I took his arm in one hand, carrying the gilded cage within my other, and entered the Temple of Naamah. Up the long corridor we walked, to the vast statue that awaited us at the end: Naamah, her arms spread wide in greeting and em brace. There, beneath the oculus, we awaited the priest.
Priestess, it was; I knew her when she emerged, attended by acolytes. Long hair the color of apricots, and green eyes tilted like a cat's; she had been an acolyte herself, when I was dedicated. The priest who had dedicated me had died of the fever during the Bitterest Winter, as so many had done. "Well met, sister," she said in a murmurous voice that nonetheless carried to every corner of the temple, and kissed me in greeting. I gripped her elbow with my free hand, steadying myself; it had been a long time, and the presence of Naamah's Servants was a heady thing. "You wish to re-dedicate yourself?"
"Yes," I whispered, holding aloft the gilded cage. "Can you tell me if it is Naamah's wish that I do so?"
"Ah." The priestess fingered the collar of her scarlet robe and turned to gaze up at Naamah's face, welcoming and benign above us. "In the City alone, there are many hun dreds of Naamah's Servants," she said softly. "Three hun dred at least in the Thirteen Houses of the Night Court, and for every one who serves at that level, there are others who aspire to lesser heights. In Namarre, they number in the thousands. No village throughout the land, I daresay, but has one or two called to the Service of Naamah. You would be surprised at how many ask that question. Is it the will of Naamah that I serve her? To each one, I give the same answer: It is your will that matters. No less than any other, the Servants of Naamah keep the covenant of Blessed Elua.
Love as thou wilt.
Naamah's path is sacred to us, for she chose of her own will to win the freedom and sustenance of Blessed Elua with the gifts of her body. It was her choice, and she does not compel her Servants to follow." With that said, she turned back to give me a long, considering gaze. "To you, I answer differently."
Her acolytes murmured, drawing near to listen. I set down the birdcage and waited. The priestess smiled and reached out to touch my face, tracing a line along the outer curve of my left eye.
" 'Mighty Kushiel, of rod and weal/Late of the brazen portals/With blood-tipp'd dart a wound unhealed/Pricks the eyen of chosen mortals,' " she quoted, citing the very verse with which Delaunay had identified my nature. "I cannot chart your course,
anguissette;
your calling lies beyond Naa mah's purview alone. You are Kushiel's chosen, and he will cast you where he will. Only Elua, whom even the Com panions follow, knows the whole of it. But you are Naamah's Servant as well, and under her protection, and to that I may speak. You ask, is it the will of Naamah that you serve her? I say: Yes." Wrapping her robe about her, the priestess gazed into the distance. "Tens of thousands of Servants of Naamah," she mused aloud, "all following a sacred calling. And yet our stature diminishes across the land. Whores, catamites, trulls ... I have heard these words, spoken with harsh tongues. Not by all, but enough. Too many."
It was true, for I had heard it myself. Such words had not
existed in our tongue when Elua and his Companions trod
the earth, and peers and commoners alike delighted in Naa mah's service. It was different, now, and the customs of Terre d'Ange were tainted by those of other nations. I had not chosen an easy course.
"How long has it been since an enthroned ruler summoned the Dowayne of Cereus House for counsel?" The priestess' sharp green eyes measured my thoughts. "Four generations or more, I think. Too long. It is not my place to restore the glory of the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, but the glory of Naamah. .. yes. I know who you are, Phèdre no Delaunay." She smiled, unexpectedly. "Comtesse de Montrève. Your story is known, and it is told, a
sangoire
thread woven deep into the tapestry of war and betrayal that nearly sundered our nation. Because of you, the Scions of Elua and his Companions have returned to the Houses of the Night Court, playing at fashion, grasping at secondhand glory with thoughtless ardor. But you are a peer of the realm, now. Is it Naamah's will that her presence breach the Palace walls to shine once more at the heart of Terre d'Ange? To you I say, yes."
I met her eyes and held them. "Politics."
Her smile deepened. "Naamah does not care for politics, nor power. Glory, yes. What does your heart say, sister?"
I shivered, and had to look away. "My heart is torn," I murmured.
She touched my face again, gently. "What does Kushiel say?"
