Kushiel's Chosen

Save for the bronze sheet and some ceremonial items- incensors and the like-the chambers were empty. Satisfied with my inquiry, I withdrew discreetly and slipped through the door to rejoin Joscelin.



" 'Twill suit, for our needs," I said in lowered tones. "It is as Cervianus said; they maintain a vigil below. Let Ti-Philippe join us, and Kazan's Illyrians wait behind this door, on the stair. I'd sooner they were out of the way, and quiet."



Joscelin nodded, barely visible in the faint, filtered light. "It's a mad plan, Phèdre," he whispered. "You know that, don't you?”



"Madder than singing Skaldi hearth-songs to the Master of the Straits?" I whispered back.



"No." He grinned in the darkness. "That was mine, wasn't it? Blame it on the Tsingano, then, for putting me in Mendacant's robes, and pray yours works half as well."



"Believe me," I said fervently, "I do." Reaching blindly for him, I brushed his cheek with my fingertips, caught a double handful of his shorn, tangled hair and kissed him hard. "Elua keep you, whatever happens."



"And you," Joscelin whispered against my lips. "And you, my love."



In all the time we had been together, in all that we had endured, I couldn't remember him calling me that. I let him go, breath catching in my throat. "Go on, then, and bring them."



He did, and in short order we were all positioned. With every sense and every nerve on edge, I thought the rustling and creaking and whispering would drive me to distraction, but in truth, they handled it with subtlety. Kazan and his men would wait on the stair, ready to spring into action should need be; Joscelin and Ti-Philippe lurked in the echo chambers, hidden from view to all but me, where I could summon them at a glance.



For my part, I resumed the position I had taken before, lying on my stomach and gazing through the legs of the stool into the Temple below. 'Twas a waiting game, from this point hence.



And wait I did, for yet another seeming eternity, half-lulled by the melodious chanting below. It matters naught, I thought. I have waited, and waited and waited and waited, throughout this long sojourn; waited for information in the City of Elua, waited for events to turn in La Serenissima, waited on my ransom, waited on the thetalos, waited on the Archon's answer... for months on end, I had done naught but wait.



I could wait this while longer.



At last the Priestess of the Crown brought an end to their litany and she rose with her Elect, clapping her hands.



Somewhere, outside, dawn was breaking. I lay hidden, watching as the Temple of Asherat-of-the-Sea scurried to life. Candles were replenished, the incensors refilled, and a great dais of wood brought before the altar in three parts, borne by harried eunuchs. Untouched by it all, the mighty image of Asherat stared forth, hands reaching down to touch the stone-wrought waves.



In all the bustle, I took the measure of the echo chamber's pitch, humming softly in either direction until I was sure I had the angle of it. Ti-Philippe looked at me as if I were mad, though he held his tongue; Joscelin's eyes glinted with an answering wildness. Once he had committed to a thing, he held nothing back. Whether or not he learned it in his brief tenure with Anafiel Delaunay or no, we were alike, in that.



Somewhere, a ray of light struck Asherat's crown alongside the harbor.



I saw sunlight flood into the Temple as the great entrance doors opened in the antechamber; I heard the muted roar of the gathered crowd in the Campo Grande outside. I heard it rise as the procession drew near and the Dogal Guard formed a double line, protest breaking against the wall of shields and spears. I saw the Priestess of the Crown take up her place before the altar, flanked by her chosen, while acolytes and attendants made ready to receive the royal retinue.



I saw them enter the Temple.



Ah, Elua! They were all there, all of them. Cesare Stregazza, still the Doge, and a frail woman at his side who must be his wife; Marco and Marie-Celeste, with Severio proud beside them. Others I knew by sight, knowledge garnered, it seemed, so long ago: Orso Latrigan and Lorenzo Pescaro, once contenders for the Dogal Seat, defeated by Marco's bid, and others, too, members of the Hundred Worthy Families and the Consiglio Maggiore, noblemen from the Six Sestieri, attired in garish splendor, embittered or sycophantic according to their natures.



And there were D'Angelines. Oh yes, there were D'Angelines.



It took me aback, to see Ysandre de la Courcel enter the Temple of Asherat; to see, after so long, all the glory and beauty of Terre d'Ange, my homeland, personified in my Queen. She wore a gown of pale lavender with a cloak of green, Elua's color, laced with gold brocade, and even from my poor view on the floor of the balcony, I could see the workmanship was exquisite. A simple circlet of gold sat atop her pale blonde hair and a gold mesh caul bound it, and her profile was breathtakingly pure.



