“I don’t think it is. The eunuch said he served two masters.” I shook my head. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can’t stay here.”
“Oh?” L’Envers raised his brows.
“Sidonie needs me,” I said simply. “I have to go.”
Barquiel L’Envers looked at me for a long, long time, an incredulous expression slowly dawning over his worn features. He gave a short, choked laugh. “Oh, Blessed Elua bugger me! You actually love her?”
Tears stung my eyes. “Very much so, my lord.”
“Blessed Elua bugger me,” L’Envers repeated, bemused. “So what in the seven hells do we do, Imriel de la Courcel? Raise an army? Wrest Quintilius Rousse’s fleet from his control and sail against Carthage? How do we do it without setting off a civil war in Terre d’Ange?”
“We can’t,” I said. “We have to break the spell.”
“Cythera.” He raked a hand through his short-cropped hair. “You’re sure that part’s not a fever-dream?”
“As sure as I can be. Sunjata said the fever would break in a month, and it did. I have to try,” I said. “I’ll grovel and beg, if that’s what it takes. If Ptolemy Solon knows how to undo this, I’ll do whatever is needful. But I need your help to get out of the City, my lord.”
“If it’s not a piece of your madness, you know damned well what he’ll ask for,” L’Envers said wryly. “A pardon for Melisande Shahrizai.”
I was silent.
L’Envers sighed. “I wish to hell I knew whether or not to believe you.”
“I’m not lying,” I said stiffly.
“No.” He eyed me. “No, I don’t think you are. But I’m not sure you’ve got your wits back altogether, and of a surety, I’m not convinced you aren’t a pawn in some unknowable scheme of your mother’s. Are you?”
You’re lucky your mother loves you.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “If I am, can it truly be worse than this?” He didn’t answer. I sipped my brandy, thinking. “Send to Alba, my lord. There’s still one member of House Courcel fit to sit the throne. Alais. If you raise a large enough delegation of D’Angelines and Albans alike to petition Ysandre and convince her that there’s somewhat amiss, if you reason with her instead of shouting, mayhap she’ll be willing to let Alais assume the throne until we can undo what was done.”
“Alais!” L’Envers said in surprise. “That slip of a girl?”
“She’s second in line for the throne,” I pointed out. “And she’s gained her majority; she turned eighteen last winter.”
“True,” he mused.
“She has the Master of the Straits’ ear,” I added. “If there’s anyone Drustan might listen to, it’s Hyacinthe. I’m sure he would help. He’s a deadly force unto himself, and he knows a good deal about magic. So do the ollamhs.” I thought about Berlik. “So do the Maghuin Dhonn, for that matter. It’s worth asking.”
“Anything else?” L’Envers asked, only slightly sardonic.
“Scour the Royal Archives,” I suggested. “The Secretary of the Presence will have recorded Parliament’s last session and . . . and the public audience wherein Ysandre bade me to bring my mother to justice if I truly wished to wed Sidonie. There has to be written evidence that casts doubt on Carthage’s claims and proves the truth. You can recruit scholars from outside the City to compile it.”
“While you sail off to Cythera to reunite with your mother and Carthage goes unchecked,” he said.
I spread my hands. “Do you have a better plan?”
“Unfortunately, no,” L’Envers muttered, rising to pace the room. “You have a point. At the least, it might stall Ysandre from sending the army against Aragonia without setting off a civil war. And there would be a legitimate heir on the throne.” He halted. “No pardon for Melisande. A pardon’s unacceptable.” A look of profound distaste crossed his features. “However, I suppose we could offer to commute her sentence to exile in exchange for Ptolemy Solon’s assistance.”
My heart leapt. “Then you’ll help me?”
“Gods, I must have lost my own wits.” His mouth twisted. “I swear to Blessed Elua, if you fail in this, if you prove false or a dupe, I will make it my life’s work to hunt you down and kill you.” His violet eyes were deadly serious. “No intrigue, no ploys. I will kill you and bear whatever punishment follows.”
