Kushiel's Scion

by Jacqueline Carey

Genres: Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

Imriel de la Courcel's birth parents are history's most reviled traitors, but his adoptive parents, the Comtesse Phèdre and the warrior-priest Joscelin, are Terre d'Ange's greatest champions.

Stolen, tortured, and enslaved as a young boy, Imriel is now a Prince of the Blood; third in line for the throne in a land that revels in art, beauty and desire. It is a court steeped in deeply laid conspiracies—and there are many who would see the young prince dead. Some despise him out of hatred for his mother, Melisande, who nearly destroyed the entire realm in her quest for power. Others because they fear he has inherited his mother's irresistible allure—and her dangerous gifts.

As he comes of age, plagued by unwanted desires, Imriel shares their fears. When a simple act of friendship traps Imriel in a besieged city where the infamous Melisande is worshiped as a goddess and where a dead man leads an army, the prince must face his greatest test: to find his true self.

Release date: May 19, 2008

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 768

Sample

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

MONTRÈVE’S HOUSEHOLD

Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève—Comtesse de Montrève

Joscelin Verreuil—Phèdre’s consort; Cassiline Brother (Siovale)

Imriel nó Montrève de la Courcel—Phèdre’s foster son (also member of the royal family)

Ti-Philippe—chevalier

Hugues, Gilot, Marcel—men-at-arms

Eugènie—mistress of the household, townhouse

Clory—niece of Eugènie

Benoit—stable-lad, townhouse

Purnell and Richeline Friote—seneschals of Montrève

Charles, Katherine, Denis Friote—seneschals’ children

Ronald Agout—falconer

Artus Labbé—kennel master

MEMBERS OF THE D’ANGELINE ROYAL FAMILY

Ysandre de la Courcel—Queen of Terre d’Ange; wed to Drustan mab Necthana

Sidonie de la Courcel—elder daughter of Ysandre; heir to Terre d’Ange

Alais de la Courcel—younger daughter of Ysandre

Imriel nó Montrève de la Courcel—cousin; son of Benedicte de la Courcel (deceased) and Melisande Shahrizai

Barquiel L’Envers—uncle of Ysandre; Royal Commander; Duc L’Envers (Namarre)

HOUSE SHAHRIZAI

Melisande Shahrizai—mother of Imriel; wed to Benedicte de la Courcel (deceased)

Faragon Shahrizai—Duc de Shahrizai

Mavros, Roshana, Baptiste Shahrizai—cousins of Imriel

MEMBERS OF THE ROYAL COURT

Ghislain nó Trevalion—noble, son of Percy de Somerville (deceased)

Bernadette de Trevalion—noble, wed to Ghislain, sister of Baudoin (deceased)

Bertran de Trevalion—son of Ghislain and Bernadette

Amaury Trente—noble, former Commander of the Queen’s Guard

Julien and Colette Trente—children of Amaury

Marguerite Grosmaine—daughter of the Secretary of the Presence

Nicola L’Envers y Aragon—cousin of Queen Ysandre; wed to Ramiro Zornín de Aragon

Raul L’Envers y Aragon—son of Nicola and Ramiro

THE NIGHT COURT

Nathalie nó Balm—Dowayne of Balm House

Emmeline nó Balm—adept of Balm House

Didier Vascon—Dowayne of Valerian House

Sephira—adept of Valerian House

ALBA

Drustan mab Necthana—Cruarch of Alba, wed to Ysandre de la Courcel

Necthana—mother of Drustan

Breidaia—sister of Drustan, daughter of Necthana

Talorcan—son of Breidaia

Dorelei—daughter of Breidaia

Sibeal—sister of Drustan, daughter of Necthana, wed to Hyacinthe

Hyacinthe—Master of the Straits, wed to Sibeal

Grainne mac Conor—Lady of the Dalriada

Eamonn mac Grainne—son of Grainne and Quintilius Rousse

TIBERIUM

Master Piero di Bonci—teacher of philosophy

Lucius Tadius, Aulus, Brigitta, Akil, Vernus—students of Master Piero

Deccus Fulvius—senator

Claudia Fulvia—wife of Deccus; sister of Lucius

Anna Marzoni—widow

Belinda Marzoni—daughter of Anna

Canis—beggar

Master Strozzi—teacher of rhetoric

Master Ambrosius—incense-maker

Erytheia of Thrasos—painter

Silvio—assistant to Erytheia of Thrasos

Denise Fleurais—D’Angeline ambassadress in Tiberium

Ruggero Caccini—ruffian commander

Priest of Asclepius

Titus Maximius—princeps of Tiberium

Oppius da Lippi—captain of the Aeolia

LUCCA

Publius Tadius—father of Lucius

Beatrice Tadia—mother of Lucius

Gallus Tadius (deceased)—great-grandfather of Lucius

Gaetano Correggio—Prince of Lucca

Dacia Correggio—wife of Gaetano

Helena Correggio—daughter of Gaetano and Dacia

Bartolomeo Ponzi—enamored of Helena

Domenico Martelli—Duke of Valpetra

Silvanus the Younger—commander of Valpetra’s mercenary company

Arturo—captain of the Luccan guard

Orfeo, Pollio, Calvino, Matius, Adolpho, Baldessare, Constantin—soldiers in the Red Scourge

Quentin LeClerc—captain of the D’Angeline embassy guard

Romuald—soldier in the D’Angeline embassy guard

Marcus Cornelius—commander of the Tiberian contingent

OTHERS

Maslin of Lombelon—unacknowledged son of Isidore d’Aiglemort (deceased)

Lelahiah Valais—Queen Ysandre’s chirurgeon

Emile—proprietor of the Cockerel

Quintilius Rousse—Royal Admiral

Favrielle nó Eglantine—couturiere

Bérèngere of Namarre—head of Naamah’s Order

Amarante of Namarre—daughter of Bérèngere

Brother Selbert—chief priest in the Sanctuary of Elua (Siovale)

Gilles Lamiz—Queen’s Poet

Roxanne de Mereliot—Lady of Marsilikos (Eisande)

Gerard and Jeanne de Mereliot—children of Roxanne (Eisande)

HISTORICAL FIGURES

Baudoin de Trevalion (deceased)—cousin of Queen Ysandre; executed for treason

Isidore d’Aiglemort (deceased)—noble; traitor turned hero (Camlach)

Thelesis de Mornay (deceased)—Queen’s Poet

Waldemar Selig (deceased)—Skaldi warlord; invaded Terre d’Ange

Fadil Chouma (deceased)—Menekhetan slaver

The Mahrkagir (deceased)—mad ruler of Drujan; lord of Darsanga

Drucilla (deceased)—Tiberian prisoner in Darsanga; chirurgeon

Kaneka—Jebean prisoner in Darsanga

Jagun (deceased)—chief of the Kereyit Tatars

Ras Lijasu—Prince of Meroë in Jebe-Barkal

PROLOGUE

WHAT DOES IT MEAN to be good?

When I was a child, I thought I knew. It was easy then. I knew nothing of my birth or my heritage. My childhood was spent in the Sanctuary of Elua, where I was a ward. My days were spent in work like play: scrambling the mountainsides and tending goats with the other children of the Sanctuary, climbing trees and swimming in the swift stream while our charges grazed.

I was steeped in the precept of Blessed Elua: Love as thou wilt. And I did. I loved without reserve, freely and easily—my playmates, the priests and priestesses of the Sanctuary, the goats I tended, the earth beneath my feet and the sky above my head. I am a D’Angeline; I loved Terre d’Ange, the country of my birth. With all my heart, I loved our gods, Elua and his Companions, and I knew myself loved in return. I was happy. I never thought to be anything else.

When I was ten years old, everything changed.

I was stolen by Carthaginian slave-traders and sent on a journey into hell. And I thought I’d die there, but I didn’t. I was rescued. I was brought out of damnation into safety.

And everything changed again.

In a distant fortress on the far verges of Khebbel-im-Akkad, the D’Angeline Queen’s delegate bowed his head and greeted me as Imriel de la Courcel, Prince of the Blood.

All that I knew of myself was a lie.

I learned my father was Benedicte de la Courcel, the great-uncle of Queen Ysandre. For many years, he was her closest living relative in House Courcel. But by the time I heard the news, he was long dead. He was a traitor to the throne, and if he’d lived to be tried, he would have been convicted of it. He didn’t, though.

My mother was another matter.

