Kushiel's Scion

Also, I knew them.



I knew Charles would make a beeline to spy on the maidservants in the laundry. Katherine… Katherine, I thought, would make for the gardens.



I made an audible exit toward the front of the manor, then changed course soundlessly, heading for the kitchen. There I hovered in the doorway, listening and sniffing the air. I marked the rattle and clamor of luncheon dishes being scrubbed in a pan. It was too early for the aromas of dinner cooking, but I could smell sage and onion. I could hear the damp thud, slap, and roll of dough being kneaded, and the steady sound of a knife chopping. Root vegetables, I thought; carrots or turnips.



"One of her ladyship's games, is it?" Although I couldn't see her, Richeline's voice held a smile. "Are my youngest at it as well?"



"It is and they are," I said, edging my way through the kitchen, trying not to bump into anyone. On the far side, there was a door onto the herb garden. "You won't tell them you saw me, will you?"



Richeline laughed. "Go on, and stay out of my kitchen! And mind you don't trample my herbs."



Outside, I stood for a moment, basking, turning my blindfolded face toward the hot sun. The rear courtyard of Montrève was a delightful place, even unseen. I knew its configuration by heart. Richeline's herb gardens nestled comfortably against the manor walls.



Beyond was the well, and the laid-slate square where Joscelin and I often sparred. Flower gardens surrounded the area, bringing forth a profusion of blooms in every season. There were footpaths through them, set with simple stones.



I picked my way to the square, mindful of Richeline's herbs. Once I felt smooth slate beneath the soles of my boots, I stood and listened. It was easy to detect Katherine. Her skirts rustled. I heard her exhale softly as they caught on a flowering shrub, and the rasp of fabric as she tugged them loose.



Smiling to myself, I set out on a course to intercept her.



Silent and stealthy, I removed my boots. It was easier to move quietly in bare feet, and I could feel my way unerringly. I crossed the slate courtyard and plunged into the gardens, feeling the way along the footpath with my toes and listening to her passage. Katherine was making for the stone bench in the rose arbor. I placed myself in her way, and listened to her approach.



With outstretched hands, she blundered into me, and gasped.



"Katherine." I grinned beneath my blindfold. "It's me."



"Imriel!" She pounded my chest with one soft fist, then laid it flat against me. "How did you get here?"



"Through the kitchen." The pressure of her touch was unbearably sweet. All around us, the heady mingled scents of a dozen species of flowers perfumed the air. I inhaled, my chest rising under her hand. "I guessed you'd come here."



"I can feel your heart beating." Like her mother's—and yet not like, not at all—Katherine's voice held a smile. "It beats fast."



"It does for you." The words seemed impossibly daring, but there they were, emerging from my mouth, sounding far more confident than I felt. Somehow, with both of us locked into our own private darknesses, it was easier.



Katherine's outspread fingers curved, the tips digging into my linen shirt, bunching the fabric. "You're a sweet boy," she whispered, and I would have taken offense at the words, except her tone said somewhat altogether different. I sensed her rise onto her toes. There, blindfolded and shrouded in darkness in the sun-shot beauty of the garden, I felt her soft lips touch mine in a brief, fleeting kiss.



I drew a sharp breath.



A world of wanting opened like an abyss beneath my feet.



Katherine laughed, dancing away from me. And in that moment, I understood better how swiftly games may change, how quickly power shifts from one to another in the games that men and women play with one another.



"So," she said, her voice lilting. "We are here, you and I. Where is Charles?"



I breathed deeply, willing my pulse to subside. "The laundry," I said, sounding harsh to my own ears. "That's where he will have gone."



"Then let's follow him," Katherine said.



We did, and found him there, crouching in a hallway, listening to the maidservants stirring the vats with their paddles, laughing and jesting, the air moist and warm, fragrant with the scent of soap. What he imagined in his private darkness, I can only guess.



Afterward, there seemed no point in continuing, so we peeled off our blindfolds and trouped back to Phèdre's study to make our reports. She listened to them with a bemused look; especially to Charles, who was red-faced and stammering. I made a better job of it—I was at least able to hazard a guess regarding our dinner menu—but I still felt the unexpected thrill of Katherine's lips touching mine, and Phèdre was not easily misled.



