Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [265]
“If it comes to it. Don’t make mock of their sacrifice,” Joscelin said in a somber tone. “One day, they’ll be remembered as heroes who fought to preserve all that we hold dear in Terre d’Ange. Their deaths will not be in vain if their valor lives on in the hearts of men.”
“I’m not mocking,” I said wearily. “Just heart-sick.”
Joscelin nodded. “So are we all.”
I wanted to say no, no you’re not. You’re all sick, poisoned by Bodeshmun’s vile spell, poisoned by this cursed demon-stone we’re trying so hard to find. But I knew it would do no good, so I held my tongue and kept searching, riding the moonlit streets, hoping to spot an emerald spark amid the bobbing torches and spilling lamplight.
I didn’t.
We made our way back to the townhouse at dawn. I watched the sun’s rays breaking in the east.
Three days.
Only three.
Seventy-Nine
For two more nights, I continued to roam the City, accompanied by Joscelin or Hugues and Ti-Philippe. I didn’t really have much hope left, but sleep evaded me and I didn’t know what else to do with myself.
Phèdre didn’t like it, fearing I was in the grip of a new obsession. For the first few days after Ysandre had declared an end to the search, folk in the City had continued to look for Bodeshmun’s gem in a furtive manner under the wary eye of the Royal Army. But that had faded as their thoughts turned increasingly to war.
The mania to find the gem vanished as though it had never existed. War was the new mania.
War.
War.
War.
It was all I heard. In the townhouse, in the streets, spewing from the inns. An endless drumbeat of war. The City’s mood ranged wildly from fierce, deluded optimism to maudlin sentiment. Theories abounded and were analyzed tirelessly. Alais’ and L’Envers’ army would desert at the first show of strength. The battle would end in devastation and ruin, but poets would sing forever of the glorious sacrifice of the Royal Army of Terre d’Ange. Folk argued heatedly on every side of the argument; but on one point, all agreed. They were eager for it to begin.
And I continued my futile, lonely search, Joscelin having succeeded in convincing Phèdre that this obsession was at least harmless.
By the dawn of the third day, the last day, I felt hollow inside. I’d done my best. It hadn’t been enough. There was one more night. Tonight the moon would be full. If there was any merit to my theory, tonight would be the last, best chance. I took to my bed, willing my weary body to succumb to sleep. A few hours would be enough to sustain me. I had to keep trying.
It felt like my head had scarce touched the pillow before Phèdre shook me awake.
“Imriel.” Her face was grave. “There’s a delegation from Alais. Ysandre and Drustan are receiving them at the Palace in an hour’s time. I thought you’d want to be there.”
I blinked. “Yes, of course.”
I was still stifling yawns when we entered the Hall of Audience an hour later. It was an open audience and the Hall was crowded, but people made way for the Comtesse de Montrève and the Queen’s Champion and, I suppose, poor mad Prince Imriel.
It was a formal affair. Drustan and Ysandre were seated in twin thrones on a dais, emblematic of their shared rule. Sidonie stood between them, the acknowledged heir to Terre d’Ange, her features composed. That damnable gem-painting was displayed on an easel behind her, still draped in mourning crepe. Astegal and a blonde woman, their hands entwined before the oak tree.
I met Sidonie’s gaze. She nodded at me with polite courtesy. There was nothing else there, nothing that I could see.
And no bindings of red thread at her wrists.
I’d lost her.
And, ah, Elua! As if that weren’t terrible enough, I saw that Alais and L’Envers had chosen to send a delegate that might present no threat, that might move a hardened heart. I recognized her. She was a member of their shadow Parliament, the elderly L’Agnacite woman who had wept and apologized for thinking terrible things of me. She held herself with dignity and grace, surrounded by an escort of some twenty