Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [39]
Everyone was waiting, waiting.
I felt myself wound tight and restless. For the first time, things went awry between Sidonie and me in the bedchamber, our desires staggering out of rhythm. She wanted reassurance, and I sought to lose myself in violent pleasure.
I ignored her protestations for too long, too far.
“Always!” Her voice cracked like a whip, one hand wrenching away the blindfold of black silk she wore. She glared at me. “Imriel—”
I dropped the tawse paddle, dropped to my knees. “I’m sorry!”
“Imriel . . .” Sidonie sighed, cupping my face. “I know. The world’s all out of kilter, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “Sidonie . . .”
“So we’ll set it right.” There was a world of tenderness in her voice. “I asked you for this, do you remember? Tonight, you do what I say. Do you trust me?”
“Always,” I said hoarsely.
She handed me the blindfold. “Put this on.”
I obeyed, tying it behind my head.
“Present yourself,” she said, and I clasped my hands behind the nape of my neck as I’d taught her to do. I heard her pick up the tawse and circle me. My skin prickled. I was still wound tight and I didn’t want this, not now, but I was willing to bear it in atonement. The edge of the tawse scraped along my skin. My muscles tightened further. “I don’t mind giving my signale when we’re caught up in play that’s gone too far,” Sidonie said. “Or when I find my imagination exceeds my appetite.” She tapped me lightly between the shoulder blades with the paddle’s edge, and I flinched. “But you just weren’t listening to me tonight, were you?”
“No,” I whispered.
“You do make a lovely picture like this.” There was amusement in Sidonie’s voice. “But I’m not going to punish you.” The tawse fell to the carpet with a soft thud. She tugged off the blindfold, tangled her fingers in my hair. I blinked up at her, feeling the heat of her body, breathing in the scent of honeyed musk. “I’d never ask aught from you that you didn’t wish to give freely and joyously, Imriel.”
“If you want—”
“Oh, hush.” She gave my hair a tug, then smiled and touched my lips. “There will be other times. But as long as you’re on your knees, you may do penance. Lengthy, lengthy penance.”
That I did, freely and joyously. And she was right. I lost myself in her pleasure and hers alone, worshipping her with lips and tongue until she cried out, fingers clenched in my hair, and I had to grasp her hips to steady her.
And when it was done, when I couldn’t wring another spasm of pleasure from her, I felt calm and at peace. Mayhap we couldn’t set everything that was wrong in the world to right, but as long as all was well between us, it was enough.
Sidonie’s grip eased, and she gave a long, shuddering sigh. “Good boy.”
Still on my knees, I grinned at her. “You’re an easy mistress.”
It was the following day that everything began to converge. Drustan and his escort of Cruithne arrived at last. Phèdre and Joscelin returned from Montrève. The Queen and Cruarch spent a day closeted in consultation, while I did much the same with my foster-parents.
“I don’t like it.” Joscelin shook his head. “’Tis too easy.”
“I know,” I said. “But I can’t fathom where the risk lies.”
“Nor can I.” Phèdre rested her chin on her hand. “He asked naught but that Ysandre accept Carthage’s tribute? There was no implication that it implied a favor, a bribe?”
I showed her the letter and my transcription. “None.”
She studied it absently. “Well, mayhap Melisande’s made herself a thorn in Ephesium’s side somehow, and Agallon saw an opportunity to get rid of her and curry favor with Carthage at the same time.”
“Yes, but why does Carthage have a sudden burning desire to pay tribute to Terre d’Ange?” Joscelin asked. “If this General Astegal does mean to move against Aragonia, does he really think Ysandre can be bribed into looking the other way?”
“He might reckon it worth a try,” Phèdre said. “History is full of precedents.”
“Well, it’s a sizable tribute,” I said. “At least according to Quintilius