Kushiel's Avatar (Page 3)
“I don't know.” I raised my head. “The Master of the Straits said it would be a long apprenticeship. Mayhap it is only that, some phe nomenon of power, a demonstration. But it is in my heart that it may be something more. With your permission, I would like to investigate.”
“You have it.” Ysandre bent her gaze on Evrilac Duré, not without a degree of asperity. “Messire Duré, I will not command any man of Trevalion to assail the Three Sisters . . . but I will ask. If Phèdre nó Delaunay wishes to travel thence, will you carry her?”
Evrilac Duré swallowed visibly, lifting his chin a fraction. They are proud, in Azzalle, and she had stung him. My Queen had learned some few things about manipulating people herself since first she ascended the throne. “Majesty!” he said sharply. “We will.”
Thus were our plans laid. Ysandre dismissed the Azzallese to seek food and rest, leaving instructions with the Secretary of the Privy Purse that they were to be rewarded and our excursion generously funded. Joscelin and myself, she invited to take repast in the garden with her, which I was glad of, now being hungry for my interrupted breakfast.
The late morning sun lay like balm on the greening flora, twice the size of my own modest garden and three times as well tended. It was a rare moment of intimacy we shared with Ysandre over egg possets and the first early fruits of spring. There were few people in the realm that the Queen trusted implicitly. Of all the honors she has bestowed upon me, that is the one I cherish the most.
The Chamberlain of the Nursery brought Sidonie and Alais, Ysandre's daughters, to greet their royal mother as she dined, and I must confess it was a pretty sight. The elder, Sidonie, was a grave girl, with a straight, shining fall of deep-gold hair and her father's dark Cruithne eyes. I saw much of both parents in the young Dauphine, and less in her sister Alais, who was small and dark and prone to private mischief. It was she who clambered onto Joscelin's lap, butting her curly head beneath his chin. Joscelin laughed and let her toy with the buckles on his vambraces. He was good with children, better than I.
Ysandre smiled with a mother's resigned indulgence, stroking Sidonie's shining hair as her eldest knelt beside her, absorbed in winding violet stems through the wrought iron of a table-leg. “Alais doesn't take to most people thusly, my lord Cassiline. Mayhap you should consider fatherhood; you seem to have the knack of it.”
“Ah.” Joscelin slid his arm around the child, holding her in place as he reached for a dish of berries. “I've broken vows enough without insulting Cassiel's grace, my lady.”
The Queen raised her fair brows at me, and I returned her gaze unblinking.
We had thought about it, of course; how not? But there was a truth to Joscelin's words, and a deeper truth I did not voice to Ysandre. I have an ill-luck name, given me by a mother who knew a great deal about Naamah's arts, and not much else. My lord Kushiel marked me as his own, and he has cast his Dart in places further and more deadly than I might have dreamed. Who is to say, if the dubious gift of an anguissette is hereditary? I have never heard that it is; nor have I heard it is not. I am what I am, and there is no point in regretting it. I daresay I would not have survived such adventures as have befallen me if it were not for my unique relationship with pain. Lypiphera, they named me on the island of Kriti; Pain-bearer.
Nonetheless, I had no desire to pass this dubious gift on to any child of my blood, and I had never invoked Eisheth's blessing to open the gates of my womb. It is harder to watch another suffer than to endure it oneself. There are forms of pain even an anguissette will avoid. This was one of them.
“So be it,” Ysandre said gently, nodding at the Companion's Star upon my breast. “I always thought you were saving your boon for your children, Phèdre. A duchy, a royal appointment; even a betrothal, may hap. I have given my word.”
“No.” I fingered the brooch and shook my head, answering with honesty. “There is naught that I need or desire, my lady, save that which is not within your power to grant.” I smiled ruefully. We are gotten on the wrong side of godhead, we D'Angelines, and the One God has washed his hands of Blessed Elua's descendants; not even a Queen can alter that fact. “Can you bring the dead to life, or give me the key to lock the One God's vengeance? Aught else I might desire, you have laid at my disposal.”
“I would that it was more. My debt to you is great.” Ysandre rose and paced, pausing to gaze across the verdant expanse of her sanctum. No herbs here, but only flowers for her pleasure, lovingly cultivated by her gardeners. Near the gate, four of the Queen's Guard loitered at their ease, at once relaxed and attentive, while the Chamberlain of the Nursery stood by and servants in the livery of House Courcel awaited to attend her pleasure. The Dauphine Sidonie sat cross-legged on the flagstones, humming as she wove a garland, and young Princess Alais tugged at Joscelin's braid. “There is no news of Melisande's boy?”
“No.” I said it softly, shaking my head, although she could not see. “I would tell you if there were, my lady.”
“Phèdre.” She turned around, eyeing me. “Will you never be done with forgetting it, near-cousin?”
