Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter Ninety-Two

I do not think the Duc de Morhban could have brought her in without aid. It was her own kin who had betrayed her, the two outriders proving to be Shahrizai, riding hooded even in the heat of summer, shadowing their features. Younger members of the House, they were: Marmion and Persia, who sold their cousin’s whereabouts to Quincel de Morhban in return for his favor.

After we had departed the shores of Terre d’Ange in Rousse’s flagship, de Morhban had kept his word, interrogating the Admiral’s men. Rousse hadn’t told them everything, but enough, and they gave away enough for de Morhban to put events together. And too, rumors reached his ears, as surely they had Melisande’s, that members of the Cassiline Brotherhood, serving as couriers for Ysandre’s loyal allies, asked about Melisande Shahrizai where they rode. De Morhban was no fool, and had held sovereignty in Kusheth long enough to know how to deal with House Shahrizai. He kept his knowledge to himself and waited for matters to unfold.

While the nation went to war, Quincel de Morhban bided his time. When mighty waves roiled the Straits and word reached him of an Alban fleet landing on D’Angeline soil, he cast the die and went a-hunting Melisande Shahrizai.

He found her, in an isolated hold in southern Kusheth, preparing to journey, as Marmion and Persia had said he would.

That much, they knew, having aided her; not enough to convict her. Word spread like wildfire through Troyes-le-Mont as Melisande was brought into the keep. Everyone knew something, it seemed. And no one knew enough. Melisande played a deep game. The edifice of proof of her guilt had crumbled on the battlefield.

"I’m sorry," Ysandre said compassionately to me. "I would have spared you this, if I could."

I drew a deep breath and shivered. "I know, my lady."

The hearing was held in the throne room, cool and dim behind thick stone walls, lit by lamps and torches even in the heart of summer. I stood behind Ysandre’s throne, behind her two Cassilines and the rank of her Courcel guard. Even Joscelin was no comfort in this, although he stood close at my side.

Quincel de Morhban came forward to bend his knee before Ysandre, pledging his loyalty. What he said, I cannot remember; all my senses were fixed on one point in that room. He stood aside, then, and Melisande Shahrizai came forward, flanked by his men, though they dared not touch her.

"Lady Melisande Shahrizai." Ysandre’s voice, cool as a blade, cut through the flame-streaked air. "You stand before us accused of treason. How do you plead?"

"Your majesty." Melisande curtsied, smooth and graceful, her face calm and lovely, "I am your loyal servant, and innocent of the charge."

I could see Ysandre lean forward. "You are charged with conspiring with Isidore d’Aiglemort to betray the nation and seize the throne. Do you deny this?"

Melisande smiled; I knew that smile well. I have seen it a thousand times, waking and sleeping. Torchlight glimmered on her hair and her ivory features, making twin stars of her deep blue eyes. "For a thousand years, House Shahrizai has served the throne," she said, and her voice was like honey, rich and sweet. We who are D’Angeline, we are vulnerable to beauty, always. I could hear the assembled crowd murmur. "His grace de Morhban makes charges, but he offers no proof, and has much to gain, if his loyalty and my estates alike are at stake." Melisande turned out her hands in an eloquent gesture, lifting her gaze to Ysandre’s. Such surety, such confidence; her guilt lay buried beneath the battlefield, in the long sleep of death. "Where was he, when battle was waged for D’Angeline sovereignty? Yes, your majesty, I refute the charge. If he has proof, let him offer it."

How much, in truth, de Morhban had guessed, I was not sure; but I knew then how much he had told her: nothing. The isolation that had protected Melisande had made her vulnerable, and Quincel de Morhban had disarmed her in the only way possible. He had kept her shrouded in ignorance.

"You are charged too," Ysandre said, watching her closely, "with conspiring with Waldemar Selig of the Skaldi."

It took Melisande by surprise. I could see her eyelids flicker. Then she laughed, easily and gracefully. "Does the Duc claim as much? Well might I say it of him, or anyone, your majesty. It is an easy charge to make, that may not be gainsaid by the dead."

"No," Ysandre said. "Not de Morhban."

Melisande grew still, her gaze sharpening as she regarded Ysandre. "Do I not have the right, your majesty, to know who accuses me?" she asked, her voice low and dangerous.

