Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [15]
“Terre d’Ange stands with Aragonia,” Sidonie assured him. “We have not forgotten that when Skaldia invaded, Aragonia came to our aid.”
Raul gave her a brief bow. “Aragonia knows no better ally than Terre d’Ange.”
I shuddered. “Let’s not discuss Carthage further today.”
He gave me an apologetic look. “Of course.”
It was unreasonable to hold an entire nation to blame for the actions of two men; nor did I. Still, I could not forget that the men who had abducted me and sold me into slavery were Carthaginian. It is not the sort of thing one ever forgets.
We spoke for a while longer, speculating and planning. Although I’d rather have been elsewhere, alone with Sidonie, there was a comfort in knowing we had friends and allies. And, too, what was said here today would be carried forth as rumor and gossip. Terre d’Ange would know that I was not sitting idle, that foreign dignitaries and the Master of the Straits himself were assisting me.
I hoped Hyacinthe’s search would be lengthy.
I hoped against hope that he might find her.
In my heart, I didn’t believe he would. But it would buy us time to enjoy this brief respite, Sidonie and I, before the suspicion grew that I was merely biding my time, going through the motions of looking into the mystery with no intention of actually searching for Melisande, let alone bringing her to justice.
When it came to that point . . . ah, Elua.
I knew what had to be done. It was the one secret I’d kept from Sidonie. Not a-purpose, not really. It was the sort of secret that got people killed. Before I wouldn’t have dared risk it. We were too young and uncertain. Now it was different. She’d stood up to her mother and defied half the realm for my sake. There could be nothing less than complete honesty between us, dangerous or no. I owed her nothing less.
I would have to tell her about the Unseen Guild.
Four
I told her that night.
I could have waited. Elua knows, I wanted to. We’d won a victory of sorts that day, albeit a bitter one. By the time we retired to her chambers, Sidonie was tired and drained. I wanted nothing more than to hold her in my arms and safeguard her sleep.
Instead, I laid a burden on her.
“Sidonie,” I said softly when we were alone together. “There’s somewhat I never told you about my time in Tiberium.”
She paused in the act of brushing her hair. “Oh?”
I sat cross-legged on her bed, turning the knotted gold ring on my finger. The ring had been her gift, a symbol of the ties that bound us, and of other ties, too. On the night of her seventeenth birthday, I’d lashed her wrists to the bedposts with a golden cord and tormented her with pleasure until she begged me to take her. I suspected there would be no such love-play tonight. “You know the tale of Anafiel Delaunay?”
“Yes, of course.” She frowned. “Why?”
Anafiel Delaunay, born Anafiel de Montrève, had been her grandfather’s lover and a poet of some renown. Long before any of us were born, they had studied together in Tiberium. There had been a falling out between them when Prince Rolande’s betrothed was killed and Delaunay wrote a satire implicating Rolande’s new bride in the death, none of which particularly mattered anymore. What mattered was that Delaunay had sworn an oath to protect Rolande’s daughter, the infant Ysandre. And he had kept it, long after Rolande’s death in battle.
The Whoremaster of Spies, his detractors called him. Anafiel Delaunay had adopted two children into his household, training them in the arts of covertcy, and later, courtesanship. He was long dead, and so was one of them; two more casualties of my mother’s plotting.
The other was Phèdre, who had kept all his promises and more.
I swallowed. “Who taught Anafiel Delaunay the arts of covertcy?”
Sidonie stared at me. “I never thought to wonder.