"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 Montrève?"
I repeated the name silently, wondering: Montrève?
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 Montrève." Ysandre gave me the ghost of a smile. "You never even knew his proper name, did you? His father, who is the Comte de Montrève, 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 Duc 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.
Chapter 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 fêted 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 Duc 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."