"Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève of Terre d'Ange." Demetrios acknowledged me in steady tones. "You have laid a heavy request upon us. Two boons, you have asked; one, I will grant." He touched his fingertips together. "I pray you understand, if it were a matter of sym pathy only, I would willingly grant both. But to escort you to La Serenissima..." He shook his head. "This I will not do. Whether the Serenissimans are right or wrong in seeking your death, to defy them thusly at their own gates is an open act of hostility. And if you fail in any part, Phèdre nó De launay, I will have earned Kriti—and indeed, all of Hellas— a powerful enemy. Nay, not one, but two, for if I understand matters aright, if you fail, the D'Angeline throne falls to this Benedicte de la Courcel, who stands in alliance with the Stregazza. Is it not so?"
"Yes, my lord Archon," I murmured. "It is so."
"I am sorry." His dark eyes were compassionate. "You asked a courier be sent to Marsilikos, and it shall be so. Anywhere else on the face of the earth you wish to go, I will send you. But I cannot risk exposing Kriti to the united wrath of La Serenissima and Terre d'Ange, no matter what rewards the risk may pay if you succeed. To rule wisely, one must weigh all options. There is no gain here that is worth the price of failure. Can you understand this?"
"Yes." I swallowed, and bowed my head. 'Twas no more than I had expected, but disheartening nonetheless. "I un derstand, my lord Archon."
"Do you weigh your own options, Phèdre," he said gen tly, "you may find it is much the same. If what you tell me is true, your chance of succeeding in La Serenissima is slim. Capture or death are likely, if not certain. You have done all that you might and more, though the hand of fate has been raised against you at every turn. Listen well, then, and heed my advice. A courier is no certain thing, my dear, and a message in a stranger's hand too easily ignored. Do not send word to Marsilikos, but go, bear word yourself, and rouse those allies you trust, secure the throne against betrayal abroad. Your Queen's life may be forfeit for it, yes, but you have the surety of the realm to gain—and your own life as well. What do you say?"
He waited, watching, and I gave no answer. At my side, Kazan stirred restlessly. "He speaks wisely, he," he mut tered. "I would say the same, did you ask."
It was tempting—Elua, it was tempting! To sail not back into danger and near-certain death, but to Marsilikos and safety; home, to go home. To the calm wisdom of Roxanne de Mereliot, who would take matters into her capable hands, to the reassuring might of Quintilius Rousse, yes, even to go to Barquiel L'Envers, that clever, cunning Duc I had been so sure I could not trust...
... and condemn to death Ysandre de la Courcel, who had once trusted me enough to risk the entire nation on my bare word; not only Ysandre, but mayhap all who travelled with her in the
progressus,
all who supported her in La Serenissima...
Joscelin.
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, thinking. Demetrios Asterius was right, there was danger in trusting to a message in a stranger's hand, almost reason to go. Al most. I lowered my hands and opened my eyes. "My lord Archon, do you swear to me that your courier will do all that is humanly possible to deliver my message to the Lady of Marsilikos?"
He paused, then nodded soberly. "That much I do swear, my lady. By Mother Dia and the House of Minos, I swear it."
"And you ..." I turned to Kazan, "... you will get me to La Serenissima, no matter what happens in Epidauro?"
Kazan's eyes gleamed. "I have said it, I; may the
krí
avbhog
swallow my soul if I lie! This is the debt I owe, and I will honor it, I." He gave a broad grin. "If you did the wise thing always, I would be dead, yes?"
I turned back to face the Archon. "I thank you, my lord, for your offer, which was generous," I said softly. "And for your advice, which was well-conceived. But I believe I can send a message that will not go unheeded."
"So be it." There was a starkness to his features, and I knew he did not look to see me alive again. "Deliver unto me your letter, and I will have the ship sail at once. May your gods protect you, Phèdre nó Delaunay. They've done a poor enough job of it thus far."
I made no reply but knelt briefly to him, and we took our leave, though not before I caught a sympathetic glance from Timanthes, standing at his post beside the Archon's throne. Kazan departed for the harbor, where I was to meet him in two hours' time.
