Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter Ninety-Four

In defiance of death, D’Angelines celebrate life.

It is for this reason, I think, above all, that Ysandre and Drustan’s wedding became the grand affair that it did. And for anyone tempted to think that she kept me in her service out of kindness in those weeks of preparation, let me say: I earned my keep.

Somewhere amid the chaos, I found time to tend to those promises of my own I had to fulfill. Thelesis de Mornay was a great boon, setting the deeds of our quest and the great battle to verse, and translating them as well into Cruithne; for I had promised Drustan that his folk would know of their deeds. How many people she interviewed for this tale, I cannot say, but a great many of them. Though her health was never so good as it had been before the fever struck her, she spent herself tirelessly on her craft.

It became in the end a mighty epic, and she worked all the days of her life on the Ysandrine Cycle, so-named because it charted the tumultuous ascension of Ysandre de la Courcel to the throne of Terre d’Ange-though it is, in truth, many folks' stories, mine own included. But she had been Ganelon’s favorite poet for many years, and knew well enough how to turn out verse for an occasion, so we had the beginnings of it in time for the wedding. As it happened, she had begun work on it from the day four couriers styling themselves Phèdre’s Boys stormed into the City with a letter in hand, and news of great doings.

A party of riders hand-picked by Drustan set forth for Azzalle to meet Rousse’s fleet and be carried to Alba, carrying the tale locked in memory to Cruithne and Dalriada alike, bearing assurance of a victory won and an alliance made, and the return of the Cruarch to come. Quintilius Rousse himself guaranteed their crossing, having left Jean Marchand in command of the fleet and Marc de Trevalion to hold the border, that he might come to the Palace in person, roaring and bluff as ever, gathering me in an embrace that nearly cracked my ribs.

On behalf of those couriers who had brought my plea to Thelesis de Mornay, and the rest of Phèdre’s Boys, I kept my vow made on the ancient Tiberian roads of Alba, and met with Jareth Moran, Dowayne of Cereus House, First among the Thirteen Houses of the Night Court. The token he had given me the night of Baudoin’s natal festivities was long gone, seized along with all of Delaunay’s holdings, but Cecilie Laveau-Perrin came at my side, and made a bargain with him that would have made an adept of Bryony House weep with envy.

Fifteen tokens, one for each of Phèdre’s surviving Boys, to grant free passage to any of the Thirteen Houses on the eve of Ysandre’s wedding. But he was no fool, Jareth Moran. My name and my tale were known, in some part, an odd scarlet thread in the tapestry of D’Angeline victory; Delaunay’s anguissette, who had survived slavery in Skaldia, who had ridden to Alba. I was born and bred to the Night Court, raised in Cereus House. The Dowayne opened his doors to Phèdre’s Boys, and traded on my name to restore a measure of luster to the mythos of the Night Court.

No matter that I’d had naught to do with him since I was ten years old and Delaunay came to claim me. I’d been born to it, which was true. And I kept my promise, which was what mattered to me.

For the last of it, I brought the deed to Hyacinthe’s house and his holdings to his crew in Night’s Doorstep, finding Emile as he had bid me, and giving into his keeping the deed that Hyacinthe had written on scraped parchment in the lonely tower of the Master of the Straits. Emile wept and kissed my hands, blessing me profusely; out of joy, in part, and out of sorrow for Hyacinthe’s fate, in larger part. It touched me, to see how much, truly, they had cared for him.

Prince of Travellers.

I made an offering, then, in his mother’s name, at the temple of Elua where we had gone together after Baudoin’s death. Clutching the scarlet anemones, damp with dew, I laid them at the base of the statue, kneeling to kiss Elua’s cool marble feet. "For Anasztaizia, daughter of Manoj," I murmured, smelling all around me the moist soil and green things growing, the deep shade of the mighty oaks. Far above me, Elua’s vast features bent an enigmatic smile through the gloaming twilight.

I knelt there a long while.

This time, it was Joscelin’s hands that bid me rise; but the priest of Elua was there, the same, I swear it, though all priests and priestesses resemble each other in some way, for they are all part of an unbroken line of service. He smiled at us, barefooted in the damp mast, hands in the sleeves of his robe.

"Cassiel’s child," he said gently, remonstrating Joscelin, "do not rush. You have stood at the crossroads and chosen, and like Cassiel, you will ever stand at the crossroads and choose, choose again and again, the path of the Companion. The choice lies ever within you, the crossroads and the way, and Elua’s commandment to point you on it."

