At that, I fell to my knees and protested my loyalty, tears standing in my eyes. I could not help it, then. What I said, I scarce remember; not everything, but it was a great deal more than I'd intended. Ysandre listened, and gradually a semblance of calm came over her features.
"You should have told me." It was what she had said to Marmion. I daresay she was right, on both counts. "Why did you tell my uncle instead? I did not think there was much love lost between Barquiel L'Envers and the household of Anafiel Delaunay."
"It was scarce more than he knew," I murmured. "Nicola already suspected Marmion was responsible for killing his sister. He plays at some game with me; I wanted to see what he would do. I didn't think it would be ... this."
"My uncle," Ysandre said reflectively, "had, to the best of my knowledge, Dominic Stregazza assassinated on suspicion of killing my mother. He is not a temperate man. Exactly how deep in it is my charming cousin Nicola?"
"Not very." I shook my head, settling back to sit on my heels. "He uses her as Delaunay used Alcuin and me, only she does it for amusement and money, and the experience of the thing. I don't think Marmion guessed it.”
"You trust her?"
I shrugged. "I trust it is no more than that, with her."
"And my uncle?" When I didn't answer, Ysandre gave me a hard look. "You suspect him, don't you?"
"My lady." I spread my hands. "Barquiel L'Envers claims to be protecting your interests, and I owe him my life. But it is someone we all trusted." In the distance, but not out of earshot, Ysandre's Cassilines stood on guard, features impassive, at ease in the familiar stance, hands crossed above their dagger-hilts. I thought of saying more, and closed my mouth.
"Why?" Ysandre asked aloud, frustration in her voice, staring at the portraits of her family line. Rolande, Isabel, Ganelon, Benedicte, Lyonette. House Courcel, in all its tumultuous history, and off to one side, Edmée de Rocaille, who had been caught up in it and died because of it. So had my lord Anafiel Delaunay, keeping a promise. Ysandre was right. It never ended. "Why would anyone who risked their life to save the realm risk everything to betray it?"
I heard the Marquise Solaine Belfours' voice in my memory. If you think all of Lyonette de Trevalion's secrets died with her, you're twice the fool I reckoned.
A desecrated ledger in the Royal Archives; a folio perused by unknown eyes. Condemning letters, written to Lyonette de la Courcel de Trevalion. Letters provided by Melisande Shahrizai. When had Melisande ever played the whole of her hand? Never, I thought. Melisande had held somewhat back, and whatever it was, it sufficed for blackmail.
The more I learned, the less I knew.
At the far end of the Hall of Portraits, the door opened.
"Your majesty!" The Captain of the Guard stood bowing in the open doorway. "Forgive my intrusion, but I thought you would wish to know. The outriders from Azzalle have arrived. The flagship of the Cruarch of Alba has been sighted crossing the Straits."
"Drustan!" Ysandre breathed his name, and her entire countenance lightened, violet eyes fair glowing. For a moment, she looked not like a Queen, but only a young D'Angeline woman in love. "Blessed Elua be thanked." All thoughts of intrigue temporarily forgotten, she looked down at me in puzzlement. "Phèdre, what on earth are you doing on your knees?"
I wasn't sure myself. "Asking forgiveness?"
"Name of Elua." Ysandre considered me. "All right, Phèdre. I need candour, not apologies. Fail in it again, and I'll consider my trust misplaced. Now get up, and help me plan to welcome the King. And while you're at it," she added, asperity returning to her voice, "you may tell me exactly what you were about with that young Stregazza lad."
"Yes, my lady," I murmured, rising with the fluid motion drilled into every prospective adept of the Night Court and casting a dubious glance at her Cassiline guards. "As you wish."
I made a fair job of evading her questions, after that; it was not so hard, with the news of Drustan's incipient arrival distracting her. Ysandre had not forgotten-she missed little and forgot less-but she was more than willing to set it aside for the moment. For that, I could not blame her; her path to the throne had been a difficult one, and the crown lay heavy on her head. Lest anyone doubt that Ysandre de la Courcel cared for her Pictish lord, I may say, the Palace never knew such a scouring as it received in the days that followed.
My skills as a translator were much in demand in those days, for naught would do but that diverse entertainments were to be staged in Drustan's honor, given in D'Angeline and Cruithne alike. It was sweet, after the long winter months of wrestling with Habiru, to turn my tongue to a language I knew well.