This time I spent writing my missives, and the first was the lengthiest; that was for Roxanne de Mereliot, the Lady of Marsilikos. There was no need and no purpose in con cealing my intent now, and I wrote frankly of the situation in La Serenissima, of Benedicte's betrayal, of Melisande's role, of the plans of Marco Stregazza. I wrote too of the compliance of Percy de Somerville, and his role in Meli sande's escape from Troyes-le-Mont, as well as the means by which she had blackmailed him, the letter regarding the ancient matter of Lyonette de Trevalion's betrayal. And I wrote such things as might verify my identity, bidding her if she were uncertain to ask of Quintilius Rousse who it was that counted grains of sand on the beach in Kusheth, lik ening their numbers to the Skaldi. That I was certain he would remember, for it had been the turning point that had persuaded him to pursue Ysandre's fool's errand to Alba, and it was known only to him and me.
All of this and more I wrote, suggesting allies and courses of action, debating the allegiance of Ghislain de Somerville, who may or may not have been complicit in his father's plans. I wrote too much, no doubt, for I had been alone with these thoughts for weeks on end, and putting them to paper was almost like sharing them. At last I gauged the position of the sun and saw how much time had passed, and set myself to writing the second missive.
This one was to Duc Barquiel L'Envers.
To him, I wrote only this, my hand shaking somewhat as I set pen to paper. "Your Grace, pay heed to the words of the Duchese Roxanne de Mereliot, the Lady of Marsilikos. All that I have told her is true. By the burning river, I adjure you to hold the City of Elua against all claimants, including Duc Percy de Somerville."
It was done. I sanded my writing, tilting the page to re move the excess and blowing on the ink. It was only one city in a realm of seven provinces, but it was the City of Elua, the only place in Terre d'Ange that Blessed Elua made his own, and no one, man or woman or child, may be rightfully crowned sovereign of the realm anywhere but there. If this worked—oh, Elua, if it worked!—I owed a greater debt than words could utter to Nicola L'Envers y Aragon, who had sought in good faith to convince me that her cousin Barquiel and I threatened to tear Ysandre in twain with our mistrust of one another, who gave me the sacred password of her House as proof of her earnestness.
It doesn 't matter what you. believe. Just remember it.
And Delaunay's pupil to the end, I had recorded it in memory, along with her wry smile and farewell kiss.
Do me
a favor, and don't put it to the test unless you 're truly in
need.
I am in need now, Nicola, I thought, sealing this second letter with a wax taper, I am well and truly in need now, and whatever bargain you ask of me, I will make. Ah, my lord Kushiel, if your blood truly runs in the veins of House L'Envers alongside Naamah's and Elua's, let him heed this plea!
It was Timanthes who came for the letters. I gave them into his keeping.
"Demetrios is truly grieved that he could not grant your request in full," he said quietly to me. "I hope that you know this."
"I do." I met his calm gaze. "He's a good ruler, isn't he?"
"He ..." Timanthes took a deep breath. "Yes. He is."
It could have been like this, I thought, with my lord De launay and Rolande de la Courcel, who loved him. Delaunay would have been like this man Timanthes, with pride of place at his side, a steadfast beacon no matter whence his lord's whims turned, knowing he would always return in the
end. It would have been so, if Prince Rolande had wed his first intended, Edmée de Rocaille, who loved them both and smiled upon their friendship. The Lady Althaia understands as much, and asks no more, loving her brother and lord alike. Let Demetrios Asterius wed her, then, and have his Timanthes as well; let no bitter rival come between them as Isabel L'Envers had done, setting in motion an irrevocable chain of betrayal and hatred.
Those events made Anafiel Delaunay what and who he was when I knew him, brilliant and ruthless and wise, and kind, too; Elua knows, I had reason to know it. And yet, I never knew him happy, save those few precious weeks be fore the end, when Alcuin won through his stern walls to offer him a measure of love—and even that, I had be grudged, with a child's jealousy.
"Love him well, then, Timanthes," I said, tears stinging my eyes. "It is a rare enough thing to find, a good ruler and a dear friend. Love him well, and let him do the same in turn, for Blessed Elua asks no more of us."