I thought about Astegal in Jasmine House, his arms slung around a pair of adepts. Smiling as he emerged at dawn, heavy-lidded. I thought about Sidonie in his bed, ensorceled, spreading her thighs willingly for him, urging him into her. My muscles knotted, trembling with fury.
“Duc Barquiel,” I said in perfect sincerity, “if I fail in this, you’re more than welcome to kill me.”
He gave a curt nod. “What do you need?”
I told him. I didn’t need much. Money. My horse, my sword and vambraces, some supplies. Mostly I needed to get out of the City of Elua and to Marsilikos without someone sending guards to retrieve me for my own safety.
“Can you ride?” L’Envers asked pragmatically. “You look half-starved and weak as a day-old kitten.”
I shrugged. “I’ll manage.”
He snorted. “I’ll arrange for passage by barge. Think you can convince your keepers to let you make a healing-offering at Eisheth’s temple in three days?”
“I think so.” I smiled ruefully. “It’s not a bad idea, actually.”
“All right.” There was noise in the corridor outside L’Envers’ quarters. He turned his head. “Ah. That would be someone come to make sure I’ve not gutted you, I suspect. I’m surprised it took so long.” He put out his hand. “Eisheth’s temple, three days.”
I rose and took his hand. “Thank you, my lord.”
Barquiel L’Envers tightened his grip. “Just don’t fail.”
Fifteen
It wasn’t hard to convince Phèdre and Joscelin to take me to Eisheth’s temple; indeed, they thought it an excellent idea. I’d regained enough strength that Lelahiah Valais reckoned the outing would do me no harm, and Phèdre and Joscelin both thought it a hopeful sign that I realized I was yet in need of healing.
I felt awful about it.
I hated to betray their trust. As if I hadn’t reason enough to love them, they’d stood by me during my madness, tending me with care while I ranted and raved. The things I’d said were seared into my memory. And when I’d come out of it, they’d welcomed me back with heartbreaking joy, forgiving every word without a thought.
Now I was leaving.
I couldn’t see any way around it. I’d tried, over and over, to convince them of the truth about Carthage. Elua knows, they had to have doubts. Barquiel L’Envers wasn’t alone. Although he was the only one to take it up with the Queen thus far, there was a realm full of bewildered folk outside the walls of the City.
But they wouldn’t hear it, not from me. The madness that had protected me worked against me. I had been insane—barking-mad, as L’Envers had said, frothing at the mouth. And every memory that contradicted the beliefs that Carthage’s magics had instilled was gone, vanished. When I reminded Phèdre of her research into Cythera, when I reminded Joscelin how he’d thought of sending Ti-Philippe to scout among Rousse’s sailors, they looked grave and worried, and quietly changed the subject.
I could imagine the memory that it evoked.
Me, tied to a bed and screaming about Cythera.
They would never let me go, not now. Mayhap in time I could wear them down. Once L’Envers assembled a delegation, once they realized that outside the walls of the City, my seeming delusion was shared by thousands, things would begin to change. But even at that, my tale would seem half-mad. L’Envers was willing to take a chance on it only because he was desperate and he didn’t care if I lived or died. There was no way I could prove the truth of my tale. Folk outside the City could attest to my relationship with Sidonie, my quest to find my mother. Not the existence of the Unseen Guild, shrouded in deadly secrecy. Not the admission I’d forced from Gillimas of Hiram. And of a surety, not my encounter with Sunjata the night of the full moon. It would take a long, long time before any of that began to sound like aught but fever-dreams to anyone caught in the grip of Carthage’s spell.
I couldn’t afford to wait.
Not while Astegal . . . ah, gods! I couldn’t bear to think on it.
So I gave up and behaved like a model patient. I spent the long, tedious hours of my recuperation writing a letter expressing my apologies ten thousand ways over. Begging forgiveness. Telling them I loved them. And three days after my meeting with Barquiel L’Envers, two of the people I loved best in the world escorted me gladly to Eisheth’s temple, where I meant to betray them.
