Kushiel's Scion

"There are." Mavros grimaced, massaging his hand. "And he is."



I watched Baptiste swing the lure, calling the goshawk off her quarry. He managed it nicely. The disinterested hounds ranged farther afield, seeking prey of their own. "Tell me more," I said. "I want to understand."



"Imriel." Mavros sighed "Ah, Imri! How can I explain it to you? It is purging, Kushiel's gift. In the loss of self, there is expiation, and grace. Like a bright fire, it purges all, and makes everything new. It is a gift, and it is ours to give. And to receive, betimes. All of us will know it at least once, that we might better understand Kushiel's gift."



I ignored him for a moment, whistling for the hounds. They came, loping and obedient, jaws parted and tongues lolling. My horse snorted through its nostrils as they crowded around. I dug into my game-bag, quartering one of the hares they had caught earlier, tossing bits to them.



"It's not enough," I said tersely.



"No?" Mavros smiled. "What does Phèdre say?"



I glared at him, my heart filled with sudden fury. "You know nothing of her!"



"No." He swallowed then, hard. "Forgive me, I do not. Once again, I have overstepped my bounds, Imriel." He was silent for a moment, thinking. "I only want you to understand. What you are… there is beauty and majesty in it. But perhaps…" He glanced across the meadow. "Perhaps it is better if I let Roshana explain."



We spoke no more of it that day, and for several days afterward.



They were sensitive to such things, the Shahrizai, and capable of great delicacy. I knew why. It was what I had experienced with Maslin in Lombelon when it seemed I stood outside myself and saw into him—they saw the fault-lines in my soul, my flaws and weaknesses, and trod gently near them.



For a time, at least.



And that, I thought, was what truly made them dangerous. It was a comfort to know that my kin were capable of kindness, and not necessarily wont to exploit Kushiel's gift for personal gain or vaunting ambition. But they saw too much, and they were drawn to what they saw. In time, Mavros—or perhaps Roshana—would prick me once more where I was sore.



In the meanwhile, we spoke of less consequential matters.



I learned a great deal of my heritage. House Shahrizai was the oldest family in Kusheth; one of the oldest, indeed, in Terre d'Ange. Their holdings were extensive, lying on both coasts of the province. For all that, theirs is not the sovereign duchy in Kusheth—that falls to Quincel de Morhban, who holds the Pointe d'Oest. To hear Mavros speak, it was by choice; although I didn't wholly believe him. I suspect it has long served the Crown's interest to keep House Shahrizai in check. They were powerful and numerous enough to be a threat, if they chose.



But it was true that they were a strange and insular clan in their own way. Cousins often wed within the family, and they held their own traditions. Other than the ruling Duc de Shahrizai, they did not use land-titles among themselves—only the Shahrizai name, as though it superseded any holdings. And they were fearsomely loyal to one another.



Mavros claimed that my mother acted without her House's blessing or knowledge. Whether or not it is true, I cannot say, but he believed it to be so. He thought she did so in order to protect the Shahrizai, should matters go awry. Perhaps he was even right. They held her in a strange mix of awe and… I did not even know a word for it. Regret, perhaps?



"I wish I had known her," Baptiste announced when we spoke of her late one evening, sitting in the manor's great room. "I do, truly."



Roshana, who was unbraiding his hair, smiled quietly. "She was dangerous to know, my heart. Even for family."



It was a cardinal sin among them, to endanger the well-being of the family; and yet their greatest disdain was reserved for Marmion Shahrizai, who accidentally caused the death of his sister Persia. It was she who aided my mother in escaping from Troyes-le-Monte, loyal to the end.



Roshana spoke truly; my mother was dangerous to know.



"Why did she do it?" I asked my cousins that night. "Why did she do what she did?"



They exchanged glances and shrugs. There was a moment of silence, broken only by the soft sound of Roshana running a boar-bristle brush through Baptiste's unbound hair.



"Did she never tell you?" Mavros asked me.



"No," I said, and thought of Phèdre seated behind a pile of unsealed letters, looking pain-bruised and weary. I was abashed. "I don't know. She sent… she used to send letters, before she vanished. But I never read them."