When I was eight years old, before I knew who she was, Brother Selbert took me to La Serenissima to see my mother. He had told me that my parents had been D’Angeline nobles who had died of an ague during a ship crossing, bequeathing me with their dying breaths to the priest as a ward of the Sanctuary. He told me that this woman had been a friend of my parents and would stand as my patron when I came of age. And he told me that she had dangerous enemies and that I must never speak of her, for it would put her in grave danger. That last bit, at least, was true.

I believed him. Why shouldn’t I? I’d spent my life trusting him. But everything else was a lie. And he didn’t tell me that she had earned each and every enemy she made. My father’s treachery pales in comparison to her deeds. In all its history, Terre d’Ange has never known a deadlier traitor than Melisande Shahrizai de la Courcel.

My mother, whom I learned to despise.

In hindsight, it seems strange that I didn’t recognize her at the time. And yet how was I to know? There were no mirrors in the Sanctuary of Elua. Betimes we children used to lean over the goat-bridge and peer at our wavering reflections in the stream’s surface, but that was all. I was as ignorant of my features as I was of my identity.

Of course, that was before the slave-traders took me. Then I had ample opportunity to hear myself described. In the country of Drujan, they were looking for perfect, unblemished sacrifices. I was sold to one of the bone-priests who served the Mahrkagir, the ruler of all Drujan. The Mahrkagir was cruel, ruthless, and utterly mad. And I was bought for his foul harem, the zenana in the palace of Darsanga. Beauty is scant comfort on a descent into hell.

I resemble my mother

I know it now. I see it in mirrors—there are always mirrors, in my foster-mother Phèdre’s household—and I hate it. I wear my mother’s face. My eyes are her eyes, a deep twilight blue. My skin is her skin, a shadowed alabaster, the color of old ivory. I see the generous curve of her mouth reflected in my lips. My hair, like hers, grows in gleaming, blue-black waves.

The resemblance cannot be denied.

There are those—even now, after all she has done—who marvel that I don’t welcome it. Although she was the greatest traitor our nation has known, Melisande Shahrizai was one of its greatest beauties, too. A deadly beauty, bright as the sun, keen as a blade. In certain circles, she is still admired for it. If there is a nation on the face of the earth with a people more vain than Terre d’Ange, I’ve yet to find it. And in my twelve years, I’ve seen more of the world than most D’Angelines will ever glimpse.

But I have seen beauty, and it does not wear my mother’s face.

When I gaze in the mirror and see her features reflected in mine, I am filled with uncertainty. What does it mean to be good? When I look inside myself, I see only darkness and confusion. I do not know why what happened to me, happened. I do not know what I did to deserve it, or if I am bearing the price of my mother’s sins. I fear the resemblance between us. I fear that one day I may prove to be like her. But when I look outside myself, it is easy to point to goodness. I was stolen out of paradise and sent into the depths of a depravity the likes of which decent folk couldn’t begin to comprehend, but I was rescued. The ones who rescued me . . . when I think about what it means to be good, I think about them.

Phèdre.

Joscelin.

Phèdre.

I don’t know—I will never know—where they found the courage to do what was needed to save me. Phèdre says that although it is my mother who charged her with the task, it was the will of Blessed Elua himself that sent her forth across that terrible threshold. I cannot reckon the cost. I know what the Mahrkagir did to her. All of us who were slaves in the Mahrkagir’s zenana knew what he did to his favorites. I don’t know how she endured it. And I don’t know how Joscelin, Phèdre’s consort and protector, survived knowing the abuse she suffered at the Mahrkagir’s hands without succumbing to madness.

I love them so much that it hurts inside.

I am theirs, now; their foster-son. Queen Ysandre allowed it, although she has little liking for the arrangement. My mother consented willingly to it; indeed, she made a concession that it might come to pass. As far as I know, it is one of the only concessions my mother has ever made in her life. Although they have been opponents in her intrigues, there is a bond of long standing between her and Phèdre. I don’t understand it, and I don’t want to; I think, somehow, that I will rue the day I ever do. My mother remains in sanctuary in the Temple of Asherat-of-the-Sea in La Serenissima. Unlike my father, she was tried and convicted of high treason long before I was born. Her life is forfeit if ever she sets a foot beyond the temple walls.

She writes me letters, which I don’t read. I tried to burn the first letter she sent, but Phèdre snatched it from the brazier. After that, she began keeping them for me. She says that I will want them one day, and mayhap it is true. In my short life, I’ve seen many things no one would have believed possible. But I cannot ever imagine wanting to read my mother’s words.

It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes Phèdre is wrong.

It is strange, now, to think how I despised her at first. In the zenana of Darsanga, Phèdre nó Delaunay, the Comtesse de Montrève, did not look like a heroine bent on my rescue. She looked like a D’Angeline courtesan, delicate and lovely, and willing to wallow in the foulest depravity the Mahrkagir offered. It was true, too. For that, I hated her. I hated her so much I could barely stand to look at her. And Joscelin . . . Joscelin, too. I thought he had betrayed all that was noble and good about Terre d’Ange, sinking as low as a warrior can go.

I was wrong.

They were more, so much more. They were my salvation, and the salvation of many others. Not all, but many. A deadly evil was removed from the world the night that we—all of us together in the zenana—overthrew the Mahrkagir’s forces. It was Blessed Elua’s will, Phèdre says. Perhaps that, too, is true. I wish to believe it. In the daylight, enfolded in their affection, it is easy. We are a family. We emerged from the terrible stronghold of Darsanga, the three of us, damaged and broken, and healed ourselves into a new whole.

I pray that what befell us will never come again, not so long as I live. Whatever becomes of me, I will live my life in the shadow of greatness, but I will never begrudge it. When all is said and done, I do not think I have greatness in me. I would like to, but I don’t. Not like Phèdre; not like Joscelin, whose role was even harder in some ways, who ever stood at her side, whose scars bear testament to his courage and valor. All I want to do is come to manhood in a manner that does not disgrace those I love.

This, I pray, is not too much to ask.

In the daylight, I can be happy and filled with hope. Sometimes the emotions well within me so strongly—love, joy—that it feels as though my skin is too tight, as though my heart will burst out of my chest. And I am happy, and glad to be alive.

But the nights are different. At night, I remember. I remember the Mahrkagir and his fathomless black eyes; the things he did to me, and the things he made me do. I remember his voice, whispering joyous promises of agonies to come. I remember the others, the warlords who made a plaything of me. I remember the lash against my skin and the agonizing sizzle of a branding iron, the stink of my own seared flesh. At times I dream and wake myself screaming.

It is hard, then, to believe in goodness.

Still, I try. I try not to think too hard about the tangled threads of destiny that led me into hell as a child, and out the other side as something at once more and less. I lost my childhood in Darsanga, but I have reclaimed bits of it, here and there. Most of all in Montrève, Phèdre’s estate. She inherited it from her lord Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève, who bought her marque when she was but a child, who adopted her as she had adopted me. But that is a long story and not mine to tell.

Montrève lies in the foothills of the D’Angeline province of Siovale. It reminds me of my childhood at the Sanctuary of Elua. There, I am at home. I am Imriel nó Montrève, not Imriel de la Courcel. I have the mountains, the mews and the kennels, and even friends—the seneschals of the estate have a clan of good-natured youngsters. I would be content to stay there always. So too, I think, would Joscelin, for he has little love for Court intrigue. But the Queen demands her due and betimes we must return to the City of Elua and attend her. Joscelin is her acclaimed Champion, and Phèdre is one of her most valued confidantes.

And I am a Prince of the Blood, third in line for the throne.

It is the blood of Blessed Elua that runs in my veins, at least on my father’s side. I have never boasted of it. Elua and his Companions spread their seed widely; there is no one in Terre d’Ange who cannot claim descent from one or another. But the Great Houses have kept their lines pure, or so they claim. It is a source of pride and vanity, and at times, intolerable prejudice.

I should know. I was conceived because Benedicte de la Courcel wished to provide Terre d’Ange with a purebred D’Angeline heir. He thought the goal worthy of treason.

To her credit, Queen Ysandre does not subscribe to this vision. Her marriage was a love-match to Drustan mab Necthana, the Cruarch of Alba. Together, they rule over two countries. I like Drustan very well, and wish that I liked the Queen better. It is hard for me. I travelled with Phèdre and Joscelin for a long time after I was rescued. Ysandre was angry, so angry, that it took them so long to restore me to Terre d’Ange. She didn’t understand that I needed to be with them. And I didn’t understand her anger.

