“Well done.” He kissed her brow. “Hurry!”

A dark-skinned young man emerged from the hallway, his eyes bound, stumbling after her. Leander stepped deftly out of his way. “Ah,” he said with a trace of melancholy. “He puts me in mind of Sunjata.”

“You know him?” I asked.

“Very well.” His mouth quirked. “We trained together, Sunjata and I. ’Tis a barbaric custom, gelding. It happened at Carthage’s hands. Now her ladyship seeks to acquire them earlier, before it can be done. And his apish lordship has banned it at her urging, at least on Cythera.”

The sound of laughter receded.

I heard a fountain instead.

“Here.” Leander halted at the entrance to an inner courtyard. His light-blue eyes met mine. “I will go no farther with you. Her ladyship awaits.”

I entered the courtyard.

I saw her.

Phèdre was right. My mother’s beauty hadn’t dimmed. It had only changed again. Melisande lifted her head and gazed at me, tears brightening her glorious eyes, the deep blue hue of a twilit sea. There were faint lines etched at the corners, a few threads of bright silver strewn in her black hair. There was somewhat else, too. A well of sorrow and regret, a humanity that had been lacking. A goddess rendered mortal by time and compassion, all the more poignant for it.

My mother breathed my name. “Imriel.”

I walked toward her. “Mother,” I said, my voice sounding strange to my ears. I had never called her that. I’d never called anyone that.

She touched my cheek, her fingers hesitant. “You look older than I expected.”

“Twenty-two,” I said, my throat tight. “But on most days it feels like more.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

I took a deep breath, trying to loosen the tightness. “I don’t . . .” I spread my hands. “I don’t know what to say. You know why I’m here.” She nodded without speaking. “Solon accused me of callousness and temerity. I told him it was desperation. But you sent for me, too. Sunjata did your bidding. Knowing that I’d sworn to bring you to justice, you sent for me. So . . . here I am. Begging for your help.” I licked my dry lips. “And I will tell you what I told Solon. Terre d’Ange is willing to commute your sentence to exile. I can’t offer more than that on behalf of the realm. But anything else in my power, anything you wish of me, I will do.”

Curiosity raised my mother’s winged brows. It made her look younger. “What do you imagine I might ask for?”

“I don’t know.” I glanced around the courtyard. Flowering shrubs blossomed in profusion. The fountain splashed merrily, water sparkling in the sunlight. “Me,” I said. “You might ask me to join you in exile.”

Melisande’s curious expression didn’t change. “Would you?”

An invisible band around my chest tightened. I thought about Astegal and his heavy-lidded smile. Sidonie. Phèdre and Joscelin gazing at me in perplexity, their memories stolen. The rising tide of unease on the streets of Marsilikos, Quintilius Rousse’s ships in the harbor. “Yes,” I said, tears stinging my eyes. “If it meant undoing Carthage’s spell.”

Unexpectedly, she laughed, a mixture of humor and sadness in it. “Ah, Elua! Imriel, I’ve given you enough reasons to hate me already. Why would I choose one more?” My mother shook her head. “Come. Sit and listen a moment.”

There was a curved marble bench near the fountain. We sat on opposite ends of it. Melisande gazed at the falling water.

“I mean to persuade Solon to aid you,” she said without preamble. “And I believe he will. I wish you to know that I expect no gratitude for it. Not from you, not from Terre d’Ange. I do not imagine this will buy me forgiveness.”

“Are you making atonement?” I asked her.

Her gaze shifted to me. Gods, she really was beautiful. “Perhaps, in a way. Although you may not believe it, I do love Terre d’Ange. I could have controlled Waldemar Selig if he had proved victorious. I would have built somewhat glorious in the aftermath and turned his victory into my own.”

“Dreams of empire,” I murmured. “You’d like Astegal of Carthage.”

She gave a faint, wry smile. “Probably. But I don’t care to watch him usurp the country I once dreamed of ruling.”

“A true patriot,” I observed.