"I would!" Baptiste raised his head, an eager light in his eyes.



"Hush, my heart." Roshana stroked his cheek, until he subsided under her touch. "Imriel must make his own choices." She set about the work of rebraiding his hair. They were half-siblings, both of them born to my mother's first cousin, Fanchone. That much I had learned. Mavros was the youngest son of Sacriphant, who was my mother's uncle. "Do you still have the letters?" she asked me.



I glanced involuntarily toward Phèdre's study. It was there, somewhere, the coffer containing every letter my mother had written to me. Phèdre hadn't spoken of it since my mother vanished, but she always travelled with it. She still believed I would want them one day. "Yes," I said. "I have them."



"Well, then." Roshana smiled. "Mayhap they hold the answer."



"Mayhap," I muttered. "Her answer." I watched her deft fingers fly, the miniature braids taking shape beneath them. Baptiste had his eyes half-closed, luxuriating under her touch. If he was a cat, he would have purred. "Why do you do that?" I asked. "Why only to the men?"



"This?" Her smile deepened. "It teaches patience, cousin. It is a lesson all men need to learn." Roshana ran one finger along Baptiste's nape, making him shiver. "And for us, it improves dexterity," she added, a note of mischief in her tone.



"He's your brother!" I exclaimed, half-horrified.



Mavros chuckled.



"Oh, aye." Roshana laughed softly. "We're not meant for one another. Still, we may learn from the game. And who knows who will reap the benefit of it? Such is the purpose of such games." She glanced sidelong, sensing a presence, and somewhat in her voice shifted toward composed politeness. "Is it not so, my lady?"



Standing in the doorway, Phèdre regarded her mildly. "Indeed, so they say in the Night Court. I did not know they said it in Kusheth."



"Ah, we Shahrizai are adepts after our own fashion, my lady." Mavros, sprawling on a sheepskin rug, propped himself on his elbows and flashed a lazy white grin. "Surely, no one would deny we pay Naamah her due and honor her to the fullest."



Phèdre smiled despite herself. "Surely not," she said. "Imriel, 'tis late, and I've dismissed the household. Will you be sure to snuff the lamps?"



"Yes, of course." I found myself on my feet. It was still disconcerting to look down at her. I laid my hands on Phèdre's shoulders. "Thank you," I said. "Don't worry, all is well here. These are things I need to understand, no more."



"I know, love." There was a shadow of sorrow in her gaze. She touched my cheek gently. "Good night to you. I'll see you anon."



When she had gone, Mavros flopped back down on the rug, blowing out his breath. "Name of Elua!" he sighed, folding his arms under his head. "Kushiel's Chosen, alive and in the flesh. Surely, Imri, you must have wondered—"



Roshana made a warning sound.



"No," I said. "And don't. Just… don't."



Mavros blinked at me, his eyelashes long and sooty. "Ah, but surely…"



There was a high-pitched ringing sound in my head. I hunched my shoulders against it, tensing. Memories haunted me; the pervasive stench of stagnant water in the zenana, the searing odor of my own flesh. Phèdre's voice, aboard a ship bound for La Serenissima, where she granted my deepest wish, warning me that it carried a danger.



You've Kushiel's blood in your own veins. One day, you will know it.



"No," I said firmly. "Never. "



"No?" Mavros sounded disappointed. He closed his eyes. "I do," he murmured. "I cannot help it. I wonder and wonder."



I glanced toward Roshana for aid, but she averted her head, concentrating on Baptiste's braids. The youngest of my Shahrizai kin was oblivious, lost in the pleasure of her grooming. "I wish you wouldn't, cousin," I said to Mavros, hearing a note of despair in my voice. "Please. I truly wish you wouldn't."



"I know." His eyes opened, slitted. He regarded me through his lashes. "But it is who I am. I cannot help it. And it is who you are, cousin."



Another voice swam to the surface of my memory, accompanied by a gust of frosty air and the image of stars, cold and distant, glittering above the Temple of Elua, where the old priest had spoken of my fate.



