Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [185]
Alais knew her sister well.
Gods, poor Alais.
Thinking on it, I nearly wished I believed myself Leander Maignard still, blithely unconcerned about the fate of Terre d’Ange. It would have been a good deal easier than knowing myself Imriel and thinking with wretched horror of the stalemate Nicola had described, with the lives of those I loved hanging in the balance. Phèdre and Joscelin, loyal to the Queen and ensorceled. Alais, the sister of my heart, struggling to hold the rest of the realm together.
“Here.” I stooped and presented Sidonie with the book.
“Thank you.” She reached up to tug on my hair, tugging my face down to hers, and kissed me with fierce ardor. “Go. Tell Kratos I expect him to dance with me at our wedding.”
I smiled. “I will.”
I made my way to the infirmary in the park, leaving a trail of stares and whispers behind me. Clearly, news of our performance and revelations had spread throughout Amílcar. At least the mood wasn’t openly hostile, not like New Carthage. Still, I kept my hand hovering over my sword-hilt.
“Prince Imriel!” Captain Deimos hailed me outside one of the tents. “What passes?”
“Precious little,” I replied. “Are your men well?”
“Those that lived, aye,” he replied soberly.
I winced. “I’m so sorry, my lord captain.”
“So am I.” Deimos jerked his head at the tent. “Among the survivors, I daresay your manservant bore the brunt of it. He’s within.”
Inside, I found Kratos lying on his belly on a cot, his back covered with damp bandages. He was a more complacent patient than Sidonie. He lifted his homely face with pleasure, regarding me. “My lord! How fares her highness?”
“Well enough.” I sat beside him, cross-legged in the dirt. “And you?”
Kratos shrugged his meaty shoulders. “It hurts to breathe. But I reckon I’ll live.”
I thought about Gilot, who had been one of Montrève’s men-at-arms, the companion of my youth. He’d died from injuries he sustained while trying to protect me: cracked ribs, a bone splinter. There in a gatehouse in Lucca, in the midst of a quarrel none of us had held stake in. If Gilot had stayed out of it, he might have lived. He’d spent his life on the mechanism that raised or lowered a drawbridge. His efforts caused that splinter of bone to shift and pierce his lung.
Gilot had died a hero.
Elua, I was sick of heroes.
Once, I’d wanted to be one. I’d harbored glorious dreams of styling myself a hero in the manner I believed Joscelin to be. I’d lost those illusions a long time ago, but I hadn’t understood until now how much heroism meant living in terror that you wouldn’t be able to protect those you loved.
Ptolemy Solon was right.
Happiness was the highest form of wisdom.
“You will.” I gripped Kratos’ shoulder firmly, feeling the solid meat and muscle of him. “You have to live, my friend. Sidonie is expecting you to dance with her at our wedding. And it’s bad form to disappoint a lady.”
Kratos blinked at me. “Truly?”
“Truly.” I released his shoulder, rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. “May I give her your promise that you will?”
Kratos nodded. “I’ll do my best, my lord.”
I smiled at him through blurred eyes. “Thank you, Kratos. That’s all any of us can do.”
Fifty-Four
The following morning I held my breath as the chirurgeon Rachel eased the poultice from Sidonie’s wound. She’d changed it the night before and refused to comment on the healing progress, which I suspected was as much as anything a ploy to keep Sidonie quiescent. Today she relented.
“Better,” Rachel said with grudging satisfaction. “Much better.”
Even I could see it was so. The swelling had subsided and the angry red flesh had turned pink.
“Am I free, then?” Sidonie asked impatiently.
“No.” The Eisandine healer gave her a stern look. “Now it needs air and sunlight, highness. Give it another day. You need not remain confined to your bed, but do not