I had forgotten, somehow, that Ysandre was no older than me.



Along with a handful of D'Angeline nobles and a file of men-at-arms, who took posts at the rear of the Temple, four Cassiline Brothers accompanied her to a place of honor to the right of the Doge and the Doge-elect on the dais. With their ashen-grey attire, hair bound in neat clubs at the napes of their necks, daggers at their waists and swords at their backs, they were nearly identical, all of an age, somewhere betwixt forty and fifty years, I guessed. Any one of the four might have been David de Rocaille ... or none.



And then Prince Benedicte's party entered.



I hadn't been sure, until then, if Melisande would dare it. I should have known that she would. She came in on the arm of Benedicte de la Courcel, tall and hale in the blue and silver of his House, his erect carriage belying his age. Her gown of deep-blue velvet matched his doublet, and her head was lowered modestly, the shining Veil of Asherat hiding her features; but behind, ah! Her hair hung loose and unbound, falling in gleaming blue-black waves to the small of her back.



Melisande, I thought, laughing silently, tears in my eyes; oh, Melisande!



When all was said and done, there was no one to match her.



My heart beat quickly in my breast and my breath came hard and fast, making my mouth dry. Desire beat in me like a pulse, remembering her hands, her mouth, her scent. But I had been Naamah's Servant for a long time too, twice-dedicated, and I knew what it was to endure yearning as fierce as pain. A coterie of guardsmen surrounded them, clad in the livery of House Courcel. I marked their faces well, and saw many of the veterans of Troyes-le-Mont among them as they took their place amid the jostling throng of noble retinues at the back of the Temple. Benedicte and Melisande mounted the dais to the left of Marco and Marie-Celeste Stregazza, their strong allies and reunited in-laws.



Last to enter was the double line of the Dogal Guard, securing the doors against an already-roaring crowd in the Campo Grande. I heard crisply shouted orders and injunctions as they did and guessed-rightly, as it happened-that at least one unit of the civic Serenissiman Guard was posted to ward the doors outside.



Inside, it grew quiet, save for the rustle and murmur of several hundred bodies gathered in one place and the hiss of incense burning, the slight crackle of candle flame. From my hidden perch, I gazed down at the gathered tableau. A chair had been provided for Cesare Stregazza; I could see the peaked crimson cap atop his thinning white hair, the Dogal Seal flashing gold on his trembling hands where they rested on the arms of the chair.



He had asked my aid in keeping it, the canny old manipulator. Of a surety, what he had intended was not what I had in mind; but it was the course that had offered itself to me, and I had no other choice.



The ceremony of investiture was about to begin.



SEVENTY-FOUR



As most ceremonies do, this one began with an invocation.



Raising both hands to the effigy of Asherat-of-the-Sea, the Priestess of the Crown uttered a prayer beseeching the goddess to lend her blessing to this day's proceedings, while her Elect came forward with offerings; gleaming ceremonial vessels, gilded baskets of fruits and grains, brown eggs in a silver bowl, a jewel-bedecked wine chalice, all of which were set upon the altar.



I was glad there was to be no blood sacrifice.



A difficult thing, to choose the perfect moment. I considered seizing upon the Priestess of the Crown's invocation, which would have been apt; and yet. It lacked drama. Better it should come at the crux of the matter, when those assembled already watched with bated breath. I wished I could see their faces rather than the backs of their heads. Once the invocation and the offerings were given, the Priestess of the Crown and the Elect turned toward the crowd, but 'twas not their expressions I wished to see.



In the litany that followed, the Priestess of the Crown cited the ancient history of La Serenissima and the role of the Doge within it, enumerating his duties, which were given voice in a call-and-response style by the six Elect. It was a pleasant enough ceremony, if one were not watching it from a hiding place, aquiver with tension. I strained my ears to listen to the noise of the crowd in the Campo Grande, faintly audible at times. It had not reached a breaking point.



No, I thought; nor will it, not until Marco Stregazza wears the Dogal Seal upon his finger. He'll take no risk of having his investiture disrupted. It must be a done thing, before chaos is loosed. Even from above, I could read as much from his posture, at once relaxed and eager. I wondered if Allegra Stregazza had gotten my message, and if her husband Ricciardo had responded by rallying the Scholae.



