Authors: Jacqueline Carey

Tags: #High Fantasy

Kushiel's Chosen (3 page)

I was there, watching from the parapet, when he led the charge against Waldemar Selig's army. It was the Allies of Camlach who had driven a wedge into the massed Skaldi, and d'Aiglemort himself who slew Selig. He didn't live to tell of it; not many men of Camlach had survived that charge. Those who had lived had vowed themselves to driving the invading Skaldi far beyond D'Angeline borders.

The Unforgiven. It was a disturbing name.

"Did you hear?" Cecilie changed the subject, poring over the tray of dainties. "Prince Benedicte has remarried."

"No!"

"Oh, yes." She looked amused. "Do you suppose the pas sions of the flesh wither with age, my dear?"

"But he must be ..."

"Only sixty-aught," Cecilie said complacently. "And twelve years a widower. Ganelon was his elder, by a con siderable amount. He took a Camaeline lass to wife, whose family was slain in the war. Tourande, Tourais, something like that. They're expecting a child, come spring. I didn't tell you?"

"No," I said absently. "What does it betoken, for the throne?"

"Naught that I know of." She nibbled at a bit of marche-pain. "As Ganelon's brother, Benedicte is still formally next in line, but he has two daughters to succeed him, although I understand Thérèse is imprisoned for her part in Isabel L'Envers' death."

"And Barquiel L'Envers?"

"The Duc L'Envers." Cecilie set her piece of marchepain down unfinished. "If you're wary of anyone, be wary of him, Phèdre. Ysandre is thick with her uncle—and I do not say it is wrong, for blood calls to blood. But House L'Envers was ever ambitious, and he was your lord's enemy, you know. Ysandre may be Isabel's daughter, but she bears Rolande's blood."

I knew; I knew it well. The Duc Barquiel L'Envers was high atop the list of peers I mistrusted. As it happens, I also owed him my life.

"Well," I said reflectively. "A proper hornet's nest, it seems.”

"When were politics aught else?" Cecilie gave me a long, evaluating glance. "If you're going to do this, we'll need to set you up properly, Phèdre no Delaunay de Montrève. In living memory, no peer of the realm has chosen to follow Naamah's service. You're going against fashion, my dear."

"I know," I said. "But Naamah's arts are older than Terre d'Ange itself, and her service is ancient among us. I was her Servant before I was a peer. There was honor in both, once, and neither precluded the other. I swore an oath, Ce cilie. I made the dedication and released a dove in Naamah's name. Do you say I should gainsay it?"

"No," Cecilie sighed. "Nor will the Queen. Do you plan to maintain a salon?"

"No." I smiled. "I never did, in Delaunay's service. My ... patrons ... prefer to set their own terms, on their own territory. I am an
anguissette,
after all."

"Well, if anyone can restore the lustre to Naamah's ser vice, it's you, child." She cocked her head. "You'll at least need the services of a proper attendant. Have you a seam stress in mind? If you've not, I've word of a lass in Eglantine House who might do." I shook my head. "Have you registered with the Guild yet? You'll need to do that, now that you've made your marque. Oh, Phèdre!" Cecilie clapped her hands together, eyes sparkling. "We've so much to do!"

THREE

1 found the scholars' hall. The yeshiva."

We had not spoken of it on the ride back from Cecilie's; Joscelin had not offered, and I pushed him on little these

days. Pouring more tea, I raised my brows and waited.

"I met the Rebbe." He cleared his throat and sipped at his tea. "He's ... a rather formidable figure. He reminded me of the Prefect."

"Did you speak to him of studying there?”

"I mentioned it." Joscelin set his cup down. "He thought I was interested in converting," he said dryly. "Mayhap I should consider it."

The Cassiline Brotherhood had a peculiar relationship to the followers of Yeshua; in many ways, they held the same beliefs. I felt a creeping sense of alarm, which I hid. "You didn't tell him about Hyacinthe, then."

"No." Rising, Joscelin wandered the study, running his hand over the newly built shelves and cubbyholes. "I thought it best to wait. Phèdre, do you really think there's a key?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly. "But I have to look."

