Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [61]
"Yes, thank you." He sounded subdued. "It was a misunderstanding, that's all."
"He said—" I began.
Joscelin cut me off. "It doesn't matter, Imri. He's your guest, and you're responsible for honoring the rules of hospitality. They don't extend to throttling visitors." He let go of my shirt and wiped his hands, eyeing me with disgust. "Phèdre will not be pleased."
"Do we have to tell her?" I asked in dismay.
Folding his arms, Joscelin glanced around the yard. Mavros was on his feet, beating dust from his clothing, trying to appear unobtrusive. The hawks were still in an uproar, and poor old Ronald Agout bustled from block to block, trying to calm them. Two young goshawks were near-frantic, and I knew such an incident could set their training back by weeks or months.
"Oh, I think we do," Joscelin said coldly.
It was a rare thing to see Joscelin truly angry. It was not that he lacked the temper for it—indeed, I have gathered from things I have heard that he was fairly ill-tempered during his younger days as a Cassiline Brother. Perhaps it was the celibacy that caused it; of a surety, it had done little for my mood. But I believed that the trials he has undergone since those days were so severe that they established a threshold for anger, true anger, that was much higher than it is for ordinary mortals.
In some ways, Daršanga was harder on Joscelin than anyone.
So it was rare, and frightening; but it was doubly rare to see Phèdre angry. Joscelin marched us to the manor house, and there, in her study, he made me relate the incident. She listened to my account without expression, then turned to Mavros.
"My lord Shahrizai, please accept my deepest apologies on behalf of House Montrève," she said, her voice grave and sincere.
"Yes, of course," he said awkwardly. "It was just a misunderstanding."
"He said you let my mother parade you on a leash!" The words burst from me in anguish. "It's not true, is it?" At the back of the room, Joscelin made a small, unintelligible sound. Phèdre turned her head to regard me.
I wanted so badly for Mavros' words to be a lie. Under the weight of her dark, luminous gaze, I knew they were not. She had done what he said. And yet, somehow, she bore no shame for it. She was Kushiel's Chosen; an anguissette. Shame could not touch her. She rose above it, beyond it. It rolled off her and clung to me, and I could not even say why.
In the zenana, they called her Death's Whore. Every depravity the Mahrkagir visited upon her, she bore willingly. I knew that. In the zenana, everyone did.
The first time I met Phèdre, I spat in her face.
Across the study, Mavros began to smirk.
"Oh yes, it's true," Phèdre said quietly. "I made my marque that Longest Night." She turned her gaze back to Mavros, and his smile ebbed. "But I do not think," she said, "that House Shahrizai has had cause to boast of it since."
He looked at her for a long moment, his face naked beneath her steady regard. I knew what he saw. The whole entangled history of their Houses—of Phèdre, my mother, Anafiel Delaunay—lay between them; and yet, it was somewhat more. Phèdre nó Delaunay walked into hell willingly, and walked out alive. And somehow—Blessed Elua alone knows—she retained the ability to love. She carried the Name of God in her thoughts, and there was nothing in the human soul that could be concealed from her.
There were times when all she needed to do was lay it bare.
"Forgive me, my lady." Mavros' voice was hoarse. "I was cruel."
"Youth is cruel." Phèdre caught Joscelin's eye. Something passed between them and she sighed, shaking her head. "Go on, get out, the both of you. And mind, no more fighting."
We went with alacrity.
For a time, by common accord, neither of us spoke. We walked together, wordless and aimless. I stole a glance at Mavros and found him looking uncommonly pensive. As we departed from the manor grounds, our unplanned course took us to the river. We walked alongside, following it toward the northern end of the valley. I found a sturdy stick and slashed