Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [233]
"Oh please, my lord!" Anna got to her feet. "No, we mustn't."
Gilot stirred, murmuring restlessly in his sleep.
"I insist," I said, reaching for the door. "Stay."
She glanced at Gilot, then at me, her brows knit. "You would be welcome to my room, if it's not too humble."
"Is it worse than this?" I gestured around.
"No." Anna smiled through her tears. "You're a funny sort of prince, my lord."
"So I'm told," I said.
I left them there, lingering in the courtyard long enough to hear Anna bar the door against intruders. Through the irregular slats of the latched shutters, I could see her bend tenderly to kiss her daughter and Gilot, then blow out the last oil lamp. Oddly enough, my envy had dissipated. In its place, there was an aching tenderness, heavy and poignant.
"May Elua bless and keep you," I whispered.
And then I found my way to Anna's apartment, climbing the outer stair to the second story, and slept alone on the widow's pallet, with her daughter's empty cot beside me.
Even a stunted tree reaches for sunlight.
* * *
Chapter Forty-Seven
Master Piero lectured on the virtue of honesty.
I swear, betimes the man chose his topics purely to provoke me. We met in his lecture hall at the University, and I sat on my three-legged stool, chin in hand, listening to flies drone while he railed against the myriad ways a lie can fester in one's soul, lies breeding lies, even as flies hatch maggots in an open wound.
"Ugh!" Brigitta commented.
Afterward, we argued the matter—lies of intent, lies of omission, lies of kindness. Whether there was merit in any of them. I argued that there was. That some secrets were meant to be kept, too injurious to be made known.
"Truth, like fire, cauterizes," Master Piero said tranquilly. "Can you think of a secret better kept than exposed, Imriel nó Montrève?"
"I can think of a few, Master," I muttered.
He smiled at me. "Think harder."
I did, then. I thought about my mother's legacy of secrecy and plotting; one for which it seemed I had a knack. I wondered, for the first time, what my life would be like if she had simply succumbed, handing my infant self over to Ysandre de la Courcel to be raised as a member of House Courcel. But as Asclepius had said, the past could not be altered without changing the present. If I had never been hidden by a priest's lie, there would have been no one to challenge Angra Mainyu in Daršanga. There were no easy answers.
It made my head ache to think on it.
I was glad when Master Piero dismissed us. "Lucius!" I caught his arm. "Are you free this afternoon? I'll stand you a jug of wine."
Things had been cool between us since I'd managed to insult his friendship, but he gave me a measuring look and nodded. "All right. Let's go to the baths first. It's perishing hot out there."
We spent a good portion of the afternoon idling in the pleasant waters of the tepidarium. The baths were crowded, so I held my tongue and listened instead while Lucius spoke of the wedding plans. The city of Lucca was preparing for a gala affair to celebrate the long-overdue union of two of its ruling families. Helena appeared content, and her beloved Bartolomeo had written Lucius a letter of thanks.
"Can you imagine?" he said wryly.
"It does seem a bit odd," I admitted.
"I don't think he could have borne seeing her wed to Domenico Martelli," he said. "From what I hear, he's nearly as bad as old Gallus Tadius. His first wife died. He put it about that she came to term early and died in childbirth, but I heard he beat her until she lost the babe. I suppose Bartolomeo has reason to be relieved."
"How is old Gallus Tadius?" I asked.
"Still quiet." Lucius grinned at me. "I hate to admit the priests were right, but he's been mercifully, blessedly quiet."
Clean and refreshed, we strolled through the city. Our usual wineshop was already doing a brisk trade, and I suggested we seek out less crowded quarters. Lucius looked puzzled, but agreed.
"You're being very mysterious, Montrève," he observed.
"I've reason for it," I said.
We found a place on the outskirts