Authors: Jacqueline Carey

Tags: #High Fantasy

Kushiel's Chosen (4 page)

"There is no room in their theology for Blessed Elua, my lady. They cannot reconcile our existence, and it troubles them."

"Well." Ysandre's fair brows arched. "They have had some time to grow accustomed to the notion. Have you come to a decision on the other matter?" she asked then, changing the subject. "You are still vowed to Naamah, un less I am mistaken."

"Yes." Unthinking, I twisted a ring I bore on the third finger of my right hand; black pearls, given me as a patron-gift by the Duc de Morhban. I smiled. "If I bare my marque," I said, "you will know my answer, my lady."

Ysandre laughed. "Then I shall have to wait and see." She swept her hand about the Hall. "They will be wonder ing, you know. They've naught better to do."

"I have heard as much," I said reservedly.

"Majesty." A man's voice spoke, deep and silken; from the comer of my eye, I caught a swirl of black and gold, intricately patterned, as a figure rose from a deep-backed chair. He bowed, then straightened, and I caught my breath. His blue-black hair hung in plaits like tiny chains, and eyes the hue of sapphire were set in a dangerously beautiful face, skin like ivory. He smiled, showing white teeth, and fanned an ornate deck of cards. "You promised me a game of batarde."

I knew him; I had last seen him in the company of his cousin, whom he had betrayed.

"I did, my lord Marmion, but I did not say when," Ysan dre replied lightly.

"I shall await the day." His deep blue gaze rested on my face. "My lady Phèdre no Delaunay de Montrève," he said, caressing my name. My knees turned to water. "For a short life, you have a long history with House Shahrizai."

Along with his sister Persia, Marmion Shahrizai betrayed his cousin Melisande, mayhap the most dangerous act any of their House could undertake, giving her unto the custody of Duc Quincel de Morhban, the sovereign Duc of their province of Kusheth. I watched them bring her into Ysandre's impromptu court at the fortress of Troyes-le-Mont, af ter the battle was won. I was there at the hearing, where Melisande was accused of treason.

I gave the testimony that condemned her.

"My lord Shahrizai." With all the willpower I could sum mon, I made my voice cool. "Your loyalty to the throne has prospered you."

He laughed, and bowed. "How not, when it has such a lovely occupant?" he said for Ysandre's benefit. "Her maj esty is wise beyond years, to recognize that the treachery of one member of a House does not taint all born within it." With one last florid bow, he turned away.

I let out a shaking breath.

"I should have warned you." Ysandre gave me a compassionate glance. "He's been a great help, actually; we un covered several of Melisande's allies thanks to Marmion. I'd forgotten about your ... long history with his House."

"Allies." I wrestled my thoughts into order. "But not Mel isande?"

"No." Ysandre shook her head. "She's gone well and truly to earth, Phèdre, like a fox; and I suspect she's far beyond the borders of Terre d'Ange. Wherever she is, her power here is broken. What allies she had, have been executed, and no one, I think, would be fool enough to trust her with a bounty on her head. I promise you, you've naught to fear from Melisande Shahrizai."

Once upon a time, I was young and naive enough to have thought a Queen's reassurance beyond question. Now, I merely smiled and thanked Ysandre for her concern, holding my fear in check and gazing about the Hall of Games, wondering where the traitors lay.

Of their presence, I had no doubt.

FOUR

I he key to finding the traitor in the Queen's inner circle was hidden in that night at Troyes-le-Mont. Of that much, I was certain. Melisande Shahrizai had vanished from a well-guarded chamber in a fortress on high alert, and someone had helped her do it. If I could figure out how it was done, I would have the beginning of a trail to follow.

It was Fortun, the steadiest of my chevaliers, who hit upon the notion of mapping out the route of Melisande's escape. "Do you know where she was held, my lady?" he asked thoughtfully. "The ground floor, or the second?"

Joscelin gave me a long look.

"It was the second floor," I said.

