Kushiel's Chosen

"It saved my life, in a way." I found I was pacing, and made myself sit. "Ysandre's man-at-arms remembered it too, the day Delaunay was killed; an anguissette in a sangoire cloak and a member of the Cassiline Brotherhood, seeking an audience with the Princess. It proved our story. But I never saw it, after that day. I took it off in Melisande Shahrizai's quarters, where she poured me a glass of cordial." Remembering my own, I picked up my glass and drank, grimacing. "I woke up in a canvas-covered wagon, halfway to the Skaldi border, wrapped in woolen blankets and no cloak in sight." There had been considerable more between, but Thelesis had no need to know it. It involved Melisande, and the razor-sharp blades they call flechettes, and a good deal of me screaming. Everything but my signale and Quintilius Rousse's message for Delaunay. I have dreams about it still, and Elua help me, some of them are exquisite. "I got it back this autumn."



"How?" Thelesis asked carefully.



"Gonzago de Escabares." I rested my chin on my hands and gazed at the bust of Delaunay. "A friend of his met a woman in La Serenissima; a beautiful woman. She gave him a parcel to carry for his friend, who was going to meet the Comtesse de Montrève." I gestured at the cloak. "That was the whole of it."



"Melisande." She breathed the word. "Phèdre, have you told the Queen?"



I shook my head. "No one, except Joscelin and my boys. They know. I asked Ysandre when she received me, if she'd



heard of Melisande's doings. She has sent word to every major city from Aragonia to Caerdicca Unitas, and no one has seen her. Benedicte de la Courcel is in La Serenissima, Ysandre is sure he'd clap her in chains if she showed her face. Nothing.”



"Benedicte de la Courcel," Thelesis said tartly, "has a D'Angeline child-bride and is preparing to become a father again in his dotage. By all accounts, he'd not notice if Melisande kicked him in the shins."



"Mayhap." I shrugged, "Be as that may, she's hidden herself well. But one thing I know, and that is that someone helped her walk out of Troyes-le-Mont alive. And whoever it was, it was someone powerful enough that none of the guardsmen posted that night even questioned him. Or her. The guard at the postern gate was killed by a dagger to the heart. Whoever did it, got close enough to do it unchallenged." I spread my hands. "You weren't there, Thelesis. I was. I can count the number of people that would have included on my fingers. And this cloak?" I plucked at it. "That's Melisande's message, the opening gambit in her game. Whoever it was, I have a chance of finding them out."



The Queen's Poet looked sick. "You have to tell Ysandre. If not her, then at least... at least tell Caspar. He would help."



"No." I said it softly. "He's one of the ones I count, Thelesis."



"Caspar?" She looked incredulous; well she might. Gaspar Trevalion, the Comte de Forcay, was one of the few people Delaunay had trusted unquestioningly. He'd even stood surety for Gaspar when the net fell on House Trevalion.



"Caspar," I said relentlessly. "Thelesis, whoever it is, they fought on our side, don't you see? It had to be someone we trusted, beyond thought. Those guards, they wouldn't have let the Duc de Morhban through unchallenged, sovereign of Kusheth or no. Promise me you'll say nothing. Not to Gaspar, nor Ysandre ... not to anyone. Whoever it is, if they know what I'm about, it will silence them, sure as death."



"So you think," she said wonderingly, "you truly think that they will hand it to you, as a Servant of Naamah, in careless pillow talk."



"No." I shook my head. "I am not as foolish as that, I promise you. But I think the threads are there, and if I am lucky-Naamah willing, and Kushiel-they may let a loose end dangle, that I might discern the pattern they are weaving. It is a long chance, I grant you. But it is a chance, and the only one I have. Melisande plays fair, by her own rules. If the chance were not there..." I hoisted a fold of the cloak, ". .. she would not have sent the challenge."



"I think you are mad." Only Thelesis de Mornay could have made the words gentle. "Madder than Delaunay, and I thought he was mad for honoring that ridiculous vow to Rolande de la Courcel." Well she might, for Delaunay had suffered a great deal from the enmity of Rolande's wife, Isabel L'Envers; but my lord Delaunay kept his promises. Now all of them are dead, and it is the living who must bear the cost. Thelesis dumped the sangoìre cloak back into my lap, and sighed. "But I will honor your request just the same, because you are Delaunay's pupil, and you bear the mark of Kushiel's Dart, and it is in no poet's interest to cross the will of the immortals. Still, I wish you would reconsider it. The Duc L'Envers, at the least, has no interest in seeing Ysandre dethroned."



