"Happiness?" I asked.

She nodded. "It is just that you miss Eamonn?"

"No." I shrugged. "It's a part of it. But there's more, too." I propped my chin on my hand, thinking. "I don't know. I don't know what to do with myself. Everyone else seems to be content with their lot or sure of their goals, and I'm not either. Not because of you," I added hastily. "The discontent, I mean. Ah, Elua! I ought to wake up every day grateful to be alive. And I do, I am, but—"

"Imri." Phèdre cut me off gently. "It's all right, love. You can't force happiness."

"Were you happy at this age?" I asked.

"I was." She smiled. "Happy, shallow, and vain."

It made me smile, too. "How did you know what you wanted?"

"They were simple wants," she said wryly. "I wanted to make my lord Delaunay proud of me, and mayhap to love me. I wanted to make my marque and be hailed by the City as the Queen of Courtesans." Phèdre shook her head. "The other things, those came later."

"Saving the realm, you mean?" I teased her.

She flushed. "I never meant to. Well, I didn't set out to. I was only trying to do what was right. And somehow, there always seemed to be one more thing to be done. It added up to more than I reckoned." A delicate furrow formed between her brows. "They were terrible times, Imriel, a lot of them."

"I know." I sighed. "But now it seems like there's nothing left to be done."

"No room left for heroes, you mean?"

Even in Phèdre's gentle tone, it sounded foolish said aloud; and yet she had cut to the quick of it. I looked away. "I just feel… trivial, sometimes."

"So it's not enough to be good?" she asked.

The question caught me out, and I glanced sharply at her. "It should be, shouldn't it?"

Her eyes were dark and sympathetic. "It is, love; but the truth is, it doesn't always feel that way. Don't worry, your time will come."

I took a deep breath. "I feel like I ought to do… I don't know, somewhat. I could find my mother," I said slowly. "Find her and bring her to justice. That would be a worthy gesture." I imagined Sidonie's expression. "It would silence a lot of doubt."

"Mayhap," Phèdre said. "You'd have to start by reading her letters."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because the first step in dealing with Melisande is understanding her," she said. "It's true for anyone and doubly true for your mother."

I shook my head. "I don't want to understand her."

"Then you're not ready. Someday, mayhap, but not today." Rising, Phèdre stooped to kiss my brow. "Imri, it's all right to yearn for things you can't even name."

"Other people don't," I said.

"Oh, they do." She smiled at me. "They just don't know it."

In some oblique way, it made me feel better. I couldn't even say why. It was true, Phèdre had a gift for understanding people. It reminded me of what Mavros had said two summers ago. Whatever the mirror of otherness reflected, bright or dark, she was willing to look into it without fear. Even in Daršanga, it had been true; and what she had seen reflected of herself in the Mahrkagir's mad gaze, I shuddered to think. Death's Whore, we called her.

Yet she had given hope to us all, she and Joscelin. And saved us.

That summer, I renewed my resolve to be worthy of them. I stopped brooding and sought to be somber and conscientious, grateful for what I had and mindful that, in Phèdre's words, it was all right to yearn for things I could not name.

When sorrow struck Montrève, it stood me in good stead.

It happened to Katherine. Although she and Gilot had yet to wed, they had settled contentedly into a life together. She had lit a candle to Eisheth in his name and gotten with child. By the time we arrived, her belly was already beginning to swell. She sported her little bulge with pride, carrying on with her chores, stroking it smugly. For his part, Gilot went about beaming.

She lost the child.

It happens, I am told. Still, it was a terrible thing. I remember servants hurrying from the bedchamber, their arms laden with bloody linens, and Gilot's pallid face, his fearful eyes stretched wide to show the whites. The Eisandine chirurgeon Phèdre had summoned could do nothing. She emerged, shaking her head in regret.

"Your lady will recover," she said softly. "But I fear this babe is lost."

Gilot shook and wept.

I went with him into the bedchamber, where Katherine reclined, pale and drawn. Phèdre had drawn up a chair beside her; without comment, she laved her seneschal's daughter's temples with a cool, damp cloth. Our eyes met, filled with mutual sympathy.

