Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [74]
Small wonder my mother liked him.
At least it was better than dwelling on the sure knowledge that Sidonie had wed Astegal. I couldn’t think about that without a tide of black, murderous rage rising in my heart, and the feeling was uncomfortably close to my madness.
I rose early and broke my fast, then spent the better part of an hour practicing my Cassiline forms in Nuray’s garden, trying to quiet my mind. I forced myself to focus on the movements; telling the hours, they called it. Step after flowing step, tracing arcs with my blade. It worked well enough that I didn’t notice my mother’s messenger enter the garden.
“Interesting, that,” an insouciant voice said. “What do you call it?”
I halted and turned, then stared.
It was a young man around my age. He’d spoken in Hellene with a native accent, and he wore billowy trousers caught at the ankles and an embroidered Cytheran vest, but he was D’Angeline. His face was narrower than mine, and his eyes a lighter shade of blue, but the stamp of House Shahrizai was there in the angle of his cheekbones, the sensuous mouth.
One of hers.
“Telling the hours,” I said stupidly. “It’s a Cassiline practice.”
“Cassilines!” He snapped his fingers. “I’d forgotten about them.” He came over to greet me, extending a hand. “I’m Leander, by the way.”
“Imriel.” I clasped his hand, frowning in perplexity. “Are we . . . kin?”
“Distantly, by way of the wrong side of the blanket.” Leander laughed. “It’s a long story.” He studied my face. “By the Goddess! You are her son. You look just like her.”
“She’s no goddess,” I said wryly.
“Touchy, touchy.” He arched one brow. “It’s just a saying, my lovely. Very common in these parts. I wasn’t speaking of her ladyship.”
I bit my tongue on a sharp retort and sheathed my blade. “Have you come to take me to her?”
“I have.” Leander inclined his head. He had the blue-black Shahrizai hair, too. It was plaited in a handful of braids, caught up at the crown of his head. “Come with me.”
My mother’s villa lay in the foothills of the mountains, a short ride from the city proper. As we rode, Leander told me somewhat of his history, or rather, his family’s history. Many years ago, Melisande’s father, Casimar Shahrizai, had embarked on an illicit affair with the wife of another Kusheline lord, the Baron de Maignard. During their affair, Victoire de Maignard had gotten with child and delivered a boy. Casimar had demanded she acknowledge the boy as his. Being of Azzallese descent and proud, Victoire had refused. They had quarrelled bitterly.
“So.” Leander’s generous mouth twisted. “Casimar ruined my family.”
“How so?” I asked.
“With money.” He shrugged. “He got my great-grandmother’s husband to invest in a scheme that left him penniless. House Maignard was destroyed. The Baron killed himself in shame. My great-grandmother’s family shunned her for her folly. House Shahrizai turned their backs on her. She became a laundress.”
He went on to tell me how my mother had heard the story as a child. When she came of age and into estates of her own, she sought out the fallen Maignard clan and offered to buy them out of penury. The price for her generosity was their loyalty to her and her alone.
“Great-grandmother Victoire accepted it,” Leander said cynically. “Even Azza’s pride would bend under the weight of a thousand vats of laundry. Our family’s been in your mother’s service ever since.”
“You don’t mind?” I asked.
“Why should I?” Leander gestured expansively. “Oh, I know, I’m meant to think exile from Terre d’Ange is a hell unto itself. But look around you, man! It’s a little paradise here. I’ve lived here since I was a boy. All of that other business happened long before I was born. And I’ll tell you . . .” He fingered a ruby stud in his earlobe and smirked. “Your mother’s a generous patron.”
“I’m sure she is,” I muttered.
Leander drew rein. “All right. You want to hear a piece of Maignard family lore?” His expression hardened. “By all accounts, Casimar Shahrizai was a nasty piece of work.