It was a cold anger. Phèdre, who forgave her for it long ago, says it was the Queen’s right to be concerned about the safety of her kin. Still, I am uneasy with Queen Ysandre. It is unfair, I suppose, when she had championed me against the united mistrust of the peers of the realm. There are those who would gladly see me dead, despising the fact that Melisande Shahrizai’s son is three heartbeats away from the throne.

Such is the dubious gift of my mother’s legacy. The mistrust of these nobles is deserved. If my mother had triumphed, if her intrigues had born fruit, even now I might be sitting upon the throne of Terre d’Ange, a boy-king with a treacherous regent.

And yet I have no such desire. I would be content to be left in peace, to be Imriel nó Montrève, would the world allow it. To spend my days hawking and hunting and fishing, learning from Joscelin the fighting skills of the warrior priests of the Cassiline Brotherhood, listening to such tutors as Phèdre lures to the estate, bickering and coming of age among the children of her seneschals. This, I know, is not to be. Yet I will cling to it for as long as I may.

Until I can’t, anyway.

I fear my mother’s legacy will make it difficult. It is only on my father’s side that I am descended from Blessed Elua. My mother’s lineage is different. The Shahrizai are among the Great Houses of Terre d’Ange; but they are not descended from Blessed Elua, but from one of his Companions. Their blood is very old and very pure, and it is that lineage that frightens me. They are Kushiel’s scions.

Kushiel’s name means “the rigid one of God,” and he was once charged with administering punishment to the damned, but abandoned his post to accompany Blessed Elua in his wanderings. It is said that he had an excess of compassion for his charges. It is said that they, in turn, loved him so well that they wept with gratitude beneath his lash. This I find difficult to believe. And yet, in Terre d’Ange, his temples endure.

Sometimes Phèdre visits the temples of Kushiel. What absolution she finds there under the lash, I cannot comprehend. I know that when she returns, she is tranquil and at peace. Joscelin says it is a mystery in the truest sense of the word. Although he will never be easy with it, there are things he grasps that are beyond my ken.

Me, I cannot fathom it. I know that she is an anguissette, Kushiel’s Chosen. She was marked by it for all the world to see: Kushiel’s Dart, a mote of scarlet in her eye. I understand that she is condemned to find pleasure in pain, and that somehow this redresses an imbalance in the world. I know, too, the source of this imbalance: my mother, Kushiel’s greatest scion, born without benefit of a conscience.

It is whispered that Kushiel’s lineage carries its own dark gift, the ability to perceive the flaws and fault-lines in another’s mortal soul. To discern those forms of cruelty that are kindnesses unto themselves, to administer an untender mercy. And like all gifts, it can be used for unworthy ends.

I hope it is not true.

But at night, I sense its presence like a shadow on my soul, waiting. And I lie awake in my bed, clinging to the brightness I have known, fighting back the tide of darkness, the memories of blood and branding and horror, and the legacy of cruelty that runs in my own veins, shaping my own secret vow and wielding it like a brand against the darkness, whispering it to myself, over and over.

I will try to be good.

ONE

WE WERE ATTENDING a country fair when the news came.

For a while, a long while, after our final return to Terre d’Ange, life was blissfully uneventful. Having had enough adventures to last me a lifetime, I was grateful for it. Whether in the City or at Montrève, I tended to my studies, immersed in the daily business of living and content to let the affairs of the world pass me by untouched. Phèdre and Joscelin did all they could to allow this respite to endure, sensing there was healing in it for me.

There was, too. As the slow months passed and turned into years, I felt things knotted tight inside me ease. My nightmares grew less and less frequent, and the times of happiness longer.

Still, even Phèdre and Joscelin couldn’t protect me forever.

It was my third summer in Montrève. I had turned fourteen in the spring, though I looked younger, being slow to get my full growth. The Queen’s chirurgeon claimed it was due to the shock of enslavement and what had befallen me in Darsanga, and mayhap it was so. I only know that I chafed at it. My parents were both tall; or so I am told. I cannot say, having never known my father. If it’s true, it is the only gift of theirs I’d ever wished for.

The fair was held in an open field on the outskirts of the village, alongside the river. It was a small gathering. Montrève was not a large estate, and the village it bordered—which was also called Montrève—was modest in size. But it was a fair, and I was young enough to be excited at the prospect of it.

We made for a merry entourage as we rode forth from the estate: Phèdre, Joscelin, and I, accompanied by her chevalier Ti-Philippe, his companion Hugues, and a few other men-at-arms, all of them clad in the forest-green livery of House Montrève. The Friote clan was already there, tending to our wool-trading interests. The bulk of our wool would be shipped elsewhere for sale, but there were always small landowners looking to buy.

There were other goods available for purchase or trade, too: fabrics and yarns, livestock, produce, spices, and other uninteresting items. Of greater interest, at least to me, were the crafters’ booths, which displayed a fascinating array—leather goods, arms and bits of armor, jewelry, mirrors, mysterious vials of unguents, musical instruments, and intricately carved toys. Not all of them were meant for children, either.

Best of all, there were Tsingani, with horses for sale. Not many—the pick of the lot sold at the great horse fairs in the spring—but a few. We spotted their brightly painted wagons from the road, and I saw Phèdre smile at the sight. There was a time when the Tsingani wouldn’t have been welcome at a small country fair, but a lot has changed since those days. In Montrève, they were always welcome.

There were a few good-natured cheers and shouts of greeting as we arrived, which Phèdre acknowledged with a laughing salute. She was always gracious that way, and well-loved because of it. We tethered our mounts at the picket line and Joscelin gave a few coins to the village lads who hung about to attend them.

Ti-Philippe and the others remained mounted. “I’ll take Hugues and Colin and ride a quick circuit,” he said to Joscelin, who gave a brief nod in reply. “Marcel and the others will cast an eye over the fair proper.”

I hated hearing that sort of thing. It cast a pall over the day’s brightness, knowing it was because of me. Queen Ysandre was insistent that my security was paramount, and a fair brought strangers into the area. They were only being cautious; but still, I hated it.

Joscelin eyed me, noting my expression. “Take heart,” he said wryly. “When you come of age, you’ll be free to take all the risks you like.”

“Four years!” I protested. “It’s forever.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “You think so?” He tousled my hair lightly. I hated when almost anyone else did it—I didn’t like people touching me—but my heart always gave a secret leap of happiness when Phèdre or Joscelin did. “It won’t seem it, I promise.” He glanced at Phèdre then, and something passed between them; a shared and private understanding.

There are those who laugh at their union, although not many. Not now, after all they have endured together. It’s true, though. ’Tis an unlikely pairing, Kushiel’s Chosen and a Servant of Naamah in love with a Cassiline warrior-priest.

Phèdre was a courtesan, sworn to the service of Blessed Elua’s Companion Naamah, who gave herself to the King of Persis to win Elua’s freedom, and who lay down in the stews of Bhodistan with strangers that he might eat. It is a sacred calling in Terre d’Ange, though it is not one practiced by many peers of the realm. But Phèdre was a Servant of Naamah long before she inherited Delaunay’s title and estate, and although she has not practiced it since Darsanga, she has never renounced Naamah’s Service.

And Joscelin—Joscelin was a Cassiline Brother when they met, although he left the Brotherhood for her sake. From the age of ten, he was trained to be a warrior-priest, sworn to celibacy. Alone among the Companions, Cassiel claimed no territory in Terre d’Ange and begot no offspring, but remained ever at Blessed Elua’s side. That is the vow of the Cassiline Brotherhood: To protect and serve.

The Cassilines are very good at what they do; but Joscelin, I think, is better.

“What will you, love?” he asked Phèdre, indicating the fair with the sweep of an arm. His steel vambraces glinted in the sun. “Pleasure or the duties of the manor? The Tsingani or the Friotes?”

“Ah, well.” She cocked her head. “We could glance at the fabric stalls on the way to either one. If there’s aught of interest, it won’t last long.”

I groaned inside. I hated looking at fabric.

Although I made no audible sound, Phèdre’s gaze settled on me, dark and unnerving. Her eyes were beautiful, deep and lustrous as forest pools, with a mote of scarlet floating on the left iris, vivid as a rose petal. And she was capable of a look that saw right through one. There were reasons for it.

“All right.” She smiled and beckoned to another of the men-at-arms. “Gilot, will you accompany Imriel to—to the Tsingani horse-fields, is it?”

“Yes, please!” I couldn’t help the grin that stretched my face.

Gilot swept an extravagant bow. “Lady, with a will!”

