Chapter Sixty-Five
I have known worse. The castle of Morhban is set atop a rocky escarpment over the sea, impregnable on three sides, and well-guarded from the front. It was a cheerless place on a grey day, spring having gained but the most tentative of footholds in this outlying land.
All of us shivered on the ride, Neci’s family-even the children-silent and fearful. But de Morhban’s word was good, and he saw to it that they were well-housed, the horses stabled.
In this, he included Hyacinthe, who ground his teeth, but did not protest. He would have included Joscelin as well.
"Your grace." Joscelin controlled himself with an effort. "I am oath-sworn to protect my lady Phèdre nó Delaunay. Do not ask me to foreswear myself."
"So you say." Quincel de Morhban looked at Joscelin’s Mendicant cloak. "Then again, it is the sort of mindless loyalty a Cassiline would voice. Do you actually perform as a Mendicant, priest?"
After a moment, Joscelin gave a curt nod.
"Fine. Then you may entertain my household."
A couple of de Morbhan’s men-at-arms nudged each other, grinning like boys at the prospect; it was the only thing on that journey that made me smile. It had been a long, dull winter in Morhban, I suspected.
"Yes, your grace." Joscelin bowed, a Cassiline bow, unthinking. "Harm her," he said under his voice, "and you will die. That I promise."
"Do you?" De Morhban raised his brows. "But she was born to be harmed." At that, he turned, summoning his chamberlain. Joscelin grabbed my arm again, painfully hard.
"Phèdre, don’t do this. I swear, I’ll find another way-"
"Stop." I laid one hand on his cheek. "Joscelin, you made Cassiel’s Choice. You can’t keep me from making Naamah’s." Reaching into my bodice, I fished out Ysandre’s ring, pulling the chain over my head. "Just keep this safe, will you?"
I thought he might protest further, but he took it, his face changing, taking on the impassive expression I’d seen so often in Gunter’s steading and then in Selig’s, while he had to watch me serve as bed-slave to our Skaldic masters.
But that had been slavery; this was not.
De Morhban had not lied. He sent for a priest, who came in the black robes of Kushiel, unmasked, carrying the rod and weal. She was an older woman, whose look held all the terrible compassion of her kind. De Morhban treated her with respect, and I saw that he would honor our contract.
For the most part.
"And the signale?" he asked, courteously, pen at the ready.
It took me by surprise; I’d nearly forgotten, after Skaldia, that such things existed. I started to reply, then caught myself. "Perrinwolde," I said. It did not seem right, anymore, to use Hyacinthe’s name.
Nor did it summon the safety it once had.
De Morhban nodded, writing it down. The priest put on her bronze mask, taking on Kushiel’s face, and set her signet in the hot wax to seal it.
"You know I will ask questions upon your departure," de Morhban said, passing me the contract for my signature. "Our contract does not bind me from that. Nor from questioning Rousse and his men, who are on Morhban territory."
"Yes, my lord." I wrote my name in a flowing hand. "But questions are dangerous, for they have answers."
He looked curiously at me. "So Anafiel Delaunay taught you to think. I’d heard as much, though it was hard to credit. There was no thought in your pretty head the night / met you."
No thought, at least, that wasn’t connected to the lead in Melisande’s hand. I flushed, remembering. De Morhban nodded to the Kusheline priest, who bowed and departed silently.
"Are you Melisande’s creature?" he asked me, musing. Reaching out, he took up the diamond that lay on my breast, drawing me to him. I stumbled a little, feeling my heartbeat speed. "I thought so, then. Now, I am not sure. What game is she playing? Tell me this much, at least; did she send you? Is this some strange ploy of hers, to see where my loyalties lie?"
"No questions, my lord," I whispered, my head spinning. "You have pledged it."
"Yes." He dropped the diamond. "I have."
There are things that one can see in patrons, when one serves Naamah. I saw it in him, the fear that could cut desire. He had come to doubt, since his decision. He had the ill luck to rule a province that contained House Shahrizai, and all its wiles. I took a step back and made another choice, as rash as the first.
"No," I said, and met his startled look. "One answer, my lord, and then you will honor our contract, or I will leave. No. If I am anyone’s creature, it is Delaunay’s. And if I am here, it is at his bidding."
"From beyond the grave." He made a statement, not a question of it. "He honored his vow to Prince Rolande, I heard. To the grave and beyond." De Morhban laid both hands on the table, considering our contract. "If that is true, then you are here at Ysandre’s bidding."
I did not answer. "I am here to serve your pleasure, my lord," I said instead, nodding at the contract.
"So you are." He drew his attention away from it and looked wryly at me. "It would please me, Phèdre nó Delaunay, to have you bathed and attired. I’ve no taste for Tsingani wenches, if you don’t mind."
"As my lord wishes." I curtsied.
The women of Morhban were kind enough to me, hiding curiosity behind their habitual silence; they are not a talkative folk, those who dwell in outermost Kusheth. I was led away to a bath that was fairly sumptuous, then waited, drying in silken robes, while a seamstress brought in an array of garments to determine what would best fit and suit me. For all its bleakness, Morhban did not lack for finery. We found a suitable gown, a rich scarlet with a low back, that showed to good advantage my completed marque.
I confess, I admired myself in the mirror, tucking my hair into a gold mesh caul and turning this way and that to see how the striking black lines of my marque emerged from the base of the gown, rising to the finial, gazing at my face to see how the gown’s color brought out the deep bistre of my eyes, the scarlet mote of Kushiel’s Dart.
I suppose I should have dreaded this assignation, it is true; it was necessity that forced it upon me. But I had been pledged since the first bloom of womanhood to the service of Naamah, and in a way I cannot voice, a deep pleasure pervaded me at the thought of practicing my art. I thought of Joscelin and of Hyacinthe, and guilt wormed cold within me. I thought of Gunter and Waldemar Selig, and shame made me small. And yet. I remembered my vows in the Temple of Naamah, the offering-dove quivering in my hands.
This was what I was.
What strength I possessed, it stemmed from this.
Quincel de Morhban received me in his garden, something I never would have suspected, from either the man or the place. It was an inner sanctum, like Delaunay’s, like I had known in the Night Court, only vaster. It was shielded from the elements, warmed by a dozen braziers and torches, with mirrors set to gather the sun’s heat when it availed, and scrims of sheerest silk that could be drawn across the open roof to protect the delicate flora.
In all defiance of the early spring chill, a riot of flowers bloomed: spikenard and foxglove, azalea, Lady’s slipper and Love-Not-Lost, orchids and phlox, lavender and roses.
"You are pleased," de Morhban said softly. He stood beside a small fountain, awaiting me; his eyes drank in the sight of me. "It costs me thousands of ducats to maintain this place. I have one master gardener from L’Agnace, and one from Namarre, and they are ever at odds with each other. But I reckon it worth the cost. I am D’Angeline. So we count the cost of pleasure." He reached out one hand for me. "So I count your cost."
I went to him unhesitatingly. He drew me against him, his lean body clad in black velvet doublet and breeches, with the de Morhban crest on his shoulder. I felt the dark tide of desire loose in my marrow, as one hand clasped hard on my buttocks, pressing me to him, and the other grasped the nape of my neck, entangled in the mesh caul, drawing my head back. He kissed me, then, hard and ruthlessly.