Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter Thirty-One

I cannot say what passed between Delaunay and Barquiel L’Envers after we were bidden to leave, but it seemed that some form of accord had been reached, albeit an uneasy one.

The days of autumn grew shorter, and brought no word save the rumor of Skaldi glimpsed once more in the passes of the Camaeline Range. Delaunay waited on the matter’s resolution, and once more I cooled my heels, while my coffer stayed empty and my marque grew no longer. I knew there was no malice in it, but even so, it galled me when Alcuin’s final appointment with Master Tielhard was made, and his marque completed. He was free, as I had never been, in all my life.

Still, it was not in me to be cruel, not to Alcuin. I accompanied him to the marquist and made all the proper sounds of admiration. Indeed, it was a thing of beauty. The light of the braziers in the marquist’s shop warmed Alcuin’s fair skin, and the supple lines emphasized his straight, slender back. The delicate spray of birch-leaves that formed the finial ended at the very nape of his neck, where the first down of his white hair began. Master Tielhard actually wore a look of satisfaction as he inspected his handiwork, and his apprentice forgot for a moment to blush. Joscelin, hovering in the background, did blush, looking ill at ease and singularly out of place.

When one looks back at one’s life, it is easy to mark the turning points. It is not always so easy to know them when they arrive; but this one, I daresay I knew well enough. It had been a long time in coming, and in some part of me, I had accepted it. Even so, it was another thing when it happened.

I was restless that night, and though I retired early, I found sleep eluded me. Thus it was that I wandered down to the library, with the thought of reading some verse or a diverting tale. When I saw Alcuin slip into the library ahead of me, I nearly went back, being in no mood to be reminded of the change in our status. I don’t know why I didn’t, save that he had a strange look of resolve and I was trained to curiosity.

As he hadn’t seen me, it was a simple matter to stand at an angle to the doorway, where the lamplight didn’t reach, and watch. Delaunay was there, reading; he marked his place with one finger and glanced up as Alcuin entered.

"Yes?" His tone was polite, but there was reserve in it. I knew Delaunay, and he had not forgotten what I’d told him.

"My lord," Alcuin said softly. "You have not even asked to see my marque finished."

Even from a distance, I could see Delaunay blink. "Master Robert Tielhard does excellent work," he said, at something of a loss. "I’ve no doubt it’s well-limned."

"It is." There was a rare amusement in Alcuin’s voice. "But my lord, the debt is not concluded between us until you acknowledge it. Will you see?"

He spoke truly; in keeping with the traditions of the Night Court, the Dowayne of the House must acknowledge an adept’s marque before it is recorded as finished. How Alcuin knew this, I don’t know. It may have been a fortunate guess on his part, though he always surprised me with what he did know. At any rate, Delaunay knew it, and set down his book. "If you wish," he said formally, rising.

Alcuin turned without a word, unbuttoning the loose shirt he wore and letting it slip off his shoulders. His hair was unbraided, and he gathered it in one hand, drawing it over his shoulder so it fell, white and shining, in a thick cable over his chest. His dark eyes were downcast, shadowed by long lashes the color of tarnished silver. "Is my lord pleased?"

"Alcuin." Delaunay made a sound that might have been a laugh, but wasn’t, not quite. He raised his hand, touching the fresh-limned lines of Alcuin’s marque. "Does it hurt?"

"No." With the simple grace that marked everything he did, Alcuin turned again and laid both arms around Delaunay’s neck, raising his gaze to meet Delaunay’s. "No, my lord, it doesn’t hurt."

In the hallway, I drew in my breath so sharply it hissed between my teeth, though neither heard. Delaunay’s hands rose to rest on Alcuin’s waist, and I more than half expected him to push Alcuin away; but Alcuin expected it too, and instead tugged Delaunay’s head down to kiss him.

"Everything I have done," I heard him whisper, "I have done for you, my lord. Will you not do this one thing for me?"

If Delaunay answered, I did not hear it; I saw that he did not push Alcuin away, and that was enough. A grief I’d not known was in me rose to blind my eyes with tears, and I walked backward, feeling the wall with one hand, wanting to hear no more. I was no romantic fool, to moon over what was not to be, and I had known since my first year of service to Naamah that my gifts were not to Delaunay’s taste. Still, it was another matter to know that Alcuin’s were. Somehow I found the stairs, and stumbled my way to my bedroom, and I am not to proud to admit that I shed a good many bitter tears before at last I slept, exhausted with weeping.