“No.” Melisande shook her head. “I don’t pretend to that. Still, there are ways in which I have changed. When you were taken . . .” She fell silent a moment. “I learned what it was to suffer. To hate. To be filled with fury and helplessness. To regret. And afterward . . .” She looked away. “Phèdre nó Delaunay told me I did not wish to know what befell you in that place. And yet I was torn between a fear of knowing and a need to know. In the end, I couldn’t bear it. I found a Caerdicci woman who had been there and had her sent to the Temple of Asherat. She told me.” She looked back at me. “And then it was worse.”

“You wrote to me,” I said. “You wrote that if you could undo what was done to me, you would do anything in the world.”

The shadow behind her eyes lightened. “You read my letters?”

“Yes.” I propped my elbows on my knees, clasping my hands between them. “Not for a long time, not until years after you disappeared. But I did. At first I tried to burn them,” I added. “After that, Phèdre kept them for me.”

“Phèdre.” My mother’s rich voice held too many things to decipher. She gazed into the distance. “The gods must laugh. And yet I begin to think mayhap they hold a shred of mercy for me. I cannot take back my deeds. I cannot undo your hurt. But this at least I can do, and pray that it leavens the burden of regret. So you see, I do not pretend to selflessness.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Since it has the added benefit of removing the sentence of death hanging over your head.”

“True.” Her brows rose again. “But if I had not acted to protect you, it wouldn’t have mattered. You would have forgotten all about your vow.”

I studied my clasped hands, thinking about a world in which I had forgotten my promise to bring my mother to justice. Forgotten Sidonie. “Will you answer a question truthfully?” I asked. “Could you have prevented it? Carthage’s spell?”

My mother didn’t answer for a long time.

I lifted my head and gazed at her.

“No,” she said finally. “Not without Solon’s help. I only knew the rumors Sunjata passed to me. It was Solon who pieced them together. He’s studied a great many arcane arts.” She gave another wry smile. “But he kept the full truth of it from me, knowing it would mean you wouldn’t come seeking my life. All I asked was that whatever it was, he find a way to protect you.”

“Solon,” I muttered. “I could kill him for that.”

“I suggest you don’t,” Melisande said. “Since he’s your best hope.”

I eyed her. “What would you have done if you had known? Would you have let it happen?”

“I don’t know,” she said with surprising candor. “What if I hadn’t? What would you have done if I had persuaded Solon to tell me how to avert it? Sent a warning? Would you have believed me?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “I believe I would.”

“And would you have still sought to drag me back to Terre d’Ange to be executed?” Melisande inquired.

It was my turn to fall silent. “I don’t know,” I said at length.

“So.” Her shoulders moved in a graceful shrug. “Life is filled with things we may never know. And although you have not asked it of me, I grant you forgiveness for seeking my death.”

“I didn’t relish the prospect,” I said.

“That’s nice to know.” My mother sounded more amused than not. Whatever else was true of her, Leander was right. She wasn’t vindictive. She cocked her head. “Ysandre’s daughter?”

“Did you laugh?” I asked.

Her generous lips twitched. “What do you think?”

I smiled despite myself. “It’s not a ploy, if that’s what you’re wondering. I love her. I’ve loved her for a long time. For years we kept it a secret, hoping it would pass. It didn’t. And I truly will do whatever is needful to get her back.”

The early-autumn sun poured down on us, warm and golden. My mother reached out and touched my hair, running a lock of it between her fingers.

I let her.

“What’s she like?” Melisande asked.

“Sidonie?” I smiled again. “Dorelei said once that she was like a house without a door. It’s not true, though. Not really. She’s very . . . contained. But there’s a fierceness in her. Once it’s tapped, it’s . . .” I shook my head. “I don’t know. She’s determined. Passionate. Loyal. Funny, too. Most people don’t know that about her. I didn’t, not for a long time.” My smile faded. “And she’s Astegal’s wife.”

My mother stroked my hair. “Not for always.”

“No.” I straightened my shoulders. “Her always is mine.”

