Kushiel's Dart (70 page)

I turned toward him, but Joscelin stepped forward. "Your grace," he said in his even tone, "it is not a matter for jesting."

L'Envers gave him a long gauging look. "You've grown some spurs, lad. Well, I hope you've brought them to clear my name, Ysandre."

"It is one reason, but the least of them, I fear," she murmured.

"My lord Rinforte!" Joscelin's voice held all the relieved surrender I'd felt at Kushiel's temple; I looked, and saw why. He had recognized the Prefect. He went to kneel at the Prefect's feet, crossing his forearms and bowing his head. "My lord Rinforte," he said formally, "I am in violation of my sworn vows. I remand myself to your justice."

"You stand condemned of betraying the household you swore to protect and serve, Joscelin Verreuil," the Prefect said grimly. "That is no mere violation, young Brother."

"Of that he is innocent." Ysandre de la Courcel raised her voice; it carried clearly, reminding them that they stood in the presence of the Queen. "My lord Rinforte, the integrity of your Order is unbreached. Believe me when I tell you that I wish it were not so. Hear their story, and judge."

And so we told it once more.

They listened in silence and varying degrees of disbelief. For that, I did not blame them. Ysandre had been right, they took to their seats as the tale unfolded. I didn't blame them for that, either. It was a long story and hard to hear. When we were done, there was silence.

I could not read most of their faces, not even Caspar Trevalion's, who had been like an uncle to me. Those I could, did not bode well.

"Surely, Ysandre," Barquiel L'Envers said with deceptive insouciance, "you don't expect us to believe this ludicrous confabulation?" Of all of them, he lounged at his ease on a couch, dangerous as a hunting leopard, toying idly with the ends of his burnouse that lay unwrapped around his neck. I could see only the danger in him, but he was Ysandre's nearest kin.

"Not on their word alone." Her voice held firm, and she lifted her chin on her elegant Courcel neck. "My guard has asked questions, as discreetly as they dared. There are four among the Palace Guard who saw them that night, seeking audience as they claim, and one indeed who saw them in the presence of Melisande Shahrizai. They were examined by my own personal physician, who has attended me since childhood, and he will testify that their condition was consonant with the hardship they claim to have endured, from exposure to direst cold down to the weals on Joscelin Verreuil's wrists, where he was confined in chains."

"And yet these things may have other explanations, and other causes," murmured the Comte de Toluard, his expression thoughtful.

"They may," Ysandre said. "Yet the most damning piece of evidence in their conviction was their absence. Here they stand before us."

"Is there no other evidence that we may consider?" Roxanne de Mer-eliot inquired. Past the age when suitors battened the walls of Marsilikos, she retained a lush, rounded beauty, streaks of white in her coal-black hair. I liked her, for her dark eyes were both kind and clever.

"Yes, my lady," I said, curtsying to her. "You may send to the Comte de Bois-le-Garde of Camlach, whose men came upon us in the woods. Or," I added, glancing dourly at Barquiel L'Envers, "you may venture into the Skaldi lands, if you wish. I can point out Gunter Arnlaugson's steading on a map, it is no difficulty. Ask him about the D'Angeline slaves he bought from Camaeline soldiers, if you so desire."

"And if it's true, either way we show our hand to d'Aiglemort, if we're not killed for our troubles," Barquiel remarked, scratching his cropped fair hair, so odd to see on a D'Angeline nobleman. But whether I trusted him or no, he was no fool. "A pretty trap, if you've laid it. Delaunay taught you well. If it's not, Elua help us all."

"Elua help us, indeed," Caspar Trevalion said quietly. "I have known Phedre no Delaunay since she was a child, and I cannot believe she would be party to Anafiel Delaunay's murder. If that is so, then she tells the truth, as she believes it. And as for the Cassiline . . . look at him, Barquiel. He bears his honesty on his face. I do not know you," he added to Hyacinthe, "but I see no gain in this for you."

Hyacinthe cleared his throat, flushing slightly at the company he addressed. "I have known Phedre longer than anyone," he said. "Even Delaunay. I saw her the night they returned to the City. She does not lie."

"But why," Tibault de Toluard said in his thoughtful manner, "would Isidore d'Aiglemort desire Delaunay's death?"