Joscelin gave him a startled look, but the priest was already reaching out one hand, laying it upon my cheek.

"Kushiel’s Dart and Naamah’s Servant." He smiled, leaf-shadowed in the twilight; a smile of blessing, of remembrance, I thought. Who could say? I believed him the same priest. "Love as thou wilt, and Elua will ever guide your steps."

He left us to linger there.

When he had gone, I laughed. "It seems my turn for dire prophecy has passed."

"You can have mine," Joscelin said wryly. "It seems I’m doomed to make the same choice a thousand times over."

"Are you sorry?" I searched his face in the faint light.

"No." Joscelin shook his head. "No," he whispered, and took my face in his hands, lowering his head to kiss me, unbound hair the color of summer wheat falling forward to curtain us.

It was sweet, very sweet, and I felt the rightness of it in our shared breath, the steady beat of his heart matching time with my own.

When he lifted his head, the shadow of a smile curved his lips. "But there will likely be times when I am."

"Likely there will," I murmured. "As long as it’s not now."

"No," he said, and smiled in full. "Not now."

Above our heads, Elua’s marble hands remained spread in blessing.

Thus did I keep the promises I had made on that long and terrible journey; and afterward, you may be sure, Ysandre de la Courcel had me dancing attendance upon her to make up for time lost on my own business. While she bid fair to make a wise and compassionate ruler, she was also a D’Angeline noblewoman approaching her wedding-day, and indulged her foibles accordingly. Never in her life had she been allowed the luxury of being girlish; if she seized it now, I, who had been raised to fripperies, could not blame her.

One such which demanded my attention was the bedecking of Alban royalty in D’Angeline finery: to wit, the splendid gown Ysandre commissioned for Grainne.

The Queen of Terre d’Ange was more than a little fascinated with the Warrior Queen of the Dalriada. There must have been threescore women fighting among the Albans, but Grainne was the only one whose status was, in its own way, comparable to Ysandre’s.

Eamonn’s death had not diminished her. If her bright spirit was banked with sorrow, it was deepened as well. She stood patiently beneath the Royal Tailor’s prodding as he fitted her, showing a glimmer of her old amusement as she caught my eye.

The gown, a glory of scarlet silk and gold brocade, was too narrow through the waist, though she had been measured no more than a week prior. I listened to the tailor’s muttering and laughed.

"How long?" I asked Grainne in Eiran.

"Three months." She laid her hand on the faint swell of her belly and smiled complacently. "If it is a boy, I will name him Eamonn."

"Is it Rousse’s?"

She smiled again. "It may be so."

Ysandre raised impatient brows. She spoke some bit of Cruithne, but the Eiran dialect took time to master, or great necessity. I’d had the advantage of both. I explained to her what Grainne had said.

"She fought," Ysandre said in astonishment, "with child?"

"It was too soon to be sure, then," I said diplomatically. There is a dreadful Eiran tale about an ancient Queen running a footrace great with child; I spared her that, and was glad I’d not told her about Eamonn’s head, preserved in quicklime.

"Will Quintilius Rousse wed her?" Ysandre inquired.

I translated for Grainne, who laughed.

"I do not think it matters to her, my lady," I replied.

"That’s fine," Ysandre said to the Royal Tailor, waving one hand dismissively. "Make the adjustments." She looked consideringly at me. "What of you, near-cousin? Will you wed your Cassiline?"

One does not refuse to answer a direct question from one’s sovereign, but glancing at her face, I saw that she was genuinely interested. "No, my lady," I said simply. "Anathema or no, Cassiline vows bind for a lifetime. Joscelin betrays them every day he is with me, and that is his choice. To wed would be a mockery, and that he cannot do, nor I ask."

Ysandre, I think, understood; her ever-present Cassiline guards stared straight ahead, and what they thought, I cannot guess, nor did I care.

"Will you return to Naamah’s Service?" she asked then.

"I don’t know." I busied myself with assisting Grainne as she divested herself and dressed in her own garb, handing her kirtle over the tailor’s folding modesty-screen. It was one of those questions that lay between Joscelin and I, and one we had avoided. I faced it now, in part, meeting Ysandre’s gaze. "You have been kind, your majesty, and I have assurances of hospitality from good friends." It was true; Gaspar Trevalion had promised I should never want for aught, and Cecilie and Thelesis as well. "But if I am rich in friends, I am penniless in pocket."

This, too, was true; and a considerable fortune awaited me as a Servant of Naamah. There were other reasons, too, but those were harder to voice. Poverty, everyone understood.