What you make of it is yours to choose.



"You don't know me," I said, my voice trembling. "What I am. Who I am."



"Do you?" he asked.



"Mavros." Roshana spoke his name like a command. He turned his head and stared at her. "Let him be."



"I'm only—"



She shook her head at him.



"Oh, all right." With a single motion, he unfolded himself from the floor and stood upright. "I'll take myself off to bed, then, since it seems I'm not fit for pleasant company this evening."



"You would be if you'd stop baiting me," I said.



"Don't be angry at me, cousin." Mavros gave me the disarming smile he used to charm kitchen-maids and stable-lads. "I'm only trying to help." When I made no reply, his smile faded, replaced by something deep and wondering. "What did they do to you in that place, Imriel?" he asked, genuinely curious. "What did they do to make you so afraid of what you are?"



I had never told him any of it; I have never told anyone all of it, except for Phèdre.



"You don't want to know," I said.



"I do, though." He touched my arm. "We understand these things."



Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds.



"No," I said gently, no longer mad at him. "You think that you do, but believe me, Mavros, you don't. Not these."



After a moment, he nodded. "If you ever want to speak of it, I've a willing ear."



When he had gone, I sat down and watched Roshana's deft hands at work. There was something soothing in the rhythmic motion of it. Baptiste had fallen into a peaceful doze, his half-braided head drooping, lips parted. The sight made me smile.



"Patience, is it?" I asked Roshana.



"Well." She smiled back at me. "Patience, like love, takes many forms."



Chapter Twelve



Although I had made peace with Mavros, his words made me restless.



In truth, the Shahrizai themselves made me restless. To their credit, they had been perfectly well-behaved during their time at Montrève. What I had expected, I cannot say—perhaps, in the recesses of my mind, I half feared there would be some rampant manifestation of orgiastic behavior, or at the least, that I would find Mavros doing somewhat unspeakable to a chambermaid in a dark stairwell.



But no; although they flirted and charmed, they kept their behavior within the bounds of propriety. And yet it was there. It was present in the careless sensuality with which they interacted with one another, in the sense of desire simmering beneath the skin, predatory and… well, patient. Even in young Baptiste, it was there.



To gain a respite from it, I went to visit Phèdre in her study, where I found her reading through a pile of correspondence. A courier had come from the City, bearing a packet of missives which had arrived for her there. I stood in the open doorway, watching her read, her face alight with pleasure.



"Imri." She noticed me and beckoned. "Come in, love."



"I won't trouble you?" I asked. I had not seen her much; I had been busy with my cousins, and I thought she was merely being generous in giving me leave to spend time with them. After Mavros' words… I was not so certain.



Phèdre smiled. "Never. Where are our guests?"



"Ti-Philippe and Hugues are escorting them to the village. Roshana had a fancy to see it." Entering the study, I seated myself on the floor beside her chair. "Who's the letter from?"



"Nicola L'Envers," she said. "She's coming to the City to spend the winter at Court this year, with her younger son Raul."



I made a noncommittal sound. I knew the name well enough; she was a kinswoman of the Queen on her mother's side. She was wed to an Aragonian nobleman, and her influence there had been instrumental in aiding Phèdre and Joscelin in tracking down the Carthaginian slavers who had kidnapped me. I also knew she had been one of Phedre's favorite patrons.



"What is it?" Phèdre stroked my hair with cool fingers. "Trouble with the Shahrizai?"



"No." I leaned against her chair and closed my eyes. For a moment, I could pretend I was a child again. After Daršanga, I used to wish Phèdre was my mother, but I always knew it was impossible. She wasn't. She had saved my life, and I would lay my own down for hers in a heartbeat, but she was not my mother.



"What, then?"



Reluctantly, I raised my head and met her gaze. Her eyes were dark and lustrous, the scarlet mote vivid against the iris. A slight line of concern was etched between her winged brows; otherwise, her skin was creamy and flawless. In Terre d'Ange, one would say Phèdre was in the full summer of her beauty—past spring's fresh charms, not yet touched by the sere frost of autumn.