much like me for your own good."
"Never enough," I murmured. "Never be that."
"Mayhap," Joscelin said, stroking my hair. He gave me a wry smile. "Never fear, love. It seems being you is dangerous enough."
----
Chapter Eight
Afterward, I was ill, with bouts of chills and a fever that refused to abate.
Joscelin's prediction proved true; Phèdre was angry. At him for his thoughtlessness, and at me for my folly. The chirurgeon who examined me ordered a period of extended bed rest, extra braziers, and vats of weak tea sweetened with honey, but I heard them quarreling while I lay in bed, their voices fading in and out of my fevered dreams.
"It's not his fault," I said to Phèdre in one of my lucid moments. "I wanted to do it."
She perched on the edge of my bed, wringing out a cloth in a basin of cool water. "I'm aware of that," she said, laying the damp cloth on my brow. "But you took it too far, Imri."
"Like you do," I whispered. "In Kushiel's temple."
Phèdre opened her mouth to reply, then shook her head. "Somewhere," she murmured, "Anafiel Delaunay is laughing at me."
Once word of my illness reached the Queen, my plight worsened. It wasn't that my condition grew worse; it remained unchanged, merely fluctuating on an hourly basis. If anything, I thought, it was improving. But Ysandre was angry, too; angry and worried, enough so to order me brought to the Palace to convalesce under the care of her personal chirurgeon.
I protested to no avail. It was a royal command and not to be disobeyed. The Queen's carriage was sent round, and I was bundled in blankets and carted off to the Palace, where I was installed for the duration. If it was a punishment, it was an effective one. Lelahiah Valais, the Queen's Eisandine chirurgeon, examined me with humiliating thoroughness, poking and prodding, peering into my ears and eyes and open mouth, even a sample of my urine and stool.
In the process of examining me, she discovered the brand on my left flank. Lying helpless on sweat-soaked sheets, I felt her cool fingers brush over the scar tissue and shuddered with shame and revulsion.
"What caused this?" Lelahiah asked, frowning.
With fever-heightened perceptions, I could see the thoughts flickering across her mind. I had come from the household of an anguissette, to whom such pain was pleasure. I bared my teeth at her. "His name was Jagun," I said. "And he is dead."
After that, she withdrew, but she left orders for administering a series of foul-tasting brews. Whether they proved effective or the illness merely ran its course, I cannot say, but within three days, the fever broke for good.
It left me weak and irritable. There are worse things than being confined to a sickbed, but from the perspective of a fourteen-year-old boy, not many. Gilot and Hugues had been allowed to accompany me, which was a mercy, but it was dull duty for them, and I dismissed them as often as they would go.
I had visitors, of course. The Queen herself came to see how I was progressing, and Phèdre was there every day. She brought me books to read, and we played many of the study-games that she had either invented or learned from Anafiel Delaunay. We shared the same favorite, which was one of her own—the game of tongues, which involved reciting famous works of poetry to one another, back and forth, line by line, translating each line into a different language. It was fun, for there was a dual challenge in it. One could hope to stump the other in choice of poem, or outwit the other in strength of language. When pressed, both of us would resort on occasion to zenyan, the pidgin argot spoken in the zenana. It was not a proper language, but it was a private one, and it made us laugh in the way survivors do. Otherwise we played in polyglot tongues: D'Angeline, Caerdicci, Hellene, Cruithne, Skaldic, Jeb'ez, Habiru, Akkadian, and Aragonian.
Mostly, I lost; Phèdre was very good at languages. But every now and then I won. My Jeb'ez was as good as hers, and she
"Never enough," I murmured. "Never be that."
"Mayhap," Joscelin said, stroking my hair. He gave me a wry smile. "Never fear, love. It seems being you is dangerous enough."
----
Chapter Eight
Afterward, I was ill, with bouts of chills and a fever that refused to abate.
Joscelin's prediction proved true; Phèdre was angry. At him for his thoughtlessness, and at me for my folly. The chirurgeon who examined me ordered a period of extended bed rest, extra braziers, and vats of weak tea sweetened with honey, but I heard them quarreling while I lay in bed, their voices fading in and out of my fevered dreams.
"It's not his fault," I said to Phèdre in one of my lucid moments. "I wanted to do it."
She perched on the edge of my bed, wringing out a cloth in a basin of cool water. "I'm aware of that," she said, laying the damp cloth on my brow. "But you took it too far, Imri."
"Like you do," I whispered. "In Kushiel's temple."
Phèdre opened her mouth to reply, then shook her head. "Somewhere," she murmured, "Anafiel Delaunay is laughing at me."
Once word of my illness reached the Queen, my plight worsened. It wasn't that my condition grew worse; it remained unchanged, merely fluctuating on an hourly basis. If anything, I thought, it was improving. But Ysandre was angry, too; angry and worried, enough so to order me brought to the Palace to convalesce under the care of her personal chirurgeon.
I protested to no avail. It was a royal command and not to be disobeyed. The Queen's carriage was sent round, and I was bundled in blankets and carted off to the Palace, where I was installed for the duration. If it was a punishment, it was an effective one. Lelahiah Valais, the Queen's Eisandine chirurgeon, examined me with humiliating thoroughness, poking and prodding, peering into my ears and eyes and open mouth, even a sample of my urine and stool.
In the process of examining me, she discovered the brand on my left flank. Lying helpless on sweat-soaked sheets, I felt her cool fingers brush over the scar tissue and shuddered with shame and revulsion.
"What caused this?" Lelahiah asked, frowning.
With fever-heightened perceptions, I could see the thoughts flickering across her mind. I had come from the household of an anguissette, to whom such pain was pleasure. I bared my teeth at her. "His name was Jagun," I said. "And he is dead."
After that, she withdrew, but she left orders for administering a series of foul-tasting brews. Whether they proved effective or the illness merely ran its course, I cannot say, but within three days, the fever broke for good.
It left me weak and irritable. There are worse things than being confined to a sickbed, but from the perspective of a fourteen-year-old boy, not many. Gilot and Hugues had been allowed to accompany me, which was a mercy, but it was dull duty for them, and I dismissed them as often as they would go.
I had visitors, of course. The Queen herself came to see how I was progressing, and Phèdre was there every day. She brought me books to read, and we played many of the study-games that she had either invented or learned from Anafiel Delaunay. We shared the same favorite, which was one of her own—the game of tongues, which involved reciting famous works of poetry to one another, back and forth, line by line, translating each line into a different language. It was fun, for there was a dual challenge in it. One could hope to stump the other in choice of poem, or outwit the other in strength of language. When pressed, both of us would resort on occasion to zenyan, the pidgin argot spoken in the zenana. It was not a proper language, but it was a private one, and it made us laugh in the way survivors do. Otherwise we played in polyglot tongues: D'Angeline, Caerdicci, Hellene, Cruithne, Skaldic, Jeb'ez, Habiru, Akkadian, and Aragonian.
Mostly, I lost; Phèdre was very good at languages. But every now and then I won. My Jeb'ez was as good as hers, and she
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