The temple was built around a spring whose waters were said to have healing properties. It was an expansive and gracious place. Many people came to stay for days at a time, partaking of the healing waters. The head priestess met us in the temple courtyard, a brown-haired woman of middle years, clad in sea-blue robes. I recognized her; she had been present at my hearing in the Great Temple of Elua, when all the orders of Blessed Elua and his Companions had elected to acknowledge Sidonie’s and my love. She gave no sign of having met me before.
“Be welcome, Prince Imriel,” she said, bowing. “May you find healing here.”
My eyes stung. “Thank you.”
I turned to Phèdre and Joscelin. It was a bright day, the sun pinning a silvery cap on Joscelin’s fair hair, illuminating the scarlet mote in Phèdre’s dark eyes. They were smiling, happy, unaware that the world had fallen to pieces all around us. My heart ached at what I was about to do.
“I love you,” I said to them. “I love you both.”
“We’ll be here.” Phèdre stretched to kiss my cheek. “You have your offering?”
My throat tightened. “I do.”
“Drink deep,” Joscelin advised me.
“I will,” I murmured, blinking away tears.
And then I left them, Phèdre and Joscelin, the parents of my heart, to entrust myself into the hands of a man who’d wanted me dead since I was born. I followed the priestess as she led me into the inner sanctum, a rocky little garden. There was the spring, bubbling gently, lined by moss-covered stones on which votive candles burned, their flames almost invisible in the sunlight. There was the effigy of Eisheth: the figure of a woman, half again as large as life, kneeling beside the spring, her hands cupped. Streaks of green moss reached up her marble flanks. Her cupped hands held the ashes of other offerings.
“Make your offering.” The priestess pressed my shoulder, pushing me gently to my knees. “Drink, and seek healing.”
I knelt and she left me.
Eisheth’s head was bowed, curtains of marble hair hiding her features. Humble. The mossy stones were damp beneath my knees. I fumbled for the packet tied to my belt, poured an offering of incense into her cupped hands. Hyssop and cedar gum. There were wax tapers piled neatly at her feet. I took one, kindled it at a votive, and lit the incense. A sweet thread of smoke arose from her palms, bluish in the sunlight.
“Merciful Eisheth, grant me healing,” I whispered. “Grant it to us all.”
I cupped my own hands, dipped them into the spring, and drank. The water was cool, with an acrid mineral tang. I drank deep.
“Ready, highness?” a man’s voice whispered behind me.
It was one of L’Envers’ guards, beckoning from the entrance, a grey cloak folded over one arm. He didn’t have to tell me to hurry. I crossed quickly over to him and donned the cloak, pulling up the hood to hide my features.
“This way.” He steered me down the wide corridor, then turned into a narrow hall used by the initiates and acolytes who served the priesthood. I could tell, because he pointed to the crumpled figure of one on the floor. “Mind the body.”
I stepped gingerly over it. “You didn’t . . . ?”
The guard shook his head. “He’ll have a lump on his skull, that’s all.”
I was relieved. Barquiel L’Envers had a name for being ruthless. At least he was efficient, too. His guardsman navigated me with swift certitude down the back hallways of the temple. Once we had to duck into a storage room filled with strips of willow bark while a pair of acolytes passed, but we managed to exit the temple by the postern gate. There was a plain carriage waiting, another guard at the reins.
“Get in.” The first guard opened the carriage door and gave me an ungentle shove. He followed as I slid across the seats, shouting to the driver, “Go!”
The driver snapped the reins and the carriage lurched into motion. “My thanks,” I said to the guard.
“Don’t thank me.” His face was shuttered. “I’m just following orders. It’s a sodding mystery to me why his grace is helping you.”
“Love of country?” I suggested.
“How on earth is packing you off to some strange isle supposed to help?” His expression slipped a little to reveal utter bewilderment. “No mind. Like as not, he’s finally found a way to get rid of you.”
“Like as not,” I agreed, wondering if it was true.
The carriage took us to the wharf. Barquiel L’Envers was there alongside a sizable merchant-barge, drumming his fingers impatiently on his sword-belt. I dismounted from the carriage, careful to keep my hood up.