"Kolbjorn of the Manni is here," I said. "Joscelin, he brought a letter from the south, routed through Caerdicca Unitas. I saw the seal. It was from Melisande."
He was silent, then, taking in the extent of her betrayal. I knew the shock of it. "What did it say?" he asked eventually. I shook my head.
"I’d no chance to see. But I know she told him d’Aiglemort doesn’t suspect anything."
"Do you think it’s true?"
I hadn’t considered it, too stunned to question it; seeing the possibility, I smacked my forehead. "I don’t know. She might be playing Selig into d’Aiglemort’s hands. It could be." We stared at each other. "Either way," I said softly, "the Crown falls, and she stands to gain. Joscelin, could you kill a man with your hands?"
He turned pale. "Why do you ask?"
I told him my plan.
When I was done, he paced the hut with shackled steps, circling at the length his chain allowed. I could see the thoughts chasing themselves across his features. "You are asking me to betray my vow," he said at last, not looking at me. "To attack, unprovoked…to kill…it goes against all the tenets I have sworn to honor. What you ask, Phèdre…it’s murder."
"I know." There were a great many things I could have said. I could have pointed out to him that we were both dying by slow degrees, he in chains, I serving Waldemar Selig’s pleasure against a rising tide of hatred. I could have argued that we were at war and trapped behind enemy lines, where the common rules of decency no longer apply. I could have said these things, and did not. Joscelin knew them as well as I did.
It was still murder.
After a long moment, he looked at me. "I will do what you ask," he said softly, his voice inflectionless.
Thus our plan was laid.
All that day, I was restless, my heart beating at an unaccustomed pace and a sick, nervous feel in the pit of my stomach. I hid it with smiles and pleasantries, going quietly about the business of Selig’s orders, wearing subservience like a mask. I must have done it well; he was in good enough spirits to set aside his suspicions during the day, making a point to compliment my service in Kolbjorn’s presence. Glad that Selig would be wholly given over to Skaldic pursuits and not D’Angeline corruption on the morrow-his thanes and the White Brethren made no trouble over it.
He had me that night. By chance, it happened that we had come to a passage in the Trois Milles Joies called "The Rutting Stag," and Selig took it as a good omen, for they would hunt deer the next day. On my hands and knees, I shuddered beneath him, staring at the carved headboard and despising him as he thrust himself into me, head thrown back, hands clutching hard at my shoulders. Enjoy it, my lord, I thought, it is the last you will have of me.
Afterward he slept, while I lay wide-eyed in the darkness. Only a faint glimmer of orange came from the shifting embers, glinting where it struck metal. I stared at the nearest gleam, my mind occupied with a thousand details, not realizing what it was until the shape of it resolved itself out of darkness and made sense to my eyes.
It was Selig’s dagger, laid upon the far night table when he undressed.
Of course, I thought, and relief suffused me. Of course there was another way. The price was higher, but the end…oh, the end was sure! Turning my head, I gazed at Selig as he slept, picking out his features by the faint emberlight. His face was peaceful in repose, as though no bad thoughts troubled his dreams. He breathed deeply, his powerful chest rising and falling with even, regular motions. There, I thought; my eyes had grown quite accustomed to the dark. There, in the hollow at the base of his throat, laid bare by his forked beard. Shove the point in there, and twist. I knew little of weapons, but it would suffice.
All I had to do was reach the dagger.
I shifted cautiously, reaching one arm across his body.
The bed creaked on its timbers, and I felt a hand grasp my wrist. Gazing down, I saw Selig’s eyes, open and awake. He was not Gunter, to sleep like the dead through any manner of disturbance…Waldemar Selig, they called him, Blessed, proof against steel. What I did then, I did without choice. I had nearly been caught attempting to assassinate the apparent King of the Skaldi. With a murmuring sound of protest, I shifted my arm to reach around him in embrace, laying my head upon his shoulder.
It pleased him, to think I had come unwilling to tenderness. He gave a drowsy chuckle, which echoed like a drum beneath my ear, and let me stay, nestled into him. His breathing settled back quickly into the rhythms of sleep. I lay awake for a long time, forcing my limbs to pliancy, willing away the rigidity of terror. At last, exhausted by fear, I slid into restless dreams.
The morning dawned crisp and bright, and the great hall bustled with all of the activity attendant on a hunt. I moved through it all in wooden shock, feeling like I had stumbled, dazed, into some strange theatre. Refreshed by sleep, my terror had returned, split between horror at what had nearly befallen last night and the fear of what was to come. I remember very little of that morning. The Skaldi arming to hunt, the women at their labors, the horses brought round stamping against the cold; it blurs in my mind with the morning Gunter’s folk went raiding and came back singing of slain D’Angelines. Even Harald the Beardless was there, fingering the new growth on his chin and giving me a cheerful wink, not knowing I was in disfavor among Selig’s folk. Only the yelping of dogs was different; that, and the White Brethren drawing straws to see who would stay to guard me. Those were Selig’s orders. A thane named Trygve drew the short straw, grumbling amid good-natured jeers from his comrades. He cut it short at a warning glance from Selig. I kept my eyes downcast, not wanting to look at the man whom fate and a short straw had marked for death.
And then they were off, and the great hall nigh empty. The housecarls went about their work. Trygve sprawled at his leisure on a bench, flirting with one of the women. I withdrew into Selig’s room; he saw where I was headed, and nodded, knowing I did work for his lord there.
Alone in Selig’s room, I took the brooch from my wolfskin cloak and opened it, taking the sharp end of its bronze pin between my teeth. With careful pressure, I bent the very tip of it into a tiny hook. It took some doing, but I was able to catch the tumbler on the lock on Selig’s cupboard, opening it to reveal private correspondence, a locked coffer of coin, a jumble of clothing and Joscelin’s arms piled at the bottom. The letter from Melisande Shahrizai was there. I sat down to read it.
It was her hand; I knew it, having seen it often enough in letters to Delaunay, though she wrote now in Caerdicci. The letter itself was brief, little more than confirmation of what Selig had said aloud. I trust we understand one another, she wrote at the end.
Selig’s leather saddle-packs stood in the corner, unnecessary for a daylong hunt. I hauled them out and shoved the letter in an inner pocket, then rummaged through the cupboard for the warmest garments I could find, stuffing them into the packs. There was a tinderbox too, and I took that gratefully. There was little else I could do, at this stage. I put on my cloak and pinned it with difficulty. Drawing a deep breath, I walked into the great hall and approached Trygve, still engaged in dalliance. He glanced up, displeased. "What is it?"
"I would visit my friend, please, my lord," I said softly. "Lord Selig permits me to do so, once a day."
It was true, and he knew it; still, Selig was not there. "I’ll take you later," he said dismissively, turning back to the woman, resuming his interrupted tale.