"Barquiel L'Envers," I said, "is high on my list of suspects."



Thelesis de Mornay laughed ruefully. "Anafiel," she said, addressing the bust of Delaunay, "you should have been made King's Poet in my stead, and left this one to the mercies of Valerian House." If I had not gone to serve Delaunay, it is true, Valerian would have bought my marque. It is their specialty, to provide adepts who find pleasure in pain. But they did not find me. Delaunay did. "Well, so," Thelesis said, changing the subject. "What is this about Joscelin Verreuil joining the Followers of Yeshua?"



I am not ashamed to admit that I poured the story out to her, and she listened unjudging, as only a truly good friend may do. When I was done, she pressed my hand in sympathy.



"He is in pain," she said gently, "and you have wounded him deeply, meaning or not. His choice is his own, Phèdre, and you cannot make it for him. Allow him this space, then, to choose. When the One God sent his messengers to summon Elua back, it was Cassiel handed him the dagger to make his reply. But I have never heard Elua asked it of him."



She was right, and I could not speak against it. I fiddled with my cloak instead, folding its luxurious mass. "Do you think it's true?" I asked presently. "That Yeshua has the power to redeem sin?"



"I don't know," Thelesis said thoughtfully. "The ways of gods are strange, and Yeshuites do not reckon sin as we do, any more than Cassilines. I cannot say. The Hellenes claim the descendents of the House of Minos have the ability to cleanse a man of a blood-curse; it is a gift of Zagreus, after they atoned for... well, you know the story." I did, for I bore the ill-starred name of a Queen of that line. "But I have heard, too, that few mortals can bear the process at less than the cost of their wits."



I shuddered; it was a frightening thought. "Well, Elua grant that neither of us need find out. I will heed your advice, and give Joscelin leave to choose. So a priest foretold for him, once, that he would ever stand at the crossroads, and choose and choose again. But I am fearful, that this Rebbe presents him with a third path."



"All paths are present, always," Thelesis de Mornay said philosophically, "and we can but choose among them." She stood. "Phèdre, thank you for your hospitality, and for your..." she smiled, "... for your trust. I will honor it, with the promise you have asked. Promise me in turn that you will have a care, and divulge to Ysandre aught that you learn." She raised her eyebrows. "I take it that you do not suspect her, at least?"



"No." I laughed. "Not Ysandre. Other than myself, and probably Joscelin, Ysandre de la Courcel is the one person I am sure had no interest in seeing Melisande freed. And if I'd not been there, I'd likely suspect myself as well. Thelesis, thank you." I rose to embrace her. "I'm sorry to have made a fool of myself. Truly, I will cherish this gift beyond words.”



"You are welcome." She returned my embrace. "Phèdre, please know that you have a standing invitation to call upon me at the Palace. For any reason."



"I will," I promised, escorting her to the door.



When she had gone, I returned to my sitting room, gazing at the bust of Delaunay. Ah, my lord, I wondered, what would you tell me if you could speak?



Beautiful and silent, his marble face kept its oblique, secret smile.



I was on my own.



NINE



The fabric for my costume had arrived, and a courier had sent word from Favrielle nó Eglantine that I was to come for a fitting. One matter, however, pertaining to the Queen's Masque remained unsettled.



"I would like you to come," I said to Joscelin, "but if you want to maintain your vigil, I will understand."



We had made peace, after a fashion; he had brought me a silent offering of apology, a beautifully wrought plinth of black marble on which Delaunay's bust now stood. Where he had gotten the monies for such a thing, I did not know, nor did I ask. Later I learned that he had pawned a jeweled dagger for it, a gift of Ysandre.



"I think it might be best if you took one of the lads," Joscelin murmured. "I don't... It's been a long time since I held Elua's vigil on the Longest Night, Phèdre, and I think I am better suited for it than sharing joie with nobles right now." He gave a faint smile, to remove any hurtfulness from his words. "Let Fortun escort you; he's more sense than the other two."



