Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter Fifty-Nine

I will confess, like the others, I could not fathom Ysandre’s will in honoring her betrothal to the Prince of the Picti. A year ago, the romance of it might well have swept me away, but I had since been a barbarian lord’s bed-slave, and my blood was soured on the romance of the exotic.

Still, when she spoke of it, I came to some sympathy, for she spoke with precision and passion, rising to pace restlessly.

"All my life," she announced, her hands clasped behind her back as she walked, chin tilted, "I have been a pawn in the game of alliance by marriage. I have been courted and besuitored and fêted by D’Angeline lordlings who saw in me only a path to the throne, grasping inbred creatures, jaded to everything but power. The Cruithne did not come for power. They came following a dream, a vision so strong it swayed the Master of the Straits to allow them passage."

Ysandre glanced at Thelesis de Mornay as she said those words, and a memory sparked in me: Delaunay’s courtyard, after the audience with the Cruarch. I heard Alcuin’s voice echo in my mind. Still, I heard somewhat of a vision, of the King’s sister; a black boar and a silver swan.

A black boar. I mouthed the words to myself, repeating them silently in Cruithne. Black boar.

The Queen’s council stirred, most of them uncomfortable with talk of visions.

"Drustan mab Necthana does not desire rulership of Terre d’Ange," Ysandre said firmly. "We spoke of it, laughing, in broken tongues; a dream of the two of us grown, ruling our kingdoms in tandem. The idle dreams of romantic youth, yes, but there was truth in it. And I saw in him somewhat that I could love, and he in me. When he spoke of Alba, his eyes lit like stars. I am not prepared to abandon this alliance for mere political expediency."

"You are the Queen, my dear," Roxanne de Mereliot murmured. "You may not have the luxury of choosing."

"The House of Aragon-" L’Envers began.

The Lady of Marsilikos cut him short. "The House of Aragon will send aid, if we are invaded by the Skaldi, for they know where the Skaldi would turn next if Terre d’Ange falls. But the immediate danger lies within our own borders." She looked at Ysandre, her dark eyes rich with sorrow. "The simplest solution, my dear, is for you to marry Isidore d’Aiglemort."

"And set a traitor on the throne?" The Comte de Somerville was outraged. "If what they say is true…"

"If it is true," Roxanne interrupted, "and our first duty is to determine if it is, then we have no choice but to bind his loyalty, by any means possible. It is that, or conquest."

There were murmurs, grudging ones, of agreement. Ysandre paled, the blood draining from her face.

"No," I said, whispering the word. Conversation halted, and they stared at me. "That would not be the end of it. The Skaldi threat remains, and it is ten times more dire than anything Isidore d’Aiglemort could muster. And there is Melisande. She has…she has a private correspondence with the Skaldi, with Waldemar Selig, routed through Caerdicca Unitas. I have seen their numbers. If they know themselves betrayed…not even the full loyalty of the Allies of Camlach can save us."

"Then we will take Melisande Shahrizai into custody," Lord Rinforte, the Prefect, said brusquely. "It is a simple enough matter."

I laughed hollowly. "My lord…oh, my lord, there are no simple matters with Melisande Shahrizai. Do you think it is an accident that she is in Kusheth and not the City? I would not wager upon it."

"But why?" Tibault de Toluard pulled at his braid, a scholar’s abstract gesture, frowning. "Why would she betray the realm? What stakes are worth such risk?"

They looked at me, then, all of them. My hand stole up to close around her diamond, and I closed my eyes. "Not one realm, but two lie at stake; but it is the game, and not the stakes," I murmured. "When you come to it. The Shahrizai have played the Game of Houses since Elua’s footsteps echoed across the land, and Melisande plays it better than anyone." I opened my eyes, and gazed back at them. "She has made her mistake. I am the proof of it, and this slight advantage we bear as its sole outcome. Do not count on her to make another. And if you take the Duc d’Aiglemort to be our greatest foe, I fear it will be our undoing. Waldemar Selig is no fool either."

"We cannot ignore a province in revolt," Percy de Somerville protested.

"And we cannot know for sure that Camlach is in rebellion," Barquiel L’Envers said pragmatically. "That, then, is our first order of business. Establishing the truth of this confabulation."

"Without, of course," de Toluard reminded him, "tipping our hand."

"Of course." L’Envers inclined his head, only slightly sardonic.

Gaspar Trevalion scratched his chin. "Where," he asked Percy de Somerville, "are Prince Baudoin’s Glory-Seekers now? D’Aiglemort petitioned the King for them."