“Probably not.” I smiled at her, leaning over to pluck a handful of violets from Sidonie's lap and plaiting them expertly into an intricate garland. I had done as much when a child myself, attending adepts in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers. “There,” I said, setting it atop her head. The child glowed with pleasure, rising to run with careful steps and show her mother.
Some things a courtesan can do that a Queen cannot.
“Very lovely,” Ysandre said, stooping to plant a kiss on her daugh ter's forehead. “Thank the Comtesse, Sidonie.”
“Thank you, Comtesse,” the girl said obediently, turning round to face me. Her sister Alais loosed a sudden chortle and steel rang as she hoisted one of Joscelin's daggers from its sheath. The guardsmen started to attention at the sound, relaxing with laughter as a chagrined Joscelin cautiously pried the hilt from her small fingers. The Dauphine Sidonie looked appalled at her sister's breach of decorum; Alais looked pleased.
Ysandre de la Courcel looked resigned. “Mayhap you have the right of it,” she said wryly. “Elua's blessing upon your quest, Phèdre. And if you pass the Cruarch's flagship on your journey, tell him to make haste.”
THREE
I HAVE known other losses as grave as that of Hyacinthe's sacrifice and some worse, in other ways. The brutal murder of my lord Anafiel Delaunay and his protege Alcuin are things I do not forget, any more than I forget how my chevaliers Remy and Fortun were slain on Benedicte de la Courcel's orders, cut down before my helpless eyes for the sin of their loyalty.Their loyalty to me.
But the awfulness of Hyacinthe's fate was unique in that it was undiminished by time. He was not dead, but doomed. For eight hundred years the Master of the Straits had ruled the waters from his lonely tower—eight hundred years! And Hyacinthe had made himself his heir. No amount of grieving could wash away his sentence, and I could never forget that while I lived and laughed and loved, he endured, isolated and islanded.
It took no more than a day to make ready to travel. For all that I maintain one of the foremost salons in the City of Elua, renowned for gracious entertainment and discourse, I have not lost the trick of adventuring. Joscelin, ever-prudent, had sent to Montrève for Philippe, my dear chevalier Ti-Philippe, to accompany us the moment Ysandre's courier had appeared at our doorstep. Left to my own devices, I would have spared him the journey; and I would have been wrong, for Ti-Philippe, the last of Phèdre's Boys, came pelting hell-for-leather into the City, a familiar gleam in his eyes.
“I owe the Tsingano my life as much as do you or Joscelin, my lady,” he said, catching his breath in my antechamber. “And have nearly foundered three horses to prove it. Let your seneschal oversee the shearling lambs without me; I will ride to Pointe des Soeurs with you! Besides, you may have need of a sailor.”
After that, I could not deny him. And Ti-Philippe had brought with him a companion, a stalwart shepherd lad from the hills of Montrève; Hugues, his name was, a fresh-faced boy no more than eighteen or nineteen, with ruddy cheeks and dark hair, eyes the color of rain-washed bluebells stretched wide at all he saw. Ti-Philippe grinned at me as young Hugues bowed and stammered, blushing a fiercesome shade of red upon meeting me.
“He's heard tales, my lady, like everyone else. Since you come too seldom to Montrève, I thought to bring him to the City. Besides,” he added judiciously, “he's strong as an ox.”
I could believe it, from the breadth of his shoulders. I do travel to Montrève, and make it my residence at least a few months of every year, but the truth is, my estate prospers without me. I have an able seneschal in Purcell Friote and his wife Richeline, and Ti-Philippe enjoys lording over the estate without me, playing the role of steward to the hilt and dallying with the eager lads and maids of Siovale. I have heard it said—for I pay attention to such things—that nigh unto a quarter of the babes born out of wedlock in Montrève are my chevalier's get. Well and so; I could not fault their mothers for the choice. He is a hero of the realm, my Philippe, awarded the Medal of Valor by Ysandre's own hands.
And I saw the self-same hero worship in young Hugues' grey-blue eyes, cast onto Ti-Philippe and reflected larger on Joscelin and myself. “Well met, Hugues of Montrève.” I greeted him in formal tones, playing the role in which fate had cast me. “You understand that this is no May lark, but an undertaking of the utmost solemnity?”
“Oh, yes!” He gulped, stammering once more, color rising beneath his fair skin. “Yes, my lady, yes! I understand in the fullest!”
“Good.” I pinned my gaze sternly on him. “Be ready to ride at dawn.”
Hugues muttered some wit-stricken acquiescence; I don't know what. As I turned away, I heard him say in a stage whisper to Ti- Philippe, “I thought she would be taller!”
This, I ignored, though Joscelin's cheeks twitched with suppressed mirth. “What?” I asked irritably, rounding on him when we were in private. “Does my stature amuse you?”