He was my favorite retainer, after Ti-Philippe and Hugues, who were almost family. He was the youngest—only eighteen, the age of majority I coveted. But he was good with a sword and quick-thinking, which were qualities Joscelin looked for in hiring retainers. I liked him because he treated me as an equal, not a responsibility.

Together we plunged into the fair and began forging a path toward the horse-fields. “They’ve got one of those spotted horses from Aragonia, did you see?” Gilot asked. “I spied it from the road. I wouldn’t mind having one.”

I made a noise of agreement.

“Whip-smart and smooth-gaited, they say.” He shrugged. “Next year, mayhap, if I save my coin!” A stand of leather goods caught his eye. “Ah, hold a moment, will you, Imri? My sword-belt’s worn near enough to snap near the buckle. It was my brother’s anyway. I ought to buy new.”

I loitered at Gilot’s side while he perused the goods available, and the leather-merchant made a great show of exclaiming over my own belt. It was a man’s belt, though it held only a boy’s dagger. “What have you there, little man?” he asked in a jovial, condescending tone. “Boar-hide?”

“No.” I smiled coolly at him. “Rhinoceros.”

He blinked, perplexed. Gilot gave a sidelong glance, nudging me with his elbow. The belt had been a gift from Ras Lijasu, a Prince of Jebe-Barkal. Gilot knew the story behind it. The merchant blinked a few more times. “A rhinoceros, is it? Good for you, little man!”

“Imriel!”

I turned, recognizing the voice. At an adjacent stall, Katherine Friote beckoned imperiously, shoving up the sleeve of her gown.

“Come here and smell this,” she said.

I went, obedient. Katherine was in the middle of the Friote clan, a year and some months my elder. In the past year, she had begun to . . . change . . . in a fascinating manner. The skinny, bossy girl I had met two summers ago had become a young woman, a head taller than me. She thrust her wrist beneath my nose.

“What do you think?” she asked.

I swallowed hard. She had rubbed a dab of perfumed ointment on her skin, and the scent was strong and cloying, like overblown lilies. Beneath it, faint and elusive, I could smell her own scent, like a sun-warmed meadow.

“I think you smell better without it,” I said honestly.

The perfume-seller made a disgusted sound. I thought Katherine would be annoyed with me, but instead she wore a look of amusement. She bobbed a teasing curtsy in my direction. “Why, thank you, Prince Imriel.”

“You’re welcome.” My face felt unaccountably warm.

“Prince, is it?” The perfume-seller turned his head and spat on the ground. Obviously, he was a stranger to Montrève. “Prince of sheep-dung, I’ll warrant!”

At that moment, Gilot appeared at my side, wearing a sword-belt so new that it creaked over his Montrèvan livery. “Well met, Demoiselle Friote,” he said cheerfully. “Would you care to accompany us to the Tsingani camp? His highness has a fancy to see the spotted horse, and the Comtesse has given us her blessing.”

Now it was Katherine who blushed at Gilot’s chivalrous attention, while the perfume-seller opened and closed his mouth several times, fishlike, then squinted hard at me. I muttered somewhat under my breath about spotted horses, which all of them ignored.

“Shall we?” Gilot asked Katherine, extending his arm and smiling at her. He had a lively, handsome face and brown eyes quick to sparkle with mirth. Still, it irked me to see Katherine dote on him.

We made our way through the stalls, pausing for Gilot to purchase a sweet of candied violets for Katherine. Through the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Phèdre at a cloth-seller’s stall, examining bolts of fabric. The merchant was fawning over her. At her side, Joscelin observed the process with an expression of long tolerance. He stood in the Cassiline at-ease position, arms crossed, hands resting lightly on the hilts of his twin daggers.

I mulled over my irritation as we continued walking, kicking at clumps of foot-churned grass. “I wish you wouldn’t say such things,” I said at length. “Not here.”

“What things?” Gilot gave me a perplexed look.

“Prince,” I said. “Highness.”

“Well, but you are.” He scratched his head. “Look, Imri, I know—I mean, I understand, a bit. But you are who you are, and there’s no changing it. Anyway, there’s no call to let some tawdry peddler insult you. I’m not one to let it pass unnoted.”

I shrugged. “I’ve heard worse.”

“You didn’t mind so much when I said it.” Katherine glanced at me under her lashes. The sun brought out golden streaks in her glossy brown hair, and sparkled on tiny crumbs of sugar clinging to her lips.

I looked away. “Please, forget I spoke of it.”

These new feelings Katherine evoked shouldn’t have disturbed me. In Terre d’Ange, the arts of love came to us easily and young; or so it should be. I was different. It wasn’t that I was immune to the promptings of desire—in the past several months, I had grown uncomfortably aware of desire stirring in my flesh. But in the zenana of Darsanga, death and desire were inextricably linked. I couldn’t think about one without the shadow of the other hanging over it. So at a time when boys my age were conducting fumbling experiments with one another and begging kisses from girls, I kept myself aloof, afraid and untouchable.

Gilot sighed. “Come on, let’s go.”

I forgot my grievances in the Tsingani camp. There were two kumpanias present with three wagons between them. The wagons were drawn in a circle, with their horses tethered at the rear. At the front of the wagons, women tended cooking fires where kettles of stew and pottage simmered. The unwed women wore their hair uncovered and loose and made long eyes at the Tsingani men, and all of them wore galb displaying their wealth, necklaces and earrings strung with gold coins. A few of the men were engaged in haggling with potential buyers, but most of them idled in the center of the circle. Bursts of music issued forth as one or another began to play—fiddle or timbales, accompanied by rhythmic clapping and snatches of song.

It would be a good life, I think, to be one of the Travellers; or at least it would be for a man. It was harder for Tsingani women, who must abide by a stringent code of behavior lest they lose their virtue; their laxta, they called it. If that happened, they were declared anathema.

It is better now than it once was. Much of that is due to Hyacinthe, who is the Master of the Straits and wields a power beyond the mortal ken. I know, for I have seen it; seen wind and wave answer to his command. He was one of them, once—a half-breed Tsingano, born to a woman who lost her virtue through no fault of her own. In the end, they would have had him as their king, but he refused it. Still, he has urged change upon them and many of the Tsingani have eased the strictures they impose on their women. Hyacinthe has reason to be concerned with the lot of women, since it is to Phèdre that he owes his freedom.

I shivered in the warm sunlight, remembering the day she spoke the Name of God and broke the curse that bound him to an immortality of dwindling age on that lonely island. There are some memories so profound they cannot be conveyed in words.

Some of them, for a mercy, are good ones.

Gilot let out a low whistle, breaking my reverie. “Look at him, will you! What a beauty.”

There was an admiring crowd around the spotted horse staked on the outskirts of the circle. I had to own, the horse was a beauty—a powerfully arched neck, strong, straight legs, a smooth back. His coat was a deep red-bay, speckled with white as though, in the middle of summer, he stood amidst a snowstorm. He basked in the adulation of the crowd, tossing his head and stamping his forefeet, almost as though to beat time with the nearby timbales.

“Imriel, Katherine!” Charles Friote detached himself from the throng of admirers and waved us over. He was my age, though to my chagrin, he too had grown in the past year, overtaking me by a head. “Hello, Gilot,” Charles added belatedly, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “He’s not for sale, the Tsingani say. But maybe for Lady Phèdre . . . ?”

I was opening my mouth to reply when the Tsingano holding the spotted horse’s head beckoned to me, calling out. “Hey, rinkeni chavo! Come meet the Salmon!”

It was the spotted horse’s name, I guessed. While Charles squirmed with envy behind me, I moved forward. The Tsingano who had beckoned me grinned, his teeth very white against his brown skin.

“Here, chavo,” he said, pressing something into my palm. “Give him a treat.”

It was a bit of dried apple; the end of last autumn’s stores. I held my hand out flat. The Salmon eyed me, lordly and considering, then bent his head to accept the tidbit, his lips velvety against my palm. I began to think about what a glory it would be to ride him—to own him—and wondered if perhaps the Tsingani might sell him to Phèdre after all. I could repay her for him. There were monies that were mine to spend, held in trust for me; the proceeds of estates I had never seen, nor cared to.

“A gadjo pearl, with black hair and eyes like the deep sea,” the Tsingano horse-trader murmured.

I jerked back, startling the horse.

“Peace, chavo.” The Tsingano raised one hand, palm outward. His dark eyes were calm and amused. “We remember, that is all. Does it trouble you?”

It was the second question of the day I had no chance to answer. On the far side of the field, familiar shouts arose—the battle-call of House Montrève, giving an alarm. I turned to see a single rider departing from the road to race hell-for-leather toward the fair. Whatever his intentions, the sight didn’t bode well. I was abruptly aware that I had only Gilot for protection.

