Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [60]
After the lake, Roshana understood. She had caught a glimpse of what I had undergone in that single word: Daršanga. She did not press me, for which I was grateful. And Baptiste… Baptiste was a joy. I saw much in him of what I might have been, had it not been for Daršanga, by turns merry and indolent, partaking in life to its fullest. No priest of Elua would ever need remind Baptiste to rejoice; it was part and parcel of his nature.
But there was Mavros.
In some ways, we were the most alike. He was older, and understood the burden of obligation imparted by his birth, even as I was forced to contend with my status as a Prince of the Blood. Over the course of their visit, he had given a good deal of helpful counsel on dealing with Court intrigue and nobles who looked sideways at me and muttered under their breath. But Phèdre had spoken truly; he was seventeen, with a head full of seventeen-year-old thoughts, and a belly full of desire.
And he was living under her roof.
We were outside the mews when it happened, watching Ronald Agout transfer the hawks to their blocks, where they crouched and sidled, hooding their eyes and preening in the warm sun. I was telling him about keeping Elua's vigil with Joscelin on the Longest Night.
"It sounds perishing dull if you ask me." Mavros laughed. "And to think, your mother once—" He broke off his words, glancing toward the manor house.
"Once what?" I asked when it became evident that he wasn't continuing.
"Nothing." Mavros stroked the peregrine's speckled feathers with one careful finger, avoiding my gaze. "If Phèdre never saw fit to tell you, it's not my business to do so."
"Saw fit to tell me what?" I bristled. The peregrine shifted restlessly, ruffling. Across the yard, Ronald made a disapproving sound.
Mavros shrugged, taking a step backward. "It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago, Imriel, before either of us were born."
"But you know," I said, growing increasingly irritated with him.
"Well." There was an edge to his smile. "It's family lore, you know. I daresay half of Kusheth knows."
"So tell me," I said. "There's no point in being coy."
"You wish to know?" Mavros gave me a long look. "All right, I will, then. Better you should hear it from me than some backwater Kusheline lordling. Your mother contracted Phèdre for the Longest Night and brought her to the Duc de Morhban's fete on a velvet leash."
"No," I said automatically. "It's not true. You're lying."
"I'm not lying!" he said impatiently. "Name of Elua, Imri! Phèdre's an anguissette, and she was sworn to Naamah's Service. What do you think that meant? It's what she does to earn a livelihood—or did, at any rate, before Queen Ysandre made her a peer. And yes, it's true. On the Longest Night, your mother paraded her before the Duc de Morhban, in order that he might be consumed with envy and understand that in certain matters, the Shahrizai will always be his betters. Melisande put a collar around her neck, a velvet collar with a diamond the size of—"
He got no further, for I lowered my head and charged him.
Mavros grunted under the impact, and I bore him down hard. The two of us flailed in the dust while Ronald shouted ineffectually and the birds, alarmed, bated and strained at their tethers. We rolled over and over, and I came up on top. Hugues, kindhearted as he was, had taught me well. In Siovale, wrestling is reckoned a science. I clamped both of Mavros' legs with mine and braced one forearm across his throat.
"Take it back!" I hissed, leaning my weight on him.
He glared at me, eyes slitted. "I won't lie for you, cousin!"
"Imriel!"
It was Joscelin's voice—his battle-voice, clear and carrying. I had scarcely time to process the fact before his hand descended, grabbing the back of my shirt and lifting me by main force off Mavros.
I dangled briefly in mid-air, meeting Joscelin's furious summer-blue gaze. "I didn't—"
He slammed me down onto my feet. "Intend to disgrace the hospitality of Montrève?" he asked, hard and intent.
"No," I said in a small voice.
Mavros sat up,