Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [245]
“Elua!” Sidonie whispered. “It’s like the realm’s already in mourning.”
“I fear it is,” I said soberly.
The barge was waiting at the wharf. I remembered its captain, Gilbert: a taciturn fellow who’d given me a wide berth when he’d brought me to Marsilikos, the tales of my raving madness fresh in his mind. I must have looked godawful, worn to bone and sinew from a month of deprivation, my wrists scabbed. Now he gazed at our hooded figures in wonderment as we boarded the barge. Once he’d escorted us to a cabin, he asked the question it seemed nearly everyone did. “Is it true?”
Gods, there was so much pain in the question. He didn’t gasp when we shed our hoods, but tears glittered in his eyes.
“It’s true,” Sidonie said to him. “We’re here to try to undo the madness.”
Gilbert Dumel was a man of few words; he went to one knee and bowed his head, then left us.
My injured leg was aching. I sat on the narrow bunk. Sidonie stood in the cabin. Both of us listened to the sounds of the barge making ready to depart. Kratos’ heavy tread, other footsteps. Faucon and six of his men would accompany us to the City of Elua, posing as barge-hands. If there was any news to impart, good or ill, they would serve as couriers. We listened to the soft calls of the real barge-hands, Gilbert’s terse orders.
And then there was the sound of oars dipping. The barge slid slowly into the darkened river.
“How long do you suppose?” Sidonie murmured.
“About a day and a half,” I said. “We’re like to reach the City on the morning after tomorrow.”
A single lantern hung from a hook in the cabin’s ceiling, swaying gently. “Imriel.” Sidonie gazed at me. “Will you forgive me in advance for all that I might have to say or do to convince them of our tale?”
“Need you ask?” I said.
She smiled sadly. “For my sake, yes. I fear Alais and my uncle are right. This is going to be harder than either of us imagine. And I fear . . .” She laughed, but it was a tired, broken sound. “I fear I’ll have to find a new way of thinking about the pain of these damned bindings. Once we’re in the City, I don’t think I can allow myself the risk of thinking about you as I do.”
“Not while playing the grieving widow,” I said.
Sidonie nodded. “I’ll need to pull away from you. Elua knows, I don’t want to. I need you beside me now more than I ever did. But I’m afraid I can’t do this if I don’t.”
“I understand.” I reached out and she came over to take my hand. “And yes, I forgive you in advance for aught you might have to say or do.”
“Thank you.”
“Always.” I squeezed her hand. “Do you need me to leave you alone tonight? I can sleep in the bunks below.”
“No, not yet, please.” Sidonie shivered. “If you don’t mind, tonight I’d like you to hold me and tell me for the hundredth time that we will succeed, because the closer we get, the more frightened I am.”
“Then I will,” I said.
And so I did, over and over, while the barge glided through darkness, bearing us toward the City of Elua and our fears. I spun a tale of gladness and joy and made promises there was no way I could possibly keep. It didn’t matter. If we failed, no one in the world would care that for once I hadn’t kept my promise. And Sidonie knew my promises for lies, but the words comforted her nonetheless.
At length, she slept.
I lay awake and prayed to Blessed Elua and his Companions to grant mercy to their children and turn my lies to truth.
Seventy-Three
The next day, Sidonie withdrew from everyone, spending long hours in the prow of the barge, cloaked and hooded, kneeling in a private vigil.
“Is her highness wroth?” Marc Faucon asked me with concern.
“No.” I shook my head. “Only preparing for what lies ahead. Leave her be.”
I passed the day helping Kratos acquire a few more words of D’Angeline. All along the banks of the Aviline, there were signs