Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [56]
I would make them suffer for treating me like this. I plotted ways to kill them, ways to torture them before they died. I told them in exacting, foul detail, relishing the pain and fear it evoked in them. Day after day, I tormented them, while my body grew wasted and the ropes etched bloody channels into my wrists and ankles.
And then I woke up sane.
It was the moonlight that did it, a silvery wash of it spilling over my bed, so bright it woke me in the middle of the night. My bedsheets were soaked with sweat, but my body felt cool. I turned my head and gazed through the balcony doors. There was the full moon, round and bright as a silver coin.
It’s madness, but it will pass. The fever will break in a month.
It had.
And I remembered everything.
My stomach seized. I turned my head and vomited, but nothing came out save a trickle of bile.
“Imriel?” In a chair in the corner, a shadowy figure stirred and rose. Phèdre wiped my mouth tenderly with a clean cloth, eased the soiled pillow from beneath my head. “It’s all right, love.”
“Oh, gods!” I whispered, my eyes burning. “Oh, Blessed Elua and his Companions have mercy on me, ah, gods! Phèdre, I’m so sorry!”
She went very still, a moonlit statue. “For what, love?”
“Everything I’ve said and done in the past month,” I said wearily, exhausted past the point of shame. “It’s all right. It’s passed. The fever’s gone.”
Phèdre kindled a lamp. In the warm glow, I could see her beautiful face was tired and worn, shadows like bruises beneath her eyes. She swallowed visibly, not quite daring to hope yet. “Do you know who you are?”
“Yes,” I said. “Your foster-son, Imriel nó Montrève.”
She covered her face with both hands, drew a shuddering breath. “And where you are?”
“In the bedchamber of my quarters at the Palace.” I flexed my stiff hands. “Tied to my bed because I’ve been a stark raving lunatic since the last full moon.”
“Oh, Imri!” The anguished tone of hope in Phèdre’s voice nearly broke my heart. She laid a hand on my brow. “Is it true?”
Tears trickled from the corners of my eyes. “I promise.”
“Joscelin!” Her voice rang out, filled with urgency. “Joscelin!”
He came at a run, startled out of sleep. For the past month, they’d been taking turns keeping watch over me. “What is it?”
“The fever’s broken.” Tears gleamed on Phèdre cheeks. “He knows himself.”
Joscelin turned his bloodshot gaze on me. “Truly?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “Joscelin, you look like hell. You look worse than I did when you found me in Vralia.”
“Oh, Elua!” Joscelin dropped to his knees beside the bed. There were tears in his eyes, too. “I thought we’d lost you. Wherever it was you went, I didn’t think you were coming back.”
“I’m back,” I said hoarsely. “I just wish I didn’t remember.”
He shook his head. “Don’t . . . just don’t. It was the fever talking.”
Phèdre sent a guard to fetch the Court chirurgeon while Joscelin worked at the ropes binding me to the bed. My struggles had rendered the knots impossible to untie, and he had to saw at them with a dagger, working with tender care not to further injure my abraded flesh. Between the two of them, they helped me sit upright, propped against pillows, and drink a cup of water. I was so weak, Phèdre had to hold the cup for me. I could feel the water blazing a cool trail into my shrunken belly.
“Thank you.” I leaned back against the pillows and closed my eyes, exhausted by the effort. “Where’s Sidonie?”
There was a brief silence.
“Sidonie?” Joscelin asked in a puzzled tone.
I opened my eyes.
“Like as not in Carthage by now.” Phèdre refilled the cup from a ewer. “Why, love?”
“Carthage?” I stared at her. “No.”
“To wed Prince Astegal,” she reminded me, holding the cup to my lips.
“No.” I pushed it away feebly. “No, no, no! Have you all lost your wits?”
Their faces fell. “It’s all right,” Joscelin said to Phèdre. “He knows himself, and us. The rest will come.”
“I just thought . . .” she murmured.
“I know,” he said.
“No!” I shouted at them. “Gods above, I’m fine!” I saw the fear in their eyes and caught myself, falling silent. I made