Ti-Philippe and his men were on a course to intercept the rider, but they were too far away. The rider would reach us first. Gilot swore and drew his sword. In three swift steps, he reached me, grabbing my arm and yanking me behind him. Katherine and Charles were round-eyed with fearful awe. The spotted stallion reared against his tether, trumpeting, while his Tsingano owner sought to soothe him.

In the midst of the fair, pandemonium broke loose. A handful of villagers sought to rally to our aid, seizing weapons from the arms-sellers’ stalls. Protesting merchants blocked their way, grabbing at their purloined goods. Here and there was a struggling knot where one of Montrève’s retainers sought to shove a path through the throng.

I watched the rider loom nearer and drew my dagger, flipping it to hold it by its point. At fifteen paces or less, my aim was good. In front of me, Gilot maintained a defensive stance, legs planted, sword tight in his fist. A muscle in his jaw trembled. Katherine’s fingers dug into my left forearm. I pried them loose, shoving her toward Charles.

“Take care of her,” I said, the words coming harshly. He nodded, his face pale, brown hair flopping over his brow.

A single voice, raised, called my name. “Imriel!”

I raised mine in reply, and though it cracked, it carried. “Joscelin, here!”

There; bursting free of the crowd. He came at a dead run, crossing the horse-fields to the Tsingani camp, passing Gilot. The rider thundered toward us, Ti-Philippe and the others following hard behind, a few seconds too late.

Not Joscelin.

His sword sang as he reached over his shoulder and drew it; a high, keening note. Tradition holds that Cassiline Brothers draw their swords only to kill. When it came to my defense, Joscelin observed no such niceties.

“Stand down or die!” he called to the rider, angling his sword across his body in a two-handed grip.

The rider drew rein, hard, turning his lathered, hard-ridden mount. Froth flew from its bit. A hafted pennant, now visible, fluttered from a hilt mounted on the pommel of his saddle—a square of rich blue with a diagonal bar of silver.

“Queen’s Courier!” he shouted. “In the name of Queen Ysandre, hold your hand!”

Joscelin did not shift, his voice remaining taut. “Stand down, man!”

In that moment, it seemed everyone else converged. Ti-Philippe, Hugues, and Colin arrived in a thunderous flurry of hoofbeats, blocking the rider’s retreat. Tsingani armed with light hunting bows emerged from the circle of wagons. Villagers armed with sticks, cudgels, and appropriated swords ran into the field.

And Phèdre.

She stepped lightly past me, touching my shoulder briefly in passing. At her appearance, everyone grew quiet. She wore a gown of vibrant blue, the color of the summer sky; the color of Joscelin’s eyes. It was trimmed with gold embroidery, a handspan deep, and a caul of gold mesh bound her dark, shining hair.

“Queen’s Courier?” she asked, frowning slightly. Joscelin adjusted his stance, angling his sword to protect her. “What news is so urgent?”

The rider dropped his reins. His mount lowered its head, blowing hard, its nostrils flaring. “My lady Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève?”

“Yes.” She regarded him calmly.

He raised his hands, showing them to be empty. “I bear an urgent dispatch from the Queen,” he said. Reaching slowly into a pouch slung over the crupper of his saddle, he drew forth a sealed missive. “Here.”

Joscelin took it from his grasp, examined it, then handed it to Phèdre. It was a slim envelope, sealed with the swan insignia of House Courcel. She cracked the wax seal and read the single sheet of parchment within. I watched the frown lines reemerge beween her graceful brows. “The Queen requires our presence in the City of Elua,” she said. “There is a situation.”

“What is it?” Joscelin asked brusquely.

Phèdre handed him the missive, but it was on me that her gaze settled, pitying and grave. “It is Melisande,” she said gently. “It seems she has vanished.”

TWO

WE MADE THE RETURN ride to the estate in silent haste, all thoughts of the fair forgotten. One new thought preyed on my mind, over and over. I gnawed on it like a dog with a bone until I could stand it no longer. I brought my mount alongside Phèdre’s.

“Her letters,” I said. “The ones she wrote to me.”

Phèdre nodded. “Do you think there may be somewhat in them?”

“I don’t know,” I said miserably. “Do you?”

She was quiet for a moment, gazing at the road ahead. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I think not. But one may never be certain, with Melisande.” She turned her head to look at me. “Do you want to read them?”

I shuddered. “No.” I waited, hoping she would offer, until it was clear she wouldn’t. “Will you?” I asked. “Please?”

For a long moment, Phèdre studied me. “If you’re sure it’s what you want, love.”

I sighed with relief. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“All right, then.” She shifted in the saddle, squaring her shoulders. “I will.”

I felt guilty then, thinking on it. I didn’t like to be a burden to anyone, and least of all to Phèdre, who had borne so many. I’d asked out of selfishness, little thinking how it might be painful to Phèdre to read words my blood-mother had written to me. When all was said and done, Melisande could claim what Phèdre could not—she was my mother, whether I liked it or no. And yet I could not bear to read them myself. My stomach churned at the thought. “You don’t need to,” I said. “We could give them to Queen Ysandre.”

“No.” Phèdre’s reply was swift and certain. “Not unless we must.”

I looked away. “Why do you always protect her?”

“Imriel.” She waited until I looked back at her. “I made a promise,” she said. “I am keeping it in the only way I know.”

It was that simple for her. I wished sometimes that she had never made a promise to my mother, never extracted one in return. She had, though. My mother had promised not to raise her hand against Queen Ysandre and her daughters. In turn, Phèdre had promised to adopt me into her household, to deliver such letters as Melisande might send, and never to seek to turn me against my mother. To allow me to make my own choices. How she could bear it, I do not know. I didn’t know, for a long time, the whole of what my mother had done to her—how she had betrayed her, twice. It was a long time before I grasped the whole of my mother’s infamy.

And yet they understood one another.

My mother had been one of Phèdre’s patrons, once. The very marque inked on Phèdre’s back, the vast and intricate briar rose that signified she had paid her bond-debt as a Servant of Naamah, was completed thanks to Melisande’s patronage.

What that entailed, I never wished to know.

Upon our return to Montrève, Phèdre retreated into her study to read my mother’s letters. Elsewhere, the household was a flurry of activity as our staff and retainers began to prepare for the unexpected journey, packing trunks and loading provisions. I prowled the manor in a state of nervous anxiety, until I was shooed out of every room I entered.

It was Joscelin who took me in hand, finding me making a nuisance of myself in the pantry where Katherine was helping her mother. “Come with me.” He beckoned with one hand, holding a pair of wooden swords in the other. “Let’s have a bout.”

“Now?” I protested. “I’m in no fit mood for it.”

“You’re wound up like a top,” he said pragmatically. “It will do you good.”

I followed him out to the courtyard, beyond Richeline’s herb gardens. Joscelin practiced there every morning, flowing through the forms of the Cassiline discipline. Although he had been teaching me for over two years, I didn’t know them all, nor ever would. For ten years, until the age of twenty, Joscelin had studied little else—and he practiced every day.

He is not as good as he was, once. I saw him at his finest, on that terrible night in Darsanga, when he built a wall of corpses in the Mahrkagir’s hall. That was before his left arm was shattered by a blow from a morning-star mace. I don’t think anyone will ever match what he did there, and I pray no one ever need to. Still, it wasn’t Joscelin who struck the blow that mattered the most that night.

That was Phèdre, who killed the Mahrkagir with a hairpin.

“Come.” Joscelin tossed me one of the practice-blades and took a stance. “Have at me.”

I struck a halfhearted blow which he parried with ease, unbalancing me.

“Watch your feet.” He pointed toward them with the blade’s tip. “Your weight was on the rear.”

Scowling, I shifted my weight to my lead foot, raised my sword, and drove a straightforward strike toward his unprotected face; or as near to it as I could reach, given the disparity in our heights. Our blades clattered as he reacted, startled, and brought his up in an awkward horizontal parry. “I told you I was in no fit mood!” I shouted.

Joscelin grinned at me. “Better,” he said. “Now again.”

We practiced in earnest, then. The Cassiline fighting style was a circular one; spheres within spheres. There was the inner sphere of one’s own space, and the outer sphere encompassing one’s opponent’s. If there were multiple opponents, there were multiple spheres. Each sphere was defined by its own quadrants, marked and measured like hours on a sundial. It was a hard thing to keep in mind, and only long practice made it possible.

