Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [73]
I stabbed at my fish. “Then you’ll help?”
“I might.” He braced his elbows on the table. “What are you offering?”
I forced a bite of mullet down my throat. “My mother’s sentence commuted to exile.”
“No pardon?” Solon asked.
“No,” I said shortly. I thought about riding into the City upon returning from my excursion to Vralia. The black armbands, the down-turned thumbs. The hard, anguished stares on the faces of the bereaved. “No pardon.”
He nodded. “I’ll think on it. Will you see her willingly?”
“Does she have the final say?” I asked grimly.
“No.” Solon blinked at me. “She has the first say, but the final say is mine. I freely confess myself a man besotted, but it has not bereaved me of my wits.” He gave a slow smile. “I believe I am the first man to say no to your mother from time to time. And oddly enough, I do believe she respects me for it.”
I took another bite of mullet. “I’ll see her.”
“Good.” He swabbed another piece of bread with roe sauce. “Because I would have surely refused my aid if you hadn’t. One of her people will come to fetch you in the morning. I hope that you will not be unkind. This will be a long and anxious night of waiting for her.”
I fought down a surge of impatience. “I will try, my lord. But I have passed a good many anxious nights myself of late.”
“Of course,” Solon said. “I understand.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I don’t think you do. You’ve built a pleasant place here on Cythera. Imagine it altered overnight at a single stroke, plunged into uncertainty and confusion. Imagine my mother leaving you gladly for a man you despise. Imagine knowing that all her formidable will and intelligence have been violated and turned against her. Because if Carthage succeeds in Aragonia and Terre d’Ange, this will be only the beginning. Astegal dreams of empire. Cythera would be a pretty plum.”
Solon snorted. “Would Carthage be a worse master than Khebbel-im-Akkad? One overlord is much the same as another. You speak as a man whose country has never been a vassal nation.”
“True.” I set down my fork. “And I would like to remain thus. Do you wish me to beg, my lord? I will.” I got out of the chair and knelt at his feet. “You spoke of happiness. For the first time in my life, I had it. And it has been snatched away from me. I beg you, please, to tell me how to undo what was done. I will give you anything in my possession. I will do anything in my power that you wish.”
“Anything.” His round eyes glinted. “What if I told you I knew of a spell that could give one man the semblance of another? What if I asked for your beauty in exchange for my ugliness? Would you give it?”
“Yes,” I said promptly.
Solon’s brows rose. “Truly?”
I sat back on my heels and spread my arms. “Take it.”
“Hmm.” He regarded me a moment. “You’re fortunate that I have spent my life adhering to the wisdom of restraint. Or perhaps merely that your mother would take it amiss to find me wearing her son’s face.” He shook his head. “I don’t want your face, Imriel de la Courcel. What I want is to choose wisely in this. If I aid you, there are those who will recognize my handiwork. Undoing the spell will be difficult. If you fail, it is I—and Cythera—who will pay the price.”
“I won’t fail,” I said.
“Stubborn.” Solon smiled a little. “Much like your mother. And impulsive, much unlike her. Sleep, and go to see her. Whatever you think of her, Melisande is not made of stone. For ten years and more, she has grieved deeply, knowing what befell you when you were taken as a child, knowing what role her own actions played in it. I do believe it is the pain that finally taught her a measure of compassion.”
I got wearily to my feet. “I hope so.”
His eyes glinted again. “Given that she appears ready to forgive you for seeking her life, I do believe I am right.”
Nineteen
I spent a fitful night, tossing restlessly in my bed at the widow Nuray’s lodging-house, going over my conversation with Solon in my mind.