"Oh, my love!" Choking, Gilot knelt at the bedside. "I'm so sorry!"

"It's not your fault," Katherine murmured, turning her face away.

Such is the nature of love; wondrous and terrible. It cannot always withstand life's cruel vicissitudes. So I beheld that summer, although it wasn't evident that night. After a decent amount of time, I drew Gilot away, murmuring well-meaning sentiments. With Joscelin's tacit nod of approval, I ordered a keg of brandy breached, and got Gilot well and truly drunk.

Afterward, I went to see Katherine on my own.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I said humbly. "Truly, I am."

"Thank you, Imri. You've always been a good friend to me." Her fingers curled into mine. She smiled wanly. "What is it, do you think, that Blessed Elua sought to impart to me with this lesson?"

I shook my head. "It's not my place to say, Katherine. Sometimes bad things happen."

"They happened to you." Her head rolled on the pillows, her hollow gaze seeking mine. "Oh, Imriel! How did you endure it?"

"One day at a time," I said. "One hour at a time, minute by minute." I stroked her hand. "Then, and for a long time afterward. But it does get better, I promise."

Katherine mended, at least in body. Her heart was another matter. After the miscarriage, nothing was the same between her and Gilot. Why, I could not say; I'm not even sure she knew herself. But although she was apologetic for it, she withdrew from him and remained distant, saying only that perhaps they had committed to one another too young.

For his part, Gilot was hurt and bewildered.

I grieved for him, but there was nothing anyone could do to help. He tried to ply her with tenderness, to no avail. Whatever it was that had broken between them, it could not be fixed by love alone; not now, and mayhap never.

That autumn, when we departed for the City, Gilot came with us.

I watched them say their good-byes in the courtyard. It was a strained moment and a sad one. When we struck out on the journey, I made it a point to ride beside Gilot, offering my silent commiseration. From time to time, I glanced at his clean-cut profile. He was quiet and sober, every inch the professional man-at-arms, his brown hair bound unwontedly in a tight braid. All the lively merriment gone from his eyes. We rode for several leagues before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was harsh with pain and impotent anger.

"Don't fall in love, Imri," he said. "It will only break your heart."

"No fear," I murmured. "I haven't yet."

Gilot shuddered. "Don't."

Chapter Twenty-Three

In the City, my restlessness returned. I couldn't help it. I was seventeen and I wanted… something. Love, despite Gilot's warning; adventure, despite what I knew of its rigors. It didn't matter. I wanted, with passionate intensity, to feel. I wanted more.

Most of the time, I kept it in check. At others, it would break free. I lashed out at friends, and earned a name for having a sharp tongue.

And once, I lashed out at Nicola L'Envers y Aragon.

She had returned for the winter, along with her son Raul, who was contentedly courting several of the young women of the Court, including Colette Trente. Betimes, Phèdre saw Lady Nicola. Although she was quiet about it, I knew. I always knew. I saw what I had seen in Daršanga; the languor, the remote echo of violent pleasure. And despite my attempts at resolve and maturity, I still hated it.

It was an awkward encounter, taking place in the Salon of Eisheth's Harp; a small fete in honor of a minor dignitary from one of the Caerdicci city-states. At the Queen's behest, the musicians struck up a tune and everyone took part in a Caerdicci pavane in which one changed partners according to intricate rules.

At the end, I found myself partnered with the Lady Nicola.

I forced a pleasant smile as we danced, and we spoke lightly of inconsequential matters. She was a diplomat's wife; she was good at it. But there was another line of thought running behind her eyes, and when the dance ended, she gave voice to it with unexpected honesty. "You don't like me overmuch, do you?"

In the middle of a polite bow, I stiffened. "No," I admitted, straightening. "Not overmuch, I'm afraid."

Nicola studied me. There was no offense in her expression, only curiosity. "Why?"

