I shook my head. I had an idea of what she was trying to get at, but I had no experience in such matters. "You'll have to teach me."
Katherine sighed. Leaning over, she grasped a handful of trailing bindweed, tugging the blue-flowering vines loose and gathering them into a loop. " 'I cast a net to catch true love,'" she chanted, tossing the impromptu noose aloft. It fell onto the blanket, half draped over my foot. "You never learned that one?"
"No." I frowned at the length of vine. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Nothing!" Katherine's voice held a trace of acerbity. "I didn't catch you. If it had landed over your head, you would have owed me a kiss."
"So—" I began.
"This is a game we play in Kusheth," Roshana intervened. "It has a sharper edge than those you play in Siovale." She gave her grass-plaited quirt an experimental snap, and smiled when both Katherine and I jumped involuntarily. "There's no harm in it, Imriel."
"For whom?" I asked uneasily. "And why?"
"For anyone." Her smile deepened. " 'Tis a light game." She touched the trailing end of her grass quirt to my cheek. "You're afraid, aren't you?"
I brushed away the plaited grass in an irritable gesture. "Of you? No."
"Of your own desires," Roshana said calmly. "Of those things you crave and fear to give voice to. This is only the merest taste of them, and one you should enjoy." She turned to Katherine. "You understand, do you not?"
I opened my mouth to answer for her, to say, No. But Katherine raised her chin as she had when she dared me; this time, daring my cousin. "I'm not afraid," she announced.
"So we play." Roshana trailed the ticklish end of the grass quirt along Katherine's cheekbone, circling her ear. "This is the nature of the game. If you squirm or make a sound," she whispered, "you earn a lash. If you don't…you win a kiss."
Katherine whimpered.
The grass-plaited quirt cracked.
I winced at it. Katherine's eyes flew wide open, and she gasped, startled and half-laughing. It was a teasing blow, landing harmlessly on her upper arm, but even so, it was sharp enough to raise a faint pink welt. The sight of it stirred dark unease in me. I knew, altogether too well, how deep a welt a real whip left. I still bore the scars. It had taken a measure of bravado to bare them today; a bravado I no longer felt.
"Let's not do this," I said, finding my voice. "Roshana, please don't."
"It's only a game." She let the grass quirt trace a path down Katherine's throat, tickling the hollow at its base where her pulse beat visibly. "But it is a game of resistance and surrender." She traced a delicate pattern on Katherine's skin, watching her pulse quicken. "You ask why, Imriel. Because in a game of wills, the stakes are raised and pleasure is heightened. And in the playing of it, we come to know ourselves—and each other—more deeply." The quirt trailed lower. "Already, I'll wager Katherine has learned something new of herself since first we met," she said, meeting her eyes. "Is it not so?"
Katherine returned her gaze with mute, sparkling defiancé.
"You see?" Roshana smiled. "She has won a kiss." Rising on her knees, she leaned forward, laying down the quirt. With my mouth agape, I watched her deliver on her promise. It was a real kiss, deep and lingering, and Katherine returned it ardently. I felt a rush of desire so intense I ached. It left me feverish, lightheaded and sick. When they parted, strands of their hair remained caught together, blue-black and honey-brown, shimmering in the sunlight like spider's silk.
"Your turn, cousin." Roshana picked up the grass quirt and placed it in my hand. "You may choose either one of us."
I clutched it hard, feeling the neat plaits press against my sweating palm. I envisioned myself swinging it, the smart snap and the ensuing welt. Both the girls regarded me with amusement. It was true, it was only a game; a silly game. And I, who had reveled in the sense of being suspended between childhood and adulthood only an hour ago, now felt at once too young and too old to play. I couldn't do it. As much as I wanted them—both of them, either of them—I couldn't. Not like this. My mouth went dry, desire shriveling.
"I can't." I tossed the quirt onto the blanket. "I'm sorry, but I can't."
Katherine colored and looked away, and I knew I had embarrassed her. Whatever, exactly, had been offered here today, I had spurned it. She would not be quick to repeat the offer in any form. I wished we'd played the Siovalese game instead. I put my head in my hands and sighed.
"It's all right, Imriel." Roshana's voice was surprisingly gentle. I lifted my head and saw concern in her face. "You know we mean well, don't you?"
I nodded. "I do want to understand. It's just…" I tried to find words that would encompass the enormity of it, that would explain how and why, here in the open air of a flowering meadow, I was haunted by the fetid stench of stagnant water. How plaits of fragrant grass evoked the shadow of knotted leather crusted dark with old blood. "Daršanga," I said.
It was the first time I had said the word aloud to anyone but Phèdre. They exchanged a glance.
"That was the name of the place?" Roshana asked.
"Yes," I murmured.
"I'm sorry, Imri," Katherine said impulsively. "I forget, sometimes. You seem, so…" She shrugged, giving me a sweet smile. "Well, like a brother, only not."
I smiled back at her. "I try to forget, too."
"Try harder," she said, teasing.
So at least a day that bid fair to end in disaster ended in goodwill. We gathered our things and made the long trek down the mountain, arriving at the manor house in ample time for supper. Afterward, Katherine bustled about her duties, while I sat and spoke with my cousins in the great room, as we had done every evening since they arrived.
Nothing had changed.
Save that once again I lay sleepless. And this time it was not the fevered conjecture of my imagination that made me wakeful, but memory, and the piercing desire that accompanied it. When I closed my eyes, I saw Roshana and Katherine, kissing. I sweated and tossed, tangled in my sheets, and cursed myself for an idiot.
Try harder.
Would that it was so simple.
Chapter Thirteen
In the final days of their visit, I quarreled with Mavros. I own it freely; the fault was mine, although Mavros played his part. In truth, after the day at the lake, I was wound tighter than a child's top. Montrève, my respite and haven, had become fraught with tension and desire.
It was not the fault of the Shahrizai. They were what they were; they sought to deal fairly with me. The shadow on my soul was no fault of theirs. I was the one who was unfair. I beseeched them for understanding, and fled when it was offered.
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, coughing. Joscelin turned to him. "Are you all right?"
"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.