Kushiel's Chosen

An apology from Severio, mayhap; I glanced at it dismissively, and saw the seal. It was the swan of House Courcel. I cracked the seal and opened the thick vellum, reading.



Better and better; Madame d'Arbos had been as good as her word. It was an invitation to an audience with Prince Benedicte and his wife, for that very afternoon. I murmured a prayer of thanks to Blessed Elua for making my way easier.



The hardest thing was what I asked my chevaliers, gathering them around. "Prince Benedicte has granted me an audience," I said, raising the letter. "Our work is half done for us. And I would fain have you all at my side, for you have earned it, and 'tis a dire thing we do. But..." I hesitated "... if any one of you is willing to stay, I would be grateful for it. If... if Joscelin were to return, he should know of this."



They glanced at each other, all three. I saw Fortun, steady as ever, willing to assume the burden; Remy, ridden with guilt for having sent him to me, opened his mouth. But it was Ti-Philippe who stepped forward first.



"I'll stay, my lady," he said solidly, meeting my eyes. "I'm no good for this business, after all. Better lying and gambling than telling hard truths, and better for drinking and brawling than making a leg to royalty. I'll stay, and dun Sir Cassiline's hide for abandoning you if he comes back." "Thank you," I whispered, taking his face in both hands and planting a kiss on him. "Thank you, Philippe!"



" 'Tis naught," he muttered, blushing. "When we go after the guardsmen what did for poor Phanuel, then I want in, my lady!"



"And you shall have it," I promised. I smoothed my gown with both hands, making certain it lay properly; the apricot silk with gold brocade I had worn my first day in La Ser-enissima, accented now by the great collar of the Doge's pearls. "Shall we go?"



"After you, my lady." Fortun swept a bow, grave and ceremonial.



I drew a deep breath, and we set out for the Little Court to denounce a peer of the realm.



Few things I have done in my life-climbing the rafters in Waldemar Selig's steading to spy on his war plans, facing the Master of the Straits, crossing the Skaldi camp by night-have filled me with as much fear. I clung to Serena Buonard's grief as we journeyed by gondola along the Great Canal, to my faith in Fortun's analysis of the guardsmen's testimony, to the memory of a dream, of Percy de Somerville's smiling face and the cloying smell of apples. If I am wrong, I thought, Blessed Elua forgive me, but if I do not speak now, others may die.



At the gates of the Little Court, I showed my letter, keeping my countenance serene. I had alerted men of the guard once; I would not do it twice. Let Benedicte handle it, once he knew. We were admitted forthwith, and ushered into an antechamber-and there we waited. Fortun fingered the leather casing that held our maps, if the proof of our investigation should be desired. Remy gave me a quick, nervous smile. I went over the words of my presentation in my head, over and over, and did my best to repress a desperate wish that Joscelin were at my side.



If, if, if.



"Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève," a steward announced, opening the doors onto the throne room.



I rose, Remy and Fortun falling in behind me, and made my entrance. It was an elegantly proportioned room, not too ostentatious, but with all the touches of D'Angeline nicety. There were joint thrones, side-by-side, one slightly smaller; it would have been appropriate, for a D'Angeline noble wedding into the cream of Serenissiman peerage. Prince Benedicte sat his, the larger throne, with the upright carriage of one who had been a soldier. Quintilius Rousse had told me as much. He had the Courcel mien, his face lined with age, but noble still, once-dark hair gone iron-grey. I had seen his brother King Ganelon before he died; I'd have put Benedicte at younger than his sixty-odd years.



"Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève," he said, greeting me in a rich voice. "Well met."



His D'Angeline bride stood with her back to us, handing off their infant son to a nursemaid; a charming touch, I thought. She turned to take her seat on the lesser throne, and the silver netting of Asherat's Veil flashed, clear glass beads refracting the light.



"Your Highnesses." I made a deep curtsy, and held it. Behind me, I heard my chevaliers bend their knees, I spoke without rising, glancing up under my lashes. "Your highness, Prince Benedicte, I have dire news to report. There is a treason within the very heart of Terre d'Ange, that has born seeds even within your own guard."



"Yes," Benedicte said gravely, looking down at me. "I know."



