"Thank you," she said simply. "I will rest easier for it." She paused; her voice changed. "I wish you luck, Phèdre, in your own quest. The Tsingano lad . . ." Melisande shook her head. "He stumbled into an ancient curse. Even I could not have foreseen it."
"He did," I said, the words raw with emotion. It did not sit easy with me that she had exacted my promise when Hyacinthe's fate hung in the balance. "Hyacinthe saw his end. And he went to it unflinching; for me, for all of us. You set us on that path, Melisande, whether you knew it or no, whether you intended it or no. And you would have used him, if you could. The scroll, the guide ..." I raised my hand, clutching the scrap of vellum. "You've had it all along."
"Not always." There was a curious frankness to her words. "I have few weapons left to me, Phèdre; what would you have me do? I did not make the curse."
I looked away, shaking my head. I would never, so long as I lived, understand her. "Nor did you make the slave-traders, my lady. And yet they have taken your son."
"Yes." The word dropped like a stone from her lips. I looked back at her, seeing her pale and steady. "Do not mistake me. I played a game and lost, and Kushiel has called the reckoning. Would you have me say it?" The awful knowledge was still emblazoned in her. "I will. I was a fool. I never believed Kushiel would exact his payment in innocent blood."
"No?" There were tears in my eyes; I blinked them away, laughing mirthlessly. "Oh, my lady, your games have always ended in the blood of innocents!"
Melisande stood very still, watching me, and what she thought, I could not have said to save my life. With terrifying gentleness, she took my shoulders, lowered her head and kissed me; softly, fleeting. A brush of lips, no more. It was enough. "You have always offered yours will ingly, Phèdre. And that, my dear, is the difference."
When all was said and done, she knew me far, far too well.
I swayed on my feet, stung to the heart by the piercing sweetness of her kiss, understanding, at last, why Benedicte de la Courcel had been willing to commit high treason for her, why so many others had done the same.
Melisande smiled, faint and rueful, her eyes filled with infinite regret. "I have only done what I was born to do. If the gods did not want it, they should not have made me. It seems they repent of their error, since they have made you instead. You have your myth and your guide, Phèdre nó Delaunay. Go to Iskandria, and see my son loosed from the snare of Kushiel's vengeance. You have served your warning. I will heed it, and abide in this place. The stakes have grown too high. I am afraid of losing."
"My lady." I bowed my head, carrying the weight of her sorrow, her kiss lingering on my lips. I wanted to cry, still, and knew not why. "My lady, I swear to you, he will be found."
As she had at the beginning, Melisande Shahrizai closed her beautiful eyes. "Blessed Elua grant it may be so," she whispered, and it was the truest prayer I ever heard her utter. And then her eyes opened, and she spoke a single word. "Go."
I went.
TWENTY-NINE
JOSCELIN WAS waiting in the Temple.He raised his head as I entered, and the sight of him was like a star in a dark place. I walked straight into his arms and felt them enfold me, walling out the world. Priestesses and their attendants paused, star ing, as I leaned my brow against his chest. He held me close, resting his cheek against my hair.
"It is done, then?" I heard him murmur.
I freed myself reluctantly, taking his hands. "It is done. Thank you." I took a breath. "I have the name of a guide, and an address in Iskan dria. We should see Master Brenin's man at the Banco Tribune regard ing the notes of promise, and book our passage. It would be ... it would be wise to see Ricciardo Stregazza, too. I trust him to see the guard doubled on Melisande's confinement."
Joscelin raised his eyebrows. "You think she may flee?"
"I don't know." I shook my head. "It is in her heart to take matters into her own hands. I think I have convinced her otherwise, but I am not fool enough to trust her word in it."
"Then we will see it done," Joscelin said calmly.
We did.
It is a long sea-journey, from La Serenissima to Iskandria; the long est I have ever taken. Moreover, we were unable to book passage on short notice for a vessel with capacity for our horses, and must needs leave them in Ricciardo's care. This he offered graciously, and while I was sorry to leave them behind, I knew they would be well tended at his estate of Villa Gaudio on the Serenissiman mainland. It was pleasant to visit with Ricciardo's wife Allegra, with whom I had enjoyed a reg ular correspondence these ten years' past.
Most astonishing were their offspring, Sabrina and Lucio, whom I remembered as mere children. The former was a serious young woman of seventeen years, the latter a tall, ebullient lad of fifteen who chattered incessantly about which noblemen's club he would join when he came of age, reckoning the merits of each on his fingers.