"Oh, that!" Ysandre laughed, beckoning to a page. "Summon the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Tell him it’s regarding Lord Delaunay’s estate."

He came with alacrity, a lean and grizzled man, clutching sheaves of paper. Ysandre had dismissed the Royal Tailor by then, and given Grainne leave to go, which she took, bending one last look of quiet amusement my way.

"Go on," Ysandre bid the Chancellor, reclining on a couch and sipping at a glass of wine. I sat in a chair and gazed with perplexity as he cleared his throat and shuffled through his papers.

"Yes, your majesty…regarding Anafiel Delaunay’s estate, the town-house in the City, and all its holdings…it seems these were purchased from the judiciary by one…" he peered at a parchment, "…Lord Sandriel Voscagne, who deeded it to…well, it doesn’t matter, we can begin proceedings for its reclamation at your insistence, my lady Phèdre, or the Exchequer will recompense you the full amount of the sale…"

"Why?" I interrupted out of pure bewilderment.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer looked at me over his papers, startled. "Oh, you didn’t…your majesty…well, of course, my lady, his lordship Anafiel Delaunay filed the papers some time ago, naming you his heir, you and one…" he consulted a sheet, "…Alcuin nó Delaunay, deceased. By her majesty’s proclamation of your innocence, our seizure is now unlawful, and we must by rights recompense you."

I opened my mouth and closed it, in my shock picturing the house as I’d last seen it, a dreadful abattoir, Delaunay dead and Alcuin dying. "I don’t want it," I said, shuddering. "Not the house. Let Lord Sandriel or whomever keep it. If I am owed…" It was hard to credit. "If I am owed, well, then, fine."

"Yes, of course, quite," the Chancellor said absently, shuffling through his papers. "Recompense in full." Ysandre sipped her wine and smiled. "And then there is Montrève, of course," he added.

"Montrève?" I echoed the word like a simpleton.

"Montrève, in Siovale, yes." His gaze came into focus as he found the document for which he was searching, tapping it smartly. "With his disinheritance, upon his father’s death, it passed to his mother, and thence to Lord Delaunay’s cousin, Rufaille, who is, sadly, listed among the dead of Troyes-le-Mont." The Chancellor cleared his throat again. "A codicil in the will of the Comtesse de Montrève specifies that if he should die without issue, the estate would revert to her son Anafiel Delaunay or his heirs. And that, it seems, is the case, my lady."

Although his words clearly formed sentences, I could make no sense of them. He might as well have been speaking Akkadian, for all I understood.

"What he is saying, Phèdre," Ysandre said succinctly, "is that you have inherited the title and estate of Comtesse de Montrève."

I stared blankly at her. "My lady will have her jest."

"Her majesty does not jest," the Chancellor of the Exchequer said reproachfully to me, and rattled his sheaf of papers. "It’s all very clear, and documented in the archives of the Royal Treasury."

"Thank you, my lord Brenois," Ysandre said graciously to the Chancellor. "Will you draw up the papers of investiture?"

"Your majesty." He bowed deeply, hugging his sheaves to him, and hurried out of the royal presence.

"You knew," I said to Ysandre, my voice sounding strange to my ears. She took a sip of wine and shook her head.

"Not about Montrève, no. That only came to light after the lists were published, and Lord Brenois determined that Rufaille de Montrève had designated no heir. You may refuse, of course. But it was Delaunay’s mother’s wish that the estate return to her son, or his line. And he chose you, you and the boy Alcuin."

"Delaunay," I whispered. He had never told me. I wondered if Alcuin had known. "No. I’ll…I accept."

"Good," Ysandre said simply.

Afterward the matter was concluded in her mind, and Ysandre consulted with me on some small choices of jewelry and hairstyle for her wedding-day; what I said, I have no idea. My mind was reeling, dumbstruck. She was Queen of Terre d’Ange, Montrève was naught to her. A tiny, mountainous Siovalese holding with nothing to offer but a score of men-at-arms and a decent library, it was interesting only in that it had begotten Anafiel Delaunay, whom her father had loved.

So it was, to her. To me, named by the ancient Dowayne of Cereus House for what I was, a whore’s unwanted get, it was somewhat else indeed.

When she was done with me, I went in search of Joscelin.

"What’s wrong?" he asked in alarm, looking at my flushed face, my eyes bright as with fever. "Are you all right?"

"No." I swallowed. "I’m a peer of the realm."