I had opened my mouth to continue; I had not expected his reply and was left on an indrawn breath. With one graceful gesture, his bride drew back the Veil of Asherat, baring her face to smile at me.



What you seek you will find in the last place you look...



"Hello, Phèdre," said Melisande.



FORTY-ONE



1 stood as frozen and dumb as if the earth had dropped beneath my feet.



And I understood, too late.



I had been played from the very beginning.



On his throne, Prince Benedicte shifted, nodding toward the back of the room. Only then did I hear the sound of the door being barred, the footsteps of guards and the sliding rasp of weapons drawn; only then did I hear the soft, shocked breathing of my chevaliers behind me.



And on Melisande's beautiful face, a trace of pity.



It broke my paralysis. I spun to face Remy and Fortun, one word bursting sharply from my lips: "Run!"



If, if, if. If Joscelin had been with us, they might have done it, might have broken free. There were only ten guardsmen; L'Agnacites, members of the garrison of Troyes-le-Mont, their loyalty bought and paid for. He was a Cassiline, trained to fighting in close quarters, and seasoned in too many battles. They might have done it.



Or Joscelin might have died with them. I will never know.



They fought well, my chevaliers. What would have happened if they had gained the door, I cannot say. They might have escaped the Little Court alive. I like to think so. They had surprise on their side, and quick-thinking agility. But I had signed their death warrants when I brought them with me into the presence of Prince Benedicte's new bride, and I had seen it writ in her expression, his nod.



I made myself watch it. I was responsible.



My steady Fortun, who had learned my lessons all too well. He went straight for the door, using the strength of his broad shoulders to push his way through, wounded thrice over before he got close. Remy wrested a sword from one of the guards and held them off for a moment, cursing like the sailor he was. Remy, who had first raised the standard of Phèdre's Boys, that dart-crossed circle of scarlet, on the road to Dobria.



I watched him die, born down by sheer numbers. He had sung marching-chants on the road, the ones I despaired of quelling. He had sung along the canals of La Serenissima in my service. The treacherous steel of Prince Benedicte's guardsmen silenced him for good.



They took Fortun from behind, a dagger low to the kidneys. His outstretched hand left a long smear of blood on the gilded woodwork of the throne room door. He still had the map of Troyes-le-Mont slung across his back in its carrying case, a fool's scabbard. I saw his mouth form a circle of pain as he fell slowly to his knees; they had to stab him again, to the heart. Then his face went peaceful, and the light died in his eyes as he slumped to the marble floor.



Fortun, who had chosen to serve me long before the others, for carrying water to the wounded and dying on the battlefield of Bryn Gorrydum, for the stunned look on my face when I took Quintilius Rousse's sword and dubbed him chevalier.



He had a good-luck name, Fortun did.



Now I knew the emptiness of perfect and utter despair.



All sounds of fighting had ceased, replaced by the mundane clatter of the guards assessing their wounds and laying out the bodies for disposal, muttering of arrangements and cover stories. No joy in it; at least they did not relish their work. One straightened, gazing in my direction, nudging his fellow and fumbling for a pair of manacles hanging at his belt. I turned back to my sovereign lords, the Prince of the Blood and his deadly bride, seated side by side like a pair of Menekhetan effigies on their thrones.



I didn't bother with him; only her.



"Why not just kill me?" I asked simply.



Melisande shook her head slowly, a look of gentle sorrow on her immaculately lovely face. "I can't," she said, almost kindly. "It isn't just the waste, my dear, of something irreplaceable. The punishment for causing the death of Kushiel's chosen is a thousand years of torment." She paused, reflective. "So they say in Kusheth, for the other scions of Elua and his Companions. For one of Kushiel's line, ten thousand years."



With a murmured apology, the guard with the manacles approached me. I put out my arms unasked, feeling cuffs of cold steel lock about my wrists. "And for treason?"



"Elua cared naught for mortal politics, nor did Kushiel." Melisande shook her head, the wealth of her blue-black hair caught modestly in a silver mesh caul. "We played a game, Phèdre," she said softly. "You lost."



"You set me up," I whispered in answer. "From the very beginning."



"Not really." She smiled. "You got too close. If you'd not played so well..." she nodded to my fallen chevaliers, bodies neatly wrapped in cloaks, "... they might have lived."



