At the Palace, I gave the Bastard over to an ostler with the usual warnings. The footman on duty swept me a low bow.
"Prince Imriel," he said. "How may I serve your highness?”
"I believe Lady Bernadette de Trevalion is expecting me," I said.
He bowed again. "Of course.”
I followed him down the marble halls. The Palace was a vast place. The City of Elua is the heart of Terre d'Ange, and the Court is the heart of the City. Betimes it seems half the peers of the realms maintain quarters there. Others maintain lodging elsewhere in the City, but spend their days loitering at Court—playing games of chance in the Hall of Games, partaking of entertainment in the Salon of Eisheth's Harp, begging an audience with the Queen or a chance to present a case before the Parliament when it is in session.
The young nobles play the Game of Courtship, testing out dalliances and angling for marital alliances. I'd never played it; nor would I, now. I was betrothed to a woman I barely knew; Dorelei mab Breidaia, a princess of Alba.
House Trevalion's quarters were on the third floor of the Palace. I'd visited them often when Bernadette's son Bertran and I were friends. That had all changed the night he believed he'd caught me out at a treasonous intrigue, and I hadn't been back since. The footman knocked for admission, exchanging low words with the attendant who answered. In short order, I was ushered into a private audience with the Lady Bernadette in her salon.
"My lady." I accorded her the bow due an equal. She sat upright and rigid in a tall chair. Her mother had been my father's sister; Lyonette de Trevalion. The Lioness of Azzalle, they used to call her. She was dead, convicted of treason, along with her son Baudoin. They had conspired to usurp the throne. He had fallen on his sword; she had taken poison. My mother had betrayed them both, and it was her testimony that had convicted them. "You asked to see me?”
Bernadette's sea-grey eyes narrowed. "Do me the courtesy of playing no games with me, Imriel de la Courcel. My son Bertran said you had a message for me. What is it?”
"As you wish." I handed her the copy of Ruggero's letter. "I hold the original.”
She scanned it, then nodded once, crisply. "So. What will you?”
I sighed. "My lady, what would you have me say? I am sorry for the death of your mother and brother. I am sorry for your time spent in exile. But I am not willing to die for it.”
Her hands trembled, making the parchment quiver. "And with this, you could destroy me. Destroy House Trevalion, or what is left of it." Her voice hardened. "So I ask again, what will you?”
I sat, uninvited, on a couch. "Forswear vengeance.”
Her eyes widened. "That's all?”
"More or less," I said, studying her. Looking for lies, looking for the fault-lines of bitterness and anger and pride that lay within her. "Tell me, did Bertran know? Or your husband, Ghislain?”
"No." Bernadette de Trevalion closed her eyes. "Only me. It would kill them.”
"Then why did you do it?" I asked her. "Why?”
Her eyes opened; her lips twisted. "You have to ask? Because I hurt, Imriel. I miss my brother. I miss my mother. I grieve for my father's disgrace, my husband's disgrace. You?" She shrugged. "I was willing to abide. When my son befriended you, it galled me. Still, I tolerated it. But when Bertan caught you in the midst of conspiring treason, it brought it all back." Her cheeks flushed. "All the old hurt, all the hatred.”
"And so you thought to kill me for it," I said softly. "Despite the fact that the Queen herself declared me innocent.”
"I wanted you to suffer like Baudoin did!" Her voice rose. "And I wanted your mother, your cursed mother, to know what it felt like. To feel her actions rebounding on her and know her role in them. To hurt like I do.”
My old scars itched. "You have no idea," I said. "None.”
Bernadette de Trevalion looked steadily at me. "What will you?”
At least she had courage. She made no effort to lie, no plea for undeserved mercy. I returned her regard for a long moment. "First, understand this. What Bertran overheard that night was a lie." She opened her mouth to speak and I cut her off. "Duc Barquiel L'Envers was behind it, Bernadette," I said wearily. "There's proof. That's how he was pressured to relinquish the Royal Command your husband now enjoys.”
Her mouth worked. "Why would he—”
"Elua only knows." I spread my hands. "L'Envers has wanted me dead since I was born. And you very nearly obliged him.”
