Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [82]
"All right," I said. "Yes." My mouth had gone dry again, but I steeled myself against it, reading her face. "You've already chosen, haven't you?"
"You see much." She touched my cheek with surprising tenderness, and her gaze was gentle. "Is it through your mother's blood, or your foster-mother's training?"
"Both," I whispered.
"Poor lad," murmured the Dowayne Nathalie. "It's a hard burden to bear."
Caught between empathy and desire, I merely nodded.
The Dowayne rang a small silver bell that hung from her belt. Its tinkling chime was scarce audible above the murmur of conversation, fountain, and flute, but an apprentice was there in an instant. "Please summon Emmeline," the Dowayne said. The apprentice bowed, and the Dowayne indicated a nearby cluster of couches. "I pray you, sit and refresh yourselves."
I was too nervous to remain seated. Within a few moments, the adept Emmeline arrived. She was some twenty years of age, tall and slender, with solemn grey eyes and lovely features. Her hair was the color of Katherine Friote's, a honeyed brown, spilling like silk over her shoulders.
"Welcome, Prince Imriel," she said gravely, curtsying. "I am Emmeline."
"Have I gauged you well, young highness?" Nathalie nó Balm asked shrewdly, appearing at her side.
I stared at Emmeline, and nodded. "Well met," I said to her, feeling awkward. "I'm… well, yes. Imriel. Which you already knew."
"Indeed, it is my honor, your highness." She smiled at me. It was one of those smiles wholly without guile, that make one feel as though the sun had broken through the clouds, and I found myself smiling in return.
"The Comtesse has taken care of all arrangements," the Dowayne said. "If you are well pleased, then go and find the healing you seek. Your men will be well attended and there are quarters where they may seek repose, should the hour grow late."
I glanced at Hugues and Ti-Philippe.
"Well?" Ti-Philippe smiled, not unkindly. "Go on, then."
I glanced at Emmeline.
"Come," she said simply, holding out her hand. I took it and let her lead me through the salon. A few patrons looked up as we passed, and I found myself ducking my head to hide my features. My heart was beating as hard as though I'd run a race. After the salon, we passed through a series of halls, where we encountered no one, to Emmeline's room itself. There she closed the door behind us.
Like everywhere else in Balm House, it was pleasant; large and spacious, with fretted lamps casting intricate shadows on the walls. A charcoal brazier warmed the air. The bed was vast, piled high with white pillows and hung about with sheer curtains. I tried not to stare at it.
"Imriel." Emmeline still held my hand. Now she turned it over, bowing her head and tracing a line over my palm and the inside of my wrist with one fingertip. Surely she could feel my pulse racing. I swallowed hard. We were standing so close, I could smell the faint scent she wore, a light perfume with notes of citrus.
"Yes?" I said hoarsely.
"Imriel nó Montrève de la Courcel." Raising her head, Emmeline looked into my eyes. We were almost of a height. "Understand, there are desires in your blood that will not find fulfillment here tonight."
It was at once a disappointment and a relief to hear it said. I nodded, preparing to clamp down on my ardor with an iron will. "I understand," I said grimly.
"No." She gave me that brief sunburst of a smile. "You don't, not yet. It is a gift I wish to give you; Naamah's gift. But there is a gift I ask in return."
"A patron-gift?" I said stupidly.
Emmeline shook her head. "Your trust," she said softly. "Already, you have given it twice this evening; to Phèdre nó Delaunay and to the Dowayne. I ask you to give it a third time; to trust yourself, and to trust