Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [61]
But they wouldn’t hear it, not from me. The madness that had protected me worked against me. I had been insane—barking-mad, as L’Envers had said, frothing at the mouth. And every memory that contradicted the beliefs that Carthage’s magics had instilled was gone, vanished. When I reminded Phèdre of her research into Cythera, when I reminded Joscelin how he’d thought of sending Ti-Philippe to scout among Rousse’s sailors, they looked grave and worried, and quietly changed the subject.
I could imagine the memory that it evoked.
Me, tied to a bed and screaming about Cythera.
They would never let me go, not now. Mayhap in time I could wear them down. Once L’Envers assembled a delegation, once they realized that outside the walls of the City, my seeming delusion was shared by thousands, things would begin to change. But even at that, my tale would seem half-mad. L’Envers was willing to take a chance on it only because he was desperate and he didn’t care if I lived or died. There was no way I could prove the truth of my tale. Folk outside the City could attest to my relationship with Sidonie, my quest to find my mother. Not the existence of the Unseen Guild, shrouded in deadly secrecy. Not the admission I’d forced from Gillimas of Hiram. And of a surety, not my encounter with Sunjata the night of the full moon. It would take a long, long time before any of that began to sound like aught but fever-dreams to anyone caught in the grip of Carthage’s spell.
I couldn’t afford to wait.
Not while Astegal . . . ah, gods! I couldn’t bear to think on it.
So I gave up and behaved like a model patient. I spent the long, tedious hours of my recuperation writing a letter expressing my apologies ten thousand ways over. Begging forgiveness. Telling them I loved them. And three days after my meeting with Barquiel L’Envers, two of the people I loved best in the world escorted me gladly to Eisheth’s temple, where I meant to betray them.
The temple was built around a spring whose waters were said to have healing properties. It was an expansive and gracious place. Many people came to stay for days at a time, partaking of the healing waters. The head priestess met us in the temple courtyard, a brown-haired woman of middle years, clad in sea-blue robes. I recognized her; she had been present at my hearing in the Great Temple of Elua, when all the orders of Blessed Elua and his Companions had elected to acknowledge Sidonie’s and my love. She gave no sign of having met me before.
“Be welcome, Prince Imriel,” she said, bowing. “May you find healing here.”
My eyes stung. “Thank you.”
I turned to Phèdre and Joscelin. It was a bright day, the sun pinning a silvery cap on Joscelin’s fair hair, illuminating the scarlet mote in Phèdre’s dark eyes. They were smiling, happy, unaware that the world had fallen to pieces all around us. My heart ached at what I was about to do.
“I love you,” I said to them. “I love you both.”
“We’ll be here.” Phèdre stretched to kiss my cheek. “You have your offering?”
My throat tightened. “I do.”
“Drink deep,” Joscelin advised me.
“I will,” I murmured, blinking away tears.
And then I left them, Phèdre and Joscelin, the parents of my heart, to entrust myself into the hands of a man who’d wanted me dead since I was born. I followed the priestess as she led me into the inner sanctum, a rocky little garden. There was the spring, bubbling gently, lined by moss-covered stones on which votive candles burned, their flames almost invisible in the sunlight. There was the effigy of Eisheth: the figure of a woman, half again as large as life, kneeling beside the spring, her hands cupped. Streaks of green moss reached up her marble flanks. Her cupped hands held the ashes of other offerings.
“Make your offering.” The priestess pressed my shoulder, pushing me gently to my knees. “Drink, and seek healing.”
I knelt