She turned pale. "I didn't know.”
"Now you do." I stood. "My lady, I'm no traitor. I never have been. You, on the other hand, conspired to murder a Prince of the Blood." I nodded at the letter she held. "You ask me what I will. Ruggero Caccini's letter stays in my keeping as surety. But if you forswear all vengeance against me for my mother's misdeeds, I promise you, it will never come to light. I will never speak of this incident.”
Bernadette hesitated. "Why would you make such a promise?”
"Because your son Bertran was a friend, once." I smiled grimly. "Not a very good one, as it transpired, but a friend. Because your husband is the Queen's loyal Commander and a hero of the realm. Because the Queen ardently desires peace among her kin. And mostly because I am sick unto death of being caught up in the bloody coils of things that happened long before I was born. Do you swear?”
She raised her chin. Oh yes, there was pride there. "In the name of Blessed Elua and Azza, I swear to forgo all vengeance against you, Imriel de la Courcel.”
Her voice was low, but it was steady. I nodded once more. "My thanks, my lady.”
"Imriel." Bernadette rose and caught my elbow as I turned to go. Old anguish surfaced in her sea-grey eyes, complicated with guilt and dawning remorse. "I didn't know, truly. I'm sorry.”
I gazed at her. "Good.”
After I took my leave of her, I visited one other place within the Palace. The Hall of Portraits was a long, narrow room on the second floor. A row of windows along the outer wall admitted a wash of wintry light. The interior wall was lined and stacked with portraits of the scions of House Courcel, rulers of Terre d'Ange for some three centuries.
I'd never set foot in it before. But after reading my mother's letters, I reckoned it was time. I made my way toward the far end of the hall. Family members were clustered together, stacked in groups. There; there was Ganelon de la Courcel, Ysandre's grandfather, and his wife above him. There was no portrait of Lyonette de Trevalion, his sister. I daresay that had been removed after her execution. But there, beside him…I read the name on the frame's brass plaque: Benedicte de la Courcel.
My father.
You will wonder about your father. There are few left, I think, in Terre d'Ange who knew him well, well enough to speak of him. He spent long years in La Serenissima, and there were things that happened to poison him against his own legacy. You may hear that it made him bitter, and it did. We D'Angelines are not a people who take well to exile, even though it be for political advantage. This I know all too well.
But this I will tell you: He was a brave man, and a noble one in his own way. He fought for his country as a young man. He believed what he did—what we did together—was in the best interests of Terre d'Ange. He believed in the purity of the bloodlines of Blessed Elua and his Companions. He believed the nation cried out for a pure-blooded D'Angeline heir.
You.
I stared at the portrait. I didn't remember my father. He died when I was only a babe, killed in the fighting in the Temple of Asherat where my mother's final treachery was revealed. He'd been an old man, then. She had played on his prejudices. He'd been willing to condone the assassination of the Queen, his own grand-niece, to pave the way for a pure-blooded heir. Me. If he'd lived to stand trial, I daresay he would have been convicted of treason.
As for my mother, she'd already been convicted, long ago. Her life was forfeit if she ever set foot on D'Angeline soil.
The portrait depicted a serious-looking young man. It was formal and a bit stiff, and I thought it must have been painted when he was scarce older than I was. I could see a little of my own face in his; only a little. The strong, straight line of the eyebrows, the angle of his jaw. He didn't look like a man who laughed often, but he didn't look unkind, either. Mostly, he looked like a stranger; someone I'd never met.
There was no portrait of his first wife, the Serenissiman. No portraits of the children they had borne together, disowned by House Courcel due to other intrigues. But there was a second painting hung above his, veiled with drapes of sheer black muslin. It was there because of me; because Queen Ysandre insisted on acknowledging me as a member of House Courcel. It was veiled because of the death-sentence on her. I pulled back the drapes and gazed at my mother.
Melisande.