"I will," he said gravely, looking only a little startled. "I do. Lady Phaedra, Demetrios bids me ask you, are there some words you would have the courier commit to heart? I do not think
the
Serenissimans will dare blockade and search a Kritian ship, but if they do, 'twere best your message was engraved in memory, lest it be necessary to destroy your letter."
It was well-thought of him; I paused a moment to gather myself. "Yes. Bid him memorize this: Benedicte is a traitor, he has taken Melisande to wife. They plan to kill the Queen. Percy de Somerville is in league with them. Tell Barquiel that by the burning river, I adjure him to hold the City against them all."
He repeated it several times, until I was sure he had it letter-perfect; he was a quick study. When he had done, he took my hands in his own. "The message will be delivered, Lady Phaedra. The Kindred of Minos do not swear lightly, and that ship will sail with the Kore's blessing on it; Mother Dia herself will see it brought safe to harbor. Word has come from the Temenos only this hour past." He Sullied Slightly at my expression. "There are things the Kore knows untold, and of those, we do not ask."
"Pray you give her my thanks," I whispered.
Timanthes nodded. "I shall." Still holding my hands, he hesitated, searching for words and gazing past me. "There are ... other rumors, that have come from the Temenos," he said slowly. "Servants will talk, where priests and priest esses hold their tongues, although surely this too is a thing the Kore permits. But.. . this thing they name you,
lypiphera;
they speak it with awe and hope, they who serve."
A shiver ran the length of my spine, as though a great wing had brushed me unseen. "It is not always an ill thing, to know pain," I said, meeting his eyes as his gaze returned to my face. "To remember. I have been a slave, Timanthes. It is a pain I remember. And it is poorly done, to treat humans as chattel."
He looked at me for a long time without speaking, and then looked away. "Others have argued as much; but Kriti is ancient, and we are ancient in our ways. Still, ways change, and there are new things born under the sun. You are one such, you children of Elua. I will think on what you have said, and speak of it to Demetrios."
"Thank you." Pressing his hands, I gave him a kiss of farewell. "Tell the Archon I am grateful for his aid, and keep you well." I stepped back, smiling. "Next time, I will come at a more auspicious time, I promise."
At that he laughed, and shook his head, and we parted on a note of cheer. It was naught but bravado on my part, but so will warriors make jest on the battlefield, and having said a thing, be heartened by it. So it was that I half-believed my own words and found my spirits rising as I left the Palace of Phaistos, escorted by a squadron of the Archon's guards through the city to Kommos Harbor. Though I was headed once more into certain danger, the sun shone brightly overhead, the glances of the guards and the folk in the streets were filled with covert admiration, and I left behind me at last a thing well-done.
If the Kritian ship could not win through to Marsilikos, 'twas out of my hands, whether I was aboard it or no. And if it did—well, Roxanne de Mereliot would heed my words, that much I trusted. I had not told the Archon of my past, beyond those events in La Serenissima which pertained to the situation, but the Lady of Marsilikos surely knew I of all people would send no false warning. As for Barquiel L'Envers, he would honor the password of his House or not; he did not love me so well that it would help to plead the cause in person. In truth, if the letters arrived safely, I thought, I could do no more if I were there myself.
The harbor was crowded and busy, for trade was urgent in these last fair weeks of autumn. My escort surrounded me, forcing a path along the wharf until we came to Kazan's ship. Sharp-eyed Oltukh spotted me first and gave a cry of welcome, and all of them echoed greetings, jostling for a place at the rail to aid me aboard the ship; a warm welcome, from the superstitious pirates who had once shunned me as a fearful spirit. Glaukos, who had never been aught but kind, folded me in a great embrace.
Kazan watched it all with a look of irony. "You have become a luck-piece, eh?" he said to me. "It is a thing I never dreamed, to go home to Epidauro. If you are ready, we sail, we."
The wind was blowing fresh and steady, the sea beyond the harbor dancing with white-crested ripples; a brisk sea, but not treacherous, the kind of challenge Illyrian sailors dearly love. I felt the wind tug at my hair and smiled.
"I am ready, my lord pirate. Let's sail."