"Well," she said when we had finished. "Next time, perhaps, I'll seek a less… distracting… game."



I felt myself flush to the roots of my hair.



Phèdre glanced at me. "After all," she said, "the Shahrizai will be here in a week's time, Imriel. And if you think this a distraction…" She shook her head, and the expression on her lovely face hovered between mirth and rue. "Blessed Elua have mercy on us."



Chapter Eleven



It was raining the day the Shahrizai arrived. Not a hard rain, but a gentle one; scarce more than a dense mist. The Montrèvan border patrol spotted them on the road and gave them an escort, sending a single rider to the manor to report. We turned out to meet them in the courtyard.



Three were coming: Mavros, who was two years my elder; Roshana, a year older than me; and Baptiste, who was a year younger. I was not yet entirely clear on the exact nature of their kinship to me, save that they were cousins. House Shahrizai was clannish, and the ties that bound it were intricate and complex.



As if to fulfill Joscelin's anxieties, they came with an entourage—armed retainers clad in the black-and-gold livery of the House, surrounded by Denis Friote and the Montrèvan guard, who looked uneasy at it.



My young cousins showed no evidence of discomfort. They rode bare-headed astride their richly caparisoned horses, comfortable in the saddle, chatting with one another as they approached. Raindrops clung like diamonds to their blue-black hair. Mavros and Baptiste wore theirs in a myriad of braids; Roshana's hung free, loose and rippling.



Joscelin grimaced as they entered the courtyard.



"Comtesse de Montrève!" Mavros saluted Phèdre from the saddle, then dismounted gracefully and accorded her a deep bow. The others followed suit. "Lady Phèdre," he said, rising, "we are grateful for your hospitality."



"Montrève welcomes the Shahrizai," Phèdre said, smiling.



"Lord Joscelin." Mavros turned to him, inclining his head in a gesture of respect. "To you, too, we give our thanks. And rest assured, our men-at-arms do but guarantee our safety in the passage. They will depart anon, and return for us in a month's time."



I think Joscelin very nearly rolled his eyes; and yet it was courteously done. He gave his Cassiline bow in return, fluid and precise. "Your men are welcome to pass the evening here, Lord Shahrizai. There is ample room in the guardhouse."



"My thanks, Messire Cassiline, but we will not strain your hospitality." Mavros turned toward me. "And you, cousin!" He strode forward, then paused to deliver an elaborate courtier's bow. "Your highness, I should say."



"Imriel," I said. "Just Imriel, here."



"Imriel, then." Mavros grinned as he straightened, his teeth flashing white in the muted daylight. Our eyes met on a level. I had grown since we had met in the Hall of Games. He reached out to clasp my forearm in a strong grip. "Mayhap I might aspire to Imri, one day?"



I returned his grip with more strength than he expected, enough to make him wince. "Mayhap, cousin."



Mavros laughed with unabashed delight. "Ah, well, I'm pleased to see you in excellent health! You remember Roshana and Baptiste?"



"Cousin Imriel." Roshana's voice was melodious. Though I seek to avoid memories of my mother, that is one thing I have never forgotten—her voice, as sweet as strong honey. When I was a child of eight, before I knew aught of who or what I was, I had loved her for it. Before I could flinch, Roshana stepped forward. "Well met, once more," she said, giving me the kiss of greeting as though we were both adults. Her lips, brushing mine, were soft and full.



Two kisses in as many weeks. I glanced toward Katherine, who was near the entrance to the manor. She was staring, wide-eyed. I sensed, without fully knowing why, that the nature of the game had shifted once more. Charles, standing beside her, glowered.



"Well met, indeed!" I laughed, extending my hand to the third member of the party. "Baptiste, is it?"



"Aye, cousin!" The youngest Shahrizai nodded exuberantly, braids flying. He clasped my hand with boyish goodwill, his face alight with eagerness. "So," he said cheerfully. "What do you do for fun here?"



Over the course of the days to follow, Baptiste's question was answered. For the most part, we roamed and hunted, spending hours afield. I had feared the Shahrizai would disdain the pleasures of the countryside. I had been wrong. Kusheth is a harsh land, and they understand vigorous pleasures. There was nothing soft about my Shahrizai kin.