"All right." I stooped to kiss his brow on my way out; he shivered under it.



So it was that Fortun accompanied me to Eglantine House, where Favrielle eyed him with approval. "Asmodel," she said, measuring the breadth of his shoulders with the span of her arm. "One of the seven courtiers of hell, who served under Kushiel. We'll put him in a black velvet doublet and hose, and a great bronze key on a chain about his neck. A simple horned domino, I think; black satin. A fitting attendant for Mara. Noreis!" Raising her voice, she beckoned to a tailor. No adept, he hastened to obey. "Will you see to it? Something elegant, not this season's forsaken nonsense."



"Of course." He bowed his head. Genius rules in Eglantine House. If Favrielle was unfit to serve Naamah, she clearly reigned over the fitting-room.



"Very well." With a sigh, Favrielle turned back to me. "Let's see what we have."



Once I had stripped and donned the half-sewn gown, I had to admit a grudging acknowledgment of her skill. Truly, it was splendid. The scarlet of the silk jersey-cloth matched the accents in my marque perfectly, and it flowed on my skin like a living thing. Standing on a stool while Favrielle grumbled about me, gathering and pinning, I gazed wide-eyed at my reflection in the mirror.



"Favrielle, my sweet!" The door to the fitting-room swung open to admit a tall adept in his mid-thirties, with merry eyes and a handsome, mobile face. "Where's my three-layered cloak for the Troubador of Eisande? I'm commissioned for Lord Orion's fête tonight, and the Dowayne promised him a private performance!" Catching sight of me, he stopped and swept an elaborate bow. "Forgive me, gentle lady ..." His resonant voice trailed off, and the merry gaze turned sharp as it swept up the length of my marque. His eyes met mine in the mirror, looking for the scarlet mote. "My lady, indeed. Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, if I am not mistaken."



"Roussillon no Eglantine." I smiled. His satires were famous in Night's Doorstep; I'd heard him declaim, once. "Well met."



"And me without an ounce of doggerel!" He made a dismayed face, then struck a pose. "Waldemar Selig was a warlord," he declared. "Waldemar Selig had a big sword. But his plan fell apart, thanks to Kushiel's Dart, and Waldemar Selig got Isidore'd."



Across the room, Fortun gave a snort of repressed mirth. He had been there, on the battlefield, when Isidore d'Aiglemort slew Waldemar Selig. It cost him his life, but I reckoned Terre d'Ange's greatest traitor won his redemption in destroying her greatest enemy.



Still, it was good to be able to laugh.



"I'm not done," Roussillon said mildly, and cleared his throat. "Mighty Selig turned his back, when he divulged his attack, to the men of his barbarian horde. His loins, how they burned! Too late, Selig learned, a skilled anguissette is not safely ignored!"



I laughed aloud, clapping my hands; Roussillon swept me another bow, and Favrielle muttered in disgust. I winced as a carelessly wielded pin scratched me.



"The trim needed stitching," she said crossly to the satirist. "I'll have it sent to your room on the hour. Now get out, and stop distracting me with your wretched verse!"



He mimed fear convincingly, and I was hard put to keep from laughing again. "Thank you," he said then to Favrielle. Catching up her hands, he kissed them despite her best efforts to swat away his grasp. "You are a very angel of clothiers, precious one, and I shall light a candle to your name." Releasing her, he smiled at me, this time without any artifice. "May I say that it is an honor to meet you, my lady. Naamah's Servants are in your debt."



"Thank you." I returned his smile gravely. He laughed, gave one last swirling bow, and departed.



"Blathering jackass!" Favrielle muttered, picking up a dropped pin and driving it hard through the silken fabric. The fine stuff gave easily, and she buried the pin nearly an inch deep in the flesh at the base of my spine. I barely had time to gasp.



Pain, fiery and radiant, burst outward in concentric circles, pulsing and contracting. It washed over me in ripples, acute at the core, sweet as it spread. A red haze occluded the vision in my left eye, blurring my reflected image. Somewhere, behind it, I sensed the bronze visage of Kushiel, rod and flail crossed on his chest, stern and approving.



When it cleared, Favrielle knelt staring up at me in blank astonishment, holding the pin she had withdrawn. She blinked and closed her mouth. "That must be ... inconvenient."