There were tears in my eyes; I blinked them away absently, half-forgetting what they meant, and turned to Prince Benedicte. The chain betwixt my manacled wrists hung slack against the brocaded apricot silk of my gown. "My lord, why?"



"Elua's bloodline was not meant to be sold for political gain," Benedicte said calmly. "Not to La Serenissima, as my brother Oanelon condemned me. And not to Alba, as my grandniece Ysandre has sold herself. No." He looked sternly at me. "Terre d'Ange requires an heir of pure D'Angeline blood. I have done only what is necessary."



I would have laughed, if I could have stopped weeping. "With the woman who would have given us to the Skaldi?" I asked, gasping. "My lord, could you not have chosen wiser?"



"With the woman," Prince Benedicte replied shortly, "who could give the Royal Army into my hand." He rose from his throne, averting his gaze from my slain chevaliers, and gave a crisp nod to Melisande. "It is done, as you wished. I leave her to you."



He left the throne room through a rear entrance, two of his guard falling in behind him. I gazed at Melisande. "You gave him Percy de Somerville. How?"



"Ah, well." Her expression was unreadable. "Lord Percy had the same sentiments, you see. He was willing to lend the army's support to Baudoin de Trevalion's bid for the throne. Unfortunately, he was rash enough to say as much in writing to Lyonette de Trevalion, the Lioness of Azzalle. It seems he was passing fond of her, Percy was."



"And you have the letter." I nodded; it all made sense, now. Lyonette de Trevalion's secrets had not all died with her, nor been buried in the folio of her trial in the Royal Archives; the folio in which so many peers of the realm showed interest.



"Yes," Melisande said thoughtfully. "I thought it might be useful."



There wasn't much else to say. I gestured with my manacled hands. "And what am I charged with?" I inquired. "Officially?"



"Officially?" Melisande raised her graceful brows. "There will be no official inquiry, I think. Your falling-out with Severio Stregazza was duly noted; no one will question your disappearance from La Serenissima. But should it be necessary to comment, there is the small matter of your efforts to betray D'Angeline trade status with Alba. And you poisoned the former astrologer to the Doge, Phèdre. One Magister Acco, I believe. There were witnesses, should anyone inquire. A pity your men resisted questioning. Doubtless the others will do the same when we find them. Even your Cassiline." Restoring her veil, she clapped her hands together, summoning the remaining guards. "We are done here. Take her to La Dolorosa."



And they did. Oh, they did.



I went obediently, stumbling and numb. It is a long journey. They placed a hood of rough-spun material over my head and took me by ship the full length of the broad lagoon, making landfall at the far southern end. Once we were on dry land, they plucked the hood from my head; I did not care either way, having welcomed the oblivion of darkness.



Here the mainland had been left untended and wild. There were servants with horses waiting; Benedicte's guards helped me to mount, avoiding my eyes. Someone else led my gelding as we wended along the coastline, a narrow and forested trail.



Melisande, I thought, over and over again. Melisande.



Prince Benedicte's bride.



Through the trees, I glimpsed it: The black isle. It reared up, craggy and defiant in the gloaming, separated from the shore by an expanse of churning water. Between La Dolorosa and the mainland, only the swaying bridge, a vast length of crude planks and rope, hung suspended in midair.



There was a watchtower on the mainland, sparsely manned. My guards were halted and questioned; there was a sign, a countersign. They gave it in assured tones, and I saw from the uppermost window of the watchtower a cunningly wrought signal of torches and a mirror, flashing approval to the island. From the hulking mass of the fortress, looming atop the seaside cliff, flashed an answering response, cutting through the falling dusk.



We dismounted, and two of the guards took my arms, leading me onto the bridge. I went unprotesting.



I daresay it would have terrified me, had I not been beyond the reach of fear. With the full use of their arms my guards held me lightly, clinging to the hempen guidelines with their outer hands. I walked between them, manacled and untouchable, while open air gaped between the swaying planks and far, far below, the angry sea boiled and surged. Let it have me, I thought, what did I care? I had failed. My lord Delaunay had seen fit to train us with a tumbler's skills-I have used them, once or twice in my lifetime. Let is not be said that I shamed him in the end, at least. I walked steady and graceful on that dreadful bridge, going toward my doom as if it were my final patron.