturing. I sensed the princess stiffen beside me.
“Is there