It went on for a considerable time, this ceremony, until my attention nearly began to wander. I caught myself, worrying; if I were distracted, how much more so were Joscelin and Ti-Philippe, and Kazan and his Illyrians hidden behind the door, who were not trained to attend on tedium? And then the Priestess of the Crown addressed herself to the Doge-elect, and my focus sharpened.



"Marco Plautius Stregazza," she intoned, giving him his full name. "You have heard here enumerated the sacred charges given unto he who would give himself unto the hand of Asherat-of-the-Sea and take up the throne of the Doge of La Serenissima. By the will of the people, the vote of the Consiglio Maggiore and the consent of the Temple of Asherat, you have been so appointed. Is it your will to make this vow?"



"It is," Marco Stregazza said firmly, stepping forward.



"Do you swear on pain of death to execute these charges faithfully?"



"I do."



She bound him, then, in a long and complicated oath which I failed to commit to memory and which Marco repeated letter-perfect, and then summoned him to the altar to anoint his brow with chrism, which I watched in an agony of indecision. Should it be now? It must be done before the sacrament was complete.



"Your Grace," the Priestess of the Crown said to Cesare Stregazza, not quite inclining her head. "Before Asherat-of-the-Sea, the appointed hour has come. It is time for the Dogal Seal to pass to another." I watched his crimson-capped head bow in defeat, his crabbed hands rise from the arms of the chair as his trembling fingers rumbled at the massive gold seal.



Now. Yes.



The moment was now.



Easing backward, I rose to my knees, the very breath shivering in my lungs, rehearsing the Caerdicci words, the pitch and intonation, in my mind. Asherat, I thought, glancing at the image of the goddess, for this you saved me; lend me now your aid. Elua's child I am, Kushiel's Chosen and Naamah's Servant, but you plucked me from the depths of the sea and raised me upon your bosom that I might be here today. If it is your will, then use me now!



In memory I heard once more the mourning, maddening dirge of the winds of La Dolorosa, the sound I had endured through countless days, numberless black nights in my tiny cell, the grieving of a goddess bereft. Loss, endless loss; Asherat's grief for her slain son Eshmun commingling with my own. Joscelin's face by wavering flames, despairing; a torch, falling like a star. Kazan's brother, dying at the end of Kazan's sword. The cavern of the Temenos, the blood-guilt I wore like shackles. A curse undone and cast anew in bitter guise; a lost son, a lost lover.



Bright and gleaming gold, the Dogal Seal slid over Cesare Stregazza's gnarled finger.



Kneeling on the balcony, I pitched my voice toward the echo chamber.



"O my Beloved, why do you forsake me?"



They had wrought well, those masons who died to keep the goddess' secrets; my own words startled me, vast and resonant, echoing from the vaulted dome itself into every corner of the Temple. Somewhere, an earthenware vessel dropped and shattered.



I think there was no one, in that instant, who did not raise their eyes to the apex of the dome, seeking the presence of divinity. And in that moment, two years' worth of careful planning, two years of hard-won allegiances bought and sold, began to unravel.



"It is a sign!" Cesare Stregazza cried in his quavering voice, shoving the Dogal Seal back onto his finger and curling his fist on the chair arm. "A sign!"



"It is a trick!" Marie-Celeste Stregazza hissed, whirling in her finery. I could only guess how her gaze scalded the Priestess of the Crown, the gathered Elect. "A trick, I say! Find it out and make an end to it!"



I had guessed aright when I guessed her the cunning one of the pair.



The Priestess of the Crown, two of her Elect; heads turning, seeking the balcony, slow-dawning comprehension on their features. Others followed their gazes. Reacting slowly, the Dogal Guardsmen began to move indeterminately, still unable to see me.



"What trick the truth, Serenissimans?" I called down to them. "Whom the goddess has chosen, She does not relinquish living. You are here under false prophecy, Serenissimans. Marco Stregazza seeks to seize the Doge's throne tohis own ends, while Benedicte de la Courcel seeks the death of his Queen."



And with those words, pandemonium was unleashed.



It was the Priestess of the Crown who reacted first, swiftly, casting out her arm to point at the balcony. "An intruder dares blaspheme in the Temple of Asherat!" she cried. "Get her!"