It burned this time, her touch, heating my blood so that it rose in a warm blush. Priests and priestesses, they have that damnable surety about them. I wanted to turn my face against her palm, taste the salt of her skin. "Kushiel's will accords with Naamah's."
"Then your question is answered." The priestess took her hand away, calm and undisturbed; I nearly fell yearning against her, but kept myself steady. "And I will pose mine again. Is it your wish to be rededicated unto the Service of Naamah?"
"Yes." I said it strongly this time, and stooped to open the birdcage. I took the trembling dove in my hands and straightened. "It is."
The acolytes stumbled against one another in confusion, then one bearing a basin of water came forward to offer the aspergillum to the priestess. I stood, the dove's quick- beating heart racing against my palms, as she flicked a few drops of water over me. "By Naamah's sacred river, I bap tize you into her service." So I had stood, scarce more than a child, while Delaunay and Alcuin waited proudly behind me. No one awaited me now. I opened my mouth obediently for the portion of honey-cake, the sip of wine. Sweetness and desire. Elua, but I ached with it! And chrism at the last, oil upon my brow, for grace. When I was a child, I'd no notion of what it meant; now, I prayed I might find it in Naamah's Service.
It was done, and the priestess and her acolytes stepped aside. I knelt before the altar, the statue of Naamah, holding the dove in closed hands before me. Opaque, those sculpted eyes; we find in her service what we bring to it. "My lady, be kind to your Servant," I whispered, and released the dove.
I did not watch, this time, as it launched free of my hands and winged its way to the oculus. The priestess and her acolytes did, tracking it smiling. I did not need to watch to know my dove found its way. With bowed head, I knelt until I felt the priestess' hands at my shoulders, bidding me to rise.
"Welcome back," she said and kissed me; I felt the tip of her tongue dart between my lips and had to keep myself from clutching her wrists as she released me. The priests of Naamah are not quite like any other. Her long green eyes glinted in the slanting light of the temple, wise and knowing. "Welcome back, Servant of Naamah."
Thus it was done, and I stumbled twice leaving the tem ple, leaning hard on the arm of the acolyte who had admitted me. A dam may hold for a hundred years, but once it de velops a chink, the rushing tide comes after. Thus did I feel, having dammed the terrible force of my desires for a year
and more. The dam had cracked when I opened Melisande's parcel and found my
sangoire
cloak; the flood was not far behind. I do not mean, if I may say it, that I loved Joscelin the less, nor desired him less for it. From the first, even when I despised him, I found him beautiful. And to those who think a Cassiline, unschooled in the arts of love, no fit match for a trained courtesan, I may say they are wrong. When he surrendered to it—and he did—Joscelin brought to our bed a desire wholly untutored, but as pure and wonder-struck as Elua's first wanderings on mortal soil. That is a treasure no one else has ever given me, nor ever could. What I taught him, he learned as if he were the first to discover it, eager and natural as a new-minted creature.
It was enough, for a time.
No longer.
So it was that I rode home, torn between exhilaration and guilt. Dusk was falling when I reached the house, and by the stable-lad Benoit's downcast gaze, I knew he had been chastised for permitting me to leave alone.
"Benoit," I said, causing him to lift his head with a jerk. "
I
am mistress of this house."
"Yes, my lady," he mumbled, taking my reins. I couldn't blame him for it; if I hadn't felt the same, I'd not have regarded my escapade as an escape.
Nonetheless, I told him firmly, "You do no wrong in obeying my wishes. I will tell them as much."
He mumbled something else, hurrying toward the stable and leading my horse at a trot. Chin upraised, I swept into the house.
They were all there, waiting. The day-maid sketched me a quick curtsy, and whisked past to make her escape. Remy and Ti-Philippe would not meet my eyes; Fortun gazed at me expressionlessly. In the background, my kitchen-mistress Eugenie waited nervously.
And Joscelin strode forward to grasp my shoulders. "Phèdre!" My name burst from his lips, harsh with anxiety; he shook me a little. "Blessed Elua, where in the seven hells have you been?"
His fingers bit into my flesh and I closed my eyes. "Out."
"Out?"