Ysandre did not waver, but made a slight gesture with one hand. The rank of her guard parted in front of me, and I stepped forth trembling.

"I do," I said softly, meeting Melisande’s eyes. I raised one hand and grasped the diamond at my throat, tearing it loose with one sharp jerk. The velvet lead broke, and I held the diamond in my hand, cords trailing. I tossed it on the flagstones between us. "That is yours, my lady," I said, taking a shuddering breath. "I am not."

In the profound silence of the throne room, Melisande Shahrizai went a deadly white.

To her credit, she gave no other sign, but stood unmoving as the two of us looked at one another. Then, impossibly, she gave a short laugh and looked away. "My lord Delaunay," she murmured, gazing into the distance. "You play a considerable end-game." No one spoke as her sapphire-blue gaze returned to rest thoughtfully on me. "That was the one thing I couldn’t fathom. Percy de Somerville was prepared for Selig’s invasion. You?"

"I saw a letter you wrote to Selig, in your own hand." My voice was shaking. "You should have killed me when you had the chance."

Melisande stooped and picked up the diamond lead that lay between us, dangling it from one hand. "Leaving you the Cassiline was a bit excessive," she agreed, glancing at Joscelin, who stood impassive, eyes blazing. "Although it seems to have agreed with him."

"Do you dispute this charge?" Ysandre raised her voice, cool and implacable, severing the tension between us. Melisande looked at the diamond in her hand, closing her fist around it, arching her brows.

"You have proof, I assume, of their story?"

"I have Palace Guards who will swear they saw them with you the night of Anafiel Delaunay’s murder." Ysandre’s expression was calm and merciless. "And I believe, my lady Shahrizai, that thirty thousand invading Skaldi attest to the truth of their tale."

Melisande shrugged. "Then I have no more to say."

"So be it." Ysandre summoned her guard. "You will be executed at dawn."

No one, not Trevalion nor L’Envers, not de Morhban nor the assembled peers, and not her Shahrizai kin, heads downcast, spoke in her defense. I watched, trembling, as the Courcel guard surrounded Melisande, escorting her out of the throne room.

"It’s over," Joscelin murmured at my ear. "It’s over, Phèdre."

"I know." I touched my throat, where no diamond lay, and wondered why I felt so empty.

I spent a long time in the hospital wards that day and evening, finding solace in tending to the injured. I’d no medical skills to speak of, although Lelahiah Valais had a shy young student who was kind enough to instruct me in simple matters, changing bandages, and washing fevered wounds with herbal infusions. Mostly, it helped the wounded to see a kind face, to have a listening ear. I had scavenged parchment and ink from the tiny library, some days ago. I took letters for some of them, who had come to realize that they would never see home again.

A small kindness, but it meant a great deal to the dying. I spent much of my time with the Cruithne and Dalriada, who could not even communicate with the healers who tended them. Drustan had a veritable sheaf of letters already, that he had promised would reach Alban soil, and bards and brehons to read them, if their recipients could not.

Wise enough in his own way, Joscelin left me be. I do not think he ever understood, truly, what lay between Melisande and I. How could he, when I scarce understood it myself? It would have been simpler, before I dared the crossing of Selig’s camp, before the torture. I despised her for what she had done, both to me, and to Terre d’Ange.

And yet…

Elua knew, I had loved her once.

It was well into the small hours of the night when the messenger found me. Unsure of his errand, he looked uncomfortable, whispering in the quiet air of the sickroom. "My lady Phèdre, I am bid to summon you. The Lady Melisande Shahrizai would speak with you, if you are willing."

If you ever have a chance to confront her alone, don’t take it.

I did not forget Hyacinthe’s words. But I went anyway.

There were two guards at her door; Ysandre’s, and loyal. Even though they knew me, they checked me carefully for weapons before admitting me. It was an irony, that Melisande had a chamber to herself. No one else did, save Ysandre, with the fortress full to overflowing. But she was a peer of the realm, and a scion of Kushiel; she deserved as much, her last night on earth. I wondered who had been displaced, that she might spend it in comfort.

It was a small chamber, two chairs, a writing table and a bed only. I entered, and heard the door closed behind me, the bolt shot fast.

Melisande, seated in one of the chairs, glanced up as I entered. "I wasn’t sure you’d come," she remarked in greeting, arching her perfect brows. "And without your warder, too."