There was also the sphere of one’s ward, which was integral to the philosophy of the Cassiline Brotherhood, and in many ways the most important of all. It was the essence of their training—to protect and serve. Indeed, the final strike the Cassiline Brothers were taught—the ultimate blow, the last resort—was called the terminus. It was one of those performed with the twin daggers, not the sword. In it, the Cassiline throws his right-hand dagger to slay his ward, slitting his own throat with the left-hand dagger.

Joscelin came within a hairsbreadth of performing it on Phèdre once. So Gilot told me, not realizing I had never heard the tale of what happened on the battlefield outside Troyes-le-Mont, where the Skaldi warlord Waldemar Selig attempted to skin her alive.

I’d never told them I knew.

My mother was Selig’s ally.

The sphere of the ward was one that Joscelin never tried to teach me, reckoning I would be best served by learning to protect myself, which was true enough. But he taught me the others. So we circled one another in the courtyard, testing one another’s spheres, probing at each angle of every quadrant with quick, flickering two-handed blows.

I watched his face and his body, too.

This, Phèdre taught me. She was trained by her lord Anafiel Delaunay in the arts of covertcy—how to watch and remember, how to listen to what is said and unsaid. How to discern the tell-tales of a lie. How to move in silence, how to pay heed to those senses beyond sight, and how to find the deeper patterns linking one thing to another.

I saw, as we sparred, that Joscelin was careful on offense, taking only the obvious openings I afforded him, pressing them hard enough to make me aware of my errors, but gently enough that he did not injure me unwitting. Wooden or no, our practice-swords carried a considerable sting at best; at worst, they could crack heads.

And I saw, too, what Joscelin did not realize. Mindful as he was, waiting for my attack, he was slower to parry on his left. Although his broken arm had long since knitted, his speed lagged.

Sweat dripped from my brow into my eyes; impatiently, I shook my head. I had forgotten Phèdre in her study, reading my mother’s letters. I had forgotten that I didn’t want to spar. I circled, paying heed to my footwork on the slate tiles of the courtyard, waiting for a chance.

When it came, I feigned an error, leaving myself open. Joscelin moved to press me. I took a quick step backward, feinted left, and spun. He parried and missed, and I came around hard, completing the circuit of my inner sphere and leveling a hard blow with the edge of my wooden blade against his upper left arm. He winced, left hand going numb, losing its grip on the hilt. His sword, wielded in his right hand, swept up and past my guard, the wooden tip coming to rest beneath my chin.

Feeling the point dent my skin, I laughed. It was the first time I’d ever breached his guard to provoke an unintended attack.

“Very clever.” Joscelin smiled, lowering his blade. “You’d have had my arm off.”

“Well, you’d have had my head,” I replied. “Did I hurt you?”

“Gave me a bruise to remember,” he said, flexing his hand and shaking off the stinging residue of pain. “That will teach me to be soft on you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Joscelin shook his head. “It means you’re learning and improving. Anything that might save your life one day is worth a thousand bruises.” He grinned. “Which is likely what my future holds. You’ve got a lot of promise. You’re quick, and you think.”

I felt my face flush with pride at the praise. “Thank you.”

Joscelin regarded me with affection. “Feeling better?”

To my surprise, I realized I was. I was hot and tired and sweaty, but the lump of tension that had sat heavy in my belly since the Queen’s Courier had delivered her missive had grown smaller. “Yes,” I admitted. “A bit.”

“Good.” He nodded toward the manor. “Let’s go wash up.”

Inside, I scrubbed down at the washbasin in my room, stripping off my shirt and plunging my whole head in the cool water. It felt good. Most of my clothing had already been packed for travel, but I rummaged in the clothespress and found a clean, loose shirt of unbleached cotton, well worn and much mended. It was one I wore for mucking about in the kennels with Charles. I’d not worn it yet this summer, and I was pleased to find that the sleeves were inches too short.

Thus fortified, clean and dripping, I went to find Phèdre.

The door to her study was open, but I paused before speaking. She was seated at her desk, gazing at nothing, her chin propped in her hand. A pile of unsealed letters sat beside an open coffer on the desk before her, neatly refolded.

“Phèdre?” I asked hesitantly.

She lifted her head. “Come in, love.”

I entered and pulled a chair over to sit across from her. “Was there . . . anything?”

“No.” Her voice was gentle. “Nothing to hint at her plans. Nothing to suggest you might have known, or might know now.”

“Oh,” I said. “Good.”

Phèdre gazed steadily at me. “Do you want them?”

I shrank under her gaze. It was hard to hold, sometimes. Lypiphera, one of the Hellenes in the zenana called her: pain-bearer. She looked weary, her eyelids shadowed and bruised. I wondered whose pain she bore today and suspected, with an uncomfortable certitude, that it was my mother’s. “No,” I said. “I don’t . . . no.” Ducking my head, I fidgeted with a loose thread on my too-short sleeve. “What does she say?”

“A lot.” A wry note crept into her voice, coaxing a reluctant smile from me. “Imri, it’s not for me to say. Her words were written for you, and if you ever wish to understand your mother better, you’ll read them.” She was silent for a moment, then added, “If you’re wondering if she attempts to justify her deeds, no, she doesn’t. She does say that there is much she would have done differently, had she known what would happen to you.”

I looked up at her. “But that wasn’t her fault.”

It was true, though I was surprised to hear the words come from my mouth. My mother had me hidden away in the Sanctuary of Elua, yes, while all of Terre d’Ange searched for me. That was her doing, and there was a deep plan behind it that would have taken years to come to fruition. Still, it was no fault of hers that I was kidnapped by Carthaginian slave-traders and sold into hell. I was taken at random. That, not even my mother Melisande could have foreseen.

“No.” Phèdre smiled. “It wasn’t.” With deft motions, she straightened the stack of letters and returned them to the coffer. “They’ll be here for you.”

“Thank you,” I said, meaning for reading them. Meaning for many things.

“You’re welcome.” She closed the lid, locking the coffer with a tiny key. With my mother’s presence banished, the air within the study seemed to grow easier to breathe. Phèdre pushed her chair back, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear with the sort of absentminded grace that was as deeply ingrained in her as Joscelin’s Cassiline reflexes were in him. “We should go,” she said. “Richeline has everything in readiness, and I’d like to put a few hours of road behind us before sunset.”

Obliging, I stood. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” Phèdre glanced at me, then glanced again, her brows rising. “Imriel nó Montrève, what in the name of Blessed Elua are you wearing?”

I grinned at her, plucking at my shirt-front. “What, this? It’s only for travel.”

Phèdre shook her head, but the shadow had gone from her eyes, and I was happy to see it. “Sometimes,” she mused, “I think Joscelin Verreuil is a bad influence on you.”

“I’ll change,” I promised.

Coming around the desk, Phèdre gave me one of her mercurial smiles: the rare ones, the ones that came from the deep and mysterious reserves of her being, where her own peculiar sense of humor made the unbearable bearable. “Not too much, I hope,” she said lightly, dropping a kiss on my cheek. “I’m rather fond of you as you are, love.”

“No,” I whispered. “Not too much.”

THREE

WE WERE ON THE road in short order. I daresay few households in the D’Angeline peerage were capable of mobilizing as quickly as Montrève’s. For all that she enjoyed her luxuries—and she did—Phèdre was able to forgo them on a moment’s notice.

As for the rest of us, we thrived on it.

No one entered the service of Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève out of a craving for security and a staid lifestyle. Ti-Philippe, who had been with her the longest, pledged his loyalty after the battle of Troyes-le-Mont. There were three of them, then—Phèdre’s Boys, they called themselves. I never knew the others, Remy and Fortun. They died in La Serenissima, where I was born, killed on my father’s orders.

But the others I knew. Like Gilot, they were a high-spirited lot, men who sought service with the Comtesse de Montrève because they had heard the stories and the poems. Some of them, I think, were hoping to bask in the glory of further adventure. And if they were disappointed that it was not forthcoming, still, life in our household was never dull.

It would have been a pleasant journey, were it not for the purpose. The weather was hot and dry, but the breeze of our passage rendered it comfortable. I would have been content to have it last forever. The City of Elua was a buzzing beehive of gossip, and I had little desire to confront the results of my infamous mother’s latest piece of infamy.

“You could always run away and join the Tsingani,” Gilot offered helpfully, sensing my mood. “Think of the horses!”

“I wouldn’t mind,” I said, remembering the Salmon. “Want to come with me?”

