I had never seen the Shahrizai appointments in the Palace. They were luxurious, I remember that; the rest is lost. We sat at a long marble table in the great room, waiting for the Guard.
"Drink this." Melisande poured two glasses of cordial herself, handing them to us. "Both of you," she added, seeing Joscelin hesitate. "It will do you good."
I drank mine at a gulp. It had a clear fiery taste, with a faint aftertaste of honey and thyme and a hint of something else. It did seem to settle my nerves a little. Joscelin coughed at the burn of it, and a little color rose to his face. He looked better for it. Melisande refilled my glass unasked, but when she reached for his, he shook his head. "Tea, perhaps?" he asked faintly.
"Of course." She went to the door and summoned a servant, speaking in a low tone, then sat down, gaze dwelling on my face. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"
"No." I started shaking, and cupped both hands around my cordial glass. "My lady, I don’t know. We were…we were at the marquist’s shop, making the final arrangements for my marque." My mind raced desperately as I improvised; even my vision seemed out of focus. "I had to approve it, Master Tielhard had changed the design of the finial. It was…I don’t know how long."
"Three-quarters of an hour," Joscelin said, supporting my story. His voice was a little unsteady, but it sounded like it was due to shock, and not the half-truth. "Mayhap a little bit longer." The servant came with the tea, and he thanked her, sipping it. "When we arrived back at the house…" His hand trembled, and tea spilled into the saucer. He set it down, then willed both hands to steadiness and picked it up, taking a long drink. "There were signs of battle all over the house," he said grimly. "And no one left living to tell of it."
"Oh, Anafiel," Melisande murmured. She glanced toward the door, looking, I thought, for the King’s Guard. I looked too, but there was no one.
A thud sounded at the table.
Joscelin lay slumped, his cheek pillowed on cold marble. The teacup had overturned, and steaming liquid puddled under one limp, mail-clad hand. I felt dizzy staring at him, his oblivious, unconscious features swimming in my vision.
"No," I said. My grip loosened on the cordial glass, and I pushed it away, looking at Melisande with mounting horror. "Oh, no. No."
"Phèdre, I’m sorry." Her beautiful face was composed and quiet. "I swear to you, I never gave an order to kill Delaunay. That wasn’t my decision."
"You knew." The horror of it crawled over my skin. "You used me. Ah, Elua, I told you, I told you myself! Rousse’s messenger!"
"No. I already knew Delaunay was awaiting word from Quintilius Rousse." With chilling care, Melisande reached out and righted the overturned teacup, setting it neatly back on the saucer.
"Why, then?" I whispered. "Why did you tell me about Prince Rolande, if you already knew? I thought you wanted to find out what it meant."
She smiled, smoothing an errant lock of hair out of my dazed eyes. "That Delaunay was oath-sworn to protect the life and succession of Ysandre de la Courcel? Oh, my dear, I’ve known that for ages. My second husband was a great friend of the King’s, and a terrible gossip. Not clever enough to guess that Delaunay meant to keep his promise, but then, of that scant handful who knew it, precious few were. No, it’s what he’s up to that I needed to know. Why Quintilius Rousse, and what has it to do with the Master of the Straits?"
"But why…why me?" It was hard to keep my head upright; whatever she had put in Joscelin’s tea, there must have been somewhat in the cordial too, in a lesser quantity.
"Do I need a reason?" Still smiling, Melisande traced the line of my brow over my left eye, the one with the dart-stricken mote. If I had known horror before, it was nothing to this; the power of her touch remained unaltered. "Perhaps I do, for Delaunay’s pupil. It’s a bit like flushing pheasants, you see, when they send the beaters into the brush. I wanted to see which of de Morhban’s lordlings startled at the mention of your name. It wasn’t hard to guess that the Comte de Brijou harbored a messenger for your lord, Phèdre nó Delaunay."
The blood ran like fire in my veins, a scalding betrayal. I struggled against it, her cord like a noose around my neck, trying to put the pieces together. Whose men, then, had killed Delaunay? Melisande’s? She didn’t command an army; the Shahrizai dealt in money and influence, not men-at-arms, not beyond their personal guard. Alcuin could have done it, I thought, he could have fit the pieces, and my tears were as scalding as the terrible desire. Clinging to the thought of Alcuin, I saw the shape of the pattern. "D’Aiglemort."
A spark kindled in Melisande’s deep blue eyes; she was proud of me for guessing it. "Delaunay did teach you well," she said with satisfaction. "I’m sorry Isidore wasn’t here himself, he’d have had sense enough not to kill Delaunay without finding out what he was about. I wouldn’t have relayed word, if I’d known how they would botch it, but it’s true, you know, most Camaelines do think with their swords."
"Not d’Aiglemort."
"No." Rising, she went to the door and gave an order I couldn’t hear; I had already guessed that no Captain of the King’s Guard would be forthcoming. Melisande returned, standing behind me to rest both hands on my shoulders. "No, Isidore d’Aiglemort thinks with more than his blade. He was fostered for three years in Kusheth, did you know? In House Shahrizai."
"No," I whispered. "I didn’t know."
"It’s true." Her hands continued to move on me, horrible and compelling. I had never truly understood, until then, that Kushiel’s victims dwelt in the flames of perdition. Joscelin lay slumped before me, dead or unconscious, I could not know, and nothing, not even the thought of Delaunay lying in his own blood, not even the memory of Alcuin’s dying breath gasping my name, could stop the tide of longing that threatened me.
"Don’t," I said, weeping and shuddering. "Please, don’t."
For a moment, she paused; then I felt her breath, warm at my ear. "Why did the Cassiline Brother say no, Phèdre?" she murmured; her voice sent a shiver through the marrow of my bones. "When I asked, you said yes, and he said no. If you weren’t looking for the King’s Guard, what were you doing?"
The room reeled in my vision; I saw a red haze, and in it Delaunay, Alcuin, everyone I had loved, and behind it the face of Naamah, compassionate and giving, and the stern bronze features of Kushiel, in whose hand I dwelt. "I don’t know." My own voice seemed to come from a great distance. "Ask Joscelin what he meant, if you haven’t killed him."
"Ah, no; you’ve warned him, my dear. A Cassiline would sooner die than betray his oath," Melisande whispered, so close I could feel her lips move. I closed my eyes and shuddered. "And anyway, I would rather ask you."
Chapter Thirty-Nine
It was the jolting of the cart that woke me.
My first impressions were purely sensory, and none of them pleasant. It was cold and dark; I lay atop straw, prickling my cheek, beneath rough-spun woolen blankets, and from the incessant lurching motion and the sound of hooves, it was a cart in which I rode, lashed over with a canvas tarpaulin. That much I apprehended, before a wave of nausea gripped my belly. I, who had never known a sick day in my life, scarce knew what it was. It was pure instinct that sent me crawling across the straw to the farthest corner of my confines, where I promptly spewed up the meager contents of my stomach.
Afterward the sick feeling gripped me less urgently. Shivering with cold and lightheaded, I made my way back to the nest of blankets in which I had awoken, seeking the measure of miserable comfort they offered. It was then that I saw the second figure half-buried under the woolens, blond hair blending into straw, dim grey clothing rendering him nearly invisible in the faint light that filtered around the lashed edges of the canvas above us.