Ysandre planned a procession to begin a full league outside the City, and I rode out as part of her delegation to make arrangements. Her Master of Ceremonies came himself, fussing over plans for a series of pine bowers to arch over the road. My part was easier, and I had Nicola L'Envers y Aragon to help me. Accompanied by a Guardsman bearing a great satchel of coins, Nicola passed out silver centimes to children and youths along the way with the injunction that they gather flowers to throw in Drustan's path, while I instructed them in shouting, "Long live the Cruarch of Alba!" in Cruithne. In troth, we had a great deal of fun doing it, and the day passed in laughter.
Even so, I slept fitfully, plagued by nightmares, which had worsened since Marmion Shahrizai's exile. In an effort to take my mind from such matters, I took an assignation with Diànne and Apollonaire de Fhirze, for between the two, nothing passed at Court nor in the City but that they heard of it. Most of their talk was of the coming arrival of Drustan mab Necthana; in those days, it was on everyone's tongue. But they heard other things, too.
"There's a rumor Tabor Shahrizai has sworn blood-feud against Marmion for the death of Persia," Apollonaire said lazily, winding a lock of my hair about his fingers. "Our Marmion hit the gates of the City and started running, they say. Some say south," he added, eyeing me, "toward Aragonia. Of course, some say he set out dead east, for Camlach and the Unforgiven. I heard there are Shahrizai hunting parties riding both routes. What do you say, sweet Phèdre? Did our fine Lord Marmion please cousin Nicola well enough that she would offer him asylum in Aragonia?"
"I've no idea," I answered honestly.
"Oh, I daresay Phèdre has other things on her mind," Diànne said cheerfully, snapping a bullwhip for the sheer amusement of watching me twitch. "Arranging for the Cruarch's processional and all. Not to mention the Yeshuite fracas. Your Cassiline's been seen with them, I hear tell." She examined the tip of the bullwhip. "A quarrel on the outskirts of Night's Doorstep, and a Yeshuite lad of no more than sixteen dead; the Baron de Brenois ran him through himself. He went to Kushiel's Temple to be purged of it, they say." She cracked the whip again, and I jumped half out of my skin. "What are armed Yeshuites doing wandering around Night's Doorstep, anyway? Let 'em go north, if that's what their prophecy demands! Why cause trouble here?”
That, I didn't answer, though I could have. They were testing their blades and their courage, reminding themselves of D'Angelina iniquities, summoning the resolve to split away from the greater Yeshuite community. Summoning the resolve-and forcing the reason.
And these were the folk courting Joscelin.
It worried me considerably; enough so that I dared broach the subject with the Rebbe when he sent for me a day later. We read from the Melakhim, the Book of Kings, and he told me the tale of the enchanted ring of the glorious King Shalomon, that compelled the demon Ashmedai to build a temple at his bidding. A word, a ring; tokens powerful enough to compel. Somewhere was a key to free Hyacinthe, I thought. For now, a tale only. When he was done, I spoke, couching my words respectfully hi Habiru.
"I heard a boy was killed, Master."
The Rebbe sighed heavily, exhaling through his copious beard. "Yeshua weeps."
"I am sorry." I was, too.
Rolling the scroll from which we'd read, Nahum ben Isaac stowed it carefully in its cabinet. "You are a member of the D'Angeline nobility, yes? Do they seek justice against us?"
"No." I shook my head. "It was a quarrel; the Baron de Brenois was provoked, and acted rashly. He is to blame, though there was no legal fault. The boy drew first. He is doing penance for it," I added, meaning the Baron.
"It is not enough for these children." The Rebbe lowered his head, resting chin on fist. "They are eager, and fearful. They seek to rouse their anger, that it might make them less fearful, and daring enough to break us in pieces. For two thousand years, the Children of Yisra-el have endured as a people." His deepset eyes measured the distance. "I fear for the soul of my people, Naamah's Servant. There is blood on our hands, ancient blood. Yeshua ben Yosef bid us sheathe our swords and turn our cheeks, awaiting his return. Now these children, these hasty children, would carve out a place with steel to await him. It is not right.”
"No," I murmured. "Master, you say the Baron's penance is not enough. Do they blame us for the boy's death?"
