Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [12]
And I saw, too, what Joscelin did not realize. Mindful as he was, waiting for my attack, he was slower to parry on his left. Although his broken arm had long since knitted, his speed lagged.
Sweat dripped from my brow into my eyes; impatiently, I shook my head. I had forgotten Phèdre in her study, reading my mother's letters. I had forgotten that I didn't want to spar. I circled, paying heed to my footwork on the slate tiles of the courtyard, waiting for a chance.
When it came, I feigned an error, leaving myself open. Joscelin moved to press me. I took a quick step backward, feinted left, and spun. He parried and missed, and I came around hard, completing the circuit of my inner sphere and leveling a hard blow with the edge of my wooden blade against his upper left arm. He winced, left hand going numb, losing its grip on the hilt. His sword, wielded in his right hand, swept up and past my guard, the wooden tip coming to rest beneath my chin.
Feeling the point dent my skin, I laughed. It was the first time I'd ever breached his guard to provoke an unintended attack.
"Very clever." Joscelin smiled, lowering his blade. "You'd have had my arm off."
"Well, you'd have had my head," I replied. "Did I hurt you?"
"Gave me a bruise to remember," he said, flexing his hand and shaking off the stinging residue of pain. "That will teach me to be soft on you."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Joscelin shook his head. "It means you're learning and improving. Anything that might save your life one day is worth a thousand bruises." He grinned. "Which is likely what my future holds. You've got a lot of promise. You're quick, and you think."
I felt my face flush with pride at the praise. "Thank you."
Joscelin regarded me with affection. "Feeling better?"
To my surprise, I realized I was. I was hot and tired and sweaty, but the lump of tension that had sat heavy in my belly since the Queen's Courier had delivered her missive had grown smaller. "Yes," I admitted. "A bit."
"Good." He nodded toward the manor. "Let's go wash up."
Inside, I scrubbed down at the washbasin in my room, stripping off my shirt and plunging my whole head in the cool water. It felt good. Most of my clothing had already been packed for travel, but I rummaged in the clothes-press and found a clean, loose shirt of unbleached cotton, well worn and much mended. It was one I wore for mucking about in the kennels with Charles. I'd not worn it yet this summer, and I was pleased to find that the sleeves were inches too short.
Thus fortified, clean and dripping, I went to find Phèdre.
The door to her study was open, but I paused before speaking. She was seated at her desk, gazing at nothing, her chin propped in her hand. A pile of unsealed letters sat beside an open coffer on the desk before her, neatly refolded.
"Phèdre?" I asked hesitantly.
She lifted her head. "Come in, love."
I entered and pulled a chair over to sit across from her. "Was there… anything?"
"No." Her voice was gentle. "Nothing to hint at her plans. Nothing to suggest you might have known, or might know now."
"Oh," I said. "Good."
Phèdre gazed steadily at me. "Do you want them?"
I shrank under her gaze. It was hard to hold, sometimes. Lypiphera, one of the Hellenes in the zenana called her; pain-bearer. She looked weary, her eyelids shadowed and bruised. I wondered whose pain she bore today and suspected, with an uncomfortable certitude, that it was my mother's. "No," I said. "I don't… no." Ducking my head, I fidgeted with a loose thread on my too-short sleeve. "What does she say?"
"A lot." A wry note crept into her voice, coaxing a reluctant smile from me. "Imri, it's not for me to say. Her words were written for you, and if you ever wish to understand your mother better, you'll read them." She was silent for a moment, then added, "If you're wondering if she attempts to justify her deeds, no, she doesn't. She does say