They were skilled.



They were skilled, and they charmed the folk of Montrève with their skills. Not Phèdre, no, who beheld them with an amused tolerance—and of a surety, not Joscelin. But the others, yes. They charmed the manor-folk with unfailing courtesy, and Richeline conceived a particular fondness for high-spirited young Baptiste. Within days, they charmed most of the men-at-arms; even Ti-Philippe, who had been almost as dubious as Joscelin about their arrival. They charmed Katherine and Charles, who regarded them with reluctant fascination.



They charmed the old falconer Ronald Agout, and Artus Labbé, the kennel-master. The hounds of Montrève were a distinct breed; wolfhounds, they were called in Siovale, although they will hunt almost any game. Our dogs hail from Verreuil. Joscelin's brother Luc sent one to us my first summer here, a pregnant hound-bitch ready to whelp. Since then, her offspring have stood us in good stead, interbreeding with other Siovalese wolfhounds.



They were loyal dogs, majestic and fearless. Betimes, when we rode out with them, we would pass one of the shepherds in the hills. They kept a different breed of dog; tawny-haired herders, small and tireless, with quizzical faces. It made me smile to see the shepherds' little dogs stare after the lordly, pacing wolfhounds, wondering if they posed a threat and what in the world could be done about it if they did.



Seeing the Shahrizai in Montrève was similar.



They seemed a breed unto themselves. It was something beyond the strong familial resemblance; I, who looked much the same, didn't have it. It was in the way that they moved through the world at their own pace. It was in the way they seemed to share a deep private jest among them, one that made life's pleasures sweeter. It was in the aura of danger that clung to them—not menace, no, but somewhat different.



It wasn't something I could readily identify. In the end, I asked Mavros about it.



We were hunting in the high meadows, coursing hares and other small game. He smiled at the question and did not answer, watching Baptiste struggle with a goshawk's tangled jesses.



"Should we help him?" I asked at length.



He shook his head. "Roshana will do it," he said. "She's neat-handed." He turned his intent gaze on me. "Do you remember what I asked you in the Hall of Games?"



In the bright sunlight, I felt my throat tighten. "You asked if I had desires I fear."



Mavros nodded. "Everyone does, Imriel. You, I suspect, more than most. You're one of us, Kushiel's scion. But after what befell you, well…" He paused. "The difference is, among the Shahrizai, we're taught to gaze upon them without fear."



"Why?" My voice was blunt.



"Because Blessed Elua bid us to," he said simply. "Love as thou wilt. We do. And betimes it makes others… uneasy… because in so doing, we hold up a dark mirror that reflects their own desires."



"To hurt people?" I shuddered, thinking of the zenana. "But I don't, Mavros. Not anyone, not ever."



"No?" He smiled, leaning over in the saddle. "Take my hand."



I did, and felt his clasp tighten. Mavros bore down hard, exerting a painful pressure on the web of flesh betwixt my thumb and forefinger. His mocking gaze dared me to retaliate. I bared my teeth in an involuntary grin, squeezing back. My stint of hard labor stood me in good stead. I burrowed into his flesh with the ball of my thumb and squeezed his knuckles until I could almost hear the small bones grinding.



We swayed in our saddles together, locked in foolish combat.



"See?" Mavros gasped. He laughed, disengaging, and shook out his hand, eyeing it ruefully. "Ah, Imriel! It's a part of you. And there's pleasure in it, isn't there?"



Across the meadow, Baptiste crowed in triumph as Roshana succeeded in untangling the goshawk's jesses. At the same moment, one of the wolfhounds flushed a ptarmigan, nosing the air in vague, dignified perplexity as the bird took flight. The goshawk burst from Baptiste's fist in a feathered blur, striking hard and fast, landing in a tumble.



"It's not the same," I said eventually.



"No?" he asked. "How does it differ?"



How indeed? It was a game, a moment's challenge, one we entered willingly. How, truly, did that differ from love-play that tested the boundaries between pleasure and pain? Since I could not say, I asked a question instead. "You told me there were reasons for it," I said. "That Kushiel was merciful."