“Why not? I’ve a fancy to see the world.” He laughed, then glanced uncertainly at me. “You are jesting, I hope. Joscelin would skin me alive.”

“Yes.” I shuddered. “And no jests about skinning, please.”

“Oh.” He fell silent, chastened. “Right.”

It wasn’t Gilot’s fault. He was only four years older than me. It was only a story to him; something that had happened when he was still clinging to his mother’s skirts. But I, who had not yet been born at the time, had seen too much horror not to feel it deeply. I was glad, actually, that Gilot forgot at times—that he told me the stories others feared I couldn’t bear to hear. I would rather know, always. Still, there were times when I felt myself the older of the two of us.

Travelling light, we made good time and came within sight of the white walls of the City of Elua within several days, arriving in the late morning. Despite the circumstances, I could see Phèdre’s mood lighten. Unlike the rest of us, she was City-bred to the bone, and it was where she was most at home.

To be sure, the City of Elua returned the sentiment.

The City Guard at the Southern Gate hailed her with a clamorous salute, shouting and whistling. One of them importuned a flower-seller within the walls, and lavender sprigs came showering down from the guard towers as we passed through the gate. The news of my mother’s disappearance, I thought, must not yet have been released. They wouldn’t greet us so if it had been. I watched Phèdre’s eyes sparkle as she caught a sprig of lavender and tossed it back with a blown kiss; watched the guardsmen scramble for it, and Joscelin’s amused, long-suffering patience.

I thought of the shadow descending over that happiness, and I hated it.

We made our way to the townhouse, where Eugènie, Phèdre’s Mistress of the Household in the City of Elua, was expecting us. After greeting Phèdre and Joscelin, she turned her prodigious affections on me.

“Sweet boy!” she cried, enfolding me in her considerable embrace. “Name of Elua, I swear you’ve grown a handspan since you left!”

I smiled, hugging her unreservedly in return. I still remembered my first encounter with her. To this day, she is the only person I have ever seen who dared take Joscelin by the shoulders and shake him. But she dealt gently with me for a long time, until I grew fond enough to suffer her affection gladly. “It’s only been a couple of months, Eugènie.”

“Ah, well.” She patted my cheek. “’Tis ever too long.”

Although we had ridden hard and fast to arrive within mere days of receiving the courier’s message, the Queen’s summons awaited us. Phèdre dispatched a messenger to the Palace with word of our arrival, and by the time we had changed from our road-dusty attire and partaken of a light refreshment, a reply was waiting. Phèdre read it and sighed.

“Now?” Joscelin asked.

She nodded. “Now.”

For this last, shortest leg of the journey, we took the carriage, with the arms of Montrève etched and painted on the doors. There were protocols to be observed. Ti-Philippe, Hugues, Gilot, and another of our men-at-arms served as outriders, guarding our passage.

Upon our arrival at the Palace, we were ushered directly into the Queen’s presence.

It was a formal reception, which I had not reckoned on. Although I was seldom able to forget my parentage, I forgot, betimes, that it meant I was a Prince of the Blood, and entitled to due courtesies. Drustan was present, which was not always the case. But during the summer months, the Cruarch of Alba crossed the Straits to abide with his wife, the D’Angeline Queen.

When it came my turn to greet them, I bowed; the courtier’s bow that protocol dictates when acknowledging those whose rank is higher than one’s own, yet within the same echelon. “Your majesties.”

“Prince Imriel.” The Queen inclined her head. “Thank you for coming.”

Drustan mab Necthana smiled. “Well met once more, Prince Imriel.”

They were an unlikely couple, as unlikely as Phèdre and Joscelin—more so, in appearance. Ysandre was tall and fair, a quintessentially D’Angeline beauty, with pale gold hair and violet eyes. She resembled her mother’s side of her family, House L’Envers.

Drustan was one of the Cruithne, the Pictish folk of Alba—dark-haired and dark-eyed, his skin tattooed in whorls of blue woad. Even his face was decorated thus. Although it was strange and barbaric to the D’Angeline eye, I thought there was an odd beauty in it.

There were three others present, one of whom made me grit my teeth. I didn’t like Duc Barquiel L’Envers, who was the Queen’s maternal uncle. He had proved himself a hero twice over, which I knew. It was Barquiel L’Envers who launched a daring rescue from behind fortress walls onto the field of Troyes-le-Mont, where Waldemar Selig wielded his skinning knife and Joscelin had begun the terminus. And it was Barquiel L’Envers who held the City of Elua some two years later against the forces of Percy de Somerville, another pawn my mother duped into treachery.

For that, Duc Barquiel was made Royal Commander, but I still didn’t like him. When he looked at me, he saw a threat to Ysandre’s throne, nothing more. Also, I was certain it was his daughter who tried to have me killed in Khebbel-im-Akkad, far from D’Angeline justice.

Whether he suggested it to her, I didn’t know, but I had no doubt he would gladly see me dead. I didn’t think he would be so foolish as to try anything here in Terre d’Ange. Ysandre made it clear that a crime against me is a crime against House Courcel. But I still remembered the words with which Barquiel L’Envers greeted her proclamation.

So don’t assassinate the little bugger.

I bared my teeth in a smile, inclining my head. “My lord Duc.”

By rights, he should have responded with the same courtier’s bow with which I had greeted the Queen and Cruarch; instead, he lifted one hand in a lazy, languid gesture. “Hail, Prince Imriel.”

If the gesture was meant to offend, it was somewhat undermined by what followed, for the other two present were Drustan and Ysandre’s daughters, my young cousins.

“Imriel!” Heedless of the protocol of adults, Alais, the younger, launched herself at me with a shout of delight. “Welcome back! I missed you!”

I caught her, staggering a bit under her weight, and tried to fend off her kisses. Slight though she was, at ten years of age, her exuberance carried an impact. “Hello, Alais.”

“Did you bring me a puppy?” she demanded. “You promised you would, from the spring’s litter in Montrève.”

“I forgot,” I said honestly. “But I wasn’t expecting to be here so soon.”

“Oh.” Her violet eyes, like unto the Queen’s, darkened. It was her only resemblance to Ysandre. For the rest, she looked purely Cruithne, like her father. “Of course. I’m sorry, that was thoughtless.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I’ll remember, next time.”

“Well met, cousin.” Sidonie, the elder, greeted me, extending her hand with a coolness that belied her twelve years of age. I bowed over it.

“Well met, Dauphine,” I said politely to her. If there was any other way to deal with the Dauphine Sidonie, the Queen’s Heir, I hadn’t found it.

“Have we done here, Ysandre?” Duc Barquiel asked pointedly. “May we dispense with the children and proceed? There is a matter of state at hand.”

The Queen leveled a look at him that would have quelled a less insolent soul. “And it is a matter of importance that House Courcel stands united in this time,” she said. “You know my feelings on this, Uncle.”

He grimaced. “All too well.”

I didn’t give Ysandre enough credit. There was treachery and betrayal and blood feud in her history, too. She had always stood above it and sought to break the cycle that continued it. That was why she wanted me found—to bring me into the fold of House Courcel, to acknowledge to the world that the innocent should not be persecuted for the sins of their parents. I should have respected that, and I did; still, it was hard to be grateful for a gift I would rather not need.

Ysandre beckoned to an attendant. “Please escort the princesses forth and seal the room.”

“Oh, please!” Barquiel L’Envers gestured at me in disgust. “You don’t mean to—”

“Barquiel.” It was Drustan who spoke; one word, uttered in his soft Cruithne accent, but there was the full weight of the Cruarch’s authority in it. The Duc subsided. The attendant escorted Alais and Sidonie from the room, closing the doors firmly behind them. Drustan took a deep breath. “Please, my friends, be seated.”

We all sat.

Without preamble, Ysandre related the news. In truth, there wasn’t much to tell. A little less than a week ago, she had received a letter from Lorenzo Pescaro, the Doge of La Serenissima. He had sent one of his swiftest couriers; there, it seemed, his sense of urgency ended. In the letter, the Doge wrote that he regretted to inform her majesty that he had received notice from the Priestess of the Crown that Melisande Shahrizai de la Courcel was no longer present in the Temple of Asherat.

I felt sick.

Joscelin uttered a violent oath. “That’s all?”

“Nearly.” Ysandre sighed. “He claims to have had the Priestesses of the Temple questioned. They disavowed all knowledge of Melisande’s disappearance, and he was satisfied with their answers.”

“A priestess may lie as well as a priest,” I said, remembering Brother Selbert.

