Inland to the north of Siovale is L’Agnace, the grape-rich province of Anael, who is betimes called the Star of Love. Alongside it on the rocky coast is the province of Kusheth, where Kushiel made his home, all the way up to the Pointe d’Oeste. It is a harsh land, like its namesake.
Further northward is Azzalle, which clings along the coast, close enough at one point to see the white cliffs of Alba. Were it not for the fact that the Master of the Straits controls the waters that lie between us, indeed, there might be danger of a powerful alliance between Azzalle and Alba. Of this I took note, for Trevalion is the ruling duchy of Azzalle, and my heart still beat faster to remember Baudoin de Trevalion’s kiss.
Beneath the province of Azzalle is Namarre, where Naamah dwelt, and it is a place of many rivers, very beautiful and fruitful. There is a shrine where the River Naamah arises from beneath the earth, and all her servants make a pilgrimage there within their lifetimes.
To the east, bordering the Skaldic territories, lies the long, narrow province of Camlach, where martial Camael made his home and founded the first armies of those bright, fierce D’Angeline troops who have for so long defended the nation from invasion.
This, I learned from Delaunay, is the nature of my homeland and the division of power within it. Slowly I came to an understanding of these divisions, and the implications of power that each province held its own; each reflecting to some degree the nature of their angelic founders. Cassiel alone among Elua’s Companions took no province for his own, but remained faithful at his wandering lord’s side. He had but one namesake in the land; the Cassiline Brotherhood, an order of priests who swear allegiance to the Precepts of Cassiel. It is a service as rigorous as that of Naamahs, and far sterner, which is perhaps why it is no longer popular. Only the oldest of provincial nobles maintain the tradition, passed within the family from generation to generation, of pledging a younger son to the Cassiline Brotherhood. Like us, they become fosterlings at the age of ten, but it is a harsh and ascetic life of training at arms, celibacy and denial.
"You see, Phèdre, why Camlach has always held the greatest strategic importance." Delaunay’s finger traced its borderline on a map. I glanced up into his questioning eyes and sighed.
"Yes, my lord."
"Good." His finger moved back up, hovering. He had beautiful hands, with long, tapering fingers. "Here, see, is where the fighting has been." He indicated a dense patch of mountainous terrain. "You marked what the iron-trader was saying last night? The Skaldi have been threatening the passes again, as they’ve not done since the Battle of Three Princes."
There was an undertone of sorrow in his voice. "When Prince Rolande was killed," I said, remembering. "The Dauphin was one of the Three Princes."
"Yes." Delaunay pushed the map away brusquely. "And the other two?"
"The King’s brother, Benedicte, and…" I struggled to recall.
"Percy of L’Agnace, Comte de Somerville, cousin-germane to Prince Rolande," Alcuin’s soft voice supplied. He pushed his white hair from his eyes and smiled. "Kinsman on his mother’s side to Queen Genevieve, which made him a Prince of the Blood in accordance with matrimonial law, though he seldom claims the title."
I glowered at him. "I knew that."
He shrugged and gave his inarguable smile.
"Bide your peace." There was no jest in Delaunay’s tone and his gaze was somber. "We paid dear for that victory, when it cost Rolande de la Courcel’s life. He was born to rule, and would have held the throne with strength and grace upon his father’s passing, and none would have dared take up arms against him. We have paid for the security of our borders with instability in the City itself, and now our gains stand threatened in the bargain."
Pushing himself away from the table, he rose to pace the library, standing at last to gaze silently out a window onto the streets below. Alcuin and I exchanged wordless glances. Delaunay was in many ways the gentlest of masters, reprimanding us with nothing harsher than an unkind word, and that only when we were truly deserving. But there was a darkness in him that surfaced only sometimes, and we who attended his moods closer than a farmer watches the weather knew well enough not to rouse it.
"Were you there, my lord?" I ventured at length.
He answered without turning around, and his voice was flat. "If I could have saved his life, I would have. We shouldn’t have been mounted, that was the problem. The ground was too uncertain. But Rolande was always rash. It was his only flaw, as a leader. When he led the third charge, he got too far ahead; his standard-bearer’s horse stumbled and went down, and we were held back in getting around him. Not long…but long enough for the Skaldi to cut him off." He turned back to us with that same somber look. "On such small things, empires may hang. For want of a sure-footed mount, half the scions of Elua have their gaze set on becoming Prince Consort and claiming the throne through marriage; and Princes of the Blood like Baudoin de Trevalion scheme to take it by force of acclaim. Remember it, my dears, and when you plan, plan well and thoroughly."
"You think Prince Baudoin wants the throne?" I asked, startled; after more than three years, I still found myself struggling to grasp the shape of these patterns Delaunay studied. Alcuin looked unsurprised.
"No. Not exactly." Delaunay smiled wryly. "But he is the King’s nephew, and I think his mother, who is called for good reason the Lioness of Azzalle, would like to see her son seated upon it."
"Ahhh." I blinked, and at last this pattern-Baudoin’s actions, Delaunay’s presence at the Midwinter Masque-came clear to me. "My lord, what has that to do with Skaldic raiders on the eastern border?"
"Who knows?" He shrugged. "Nothing, perhaps. But there is no saying how events in one place may affect what happens elsewhere, for the tapestry of history is woven of many threads. We needs must study the whole warp and weft of it to predict the pattern on the loom."
"Will the Skaldi invade?" Alcuin asked softly, a distant glimmer of fear in his dark eyes. Delaunay smiled kindly and stroked his hair.
"No," he said with certainty. "They are as unorganized as the tribes of Alba before Cinhil Ru, and lords such as the Comte de Ferraut and Duc Maslin d’Aiglemort hold the passes well-defended. They have built their strength since the Battle of Three Princes, that such may never occur again. But it is something to note, my dears, and you know what we say about that."
"All knowledge is worth having." I knew it by rote; if Delaunay had a motto, that was surely it.
"Indeed." He turned his smile on me, and my heart leapt at his approval. "Go on and entertain yourselves, you’ve earned a respite," he added, dismissing us.
We went, obedient to his words, though reluctant, always, to be denied his presence. For those who never knew him, I can say only that there was a charm about Delaunay that compelled the affections of all who surrounded him; for good or for ill, I might add, for I knew later some who despised him. But those who hated him were the sort who envied excellence in others. No matter what he did, Anafiel Delaunay did it with a grace that eludes most people in this world. A panderer, his detractors called him, and later, the Whoremaster of Spies, but I knew him better than most, and never did he conduct himself with less than perfect nobility.
Which is part of what made him such a mystery.
"It’s not his real name," Hyacinthe informed me.
"How do you know?"
He flashed me his white grin, vivid in the dim light. "I’ve been asking." He thumped his slender chest. "I wanted to know about the man who took you away from me!"