Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [112]
Afterward, I went to see Katherine on my own.
"I'm sorry for your loss," I said humbly. "Truly, I am."
"Thank you, Imri. You've always been a good friend to me." Her fingers curled into mine. She smiled wanly. "What is it, do you think, that Blessed Elua sought to impart to me with this lesson?"
I shook my head. "It's not my place to say, Katherine. Sometimes bad things happen."
"They happened to you." Her head rolled on the pillows, her hollow gaze seeking mine. "Oh, Imriel! How did you endure it?"
"One day at a time," I said. "One hour at a time, minute by minute." I stroked her hand. "Then, and for a long time afterward. But it does get better, I promise."
Katherine mended, at least in body. Her heart was another matter. After the miscarriage, nothing was the same between her and Gilot. Why, I could not say; I'm not even sure she knew herself. But although she was apologetic for it, she withdrew from him and remained distant, saying only that perhaps they had committed to one another too young.
For his part, Gilot was hurt and bewildered.
I grieved for him, but there was nothing anyone could do to help. He tried to ply her with tenderness, to no avail. Whatever it was that had broken between them, it could not be fixed by love alone; not now, and mayhap never.
That autumn, when we departed for the City, Gilot came with us.
I watched them say their good-byes in the courtyard. It was a strained moment and a sad one. When we struck out on the journey, I made it a point to ride beside Gilot, offering my silent commiseration. From time to time, I glanced at his clean-cut profile. He was quiet and sober, every inch the professional man-at-arms, his brown hair bound unwontedly in a tight braid. All the lively merriment gone from his eyes. We rode for several leagues before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was harsh with pain and impotent anger.
"Don't fall in love, Imri," he said. "It will only break your heart."
"No fear," I murmured. "I haven't yet."
Gilot shuddered. "Don't."
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Three
In the City, my restlessness returned. I couldn't help it. I was seventeen and I wanted… something. Love, despite Gilot's warning; adventure, despite what I knew of its rigors. It didn't matter. I wanted, with passionate intensity, to feel. I wanted more.
Most of the time, I kept it in check. At others, it would break free. I lashed out at friends, and earned a name for having a sharp tongue.
And once, I lashed out at Nicola L'Envers y Aragon.
She had returned for the winter, along with her son Raul, who was contentedly courting several of the young women of the Court, including Colette Trente. Betimes, Phèdre saw Lady Nicola. Although she was quiet about it, I knew. I always knew. I saw what I had seen in Daršanga; the languor, the remote echo of violent pleasure. And despite my attempts at resolve and maturity, I still hated it.
It was an awkward encounter, taking place in the Salon of Eisheth's Harp; a small fete in honor of a minor dignitary from one of the Caerdicci city-states. At the Queen's behest, the musicians struck up a tune and everyone took part in a Caerdicci pavane in which one changed partners according to intricate rules.
At the end, I found myself partnered with the Lady Nicola.
I forced a pleasant smile as we danced, and we spoke lightly of inconsequential matters. She was a diplomat's wife; she was good at it. But there was another line of thought running behind her eyes, and when the dance ended, she gave voice to it with unexpected honesty. "You don't like me overmuch, do you?"
In the middle of a polite bow, I stiffened. "No," I admitted, straightening. "Not overmuch, I'm afraid."
Nicola studied me. There was no offense in her expression, only curiosity. "Why?"
I glanced over at Phèdre. She was conversing with the Caerdicci dignitary, her face alight with lively intelligence. A rush of love and anger overcame me. "Tell me, what manner of toys do you prefer, my lady?" I asked. "Whips? Brands? Blades?" With satisfaction, I watched