“I know.” There was kindness in Ysandre’s regard. I looked away, finding it hard to bear. “But Lorenzo Pescaro reckons it is a D’Angeline matter, and little concern of his. He will not challenge the Temple of Asherat over it.”

“Well, someone aided her,” Phèdre mused aloud. “It’s her way. She wouldn’t leave without a plan in place, not after fourteen years of biding her time.” She glanced at Joscelin. “Do you remember Allegra Stregazza’s warning?”

He muttered under his breath.

“What?” Barquiel L’Envers’ voice cracked.

“There were rumors.” Phèdre glanced at me. “She took the Veil of Asherat, claimed sanctuary, and made herself into a mystery. A legendary beauty, bereft of her child, condemned by her country—”

He stared incredulously at her. “A cult of worship?”

I felt sicker.

“Well, a very small one,” Phèdre said. “She wouldn’t cultivate it, that would skirt too close to blasphemy.”

“No.” The Duc shook his head. “Oh, no! Not even Melisande—”

“Oh, she would. It’s a means to an end.” Phèdre rose without thinking, pacing the room. She wore a familiar look, vivid and distracted. “Have you sent for Duc Faragon?”

“Yes. He’s coming from Kusheth. He should arrive in a few days.” Ysandre watched her. “Do you think the Shahrizai are involved?”

“No.” Phèdre frowned. “On the balance, no. Melisande hasn’t trusted them fully since Persia’s betrayal. She didn’t trust them with the knowledge of Imriel’s whereabouts, and I doubt she would with this.”

“Mayhap,” Ysandre said. “I’d like you to be there when I discuss the matter with him.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Phèdre tilted her head, thinking. “I’ll write to Allegra today; and Severio, too. Among the Stregazza, they’re two I trust. If we leave immediately after speaking to Duc Faragon—”

“No.”

Joscelin’s voice cut through hers like a blade, flat and implacable. Among the six of us in the room, only Phèdre, lost in thought, failed to startle at it. She blinked at him, uncomprehending. Barquiel L’Envers opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as Drustan shook his head in warning.

“No,” Joscelin repeated, sounding weary this time. “No. We are not going to La Serenissima. We are not embarking on another search for Melisande Shahrizai. No.”

“But I can find her,” she said simply.

“I don’t care.” He held her gaze. “Isn’t this why you extracted a promise from her? You claim to understand her. You thought it worthwhile. Do you have so little faith in your own claim? Will you once more risk everything we have?”

Everyone was silent.

Phèdre closed her eyes briefly, then opened them and looked at me. I clenched my hands into fists, afraid of what she would say. I didn’t want her to go to La Serenissima. I didn’t want her to chase after the damned spectre of my damned mother. But my heart was in my throat, choking me speechless.

“No,” she whispered at last. “You’re right.”

I unclenched my hands and breathed a sigh.

“Well, and that was hardly my intention!” Ysandre’s voice was acerbic in the aftermath of tension. “What I want is your counsel and your wits, Phèdre. Here, beside me, in Terre d’Ange, serving the interest of the nation. Do you understand?”

She inclined her head. “Your majesty.”

“Oh, stop that!” Ysandre said irritably. Gathering herself, she turned to me. “Imriel, heed me. I have kept the news silent for some days, but I cannot for long. The members of Parliament must be notified. There may be . . . renewed suspicion.”

Barquiel L’Envers raised his eyebrows.

“I understand,” I said to the Queen, ignoring him.

“Good.” Ysandre nodded. “I wish you to know, also, that we do not share this suspicion. The throne of Terre d’Ange stands behind you, privately and publicly.”

To my annoyance, I felt tears sting my eyes. For the first time, I caught a glimpse of the courage and nobility in Ysandre that inspired such loyalty in those I loved. Once again, I had to look away. “Thank you, my lady.”

“No thanks are needed,” she said. “But there may be duties in the bargain. You are a Prince of the Blood and a member of House Courcel. There are those who should be reminded of this.” The Queen of Terre d’Ange stood, and we all stood with her. “We will speak more of this anon,” she said to me, and to Phèdre and Joscelin, “You will abide in the City of Elua?”

Joscelin gave his sweeping Cassiline bow, arms crossed.

“We will, my lady,” Phèdre said.

With that, the Queen dismissed us. It was a quiet ride back to the townhouse. What Phèdre was thinking, I could not guess. Joscelin looked stoic. I reached over and squeezed his hand in silent thanks. He gave me a brief nod and the hint of a smile, and I felt better.

In the small courtyard at the front of the house, our outriders dismounted and the stable-keeper Benoit came to unhitch the carriage horses. It was crowded with all of us present and so much horseflesh milling around. Benoit squeezed past one of his charges as Phèdre made her way toward the door.

“My lady,” he called. “A man came while you were gone and gave me somewhat for you.”

Phèdre turned. “What man?”

Benoit shrugged. “He wouldn’t say, so I didn’t open the gate to him. He handed me this through the portal and said it was for you. Then he left.” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a small parcel wrapped in oilskin and tied with twine. “Here.”

“Ah, Blessed Elua,” Joscelin muttered. “Not again.”

“Should I not have taken it?” Benoit asked anxiously. “I didn’t let him in.”

“No, that’s fine, you did right.” Phèdre took the parcel and caught Ti-Philippe’s eye. He nodded and beckoned to Gilot and the others. “Benoit, tell Philippe exactly what the man looked like. How tall, how old, the color of his hair, what he was wearing—everything you can remember. Did you see which way he went?”

“No.” He sounded miserable. “Sorry, my lady.”

“That’s all right. Just tell Philippe everything you can remember.” She glanced at Joscelin with a trace of defiance. “We do have to look.”

He crossed his arms. “You’ll notify the Captain of the City Guard,” he said to Ti-Philippe. “Not that I expect it will do much good.”

“Yes.” Ti-Philippe looked a trifle bemused. “Notify him of what, exactly?”

Joscelin eyed the parcel in Phèdre’s hand as though it were a live adder. “I’ve no idea, but we’re about to find out.”

With careful fingers, Phèdre untied the knots that bound the parcel and unwrapped it. Inside the oilskin wrapping was a velvet pouch with a drawstring. She opened it and spilled the contents into the palm of her hand.

Gilot gave a low whistle.

It was a large diamond, strung on a length of black velvet cord, old and worn, fraying at the ends. Phèdre stared at it without speaking, her eyes wide and dark. There was a slip of parchment caught in the mouth of the pouch. She withdrew it, smoothed it flat, and read what was written on it.

“Is it signed?” Gilot asked.

“No,” she murmured. “It didn’t need to be.”

“Well, what does it say?”

She looked up. “‘I keep my promises.’”

FOUR

THEY FOUND THE MESSENGER in a wineshop that day, deep in his cups, and learned that a stranger had paid him a gold ducat to deliver the parcel. All he could say was that the man wasn’t D’Angeline. From there, although they searched the City, the trail went cold.

I learned the story from Gilot, who had it from Ti-Philippe. The diamond had been a patron-gift from my mother, long ago. Phèdre had worn it until the day she gave the testimony that condemned my mother to execution.

“In front of the Queen and the peers of the realm,” Gilot related with relish. “She dropped it at your mother’s feet and said, ‘That is yours, my lady. I am not.’ After so long, can you believe she kept it?”

“Yes,” I said shortly. “I can.”

I could, because Phèdre kept things for remembrance, too—painful things. There is a small carved dog of jade that was the Mahrkagir’s gift to her. I was the one who brought it out of Darsanga, but she kept it, along with an ivory hairpin.

It is important to remember.

Phèdre told me as much the night of the slaughter there, in the small hours, before the Tiberian chirurgeon Drucilla died. Remember this, she said. Remember them all.

I thought about that in the days after the diamond was delivered, and wondered what it was that my mother remembered, and if she had learned anything by it.

The news of her disappearance was released quietly. There was no great outcry of shock and condemnation, for which I was grateful. She had been gone for a long time, and most people’s memories are short-lived. Still, wherever I went in the City, there were whispers of renewed speculation.

On the fourth day, the Shahrizai arrived, and we were summoned back to court.

It was the first time I had encountered my mother’s kin.

The meeting was held in the Queen’s formal chambers. Duc Faragon had brought an impressive retinue, and there must have been a score of the Shahrizai among them. The stamp of my mother’s House was unmistakable.

Duc Faragon was venerable, his skin wrinkled like parchment, his hair a rippling silver. Still, he was solid and doughty, and his eyes were undimmed. The kindred who ranged behind him were younger. The women wore their black hair loose, while the men wore theirs in a myriad of . . .