Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [77]
“Solon,” I muttered. “I could kill him for that.”
“I suggest you don’t,” Melisande said. “Since he’s your best hope.”
I eyed her. “What would you have done if you had known? Would you have let it happen?”
“I don’t know,” she said with surprising candor. “What if I hadn’t? What would you have done if I had persuaded Solon to tell me how to avert it? Sent a warning? Would you have believed me?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “I believe I would.”
“And would you have still sought to drag me back to Terre d’Ange to be executed?” Melisande inquired.
It was my turn to fall silent. “I don’t know,” I said at length.
“So.” Her shoulders moved in a graceful shrug. “Life is filled with things we may never know. And although you have not asked it of me, I grant you forgiveness for seeking my death.”
“I didn’t relish the prospect,” I said.
“That’s nice to know.” My mother sounded more amused than not. Whatever else was true of her, Leander was right. She wasn’t vindictive. She cocked her head. “Ysandre’s daughter?”
“Did you laugh?” I asked.
Her generous lips twitched. “What do you think?”
I smiled despite myself. “It’s not a ploy, if that’s what you’re wondering. I love her. I’ve loved her for a long time. For years we kept it a secret, hoping it would pass. It didn’t. And I truly will do whatever is needful to get her back.”
The early-autumn sun poured down on us, warm and golden. My mother reached out and touched my hair, running a lock of it between her fingers.
I let her.
“What’s she like?” Melisande asked.
“Sidonie?” I smiled again. “Dorelei said once that she was like a house without a door. It’s not true, though. Not really. She’s very . . . contained. But there’s a fierceness in her. Once it’s tapped, it’s . . .” I shook my head. “I don’t know. She’s determined. Passionate. Loyal. Funny, too. Most people don’t know that about her. I didn’t, not for a long time.” My smile faded. “And she’s Astegal’s wife.”
My mother stroked my hair. “Not for always.”
“No.” I straightened my shoulders. “Her always is mine.”
Melisande withdrew her touch and regarded me with deep, abiding sorrow. “Will you do me one kindness? I know you’re impatient. And I will send word to Solon seeking his aid immediately. But I would like it very much if you would pass this day with me. I would like, very much, to hear about your life.”
As much as I wanted to hate her, I couldn’t.
Not in the flesh.
I could feel the bond between us, blood-deep. I was her son. I had fought against it in more ways than I could count, and there was a great deal of me that owed nothing to her. I was as much Phèdre’s son, as much Joscelin’s, as I was hers and my father’s. But deep in my marrow, I knew her touch. I knew she had carried me in her womb. I had read her letters. I knew she had nursed me at her breast, counted my infant fingers and toes, sung me crib-songs, suffering no one else to usurp those duties.
“I will,” I said.
My beautiful, damnable mother settled her glorious gaze on me. “Thank you,” Melisande said simply.
Twenty
It was a pleasant day.
I would be lying if I said it wasn’t. I’d never understood how my mother had gotten so many folk willingly involved in her intrigues, but the truth was she was a charming and brilliant woman, unexpectedly candid and self-aware. One found oneself wishing to please her out of unthinking instinct.
To be sure, her household doted on her. It wasn’t just the members of the Maignard clan, of whom there were half a dozen. It was everyone. The Cytheran servants. The freed slaves, many of whom were her pupils.
I learned that my mother was a master in the Unseen Guild, and aspired to go no higher. Once, she had. She had learned of the Guild’s existence from Anafiel Delaunay many years ago, when he was distraught over the death of Prince Rolande de la Courcel and careless enough to confide in her. She had sought out the Guild