Somewhere, far to the west, on a lonely island, my Prince of Travellers spun out his days in apprenticeship to the Mas ter of the Straits, condemned to serve out the terms of Rahab's curse. It was a sacrifice he had made for us all, a bitter bargain. If he had not, the Alban army would never have succeeded in crossing the Straits, and the Skaldi would have conquered Terre d'Ange. But, oh! It was a cruel price to pay. For so long as the One God punished the disobedience of his angel Rahab, the curse would endure; and as the Mas ter of the Straits had said, the One God's memory was long.

Elua disobeyed the commandment of the One God, but he and his Companions were aided by our Mother Earth, in whose womb he was begotten. Silent these many long centuries, She did not seem inclined to intervene once more— and this affair was none of Hers. No, if there was an answer, a means of breaking an angel's
geis,
it lay in the ancient doctrines of the Yeshuites.

It had been done, I knew; there were tales of heroes who had defied the will of the One God's emissaries, outwitting them with guile and scholarship. But those were in the days when angels walked the earth and the gods spoke directly to their people. Now the gods kept their counsel, and only we lesser-born mortals, whose bloodlines bore faint traces of ichor, were left to the stewardship of the land.

Still, I would try.

"Well, I will speak to him, if he will hear me."

"He'll be amused at the novelty." Joscelin's tone was dry again. "A D'Angeline courtesan speaking Yeshuite. He had a hard enough time hearing it from me."

I have a gift for languages, but that wasn't what he meant. I closed my eyes against the pain; Joscelin's, mine, piercing at the core and welling outward in misery. Elua, but it was sweet! The pain of the flesh is naught to the pain of the soul. I bit the inside of my lower lip, willing the tide of it to subside, horrified in some part of me that I could take pleasure in it. Melisande's face swam in memory behind my closed lids, sublimely amused. True scion of Kushiel's line, she would have understood it as no other.

"Remy found a carriage." Joscelin changed the subject. "I sent him to Emile, from Hyacinthe's old crew. He still has the stable in Night's Doorstep."

"How much did he spend?"

He shrugged. "He got it for a song, he said, but it's in dreadful shape. They think they can repair it. Fortun's grandfather was a wheelwright."

I ran my hands through my hair, disheveling the mass of sable curls. I didn't care for this penny-counting, necessary though it was. My father had been a spendthrift, which was how I came to be bond-sold to Cereus House as a child; it made me wary of debt. Still, I didn't have to like it. Joscelin watched me out of the corner of his eye. "How long, do they think? I should send word to Ysandre."

"Three days, mayhap. Less if they've naught else to do." He made an abrupt movement, gathering the tea tray. "It's late. I will see you in the morning, my lady."

There were barbs on the words, his formal address. I en dured them in silence and watched him go, leaving me alone with the remorseless pleasure of my pain.

It took only two days to restore the carriage to a presentable shape, sufficient to arrive at the Palace in a style befitting the Comtesse de Montrève. I sent word to Ysandre, and had a reply by royal courier that afternoon, granting an audience on the morrow. He stood waiting while I read it, elegant in blue Courcel livery, and bowed graciously when I told him to tell the Queen I would be honored to attend. There was a trace of curiosity in his eyes, but he didn't let it show in his manner.

That there were stories about me, I knew full well. The lesis de Mornay had included my tale in earliest drafts of the Ysandrine Cycle, the epic poem documenting Ysandre's tumultuous ascension to the throne in the midst of war. There were other stories, too, passed about by word of mouth. Most of my patrons were discreet, but not all.

So be it. There is no shame in being a Servant of Naamah, nor an
anguissette.
We are D'Angeline, and we revere such things. Other nations reckon us soft for it; the Skaldi found otherwise. But too, it is as I have said—our blood has grown thick with mortality, and one such as I, marked by a celestial hand, was a rarity.

It is not a thing, I may say, in which I take pride; I grew up in Cereus House, where the crimson mote in my eye marked me not as Kushiel's chosen, but merely as one flawed beyond the canons of the Night Court. It was Delau nay who changed that, and named me for what I was. And in truth, I have no special gift beyond the transmutation of pain, which has been as much curse as boon to me. If I am skilled at language and logic, it is because I was well taught; Alcuin, who was a student with me, was better. It is only a quirk of fate that left me alive to exercise them, while he and Delaunay perished. Not a day passes but that I remember it. I would give up all that I have gained to change that past. Since I cannot, I do the best I can, and pray it does honor to their memories.