Melisande withdrew her touch and regarded me with deep, abiding sorrow. “Will you do me one kindness? I know you’re impatient. And I will send word to Solon seeking his aid immediately. But I would like it very much if you would pass this day with me. I would like, very much, to hear about your life.”

As much as I wanted to hate her, I couldn’t.

Not in the flesh.

I could feel the bond between us, blood-deep. I was her son. I had fought against it in more ways than I could count, and there was a great deal of me that owed nothing to her. I was as much Phèdre’s son, as much Joscelin’s, as I was hers and my father’s. But deep in my marrow, I knew her touch. I knew she had carried me in her womb. I had read her letters. I knew she had nursed me at her breast, counted my infant fingers and toes, sung me crib-songs, suffering no one else to usurp those duties.

“I will,” I said.

My beautiful, damnable mother settled her glorious gaze on me. “Thank you,” Melisande said simply.

Twenty

It was a pleasant day.

I would be lying if I said it wasn’t. I’d never understood how my mother had gotten so many folk willingly involved in her intrigues, but the truth was she was a charming and brilliant woman, unexpectedly candid and self-aware. One found oneself wishing to please her out of unthinking instinct.

To be sure, her household doted on her. It wasn’t just the members of the Maignard clan, of whom there were half a dozen. It was everyone. The Cytheran servants. The freed slaves, many of whom were her pupils.

I learned that my mother was a master in the Unseen Guild, and aspired to go no higher. Once, she had. She had learned of the Guild’s existence from Anafiel Delaunay many years ago, when he was distraught over the death of Prince Rolande de la Courcel and careless enough to confide in her. She had sought out the Guild on her own and risen quickly within its ranks. If her gambit with Skaldia hadn’t failed, or the attempt to assassinate Ysandre, she would have risen much, much higher.

Now she contented herself with dabbling. She bought slaves who struck her fancy and gave them their freedom, offering them positions within her household with generous pay. A few took their freedom and fled, but most stayed. In time, she made an offer of Guild training and far greater wealth to those she deemed quick-witted and loyal enough to be useful to her. Then she sent them forth to spy on her behalf.

Over the course of the day, I learned a few things about the Guild. I learned that there were indeed factions within it. Alliances were formed. Ephesium, looking over its shoulder at powerful Khebbel-im-Akkad, favored the rise of Carthage. Most of Caerdicca Unitas, remembering the lessons of history, opposed it and sought ties to nascent Skaldic states. I learned that the Guild’s origins lay in the east, and that their influence was weak in the western realms.

Mostly, though, I talked.

I talked for hours.

Many of the details of my life she knew. Her spies in Terre d’Ange—and their identities was one thing she wouldn’t divulge to me—had kept her well informed. But Melisande wanted to hear about my life from me.

And I found myself talking about things that surprised me. How the difficulty of being her son was compounded by measuring myself against the extraordinary heroism of my foster-parents. How I’d learned to let go of that for good when I’d accepted failure in Vralia. How I’d felt in Clunderry after Dorelei and I had learned to love one another on our own terms, watching her belly swell with our child. How I’d grieved for their deaths. How I’d gone from sheer hatred and a cold desire for vengeance to feel a measure of compassion for Berlik at the end.

When I’d talked myself dry, my mother was very quiet for a time. We were seated in her salon, drinking a cool white wine made on the villa’s grounds. Blue twilight was beginning to fall outside.

“You’re a good man,” Melisande murmured. “Elua knows, if I did one good thing in my life, it was binding myself to a promise to allow you to be raised by Phèdre nó Delaunay and that damned Cassiline of hers.”

“The only gift I would accept from you,” I said, remembering what Phèdre had told me. “I thank you for it.”

She glanced out the window. “It’s growing late. Will you pass the night here?”

There was a yearning hunger in the question, and fear, too. I found myself wanting to assuage both. I was in her debt. It would be easy, so easy, to offer the simple balm of my presence. And yet in the back of my mind there were black armbands and down-turned thumbs. There was a blood-soaked battlefield. Waldemar Selig had begun to skin Phèdre alive there.