In the morning, I felt husk-hollow, emptied by the force of my own emotions. It made it easier to bear, seeing the faint shadows beneath Alcuin’s eyes, and the smile he had only worn once before, after his night with Mierette no Orchis. I almost wished I could hate him for it, but I knew too well what he felt for Delaunay.

Too well indeed.

For Delaunay’s part, he took it quietly, but something in him had loosened. I cannot put it into words; it was the same thing I had seen in the countryside. Some part of himself which Delaunay held tightly at bay was given rein to breathe. It was in his voice, in every motion, in the way he was quicker to smile than to cock a cynical brow.

I don’t know what I would have done had there not been news from La Serenissima that day; between boredom and despair, I was ready to test Delaunay’s tolerance and cared little enough if he sold my marque. It’s funny, how one can look back on a sorrow one thought one might well die of at the time, and know that one had not yet reckoned the tenth part of true grief. But that came later. Then, I was merely miserable enough to be morbid with it.

It was the Comte de Fourcay, Gaspar Trevalion, who brought the news. His friendship with Delaunay was stronger than ever since the trial, and he had weathered the ordeal with admirable dignity. The taint of treachery had not touched Fourcay.

The news he brought from the Palace was mixed. Vitale Bouvarre had indeed been taken into custody by Prince Benedicte; but he had been found hanged in his cell before a confession could be obtained, and rumor had it that the regular gaoler had been replaced by a man who owed gambling debts to Dominic Stregazza. When that man was sought, his body was discovered floating in a canal. There was no question of his drowning. When they pulled him out, they found his throat had been cut.

It seemed Prince Benedicte was no fool; he sent for his son-in-law, Dominic. But Barquiel L’Envers-or perhaps his cousin-must have feared the slippery Stregazza would succeed in lying his way out of any wrongdoing, which like as not was true. At any rate, Dominic’s party was assaulted en route by a group of masked riders. They were deadly archers, who fled uncaught, leaving behind four dead, one of whom was Dominic Stregazza.

"There’s a rumor," Gaspar said shrewdly, "that one of the survivors saw Akkadian trappings on one of the horses; tassels on the bridle or some such thing. And it’s said that the Duc L’Envers went a bit native during his posting to the Khalifate. Do you know aught of it, Anafiel?"

Delaunay shook his head. "Barquiel L’Envers? You must be jesting, old friend."

"Perhaps. Though I also heard that Benedicte added a private postscript to his letter, begging Ganelon to bring in L’Envers for questioning." He shrugged. "He might press the matter, too, if it weren’t for other concerns in La Serenissima. Some rumor of a new Skaldi warlord. All the city-states of Caerdicca Unitas are frantic to form military alliances of a sudden."

"Truly?" Delaunay frowned; I knew he was worried, having heard nothing from Gonzago de Escabares since he sent a polite thanks for the translation I had made him. "Does Benedicte take it seriously?"

"Seriously enough. He sent word to Percy de Somerville, warning him to keep an ear cocked toward Camlach. We’re fortunate to have young D’Aiglemort and his allies holding the line there."

"Indeed," Delaunay murmured; I knew by the sound of it that he held a measure of reserve. "So there’s no talk of Stregazza retribution?"

"Nothing immediate." Gaspar Trevalion lowered his voice. "I will tell you privately, my friend, I do not think Benedicte de la Courcel will mourn the death of this son-in-law overly long. It is my belief that he would have drawn that one’s fangs himself, had he not been wary of venom."

"And wisely so." Delaunay did not elaborate on the comment-I knew what he meant by it, and I daresay Gaspar Trevalion knew too-but turned the conversation to another matter.

I waited out their visit, attending on it with more than half my mind elsewhere. It is the discipline of the Night Court that stays with me at such times, rather than Delaunay’s training. A useful thing, to be able to smile and pour with a graceful hand when one’s heart is broken. When at last the Comte de Fourcay had gone, I had a chance to confront Delaunay.

"My lord," I said politely. "You said I might return to the service of Naamah when the matter was resolved."

"Did I?" He looked a little startled; it hadn’t been uppermost in his mind, and I guessed he was a little short of sleep. "Yes, I suppose I did. Well, and I am willing to abide by it, on the strength of this news-though you will go nowhere without the Cassiline, mind."