She bore the unmistakable stamp of House Shahrizai. I bear it, too. The blue-black hair that grows in ripples, the deep, deep blue of the eyes. It was a good portrait. Her eyes seemed to sparkle with untold secrets and her generous lips were parted slightly, as though in the next instant she might laugh or smile, blow a kiss. I touched my lower lip with two fingers, thinking of the portrait I'd allowed the artist Erytheia to paint of me in Tiberium, lounging in the pose of Bacchus. Same mouth, same shape.
There was a click-clicking sound. "Imri?”
I tensed at the intrusion and turned my head to see Alais, with her pet wolfhound padding beside her, nails clicking on the marble. A pair of the Queen's Guardsmen hovered discreetly in the doorway behind her. I relaxed. "What are you doing here, villain?”
Alais pulled a face at the nickname. "I come here sometimes. But I heard you were here. You know how it is in the Court, everyone keeping track of everyone else's comings and goings. What did Lady Bernadette want of you?”
"Oh, she was hoping that Bertran and I would make up our quarrel now that I'm back," I said casually. "We never really did, you know.”
"Well, it might help if he apologized for the way he behaved to you!" Alais came alongside me. "Your parents?”
I nodded. The wolfhound Celeste pushed her muzzle into my hand. I'd known her since she was a pup. She had been my gift to Alais. I scratched absently at the base of her ears, watching Alais contemplate the portraits. She'd grown up while I was gone. A little lady, now, almost fifteen years old. Her small face was dark and intent. Alais took after her father, Drustan mab Necthana, the Cruarch of Alba. Mixed blood. There were those in Court who still thought as my father had done.
"What do you think?" I asked her.
"Of them?" Alais tilted her head. "He looks …uncomfortable. Like his skin's too tight. That's what I always thought. And she…" Her expression turned wistful. "I never dared look at her before. But she doesn't, does she? The world fits her just right.”
"I read her letters," I said softly.
Alais shot me a startled glance. "What did she say?”
"A lot," I said. "A lot that added up to nothing."
She nodded somberly. "Adults talk that way, don't they?"
I nearly laughed, then thought better of it. Though I was an adult now, we had been children together. Alais was wise beyond her years, and she had dreams that came true sometimes. She'd dreamed I met a man with two faces and it came true, in Lucca. "Yes," I said. "They do.”
Why?
You asked me, and I will try to answer. It is a child's question, the first and last and best of all questions that may be asked. Why? Why did I do what I did? Did I know it was treason? Yes, of course.
So …why?
Ah, Imriel! Son of mine, I will say to you what I have said to others: Blessed Elua cared naught for crowns or thrones. It is a human game, a mortal game. I imagine you will say it was not worth the cost of innocent blood spilled in the process, since it is what Phèdre nó Delaunay once said to me. Mayhap it is true. And yet, countless numbers of those she would deem innocent never hesitated to engage in a death-struggle for these things, these mortal tokens of power.
What does it mean to be innocent? It is impossible to move through this life without making choices that injure others. My choices were bolder than others'; and yet. If they had not chosen as they did, they would not have suffered for it. We are all driven by desires, some simple and some complex. In the end, we all make choices.
In the end, no one is truly innocent.
I shook my head to dispel my mother's words. Her betrayal of House Trevalion was the least of her sins. Long before my birth, her machinations had brought Terre d'Ange to the brink of conquest. Thousands had died fighting against the invasion of the Skaldi that she had orchestrated, D'Angelines and Albans alike. And yes, it was their choice to struggle against it, but…ah, Elua! Surely the choices were not equal in weight.
Small wonder there were those who longed to see her suffer.
"Imri?" Alais' brow was knit with concern.
"Yes, my lady." With an effort, I gathered myself, smiling at Alais and closing the muslin drapes. My mother's face vanished. My father's continued to gaze somberly from the wall. I bowed to Alais. "I place myself at your service. What will you?”
She looked away, one hand buried in the wolfhound's ruff. "Please don't make mock of me, Imriel.”
"Alais!" Startled, I went to one knee. "I wasn't.”
"All right." She stole a sidelong glance at me. "Do you ever think ... do you ever wish she had succeeded? Or think they might have been right?”