Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [58]
I wanted desperately to get outside the City, but in the first days of my recuperation, I barely had the strength to get out of bed. On Lelahiah Valais’ orders, I was kept in relative solitude. Only family members were permitted to visit me. I wasn’t allowed to hear aught that might disturb me and feed my delusions. Servants and guards were given strict orders not to discuss sensitive matters in my presence.
Still, I heard wisps of conversation here and there, enough to gather that there was widespread dismay beyond the City’s walls. It gave me a thread of hope.
And then, some five days after my fever broke, I overheard a careless guard remark to a chambermaid as she entered my quarters that Ysandre and Barquiel L’Envers were engaged in a shouting match in the throne hall.
L’Envers hadn’t been in the City the night of the full moon.
I struggled into my clothing, trembling with exertion, and made my way into the salon. “I need to talk to him,” I said. “Now.”
“Oh no!” the guard said in alarm. “That’s not possible, your highness.”
“The hell it’s not,” I said. “Get out of my way.”
He blocked me. “Send for Messire Joscelin and Lady Phèdre,” he said urgently to the maid. “They’re in the throne hall with her majesty.”
She nodded and fled.
I found my sword-belt and drew my blade. My arm shook. “Get out of my way.”
The guard put his hands up. “Don’t do this, your highness. You’re ill.”
I gritted my teeth. “I just want to talk to L’Envers. Stand aside, man!”
He did.
I pushed past him, sword in hand. Elua knows, I couldn’t blame them for trying to protect me from myself. The madness had made a monster of me. I would never be able to forget. But it was gone now, or at least banished into wherever it is that such things lurk in the dark, unplumbed depths of the soul.
At least I prayed it was.
Trailed by the anxious guard, I staggered out of my quarters. Down the hallway, down the wide marble stair that led to the ground floor of the Palace. I took a two-handed grip on my sword, keeping it angled before me. People shrieked and ran. They’d heard tell of my ravings. More guardsmen came, forming a wary circle around me. I ignored them and staggered onward.
The doors to the throne hall were closed. I could hear raised voices behind them. With both hands, I pointed my sword at the guards posted there. “Admit me.”
They paled. “We can’t, your highness,” one said.
My knees wobbled. “Just do it!”
Someone grabbed me from behind, pinning my arms as Joscelin had done. Someone else wrestled the sword from my hands. I cursed and struggled, borne down under the weight of several guards.
The doors to the throne hall opened with a crash and Barquiel L’Envers strode out, his face white with fury. He stopped short at the sight of me struggling with the guards, fixing me with a look of disgust.
“Some great undying love affair that turned out to be,” L’Envers said in contempt, then turned on his heel and strode away, followed by a retinue of his own men-at-arms.
“Wait!” His words rang in my ears. A rill of terrified strength ran through me. I thrashed and flailed my way free, got my feet under me, and ran after him.
L’Envers turned and drew his blade. “Keep your distance, lunatic,” he said coldly. “I swear to Elua, I will run you through.”
I managed to halt before I impaled myself. “You remember,” I gasped. “Sidonie and I. You remember it.”
“Unfortunately.” His violet eyes narrowed. “Do you?”
I nodded, panting. “Can we speak, my lord? Please?”
He was silent a moment. “Fetch his blade,” he said at length to one of his men, and to me, “Come with me.”
On any other occasion, the last place in the world I could imagine wanting to be was alone with Barquiel L’Envers in his private quarters, surrounded by men loyal to him. Today, I was desperately grateful to be there. He sent his men