Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [55]
My voice came back. I screamed and ranted until my throat was raw. The fever ebbed and flowed. My strength came and went in waves. When it came, I tried to escape. I struggled with my captors. A tall man with blond hair held me down.
They tied me to my bed, tied my wrists and ankles. I strained at my bonds until my muscles threatened to burst and my ligaments to crack. I bent my back like a bow. A dark-haired woman wept. I cursed her.
“I have to go to Cythera!” I shouted at her. “Let me go! I have to go to Cythera!”
She laid a cool compress on my brow, her hot tears falling on my face. They burned.
“Let me go, you weeping bitch!” I raged.
They didn’t. They kept me there, day after day. When I was weak, they untied me. So I learned. I feigned weakness. One day, I broke free. I burst past them, laughing like a madman. They didn’t expect me to be that quick.
They caught me, though, caught me in the hallway. Men with sheathed swords barred my way. I don’t know why they didn’t draw on me. Too slow, too stupid. The tall man grabbed me from behind, pinning my arms. I thrashed in his grip, cursing him, but he was strong.
“I’ll take him,” he said to them.
“You don’t have to do this, Joscelin,” one of them said. “Let us do it.”
“He’s my son,” he said in a low voice. “At least in my heart.”
I laughed and spat on the floor. “You wish!” I shouted. “My father was the north wind and my mother was a jackal!”
The tall man didn’t answer, only tightened his grip. I struggled and kicked and scratched until others came to help him. They wrestled me into bed, tied my limbs. I went limp and stared up into his summer-blue eyes, hating him.
“Joscelin,” I crooned. “That’s your name, isn’t it? I’ll remember it.” I rolled my head, rolling my gaze around the chamber. “She’s your woman, isn’t she? The weeping bitch.” I saw fear in him and laughed. “You’re scared of me, aren’t you? Too scared to kill me. You ought to, you know.”
“Imriel.” He gazed at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Try to sleep.”
“I have to go to Cythera!” I shouted at him.
Somewhere, the woman wept.
“Later, love,” the tall man said gently. “When you’re well.”
I tugged steadily at my bonds, feeling the ropes bite into my skin. A serpent-tangle, fibrous teeth. Gnawing my flesh until it was blood-slick. “I’ll cut out your heart,” I said to him. “Joscelin. I’ll get free, and I’ll do it. I’ll take your woman.” I bared my teeth at him, inspiration coming from deep inside me. “I’ll take her with my rusted iron rod, I will, and I’ll make her beg for it like the whore she is.”
He turned away with a choked sound, fists clenched.
Oh, that had hit hard, it had! I laughed.
“Joscelin.” She was there, weepy-eyed, gentling him. “It’s not his fault. He’s borne too much for anyone’s lifetime. Something broke inside him.”
They held one another, consoled one another.
I jeered at them.
Days came and went. Others came and went. A tall woman with fair hair, a studied look of worry in her eyes. A man with a face like a blue mask and eyes like polished stones. Some bitch pretending to be a chirurgeon, a liar who called me cousin. People I didn’t know.
I hated them.
I hated them all.
“I will kill you!” I raged, my fever spiking. I yanked at the ropes that bound me. Blood and sweat mingled. “All of you! I need to go to Cythera!”
“Hush, love.” The dark-haired woman sat beside my bed. She had dark eyes, too. A scarlet mote swam on the outskirts of her left iris, vivid as a rose petal. For some reason, it maddened me further. She dipped a cloth in cool water, laid it on my fevered brow. “It’s all right, Imri.”
Since I couldn’t move my limbs, I snapped my teeth at her.
Liars and hypocrites. They pretended to know me, pretended to be kind. They talked in worried tones, prayed and moaned and wept over me, but they kept me tied like an animal. They tried to feed me broth, and I spat it back in their faces. My body grew weak and wasted, ravaged by fever.
I memorized