I glanced over at Phèdre. She was conversing with the Caerdicci dignitary, her face alight with lively intelligence. A rush of love and anger overcame me. "Tell me, what manner of toys do you prefer, my lady?" I asked. "Whips? Brands? Blades?" With satisfaction, I watched Nicola blanch. "If you knew…" For a moment, words failed me. With an effort, I gathered myself. "If you knew," I said coldly, "if you had any idea, the slightest idea, what Phèdre has endured, you would never lay a hand upon her. You would never conduct such cruel outrage and call it love" I shook my head. "You have no idea."

I was trembling, filled with righteous fury. I expected… I don't know. I expected the Lady Nicola to apologize, to retreat in humility. Instead, she looked at me with profound compassion and spoke three words in a low tone.

"Duzhmata, duzhûshta, duzhvarshta."

It struck me like a fist to the gut, hearing them spoken here. I doubled over, gasping, hearing her voice at a distance. Vaguely aware, I suffered myself to be led to a low couch. There I collapsed, pale and sweating.

"I'm sorry." Nicola's face swam in my gaze, concerned. "Imriel, forgive me."

"You know," I whispered.

Her warm hands chafed my cold ones. "Yes."

"How?" I asked helplessly.

There was a world of sorrow in her gaze; an ocean of sorrow. "Because I could bear to hear it. Oh, Imriel! In a thousand years, I could never come between Phèdre and Joscelin, nor would I try to. What they are to one another…" Kneeling before me, Nicola shrugged. "The gods alone have decreed. And yet this thing, this one thing, I can hear and understand, in a way that he cannot. Altogether, they are stronger for it." She paused. "Have you never felt the need to tell anyone what befell you in that terrible place? Someone you trusted without reservation?"

Thinking of Eamonn, I nodded.

"Then you know," she said softly.

"But you hurt her," I whispered. "You hurt her!"

The Lady Nicola L'Envers y Aragon smiled. "No," she said. "There is a point where pleasure and pain commingle. Believe me, I would violate neither Elua's precept or Phèdre's trust." She touched my cheek, the garnet seal bearing the mark of Kushiel's Dart dangling from her wrist, brushing my skin. "And there are points, too, where being a friend and a lover intermesh. Is it hurtful to explore these?"

"Don't!" I shrank from her touch. "Please, don't."

She sat back on her heels, violet eyes grave, her gold-embroidered skirts pooling around her. "As you wish," Nicola said. "Only know…" She opened her hand, regarding her empty palm, contemplating the lines etched upon it. "Only know."

"Know what?" I cried.

"Know yourself." Nicola touched the center of my brow with the tip of her forefinger. "It's a good place to start, Prince Imriel."

I tried.

I tried so hard to be good that winter. All the while, all I yearned for was freedom; freedom from my past, freedom from my present, hedged all around with safeguards. I let go my antipathy toward the Lady Nicola, gaining a new sympathy and understanding. At Court, I tried hard to be pleasant and lighthearted. Making an effort, I tried, very hard, to be a good brother to Alais and Sidonie.

Half the time, I even felt like it.

At thirteen, Alais was as prickly as a thornbush. With her, I pretended nothing had changed. Betimes she would relent and speak openly to me; about her fears regarding the unsettled succession in Alba, about the long-standing quarrel between her parents. At other times, she was bristly and removed.

Sidonie was another matter.

Elua help me! I came to respect her in that year. No; that is a lie. I came to admire her. I watched and I saw. Attending an increasing number of Court events, she shouldered her burden as the Dauphine of Terre d'Ange squarely, aware of all it entailed. There was a constant undercurrent of intrigue and speculation, which she ignored with remarkable thoroughness. If it made her seem a touch cool and removed, so be it. It was a heavy burden.

I thought about my oath.

Impossible as it seemed, it remained a secret between us. No one except Sidonie had heard me swear it on that Longest Night. I had told no one; not even Phèdre. Nor, it seemed, had Sidonie.

We had a secret.

It felt strange, though not in a bad way. We never spoke of it. But betimes, in a crowded room, I would catch her eye and see a faint smile hover at the corner of her mouth. I knew, then, she thought of it, too.