Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [297]
"I don't speak lightly of it," I said.
She knotted her fingers. "I don't ask lightly."
And so I told her.
At another time, in another place, I might not have done it. I cannot say. She seemed so young to bear the burden of my dark tale, with her shining, baby-fine hair and her clear blue eyes. But she bore her own burden of betrayal and lost innocence behind those eyes, and once I began to speak, the words kept coming. I told her of being raised in the Sanctuary of Elua where my mother had hidden me from the world, all unwitting of my own parentage. I told her of my own abduction by slave-traders, of being sold to the merchant Fadil Chouma. Of travelling to Menekhet, where Chouma sold me to the Âka-Magus, the Drujani bone-priest.
Daršanga.
I told her only that it was a foul place with a mad ruler who did terrible things. It was enough. I told her that some died and others lived and all of us kept despair at bay one minute, one hour, one day at a time. And I told her how Phèdre came into the midst of it, bearing an impossible gift of hope. How Phèdre and Joscelin rescued us, and the zenana rose up and overthrew the garrison. How I had learned who I was.
Helena listened to it all without comment, drinking in my words as the parched earth drinks in water. When I had finished, we sat for a moment in silence together.
"So it is true," she murmured at length. "In a way. True and not „ true.
"Most stories are, my lady," I said.
A quick smile flickered over her face, so fleeting it was barely there. "I prayed to her," she said. "When Lucius told me he wouldn't marry me, that he was going away to Tiberium instead. I snuck out beneath a new moon. I went to the crossroad before our home, where we make offerings to the lar compitale, and I buried three blue beads beneath a cobblestone like my nurse told me." She drew up her knees, hugging them. "I prayed to the Bella Donna to find a way to save me from Domenico Martelli da Valpetra and let Bartolomeo and me be together."
"You should have been more specific," I said wryly.
Her eyes widened and a startled laugh escaped her. "Oh, Bona Dea!" She stifled her laugh with her hands. "It's not funny. But when I saw you, I was so sure…"
"I'm just—"
"I know," Helena said, growing somber. "I do. But it's true, too, isn't it? True and not true. Do you think… do you think the gods always answer our prayers like this? Sideways?"
"Mayhap." I smiled. "That's a good way of putting it."
She smiled back at me; a real smile. It faded, though. "I'd take it back if I could." She rubbed her knees. "If it meant bringing Bartolomeo back."
"It's not your fault," I said gently. "Valpetra's a cruel, greedy man. He wanted Lucca and he was bound to act on it, Helena. Your prayers had naught to do with it."
"Didn't they?" She rubbed harder. "Bartolomeo died because he loved me. I wanted to die that night. I did. But I was afraid, and Valpetra promised… he promised he would spare my parents if I did what he said. So I did." Tears filled her eyes. "Oh gods! I should have let him kill me. If I had any courage, I'd take my own life and join Bartolomeo."
"Helena, no." I knelt on the floor beside her couch and eased her hands into mine. "It would only break your mother's heart. None of this is your fault."
"It feels as though it is," she whispered.
"I know." I nodded. "You'll carry guilt like a stone in your belly because a bad thing happened to you. I don't know why. I don't know why we do that. Mayhap because it's easier than acknowledging that the world can be cruel and unfair, and the gods only answer our prayers sideways at best."
Helena sniffled, but her eyes were intent through her tears. "How do you live with it?"
I sat back on my heels. "You just do. Day by day. It gets easier to bear. You accept the gift of your life with grace and try to be worthy of it." I squeezed