"You ought to know," the one-time Royal Commander said sourly. "In Trevalion, under Ghislain’s command, making trouble. I wonder Marc suffered their insubordinacy."

"My cousin was always a patient man." Gaspar grinned. "He survived marriage to Lyonette, didn’t he? This is my thought. Send d’Aiglemort the Glory-Seekers, let him think the Queen is softer than her grandfather was. Baudoin’s Guard bear no love for Isidore d’Aiglemort, who brought down their Prince and disgraced their name. Let them dissemble, let them ride the length of Camlach and see where loyalties lie."

"And what is to guarantee their loyalty?" Roxanne de Mereliot inquired. "It was House Courcel that had Baudoin de Trevalion executed."

"Ah," Gaspar said softly. "Yes. Ganelon de la Courcel. But it is Ysandre de la Courcel who could recall Duc Marc de Trevalion and his daughter Bernadette from exile."

"And strip my son Ghislain of his estates?" Percy de Somerville asked dangerously. Gaspar Trevalion looked evenly at him.

"I have heard great things of your son, my lord de Somerville. But he is a scion of Anael, and they will never love him in Azzalle, whose sin is pride; never, unless he were to become one of them. To wed, let us say, a Trevalion."

"Bernadette."

"Even so."

Ysandre followed the exchange with acute attention, her face grave. "Azzalle holds the flatlands, and we cannot risk dissention there," she said calmly. "My lord de Fourcay, your cousin has committed a crime against the throne, in withholding knowledge of Lyonette’s plan. If he were given a chance at redemption, would he take it?"

"Your majesty." Gaspar Trevalion, the Comte de Fourcay, bowed to her. "He is a D’Angeline in exile. Yes, he would take it. And this I swear to you, upon my name, that he would be twice fierce in his loyalty, for being given a chance to prove it. Never while you live will House Trevalion give you cause to regret this clemency."

She was young; she bit her lip, then nodded. "Let it be so, then. You know where he resides?" She glanced at Gaspar, who inclined his head. "We will communicate with him, then. But let the offer be made to Baudoin’s Guard first, and let them understand that upon their loyalty-and their discretion-rests the redemption of their House. Will you undertake this, my lord?"

"I will," Gaspar said firmly.

"Good." Ysandre looked stronger for the resolution. "Now, I have spoken with Prince Benedicte of these matters, insofar as I dared. You should know he and my uncle the Duc have made peace between them." She glanced at Barquiel L’Envers, who nodded curtly, no mockery in his expression. It was well done, I thought, impressed that she had brought them to concord. Oh, they had underestimated her direly, those D’Angelines who had called for Baudoin to replace her; there was steel indeed in Ysandre de la Courcel! "La Serenissima cannot aid us with men," she continued. "They are too near the Skaldic border, at too great a risk themselves. But they can aid us with intelligence, and that Benedicte has sworn to do." She gazed round at the others. "We require knowledge, my lords and ladies. Knowledge of Aragonia’s support, and the other Caerdicci city-states. Knowledge of the movements of the Skaldi. Knowledge of the loyalties within our own realm. Knowledge of the extent of the forces we can marshal, and the degree of their readiness. This knowledge we require, and we require that it be obtained in secrecy. What are you prepared to do?"

I will not detail the conversation that followed, for it was lengthy and complicated. In the end it was resolved that each of them would take various measures toward these ends, moving with the utmost of discretion. The Cassiline Brotherhood would serve as the conduit for this intelligence, forming a network of couriers to carry information to all the provinces. This was well-conceived, for no one would suspect the Cassilines of politicking. Indeed, I think the Prefect would not have agreed were he not anxious to remove the taint that Joscelin’s actions had cast upon his order. It was resolved too that no word would be given on the matter of the alleged traitors, until such time as there was proof at hand, and an advantage to be gained in revealing it.

When it was done, it was Barquiel L’Envers who returned to the topic of Alba. "Well, Ysandre," he said wryly, "we have planned our first steps toward handling civil war and invasion as best we may. What of your blue lad? How stand matters on fair Alba?"

It was Gaspar Trevalion who answered, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Everyone was weary by this time. "Drustan mab Necthana escaped the bloodbath and fought his way, with his mother and sisters and a handful of warriors, to the western side of Alba, to seek refuge among the Dalriada. This we know. If the Dalriada would fight for him, it is likely that he could retake the throne from his cousin Maelcon, but thus far they have refused."