"Your D'Angeline pride, your arrogance, your lustful ways." Nahum ben Isaac looked gravely at me. "Yes, Naamah's Servant, they blame you. And yet you-" His laugh was sad. "To me, they will not listen, and you; you come, at my bidding, to sit at my feet and learn the Tanakh and dream only of freeing your friend. What you do, the patrons you serve ... I know of it. We hear such things, even in the Yeshuite quarters. It is an abomination to me. And yet." Reaching out, he laid his aged hand against my cheek. "You are a good child, Phèdre nó Delaunay, and a good pupil. I have pride in you."
No one had spoken to me so since Delaunay had died. "Thank you, Master," I whispered, leaning against his hand. "I do not wish to grieve you."
The Rebbe withdrew his touch, tucking his hands into his sleeves and smiling sadly into his beard. So old, and so mortal, he looked to me. "Ah, perhaps even Adonai says the same, when he considers his ill-begotten son Elua. I do not know, Naamah's Servant. But I fear in my heart, when I think on the fate of my people. If your Queen will hear wisdom, counsel her to temperance. They are but children, who draw their blades."
"I will." Rising, I curtsied to him. Still seated, he looked up at me.
"Your ... your Cassiline, the follower of the Apostate." He cleared his throat. "He comes no more, to sit at my feet and hear the teachings of Yeshua. When he comes, he listens now to the others, these children of steel." His eyes were deep with sorrow. "It is true, what they tell him; it is prophesied, that if Cassiel should return, Elua's Companions will follow. But in my heart of hearts, I do not believe it was meant to happen at the point of a blade."
"No." Swallowing hard, I made myself ask. "Rebbe ... was Joscelin involved in what happened the other night?"
"No." He looked at me with pity. "Not this time. But next - who knows? If you love the lad, heed my words, and marry him."
I could have laughed at that, or wept. Instead, I thanked him, and left.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was a splendid day when Drustan mab Necthana rode
into the City of Elua.
Ysandre met him outside the gates, and I was part of the vast receiving party. All the banners of Terre d'Ange were flying, uppermost the golden lily on a field of green, surrounded by seven gold stars, sign of Blessed Elua and his Companions. Below it, side by side, flew the silver swan of House Courcel and the black boar of the Cullach Gorrym, Drustan's line, Earth's eldest children in Alba.
We saw them coming a long way off, and heard the cheers. An honor guard of D' Angeline soldiers flanked them on either side, riding helmetless and crowned with wreaths of violets and irises, parade-trained mounts prancing and arching their necks, violets braided into their manes. There were Alban war-chariots in the procession, covered in chased gold-work and shining in the bright sun, driven by men and women both.
And in the lead rode Drustan on his black horse.
He wore the trappings of the Cruarch of Alba; the scarlet cloak that spilled over his mount's hindquarters, the gold torque at his throat and a simple circlet of gold pinning his straight black hair. Intricate spirals of blue woad decorated his features, entwined his bare brown arms. Drustan mab Necthana was unquestionably Cruithne, whom scholars call Picti and name barbarians. I could not help but hear murmurs among the gathered nobility.
But along the way, the D' Angeline people threw a flurry of spring petals and shouted themselves raw in adoration, because Drustan mab Necthana had brought an army of Cruithne to our aid when the civilized folk of Caerdicca Unitas wouldn't even muster a delegation to cross our borders. And he married Queen Ysandre de la Courcel, who loved him.
We waited as the Alban procession made its way to the very foot of the gates, and the crowd fell silent. Ysandre stood tall and slender in the colors of House Courcel, backed by her Palace Guard. Astride his black horse, Drustan sat motionless, and the Albans lowered their banners as King and Queen gazed at one another, their eyes speaking silent volumes.
Ysandre broke it first, opening her arms. "Welcome, my lord!" she cried, and her voice caught a little at it. A clarion blast of trumpets rose skyward and Drustan mab Necthana laughed like a boy, swinging down from his mount and taking Ysandre in his arms. We cheered as they kissed, cheered and cheered again, and I prayed that the tears in my eyes and lump in my throat were due more to joy than envy.
In the days that followed, there was feasting and celebrating sufficient to delight even the most libertine of souls. No talk of Naamah's Service now; I was at Ysandre's bidding, and busy enough for two. There were far more translators now than before, but Drustan had brought two hundred Cruithne in his entourage, and my skills were sore needed.