"You've none of your own, then?" Allegra watched my amazement with gentle amusement. "They do grow up, you know."
"So I see," I replied. "It's only that it happens so fast."
She laughed, at that, and turned the conversation, telling me the latest developments in her sponsorship of the Courtesans' Scholae. It had been Ricciardo's project, in the beginning, but Allegra had been the true force behind much of it. In Terre d'Ange, Naamah's Service is a sacred calling. It will never be so in La Serenissima, where folk do not worship Elua and his Companions, but at least their status in society had risen since the Scholae was formed. There is strength in numbers and knowledge alike. Nothing will ever rival the elegant splendor of the D'Angeline Night Court, but the well-educated courtesans of La Serenissima were gaining renown throughout Caerdicca Unitas.
I was glad to hear it, since it was my idea.
We spoke of it aboard the ship, Joscelin and I, during the long, idle hours, after the worst bouts of his customary seasickness had passed. The duration was shorter this time. He was growing, I thought, more accustomed to sea-travel. Late summer was giving way to fall, but it was hot during the days. Our favorite time was evening, when the sun lowered beneath the distant horizon and twilight cooled the air.
"It was well-thought of you," he said. "Naamah must be pleased."
"Mayhap," I said, looking curiously at him. "You used to despise what I did, do you remember? Do you still think it wrong?"
"Wrong?" Joscelin shrugged. "I was taught as much, among the Cassilines; not only Naamah's service, but all of the ways of Elua and his Companions were folly. Cassiel alone stood steadfast to the truth, and one day he would guide Blessed Elua himself to redemption, whereupon all of Terre d'Ange would follow, both the earthly one and the true Terre d'Ange-that-lies-beyond." He smiled wryly, gazing out at the horizon where the first star of evening was emerging. "I did believe it, when I first knew you."
That much, I knew. "And now?"
"Now?" He turned his head to look at me. "No. Not when it is a contract entered freely in homage to Naamah, at least. That much, I have seen to be true. There are mysteries I may not understand, but I acknowledge them nonetheless. And my beliefs . . . my beliefs too have changed. Now I believe the greatest of heresies among the Brotherhood: That in the end Cassiel chose to follow Elua out of love. Not a love born of divine compassion, but simply ..." he reached out and twined a lock of my hair about his fingers, ". . . love."
I sighed, and leaned against him. "I have always believed as much."
"You would," Joscelin said companionably.
"True," I agreed. A moment passed before I asked another question. "Joscelin, are you sorry we never had children?"
I felt his body stiffen slightly, then relax as I peered up into his face. "Honestly? Sometimes, yes." He stroked my hair. "I would like it, I think ... I don't know. And yet ..." He shook his head and looked away. "I have never lied to you. Whatever the truth of Cassiel's nature, I swore my vows in earnest."
"What you broke," I said softly, "you broke out of love."
"I know." He gazed at the fading glow of the horizon. "And I do believe it was in Cassiel's service still. But I spoke true when I said I would strain his grace no further. If a child of ours ... if a child of mine was touched by Kushiel's Dart. . ." He shuddered. "Truly, some things are beyond enduring."
"I know," I said. "Love, believe me, I do know it."
"You alone are enough to nearly kill me." A hint of humor returned to his voice. "Ah, Phèdre . . . am I sorry for it? Yes, sometimes. I am sorry for many things, sometimes, and mostly they are things I cannot change, or would not if I could. Aren't you?"
"Yes." I watched more stars emerge as the sky darkened to velvet. "We would not be here, a thousand miles from home, if we had children."
"No," Joscelin said equably. "Probably not."
A soft, steady wind blew as the Serenissiman sailors moved about the ship's deck, kindling lamps fore and aft. Such frail sparks of light against the vast darkness, I thought, born aloft and lonely on the swell ing breast of the ocean, while a canopy of brilliant stars spread overhead. I tried to imagine it, a life of domesticity and simple pleasures such as Allegra and Ricciardo Stregazza's family shared at Villa Gaudio, given deeper meaning by the good acts of charity and governance both had undertaken. It would have been that way with us. Joscelin had released me and his hands gripped the ship's rail, steel mesh glinting on their backs. I gazed at his profile, the cruciform hilt of his sword rising over his shoulder to blot out the stars. Would he be sorry to hang up his blades? I didn't think so.
And yet. . . somewhere, beneath this same night sky, stood a rocky isle with a high altar open to the winds and a single lonely tower, where my Prince of Travellers watched the sun set and rise, days turning to years, the slow advance of decrepitude and madness stretching into an infinite vista.