"Yes, my lord. Are there offers to entertain?"

"Some few," Delaunay said dryly; there had been many. "Had you somewhat in mind?"

I drew a breath and steadied myself to say it. "I have a debt to settle with Lord Childric d’Essoms."

"D’Essoms!" Delaunay’s russet brows arched. "He made an offer this week gone by, Phèdre, but I am minded to let his anger cool before he sees you. D’Essoms has served his purpose; we’ll get no more of him, unless Barquiel’s up to somewhat I cannot fathom. I doubt it, though. He’s made his alliance and had his vengeance; he’s clever enough to keep his head down for a time."

"Send me where you will, my lord," I said and meant it, "but I am Naamah’s servant too, and I owe a debt to Childric d’Essoms for what I have done in her service."

"Well enough." Delaunay gave me a curious glance. "I’ll not gainsay you in this. I’ll have the other offers sent for your consideration, and sign the contract with d’Essoms." He rose to stroke my hair, the curiosity in his gaze turning to concern. "You’re sure of this?"

"Yes, my lord," I whispered, and fled his touch before tears could choke me.

Of that assignation, perhaps the least said, the better. Suffice it to say that d’Essoms' anger had not cooled, and I was glad of it, for it suited my mood. Never before had I used my service to escape any woes that troubled me, but I did that day. There was no artistry in what passed between us; given license by his rage and my contract, d’Essoms greeted me with a powerful blow across the face. It knocked me sprawling to the floor, and I tasted blood, the red haze of Kushiel’s Dart claiming me with blessed relief.

I did all that he ordered, and more.

When he bound me to the whipping-cross, I felt the grain of its wood caress my skin like a lover. I cried out at the first stinging kiss of the flogger, shuddering with helpless pleasure, and d’Essoms cursed me and wielded the lash with fury until pain overwhelmed the pleasure and I wept out of both, buffeted by pain, guilt and rage, sorrow and betrayal, no longer knowing the nature of the release for which I pleaded.

D’Essoms was tender when he was done; I hadn’t expected that. "Never again, Phèdre," he whispered, holding me gently and sponging the blood from the morass of welts he’d laid across my back. "Promise me, you’ll never betray me like that again."

"No, my lord," I promised, dizzy with agony and catharsis. In some distant part of my mind, I hoped Delaunay was right, and there was naught more to be obtained from Childric d’Essoms. "Never again."

He murmured something-I don’t know what-and continued to tend to my weals, squeezing the sponge. Warm water ran over my skin, and I felt good, languid with the aftermath of it all, and happy that the first of my patrons still wanted me. I loved him a bit for that; I could not help it, had always loved my patrons at least a little bit. I never told Delaunay, though I think he guessed it.

I cannot guess at my appearance as I entered d’Essoms' receiving room. I stumbled a bit, I know, but it must have been worse than that alone, for Joscelin’s eyes widened in shock and he sprang to his feet.

"Name of Elua!" he breathed. "Phèdre…"

It may have been pain or weakness, though I tend to think the sheer unexpectedness of hearing him say my name like that that made my knees buckle; either way, Joscelin was at my side in two strides. Without ceremony, he scooped me into his arms and headed for the door.

"Joscelin." Irritation cleared my head. "Joscelin, put me down. I can walk."

He shook his head, stubborn as any of his Brethren. "Not while I attend you!" He nodded to d’Essoms' liveried servant. "Open the door."

I was glad, as we emerged into the courtyard, that we were at d’Essoms' townhouse and not his quarters in the Palace; there was no one to see save a startled stableboy as Joscelin Verreuil, in his Cassiline drab, carried me to Delaunay’s coach, my sangoire cloak trailing over his ashen-and-steel arms. I tried to ignore the strength of those arms, and the firmness of the chest against which they held me. "Idiot!" I hissed as he set me carefully within the coach. "This is what I do!"

Joscelin gave the homeward command to the coachman and got in opposite me, folding his arms and glaring. "If this is your calling, would that I knew what sin I’d committed, that I should be ordered to witness it and stand idly by!"

"I did not ask to have you here." I winced as the coach lurched into motion, throwing me back against the seats.

"And you call me an idiot," Joscelin muttered.