"Yes," Barquiel replied sarcastically, "I’m aware of this, as is much of the realm, as was Ganelon, which is why he was inclined to break their betrothal, which, of course, was never made public in the first place. Is this the extent of your vast intelligence, for which Anafiel Delaunay was slain?"

"No." Thelesis de Mornay intervened softly, but with the poet’s command of tone that summoned their attention. "Delaunay was in contact with Quintilius Rousse, who carried a request to the Master of the Straits. We pleaded that he grant passage to Drustan mab Necthana and his folk. Were they to gain D’Angeline soil, he and Ysandre could wed. Terre d’Ange would aid him in regaining the throne of Alba, and Alba would aid Ysandre in retaining the throne of Terre d’Ange."

"The very plan of the Lioness of Azzalle," Roxanne de Mereliot murmured.

"Which nigh succeeded," Gaspar reminded her. "Yes. Except we sought the compliance of the Master of the Straits."

"Which," Tibault de Toluard observed, "I take it he did not give."

"He answered thusly," Thelesis said, and quoted. " ‘When the Black Boar rules in Alba, Elder Brother will accede.’ Those were the words of Quintilius Rousse, and the message for which Delaunay was killed."

I knew the words, knew them well; and yet they tugged at my mind, an echoing memory.

"A message which makes no sense," L’Envers said acerbically.

"Not so." Thelesis shook her head. "There are dozens of tribes in Alba and Eire, but they fall into four peoples. The folk of the Red Bull, to whom Maelcon and Foclaidha are born; the folk of the White Mare, whom the Dalriada follow; the folk of the Golden Hind, to the south, and the folk of the Black Boar, to whom Drustan mab Necthana was born, Cinhil Ru’s line. The Master of the Straits is saying that he will grant our request if Prince Drustan can reclaim Alba."

"Ah, well then." L’Envers shrugged. "Likely he would grant our request if Blessed Elua returned from the Terre d’Ange-that-lies-beyond and asked him a boon. It is a moot point."

The memory that had evaded me at last came clear.

"Do not discount the Cullach Gorrym," I said aloud. "Hyacinthe!" I shook him in my excitement. "Do you remember? Your mother said it to me. Do not discount the Cullach Gorrym." I repeated it. "Don’t discount the Black Boar!"

He frowned. "I remember. It didn’t make any sense."

"It does now," I said. "It means Prince Drustan."

"You say your mother had this gift?" Ysandre asked, bending her gaze on Hyacinthe.

"Yes, your majesty." He bowed. "Greater than I. And she said this, it is true."

"What do you see?"

He stared into the distance, his black eyes going blank and filmy, and finally shook his head. "I see a ship," he said reluctantly. "Nothing more. Where the paths branch in many ways, I cannot see far. It is only the straight road I see clearly, majesty. Such as your grandfather the King’s."

"Anyone could have foretold that," Percy de Somerville muttered. "Ganelon was on his deathbed."

"The young Tsingano foretold the day of it," Ysandre reminded him. She looked thoughtful. "If the Dalriada knew of the Master of the Strait’s pledge, mayhap they would lend Drustan their aid. Anafiel Delaunay would have gone, had he not been killed. It is a pity, for he spoke Cruithne, and his young pupil as well. And there is no one else I trust." She glanced apologetically at Thelesis. "I do not speak of you, of course; I trust you with my life, Queen’s Poet, and I know your spirit is willing. But I have spoken with the physicians, and a winter voyage across land and sea would be the death of you, Thelesis."

"So they tell me," Thelesis de Mornay murmured; and I did not doubt that she was willing to go anyway, though the ravages of the fever were clearly marked on her strained features. But her dark, luminous gaze fell on me instead. "My lady," she said to Ysandre, "Anafiel Delaunay had two pupils."

The shock of it went clean through me. "What are you saying?" I whispered.

"I am saying…" She had to pause, overcome by a fit of coughing. "Phèdre nó Delaunay, you could take Anafiel’s place as the Queen’s ambassador."

"My lady," I protested, looking from Thelesis to Ysandre, not sure which one of them I was addressing. My mind was reeling. "My lady, I am an anguissette! I am trained to be a Servant of Naamah! I’m not trained to be an ambassador!"

"Whatever you’re trained to do, you apparently do it damnably well," Barquiel L’Envers remarked laconically. "Did you know Rogier Clavel went into mourning for you and lost some twenty pounds? He’s as thin as a rail these days. Any pupil of Anafiel Delaunay’s is considerably more than a Servant of Naamah, little anguissette. You’re the first whore I’ve heard of to double-cross a Skaldi warleader and survive to warn a nation of treason."

