Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [221]
It was nearing sunset when they came. I was sitting with Miquel, the young Euskerri who spoke Aragonian, giving him sips of water from a skin and waiting for a litter. He had a broken spear-head lodged in his ribcage.
I rose when I saw them.
“Go,” Miquel said in a hoarse voice. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I couldn’t, though. All I could do was stand and watch as they rode toward us. No one had even begun to tend to the dead; the task was too enormous. I watched the blood drain from Sidonie’s face as she took in the extent of the horror. Her gaze met mine. Not even the relief of finding me alive could alleviate it.
“Gods have mercy,” she whispered. “This is victory?”
I couldn’t find my voice to answer and I didn’t try to stop her when she dismounted, when she reached up to touch my cheek. I needed her too badly. I needed the one bright and shining thing in my life to believe any of this was worthwhile. I wrapped my arms around her and held her close, pressing my face against her hair.
“Cousin,” a tired voice said. “You bring us cause to rejoice today.”
I looked up to see Serafin L’Envers y Aragon seated on a fine chestnut horse. Aragonian soldiers were bringing the last of the wounded to the city. It was to his credit that he’d not left the battlefield until it was done. I could tell he’d fought hard; his gilded armor was splashed with blood.
Still.
“You’re an ambitious man, my lord,” I said, releasing Sidonie. “So is Astegal of Carthage. Behold the cost of his ambition. Look on it well. And if you find that greater Aragonia is not so willing as you had believed to anoint you the king’s successor, or if you find yourself thinking to break faith with the Euskerri, I bid you remember this sight.”
Serafin nodded curtly. “I take your meaning.”
“I pray we all do,” Sidonie murmured.
Sixty-Five
Once more we were ensconced in the palace of Amílcar.
In the great hall, Lady Nicola wept at the sight of us. “Blessed Elua! Why in the name of all that’s holy did the Euskerri insist on sending you back here?”
I shifted, leaning on Sidonie’s shoulder. My leg had begun to stiffen and it hurt badly. “Because they are a proud and stubborn folk who don’t trust Aragonia. Also a very brave folk. My lady, when your chirurgeon has seen to those in urgent need, I’d be grateful for her attention.”
“Of course,” Nicola said. “I’ll send her immediately.”
“Lady Nicola.” Sidonie hesitated. “What’s to become of Astegal?”
Nicola’s face turned grim. “He’ll be executed at dawn in the Plaza del Rey on the day after tomorrow. Surely you don’t plead for clemency?”
“No,” Sidonie said shortly.
“She wanted to kill him with her own hand,” I said.
Nicola looked startled, but only for a moment. “I can understand. But he’s responsible for the deaths of thousands of Aragonians. I suspect the council will wish for justice to be administered in the Aragonian fashion.”
I felt Sidonie’s shoulders tighten beneath my arm. “Then I’ll settle for watching him die,” she said.
“I can understand that, too,” Nicola murmured.
We were given the same room in which we’d been housed before; indeed, the clothes-press still held clean attire that Lady Nicola had provided for us, which was a mercy. Servants came to fill the bath, which was also a mercy.
“Elua!” Sidonie breathed when she unwound the Amazigh scarf and peeled away my blood-soaked breeches. I glanced down. It looked worse than I’d thought, muscle welling in the deep gash. She sank to her knees and covered her face. “No more, please. I can’t bear this.”
“Love.” I grasped her shoulders and raised her. “It’s over. After today I never want to draw a sword again, I promise you. Whatever’s happening in Terre d’Ange, we’ll see it settled peaceably.”
Sidonie nodded. “We will.”
It was awkward bathing, but I managed; and shortly afterward, the Eisandine chirurgeon Rachel came to tend me.