Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [27]
I saw him, and for the first time, it was as though I stood outside myself. I saw the fierce pride and the anguished betrayal. I saw the fault-lines in his soul and where they lay, and how they could be exploited. There was a game to be played. He hated me, yes, but we were victims in common. I could play to that, speak cunning words, turn his hatred to a shared target. One whose justice was too harsh for his angry soul, whose mercy galled my unrestful one.
Ysandre, the Queen.
Or I could wound him with disdain, and earn his undying enmity, sealed and immaculate. There was power in that, too. Those whose hatreds are simple are easy to manipulate. He could become my creature, all unwitting.
I trembled at this knowledge. It was my mother's legacy, Kushiel's gift, and I did not want any part of it.
What I wanted was to make a friend of him.
It was not to be. That, too, I saw; and I was grateful to Phèdre for her warning.
"Here," I said, thrusting the deed forward. "I cannot undo what is done. I know only that this is right. Lombelon is yours."
Maslin grabbed the parchment and broke the seal. For a long moment, he read, lips moving silently. At last, his dark eyes met mine.
"Why?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Because I could."
It was not answer enough; it would never be answer enough. But it was all the answer I could afford him. Maslin shuddered, his dung-stained nails tightening on the deed. "Shall I bow and scrape in thanks, princeling?" he asked harshly. "Is that what you wish to see? Groveling gratitude, a sop for your miserable soul?"
Someone's breath hissed between their teeth, and I motioned my retainers to be still. I gazed at Maslin. "You do not know me," I said to him. "Do not presume that you do."
He looked away. "Nor you me," he muttered.
"Fair enough," I said evenly.
"What is it?" He looked back at me, scowling. "What do you want?"
I considered the question. "I want to be good."
This was an answer he understood. I saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. His scowl eased and he nodded, half to himself, as though I had spoken his thoughts, thoughts no one else in the room save we two could know. "People make it hard to do," he said.
I thought about my mother who had borne me, the priest who had lied to me. I thought about the Carthaginian slavers, the Mahrkagir, the mocking, distrustful face of Barquiel L'Envers. And I thought, too, about Phèdre and Joscelin—and strangely, Sidonie, with her cool, disdainful words. "Some do," I said. "Not all."
"Most," said Maslin.
"Too many," I agreed.
What the others in the room made of our conversation, I cannot guess. But we understood one another, we traitors' sons. It was not friendship, but it would do. I put out my hand, and this time, Maslin clasped it. His grip was callused and strong.
"My thanks," he said. "I didn't mean…" He shrugged, wordless.
I nodded. "I know."
So it was done, and I was glad. We took our leave in short order, leaving behind a manor abuzz with the news. The folk of Lombelon seemed well enough pleased with my decision, and I was glad of that, too. I had not made a friend, but I had not made an enemy, either.
I thought a great deal about Maslin on the homeward ride, wondering about those people in his life who made it hard to be good. His life seemed so much simpler than mine—it was one of the things I had envied him. And yet I had complicated it.
Was it right? I believed it was. Was it good?.
I thought so, yes; but I was not certain. I had acted out of self-interest. In the end, I could not say. And I thought, too, about my own perceptions—about the fault-lines and flaws I had discerned in Maslin, and how they might best be exploited. It was not so different from the arts of covertcy which Phèdre had taught me; and yet it was.
I had seen how Maslin could be used.
I was my mother's son.
But I had seen, and I had walked away from it. It gladdened my heart to know this. That was