The white lines of rage stood out on his face, so close to mine. His hands clenched hard. "You idiot, one of
us
should have gone with you! Whatever it was, there is
no
reason for you to go unescorted, do you understand? Who ever Melisande's allies are, they know damned well who you are!" He punctuated his words with hard shakes. "Never, ever go out unattended, do you promise me? What on earth would possess you—?"
Hard, his hands on my shoulders; my head rocked with the force of his fury as he shook me. Ah, Elua, it was sweet! The violence of it was spark to tinder for me.
Whatever was reflected on my face, Joscelin saw it; his hands fell away. "Blessed ..." he whispered in disgust, turn ing away from me, his voice trailing off. When he spoke, it was without looking at me. "Don't do it again."
"Joscelin." I waited until he turned. "You knew what I was."
"Yes." His voice was brief. "And you what I was. Where does that leave us, Phèdre?"
I had no answer, so gave none, and presently he went away. Remy released a long-held breath and fingered the dagger at his belt.
"My lady, if he harms you, Cassiline or no ..."
"Let him be." I cut him off. "He is in pain, and it is my doing. Let him be."
"No." It was Fortun who spoke, slow and thoughtful. "It is Cassiel's doing, my lady. And even you can do naught about that."
"Maybe." I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. "But I chose my course, and it is Joscelin who bears the price of it."
"Stupid to speak of blame when the wills of the immortals are involved." Ti-Philippe, irrepressible as ever, fished a pair of dice from his purse and tossed them high, grinning. "Let the Cassiline stew, my lady; I am told they thrive upon it. Fortun says we have questions to ask, and quarry to pursue!"
"Yes." I dropped my hands and gazed at their open, eager faces, steeling my resolve. "We do. And I must plan my debut."
SIX
In the end, my decision was made for me. There are pat terns which emerge in one's life, circling and returning anew, an endless variation of a theme. So musicians say the greatest sonatas are composed; whether or not it is true, I do not know, but of a surety, I have seen it emerge in the tapestry of my life.
I received an invitation to the Midwinter Masque at the Palace.
The first such event I attended was as a child not quite ten, at Cereus House. It was there that I saw for the first time Bau doin de Trevalion, Prince of the Blood. He is dead now, exe cuted for treason, along with his mother Lyonette, who was sister to King Ganelon and called the Lioness of Azzalle. I used to spy upon her for Delaunay; there was a Marquise among my patrons who answered to the Lioness of Azzalle. It wasn't Delaunay who brought down House Trevalion, though. That was Melisande's doing, Melisande and Isidore d'Aiglemort. None of us guessed, then, why Melisande would do such a thing; Baudoin ate from the palm of her hand, or near to it. He gave her the very letters that condemned him, correspondence between his mother and Foclaidha of Alba, plotting to seize the throne of Terre d'Ange.
I know, now; everyone knows. Melisande knew Baudoin would not have defied his mother openly for her sake, and she had a greater target in mind. Terre d'Ange and Skaldia combined, an empire the likes of which no one has seen since the days of Tiberium's rule. D'Aiglemort was only a pawn, though he didn't know it until the end. I know, I'm the one who told him.
Thus my first Midwinter Masque. And my last ... my last had been the last assignation I ever took as Delaunay's
anguissette,
and the only time Melisande Shahrizai ever con tracted me as sole patron. I earned my marque, that Longest Night, with the patron-gift she made me. It is the only time, in a hundred assignations, I ever gave the
signale,
the code word of surrender that requires a patron to cease. I gave it twice that night, and the second time for no reason beyond the fact that Melisande ordered me to speak it.
Well and so, that is my history with the Midwinter Masque. When Ysandre's invitation arrived, I took it for a sign— which is how I came to stand frowning at my wardrobe.
"I have nothing to wear." Irritated, I flung the doors of the wardrobe closed and sat with a flounce upon my bed. Gemma, the day-maid, set down her feather-duster and stretched her eyes at me; by her standards, I had gowns aplenty.
"My lady," she said timidly. "What of the grey velvet? It is passing lovely, and I ... I have a brother who is apprenticed to a masquer, he could make somewhat to match; a diadem of stars, mayhap, or a mist-maiden ..."