Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [173]
Deimos paled.
An excited murmur ran around the ship.
I bowed. “Imriel de la Courcel, my lord. Well met.”
“Her ladyship’s son,” Deimos whispered.
“For better or for worse, yes,” I said dryly.
He glanced at Sidonie. “And you . . . ?”
“Love him?” she suggested. “Yes, very much so. As much as I love my country and wish to save it from the same foul magics that bound me.” Her hand reached for mine, our fingers entwining. “My lord captain, I implore you. Make haste for Marsilikos. Lives beyond our own hang in the balance.”
Captain Deimos licked his lips. “I’ll do my best.”
Once Deimos was convinced, all seemed well. We sailed northward, hugging the Aragonian coast. Three days passed without incident.
Sidonie and I shared the master cabin. The first thing I did was scour myself with soap and fresh water, washing the guise of grease and ashes from my skin. The second was to inspect the wound I’d inflicted on her.
“Is it bad?” She craned her neck, trying to see.
“It’s not good.” The patch of raw flesh between her shoulder blades was red and angry, weeping clear liquid. I bathed it with unwatered wine, making her hiss between clenched teeth. I swabbed it with the salve Kratos had bought, bound it with clean bandages. “You need a proper chirurgeon.”
“Marsilikos,” Sidonie said. “I’ll live.”
I nodded. “You will.”
I made love to her at her insistence. Careful, always careful. Elua knows, it wasn’t that I didn’t want her, but I feared hurting her worse. I’d injured her badly a-purpose, and I never wanted to do it again. But she knew us better than I did. Knew what she needed, knew what I needed.
Her.
Us.
Kratos was enchanted by her. It made me laugh. He’d grown tolerably fond of Leander and some of that had passed on to me, mixed with a measure of newfound respect; but Sidonie enthralled him.
“Imagine!” Kratos marveled. “Here I was thinking my best years were behind me, prepared to die a broken-down useless slave, and instead I helped rescue a princess who’s as brave as she is beautiful.”
Sidonie smiled at him with genuine warmth. “And you’re as gallant as you are clever, messire. Imriel told me you were the one conceived the plan to get Astegal’s ring. For that alone, I’m forever in your debt.”
He turned red. “It was an honor, my lady.”
“You never spoke that nicely to Leander Maignard,” I observed to Sidonie. “In fact, you teased him rather mercilessly.”
She gave me a sidelong glance. “Well, not at the end. But you must admit, that pomade made a rather absurd first impression.”
I laughed. “Oh, I know. I’ve not forgotten the stench of it.”
Mostly, during those first days, Sidonie and I spent long hours talking—or at least I did. She wanted to know everything, wanted all the gaps in her knowledge filled. And she wanted to know about Cythera and my mother and Ptolemy Solon. I talked myself dry, exploring feelings I hadn’t had time to consider. I told her what it had been like believing myself Leander, and about the way he’d changed. About the things that had affected him: her, the Aragonian boy in the slave-market. Sidonie listened gravely, although she didn’t try to hide her amusement when I told her about Sunjata.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked, eyes dancing.
“Leander did,” I said wryly. “Which is a passing odd memory to hold.”
At that, Sidonie looked away. “Yes, I know.”
“Love.” I took her hand lightly. “You can speak of it. Believe me, there’s nothing you could say that I couldn’t bear to hear.”
“I know.” Her fingers stirred in mine. “One day I will. Not yet.”
“Let it take as long as it takes.” I stroked her fingers. “I didn’t speak of what the Mahrkagir did to me for months, and then only to Phèdre. After that, it was years before I spoke of it again. Just don’t close me out.”
Sidonie squeezed