"My lord!" I heard the terror in my own voice. "What I did to survive, I hope never to do again. I do not have the strength to live through it twice."

"The Cruithne are not the Skaldi," Ysandre said reasonably. "And you would be under the protection of Quintilius Rousse, who is one of the greatest admirals ever to set sail. Phèdre, for what you have done, I am grateful. Never think it is not so. I would not ask this thing if our need were not urgent."

I sat without answering, unseeing with shock. Near to me, Joscelin rose, giving his smooth Cassiline bow to the Queen. He turned to me, then, and I gazed up at him, his face shining with bright fearlessness. "Phèdre," he said, his voice ringing with a hero’s courage. "We have survived worse adventures. I will go with you. I have sworn it. To protect and serve!"

For a moment, his courage kindled my own. Then the Prefect’s voice came hard on the heels of Joscelin’s ringing tones, like a dash of icy water.

"Brother Joscelin!" he said crisply. "We are glad that your innocence has been established in the matter of Anafiel Delaunay’s death. But you have confessed yourself in violation of your vows and remanded yourself to our justice. For the salvation of your soul, you must atone and be shriven. Only those who strive to be Perfect Companions are fit to serve the scions of Elua."

Joscelin blinked, staring at him open-mouthed, then regained his composure. "My lord Prefect," he said with a bow. "I am sworn still to the household of Anafiel Delaunay." There was a note of anguish in his voice. "If there is salvation to be found for me, it lies in honoring that vow!"

"You are relieved of your vow to Delaunay’s household," the Prefect said flatly. "I decree it so."

"My lord!" Joscelin winced as if struck. "My lord Prefect, please, no!"

The old Prefect leveled his hawk’s glare at Joscelin. "What transgressions have you committed, young Brother?"

Joscelin looked away, unable to hold the Prefect’s gaze. "I have failed to safeguard my charge," he said dully. "I have slain in anger instead of defending. I have…I have committed murder. And I have…" He looked at me for a moment, his expression grave. I remembered Elua’s Cavern, and what had happened between us there. Then his gaze slid away from mine and he glanced at Hyacinthe. "I have drawn my sword merely to threaten," he finished.

"These are grave sins." The Prefect shook his head. "I cannot allow it, Brother Joscelin. Another will go in your stead."

It was very still in the King’s hunting lodge. No one, not even Ysandre, would intervene in a Cassiline matter. Joscelin stood alone, lost in thought. He raised his blue gaze toward the ceiling, then looked once again at me. I remembered him standing alone in the deadly veils of snow, casting down his sword before the Skaldi. He had made choices no other Cassiline ever had faced. He had been tempered, by chains and blood and ice, and not broken. I did not want any other protector to stand in his stead.

"Your majesty." Joscelin turned to Ysandre with a bow, speaking with the utmost formality. "Will you accept my sword in your service as the protector of Phèdre nó Delaunay?"

"Do it and be damned, young Brother!" the Prefect said harshly. "Cassiel’s vows bind for a lifetime and beyond!"

Ysandre de la Courcel sat in consideration, her face expressionless. At last she inclined her head. "We accept your service," she said formally. To the Prefect, she said, "My lord Rinforte, we grieve to cross your wishes. But we must follow the precepts of Blessed Elua in such matters, and not the will of the Cassiline Brotherhood. And by Elua’s teaching, he is free to choose his course."

"There will be a reckoning upon the Misguided!" the Prefect muttered through clenched teeth. "So be it. Is that your will, Brother Joscelin?"

"It is." Joscelin’s voice sounded hollow, but he stood unwavering.

The Prefect gave an immaculate Cassiline bow, then made a gesture with both hands, as though breaking something. "Joscelin Verreuil of the Cassiline Brotherhood, I declare you anathema." He bowed again, to Ysandre. "I remand this man into your service, your majesty."

"Good," she said simply. "Phèdre nó Delaunay, do you accept this charge to take up your lord’s duty and carry my words to Prince Drustan mab Necthana of the Cruithne?"

After what Joscelin had done, it left me little choice. I stood, my stomach a mix of sinking terror, pride and excitement, and made obeisance to my Queen. "Yes, your majesty. I will go."

"Good," Ysandre repeated, adding thoughtfully, "Then the only problem that remains is how to get you safely to Quintilius Rousse."

"Where is he?" I knew where he had been. I dreaded the answer.

"Kusheth." The word fell like a stone.

"Your majesty," Hyacinthe said unexpectedly. "I have an idea."