Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [208]
All around the grotto, hanging from every protrusion, were clay votive offerings; arms and legs, hands and feet, hearts, heads, eyes and ears—every portion of the human body. There was somewhat unnerving about the sight.
"Tell me," I said.
The priest faced me squarely. "I can make no promises. Many small bones are broken. He makes his living as a swordsman?"
"Yes." It seemed wrong to lie in this place. "He is sworn to the service of my foster-mother, Phèdre nó Delaunay, the Comtesse de Montrève."
Whether or not that meant somewhat to him, I could not say. "You would be well-advised to make an offering to Asclepius, D'Angeline," he said. "And pray to whomever you pray." The priest paused. "There are ribs broken, and something presses upon his lungs, yet he breathes. For that, there is nothing we can do, save wait. Do you understand?"
I nodded. "Pray."
The priest inclined his head. "Even so."
I sat with Gilot while the priest set his hand, though by that time Gilot was mostly unconscious. A good thing, too. It was a delicate business. By the priest's reckoning, three fingers were broken, and a myriad of the small bones in the back of his hand. Even if it healed without complication, he'd have a hard time gripping a sword. I watched distant flickers of pain cross Gilot's battered face and thought about what a good friend and protector he'd always been to me, despite my best efforts to thwart him. Like me, he was no hero; not like Joscelin, driven by the tireless discipline of his Cassiline vow, capable of impossible feats. He was just a good man, handy with a blade, loyal to a fault. And I… I wasn't even that.
I didn't deserve him.
He didn't deserve this.
Anger stirred in me, dark and full of loathing. I thought about my unseen assailant and the men who had done this to Gilot, and the one in particular; the one I'd marked with my daggers. I wished, now, that I'd done worse. I wanted to hurt him like he'd hurt Gilot.
Once it was done, the young acolyte gave him another draught of opium. With a sigh, Gilot settled into a deeper sleep.
"You'll watch over him?" I asked her.
"Yes, my lord." There was a trace of shyness in her voice.
"Good." I made myself smile. "What's your name?"
"Filomena," she whispered.
"Filomena." I touched her cheek. "My name is Imriel, and this is Gilot. If he wakes before I return, I pray you, tell him I'm fine and all is well, everyone is safe. He'll worry, otherwise. Will you help me in this?"
She swallowed. "Yes, of course."
I left the Temple of Asclepius, taking my anger with me. I didn't know what to do with it or where to go. Pray, the priest had said, but I couldn't. The anger was too big, like a boulder in my heart. I couldn't get around it. There was a dull ache radiating from the middle of my spine where my attacker had struck me. Told to tell you, that's for Baudoin.
Baudoin de Trevalion, long dead. He had aspired to the throne. My mother had been his lover, his co-conspirator. Ultimately, his betrayer. She had determined that he wouldn't serve her purposes well enough to suit her, and she'd brought him tumbling down.
I remembered the bitterness in Bertran's voice the night L'Envers had tried to frame me. Baudoin de Trevalion was executed for treason, and the stench of the Trevalion name still reeked less than Somerville's after your mother was done with it.
Elua, but I was sick of these coils of intrigue! And I was sick unto death at the thought that it was Gilot paying the price for all of it.
I walked swiftly through the city, heedless of my own safety. I'd gone beyond caring. I almost relished the stab of pain each stride provoked. Nonna had said the ankle wasn't broken; well and good, it would heal. It seemed a fitting punishment. For the first time, I understood why people visited Kushiel's temple to purge their hearts and souls.
Pain might not scourge away guilt, but it helped.
Outside the insula,