It was strange to have the Queen's Guard bow at the Palace gates, to be met by liveried servants and enter the halls with an entire entourage in tow. If Joscelin was grave, Phèdre's Boys were on their best behavior, trying hard to look dignified. I didn't worry about Fortun, sober by nature, but Remy and Ti-Philippe had a talent for mischief.

Ysandre received us in the Hall of Games, a vast, col onnaded salon where the Palace nobles liked to gather for gaming and conversation. I spotted her with two of her ladies-in-waiting, pausing to observe an intense game of rhythmomachy. Her own Cassiline guard, two Brothers clad in ashen-grey, stood a discreet distance away. Not young, either of them, but their straight backs defied age. Few of the Great Houses follow the old traditions any more, sending their middle sons to serve Cassiel.

"The Comtesse Phèdre no Delaunay de Montrève!" our escort announced loudly.

Heads turned, a few murmurs sounded. Ysandre de la Courcel came toward me with a smile. "Phèdre," she said, grasping my hands and giving me the kiss of greeting. There was genuine pleasure lighting her violet eyes when she drew back. "Truly, I am happy to see you."

"Your majesty." I curtsied. Ysandre looked much the same; a little older, worn by the cares of the throne, but with the same fair beauty. We were nearly of an age, she and I.

"Joscelin Verreuil." She rested her fingertips on his arm when he finished his sweeping bow. "I trust you have been keeping my near-cousin safe?"

It was Ysandre's jest, to name me thusly. Of a surety, there were ties of neither blood nor marriage between us, but my lord Delaunay, who had taken me into his household, had been dearly beloved of her father Rolande. Indeed, that love had gone deeper than many suspected, and Delaunay had sworn in secret an oath to ward Ysandre's life as his own.

"I protect and serve, your majesty." Joscelin smiled, warmth in his words and not irony. Whatever lay between us, his loyalty to the Queen was undiminished.

"Good." Ysandre looked with amusement at the bowed heads of Remy, Fortun and Ti-Philippe, who had all dropped to one knee before her. "Well met, chevaliers," she said

kindly. "Does your service still suit, or does the sea beckon

you back to my lord Admiral Rousse?"

Remy grinned up at her. "We are well content, your majesty."

"I am pleased to hear it." Ysandre looked back at me.

"Come, Phèdre, tell me how you have been keeping. I am sure your men will find ample entertainment in the Hall of Games, and I am eager to learn what has brought you back to the City of Elua."

If it had been strange to enter the Palace as a peer, stranger still to stroll the Hall at Ysandre's side, her Cassiline guards trailing us. It had been different, after the war, when everything was still in a jumble, Albans and Dalriada everywhere, and my services in constant demand as trans lator. This measured order was like the Palace of my youth, which I had attended only at the behest of noble patrons.

"Matters proceed well, it seems," I observed to Ysandre.

She smiled wryly. "Well enough. We are fewer than be fore, I fear, but our alliance with Alba has given us new strength. Drustan will be sorry to have missed you."

"And I him." There had been a strong sympathy between us, the Cruarch of Alba and I.

"Come spring, he'll be back." There was a faint trace of longing in Ysandre's voice; I doubt it would have been evident to anyone not trained to listen for such things. "So tell me, was Montrève too rustic for your liking?"

"Not entirely," I answered honestly. "It is very pleasant. But there is a matter I am pursuing that I cannot follow from the isolation of a country manor." Ysandre looked at me with interest, and I told her of my research into Yeshuite lore, my dream of finding a key to unlock Hyacinthe's prison. I could not help but mark, as we walked, how all eyes in the Hall of Games followed the Queen, and a hum of speculation followed in her wake. Nobles contrived to place themselves in our path, moving aside with a bow or curtsy; I could see the offers plain in their faces, men' and women alike.

Ysandre handled it with an absent grace. "Your Tsingano lad, yes. I wish you luck with it. They are a strange folk, the Yeshuites." She shook her head. "I do not pretend to understand them. We welcome them openly in Terre d'Ange, and they accept our hospitality on sufferance."

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