"What do you want?" I remained standing.

She only laughed, that rich laugh that turned my very bones to water; even now, even still. "To see you," she said, then. "Before I die. Is that so much to ask?"

"From you," I said, "yes."

"Phèdre." Her lips shaped my name, her voice gave it meaning. I caught at the back of the second chair to steady myself, and her eyes watched me, amused. "Do you hate me that much?"

"Yes," I whispered, willing it to be true. "Why don’t you?"

"Ah, well." Melisande shrugged. "I was careless, and you played the hand I dealt you. Shall I blame you for that? I knew you were Delaunay’s creature when I dealt it. It might have been different, if I had claimed you for my own, and not given you leave to choose."

"No," I said.

"Who can say?" She smiled wryly. "But I will admit, I underestimated you gravely. You and that half-mad Cassiline of yours. I’ve heard tales, you know, from the guards. You went to Alba, they say."

I clutched the chair-back. "What did Selig promise you?" I asked, making my voice hard.

"Half an empire." Melisande leaned back casually. "I heard his name when he offered marriage to the daughter of the Duke of Milazza. I was curious. He thought I offered him Terre d’Ange. But I would have taken Skaldia in the end, you know. Or our children would have, if I’d not lived to see it."

"I know." I did not doubt it; I had guessed as much, the deep workings of her plot. A wave of hysterical laughter bubbled up within me, caught in my throat and left me choking. "You might have been happy with him, my lady," I said wildly. "He’d worked half his way through the Trois Milles Joies with me."

"Did he?" she murmured. "Hmm."

I closed my eyes to shut out the sight of her. "Why did you flee the City, when Ganelon died? I thought you knew."

By the sweeping sound of her skirt, I could tell Melisande had risen. "No. I knew Ganelon was dying, that’s true. And I knew that Thelesis de Mornay had an audience with Ysandre, and the next day, her guards were asking questions about the night Delaunay was killed." A silken rustle of a shrug. "I thought the King’s Poet had persuaded Ysandre to open a new investigation into his death. It was enough to render my absence prudent."

Her plans were already in motion, then. It wouldn’t have mattered, if Joscelin and I hadn’t staggered out of the white depths of Skaldic winter with a wild tale on our lips.

I opened my eyes to see Melisande gazing out the narrow window of her chamber at the dark night. "Why?" I whispered, knowing the question was futile, needing to ask it anyway.

She turned around, serene and beautiful. "Because I could."

There would never be any other answer. As much as I might wish for a reason I could understand, in my heart, and not only in the dark, intuitive part of me that shuddered away from such comprehension, it would never come.

"It would never have been different," I said harshly, willing the words to hurt her, willing her to flinch under their impact. Never, before, had I known what it was to desire another’s pain. I knew it then. "No matter what you did, no matter what claim you put on me, I would never have aided you in this."

"No?" Melisande smiled, amused. "Are you so sure of that, Phèdre nó Delaunay?" Her voice, low and honeyed, sent shivers across my skin, and I stood rooted as she crossed the room. Almost idle, one hand traced the line of my marque, hidden beneath my gown; it awakened the wound Selig had dealt me, and pain flared outward, suffusing my body. I could feel the heat of her presence, her scent. Nothing had changed. My will bent before hers as she cupped my cheek with one hand, face rising obediently to hers, my world tilted around her axis. "That which yields," she murmured, lowering her lips toward mine, "is not always weak."

A kiss; almost. Her lips brushed mine and withdrew, hands leaving my skin, and I staggered in the abyss of her sudden absence, in a shock of yearning.

"So your Tsingano said." Melisande looked at me, eyes gone cold. "I remembered as much. But I should have paid closer attention when he told me to choose my victories wisely." She sat down in the facing chair and nodded at the door. "You may go now, and leave me to consider my death."

I went.

I knocked blindly at the door of her chamber, stumbling through it when Ysandre’s guards shot the bolt and opened it, finding the stone wall of the hallway with fumbling hands.

"Are you all right, my lady?" one of them asked, anxious. I heard the door close hard behind me and nodded.

"Yes," I whispered, knowing I was not, not at all, but that there was nothing they could do to help, nor anyone. We should both, I thought, have listened to Hyacinthe. The dreadful laughter threatened to rise, and I bowed my head, sliding my hands across my face.

Melisande.