Melisande had sent for me that night and, like a fool, I had gone, meeting with her in her royal prison-cell. What had passed between us was of no account, save that it left me shaken. Afterward, I retired to the high walls, wishing to be alone with my tangled emotions, awaiting her execution at dawn. For all that she deserved it—there was no doubt, in the end, that Melisande Shahrizai had conspired with the Skaldi warlord Waldemar Selig to overthrow the throne of Terre d'Ange—I couldn't bear to watch. She had been my patron, once.

It had never come. Instead, daybreak found two guards dead outside her chamber, and a third at the postern gate.

"So if the corridor was here ..." Kneeling beside the low table in my sitting room, Fortun plucked a long-stemmed iris from a vase and laid it lengthways atop the table. "How far from the stairs?"

I counted on my fingers, remembering. "Three doors. No, four. Her chamber was the first door past the corner."

"Here, then." He broke the flower's stem, bending it at an angle, then setting an empty cordial glass at one end. "And the stairs, here.”

"Yes."
Leaning over the table, I studied it. "Near enough."

Across the room, Joscelin shoved himself to his feet. "Phèdre."

"Yes?" I glanced up from the table.

"Leave them out of it." His expression was unreadable. "If you insist on playing dangerous games, so be it. Don't drag these poor, besotted boys into your intrigues. I can't protect the lot of you."

"Did I ask you to?" I felt my ire rise. "If it disturbs you so greatly, then leave. Throw yourself at the feet of the Prefect and beg forgiveness. Or go tell Ysandre I release you from my service, and beg leave to attend her. She's used to having Cassilines around."

Joscelin gave a short laugh. "And let you go hurtling into peril with three half-trained sailors to ward you? At least allow me to keep from dishonoring the last vow I've kept, Phèdre."

I opened my mouth to reply, but Fortun cleared his throat, intervening. "Quintilius Rousse does not pick half-trained soldiers for his flagship, brother."

"It's not the same." Steel glinted from Joscelin's vam braces as he shifted in frustration. "You're trained to battle, not to protect and serve. It's not the same at all."

"I am learning." Fortun's voice held steady.

Their gazes locked, and I held my tongue. What would it profit, to come between them? Joscelin had to choose freely, or not at all. After a moment, he threw up his hands with a sound of disgust.

"I wish you me joy of them," he said harshly to me, and left the room.

I hadn't thought he would go. I stared after him.

"He'll be back," Fortun said calmly. "He cares too much to leave you, my lady."

"I'm not sure," I whispered. "I didn't think he'd go at all."

"Here." Without looking at me, Fortun bent back to the table, his broad hands moving objects. "If this is the lower level and the postern gate is here..." he placed a vase at one corner, "... and this the passage ..." he moved a lacquered coffer, "... there would have been guards here and here." He marked the spots with his finger. "Whoever led Melisande to the postern gate had to pass these points. So did others, no doubt, but still..."

I rubbed my aching temples, trying to concentrate, trying not to think about Joscelin. "They were questioned. We were all questioned, Fortun. If there were anything there, believe me, Ysandre would have seized on it."

"What if they weren't the right questions?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" I frowned at the table, remember ing. As one of the last people to see Melisande alive, I'd been questioned at length. In the end, I was exonerated, if only because it was my testimony that had condemned her. Ysandre was looking for treachery, or evidence of treachery. No one questioned admitted to seeing anything of the kind. But what
had
they seen? "You're right. There was a guard at the foot of the stair, too. And someone had to pass them all, to get to her chamber. Melisande couldn't have killed those guards herself. One, mayhap. Surely not two." I began rearranging the pieces on the table. "If we had a list of who passed them, that night, to compare to the other..."

"We would have a shortlist of suspects." Fortun's eyes glowed. "My lady, this is somewhat that we can do for you. For you to question the Queen's Guard, it would seem amiss. Even my lord Joscelin is not on ... easy terms, if I may say it, with the rank and file. But three ex-sailors, for mer soldiers of Admiral Rousse ... we could ask. Drinking, dicing; these are things we know, things that loosen men's tongues. He is trained to protect and serve, and not to battle. It is not the same thing, not at all."