Caspar Trevalion and Thelesis de Mornay exchanged a glance, but it was Ysandre de la Courcel who answered, color rising to stain her alabaster skin.

"Because," she said with dignity, "I asked his aid in a certain matter, which d'Aiglemort may have believed dangerous to his plans."

"No." Barquiel L'Envers came upright on his couch. "Oh, no. You can't mean to abide by it!"

"I can," she said, eyes blazing at him, "And I do!"

"No." He glared back at her. "If there's a measure of truth to this tale .. . Ysandre, I can arrange a union with a Prince of the royal House of Aragon, who can bring two thousand spears to your aid!"

"The Lioness of Azzalle," Caspar Trevalion remarked conversationally, "came a great deal closer to overthrowing the Crown than anyone realized. If she had succeeded in bringing the army of Maelcon the

Usurper, the old Cruarch's son, across the Strait, they would have swept across the country like a scythe."

Percy de Somerville shook his gold-grey head, speaking for the first time. "They'd have taken us unprepared, but they wouldn't have made it across. Ghislain tried near the same tactic, at the King's command. The Master of the Straits left no vessel unturned."

"No one can say why the Master of the Straits chooses as he does," Tibault de Toluard mused. "He let the old Cruarch cross, and no one knew why. If they
had
succeeded ..." A thought came to him, and he paled. "But they did not, because of Isidore d'Aiglemort and Melisande Shahrizai. My lady Ysandre, what have you to do with that fateful island of Alba, and what has it to do with the death of Anafiel Delaunay de Montreve?"

I repeated the name silently, wondering: Montreve?

Ysandre de la Courcel folded her hands in her lap, lifting her chin again. "At the age of sixteen," she said quietly, "I was promised to the Cruarch's heir, his sister-son Drustan mab Necthana, the Prince of the Cruithne."

There is a thing that happens when a truth suddenly comes clear, a white blaze in which the pattern of it all manifests. I saw it then, in the presence of the Queen's council.

"Delaunay!" I gasped, the word an agony of grief. "Ah, Elua, the message, Quintilius Rousse, the Master of the Straits . . . you sought passage for him, for the Pictish Prince, to D'Angeline soil! But why . . . why turn to Delaunay?"

"Anafiel Delaunay de Montreve." Ysandre gave me the ghost of a smile. "You never even knew his proper name, did you? His father, who is the Comte de Montreve, abjured him, when he tied his fate to my father's and forebore to get heirs. He took his mother's name as his own, then, for she loved him nonetheless. My lord de Toluard would know, being of Siovale."

"Sarafiel Delaunay," Roxanne de Mereliot, the Lady of Marsilikos, said unexpectedly, smiling. "She was Eisandine by birth. There is an old story in Eisande, of Elua and a fisher-lad named Delaunay. Sarafiel would have understood. She sent Anafiel to me to be fostered when he was a child."

"Blessed Elua!" It was almost too much information to bear, and I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. I felt Hyacinthe steady me, gripping my arms, and was grateful for it.

"My grandfather was already using Delaunay," Ysandre said, continuing ruthlessly. "He didn't favor him, but he knew the strength of his oath, and the extent of his discretion. It was his will to learn if there was any merit left in an alliance with a deposed heir. I wanted somewhat else." Her composure slipped a little bit, and she whispered the last words. "Drustan mab Necthana."

Her words created a silence almost as great as Joscelin's and mine had, broken by Barquiel L'Envers' abrupt laugh. "The
blue boy
?" he asked, disbelieving. "You really want to wed the blue boy?"

Ysandre's eyes flared into life. "I want to wed the rightful heir to the Kingdom of Alba, to whom I am betrothed! Yes, uncle. And it is to that end that Anafiel Delaunay worked, and it is to prevent it that he was killed."

"But what. . ." It was Lord Rinforte who spoke, the Prefect of the Cassiline Brotherhood, his jaw working as he attempted to make sense of what had been said, "What has this to do with the Skaldi and the Due d'Aiglemort?"

"Nothing," Ysandre said gently, "or everything."

It was then that I knew we would be a long time meeting.

A very long time.

FIFTY-NINE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The House of Aragon—" L'Envers began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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