Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [51]
They were loyal dogs, majestic and fearless. Betimes, when we rode out with them, we would pass one of the shepherds in the hills. They kept a different breed of dog; tawny-haired herders, small and tireless, with quizzical faces. It made me smile to see the shepherds' little dogs stare after the lordly, pacing wolfhounds, wondering if they posed a threat and what in the world could be done about it if they did.
Seeing the Shahrizai in Montrève was similar.
They seemed a breed unto themselves. It was something beyond the strong familial resemblance; I, who looked much the same, didn't have it. It was in the way that they moved through the world at their own pace. It was in the way they seemed to share a deep private jest among them, one that made life's pleasures sweeter. It was in the aura of danger that clung to them—not menace, no, but somewhat different.
It wasn't something I could readily identify. In the end, I asked Mavros about it.
We were hunting in the high meadows, coursing hares and other small game. He smiled at the question and did not answer, watching Baptiste struggle with a goshawk's tangled jesses.
"Should we help him?" I asked at length.
He shook his head. "Roshana will do it," he said. "She's neat-handed." He turned his intent gaze on me. "Do you remember what I asked you in the Hall of Games?"
In the bright sunlight, I felt my throat tighten. "You asked if I had desires I fear."
Mavros nodded. "Everyone does, Imriel. You, I suspect, more than most. You're one of us, Kushiel's scion. But after what befell you, well…" He paused. "The difference is, among the Shahrizai, we're taught to gaze upon them without fear."
"Why?" My voice was blunt.
"Because Blessed Elua bid us to," he said simply. "Love as thou wilt. We do. And betimes it makes others… uneasy… because in so doing, we hold up a dark mirror that reflects their own desires."
"To hurt people?" I shuddered, thinking of the zenana. "But I don't, Mavros. Not anyone, not ever."
"No?" He smiled, leaning over in the saddle. "Take my hand."
I did, and felt his clasp tighten. Mavros bore down hard, exerting a painful pressure on the web of flesh betwixt my thumb and forefinger. His mocking gaze dared me to retaliate. I bared my teeth in an involuntary grin, squeezing back. My stint of hard labor stood me in good stead. I burrowed into his flesh with the ball of my thumb and squeezed his knuckles until I could almost hear the small bones grinding.
We swayed in our saddles together, locked in foolish combat.
"See?" Mavros gasped. He laughed, disengaging, and shook out his hand, eyeing it ruefully. "Ah, Imriel! It's a part of you. And there's pleasure in it, isn't there?"
Across the meadow, Baptiste crowed in triumph as Roshana succeeded in untangling the goshawk's jesses. At the same moment, one of the wolfhounds flushed a ptarmigan, nosing the air in vague, dignified perplexity as the bird took flight. The goshawk burst from Baptiste's fist in a feathered blur, striking hard and fast, landing in a tumble.
"It's not the same," I said eventually.
"No?" he asked. "How does it differ?"
How indeed? It was a game, a moment's challenge, one we entered willingly. How, truly, did that differ from love-play that tested the boundaries between pleasure and pain? Since I could not say, I asked a question instead. "You told me there were reasons for it," I said. "That Kushiel was merciful."
"There are." Mavros grimaced, massaging his hand. "And he is."
I watched Baptiste swing the lure, calling the goshawk off her quarry. He managed it nicely. The disinterested hounds ranged farther afield, seeking prey of their own. "Tell me more," I said. "I want to understand."
"Imriel." Mavros sighed "Ah, Imri! How can I explain it to you? It is purging, Kushiel's gift. In the loss of self, there is expiation, and grace. Like a bright fire, it purges all, and makes everything new. It is a gift, and it is ours to give. And to receive, betimes. All of us will know it at least once, that we might better understand Kushiel's gift."
I ignored