Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [13]
I looked up at her. "But that wasn't her fault."
It was true, though I was surprised to hear the words come from my mouth. My mother had me hidden away in the Sanctuary of Elua, yes, while all of Terre d'Ange searched for me. That was her doing, and there was a deep plan behind it that would have taken years to come to fruition. Still, it was no fault of hers that I was kidnapped by Carthaginian slave-traders and sold into hell. I was taken at random. That, not even my mother Melisande could have foreseen.
"No." Phèdre smiled. "It wasn't." With deft motions, she straightened the stack of letters and returned them to the coffer. "They'll be here for you."
"Thank you," I said, meaning for reading them. Meaning for many things.
"You're welcome." She closed the lid, locking the coffer with a tiny key. With my mother's presence banished, the air within the study seemed to grow easier to breathe. Phèdre pushed her chair back, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear with the sort of absentminded grace that was as deeply ingrained in her as Joscelin's Cassiline reflexes were in him. "We should go," she said. "Richeline has everything in readiness, and I'd like to put a few hours of road behind us before sunset."
Obliging, I stood. "I'm ready."
"Good." Phèdre glanced at me, then glanced again, her brows rising. "Imriel nó Montrève, what in the name of Blessed Elua are you wearing?"
I grinned at her, plucking at my shirt-front. "What, this? It's only for travel."
Phèdre shook her head, but the shadow had gone from her eyes, and I was happy to see it. "Sometimes," she mused, "I think Joscelin Verreuil is a bad influence on you."
"I'll change," I promised.
Coming around the desk, Phèdre gave me one of her mercurial smiles; the rare ones, the ones that came from the deep and mysterious reserves of her being, where her own peculiar sense of humor made the unbearable bearable. "Not too much, I hope," she said lightly, dropping a kiss on my cheek. "I'm rather fond of you as you are, love."
"No," I whispered. "Not too much."
* * *
Chapter Three
We were on the road in short order. I daresay few households in the D'Angeline peerage were capable of mobilizing as quickly as Montrève's. For all that she enjoyed her luxuries—and she did—Phèdre was able to forego them on a moment's notice.
As for the rest of us, we thrived on it.
No one entered the service of Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève out of a craving for security and a staid lifestyle. Ti-Philippe, who had been with her the longest, pledged his loyalty after the battle of Troyes-le-Mont. There were three of them, then—Phèdre's Boys, they called themselves. I never knew the others, Remy and Fortun. They died in La Serenissima, where I was born, killed on my father's orders.
But the others I knew. Like Gilot, they were a high-spirited lot, men who sought service with the Comtesse de Montrève because they had heard the stories and the poems. Some of them, I think, were hoping to bask in the glory of further adventure. And if they were disappointed that it was not forthcoming, still, life in our household was never dull.
It would have been a pleasant journey, were it not for the purpose. The weather was hot and dry, but the breeze of our passage rendered it comfortable. I would have been content to have it last forever. The City of Elua was a buzzing beehive of gossip, and I had little desire to confront the results of my infamous mother's latest piece of infamy.
"You could always run away and join the Tsingani," Gilot offered helpfully, sensing my mood. "Think of the horses!"
"I wouldn't mind," I said, remembering the Salmon. "Want to come with me?"
"Why not? I've a fancy to see the world." He laughed, then glanced uncertainly at me. "You are jesting, I hope. Joscelin would skin me alive."
"Yes." I shuddered. "And no jests about skinning, please."
"Oh." He fell silent, chastened. "Right."
It wasn't Gilot's fault. He was only four years older than me. It was only