He looked smug enough with it that I laughed, then sobered. "Truly, Fortun, this
is
a dangerous business. If any one suspected what you were about, you would be in grave danger."

"My lady, if you think any of us sought security in your service, you are mistaken." His brows knitted in a dark scowl. "We are sailors, after all, and bound to adventure. If we have deemed you a star worth setting a course by, do not belittle our decision."

"Why did you do it?" I asked him. "Why me?"

"I saw you on the battlefield of Bryn Gorrydum, carrying water to the wounded and dying. And after, when you made us chevaliers. I know the Admiral asked it of you. His sword was nearly as long as you're tall." One corner of his mouth crooked at the memory. "Queen's emissary. You looked like someone had hit you over the head. How could I choose otherwise?"

I sighed and rumpled my hair. "All right, then. Learn what you may. But never..." I poked his chest for emphasis, "...
never
let them suspect you are aught but simple chevaliers, eager to relive your moments of glory and pore over the mysteries of nobility."

"Don't worry. I have a good-luck name, my lady." Fortun smiled. "My mother swore it on my name-day."

FIVE

I oscelin did return, late that evening; I did not question him, and he did not offer an explanation. We greeted each other in the morning, courteous as two strangers. He performed his exercises in the secluded rear garden, flowing gracefully through the Cassiline forms, steel blades weaving, breath frosting in the crisp air. I watched him, and felt my heart ache within my breast.

How strange, how compelling a pain; to cause injury to a loved one.

One thing else I did, when driven to it: I ran away.

Properly speaking, I rebelled. I used to do it at Cereus House, and I did it at Delaunay's. Although I will say, if I may, that there was more in it than simple rebellion. It was a game, with my lord Delaunay; if I succeeded at it, there would be no repercussions.

I was no child, now, to run to Night's Doorstep and the comfort of Hyacinthe's antics. Still, it was a comfort to slip unnoticed from under the eyes of my well-meaning guards, go to the stable and convince the simple lad, Benoit, to saddle a horse for me. I led the gelding cautiously into the street, where Benoit considerately latched the gate behind me.

Once astride, I was free.

I rode away from the Palace, exhilaration singing in my veins, hard put to remember the last time I was well and truly on my own. It is an oddity, how having retainers binds one. Without their concerns to think of, I had only my own. I made my way to the river, and followed it to the market square, where criers hawked their wares.

It was the doves that put it in my head, dozens upon dozens of them, caged offerings huddled against the cold. Choosing the smallest out of pity, I paid for a gilt cage.

"My lady has an eye," the vendor said obsequiously, transferring the bird. "This one, he is small, but he has a will to survive."

"Elua hear you, and grant it is so." I smiled, leaning down from my mount to take the cage in hand. The gelding snorted and tossed his head. "This one is for Naamah."

The vendor performed an elaborate bow, smiling at me sidelong. My dove rattled his wings against the gilded bars and the gelding shied, shod hooves ringing on the cobble stones; people cheered as I kept my seat. I was a dreadful rider, once. That was before I fled Waldemar Selig's steading on pony-back, through the direst winter. I have spent a good bit of time astride, since then. Strange, to look back and see how skill was acquired; at the time, I only thought to stay alive.

With my head up despite the snapping cold, I rode through the streets to the Temple of Naamah. If people called out and saluted me along the way, it was not because I was the Comtesse de Montrève or Phèdre no Delaunay— they could not see, from the street, my tell-tale gaze—but only because I was young, and beautiful, and I rode without care, bearing a dove for Naamah.

The Great Temple of Naamah in the City is a small struc ture,-but lovely with gardens; even now, with winter's breath in the air, it held warmth and bloomed. I gave my mount over to a stable-lass who met me with lowered eyes, and walked alone to the temple, carrying the birdcage. An acolyte met me at the door.

"Be welcome," he said, bending in his scarlet surplice to give me the kiss of greeting. His lips were soft, and I knew, in a way, I was home. He looked at me out of eyes the color of rain-washed lupine, eyes that studied my own. "Be wel come,
anguissette,
and give honor to Naamah."

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