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 Camae-lines 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, Phedre?" 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."
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.
Joscelin.
Memory returned in a relentless surge.
I barely made it back to the corner in time to vomit bile.
This time, the noise of it woke him. I wrapped my arms around myself and huddled shivering, watching him glance around the darkened interior of the cart, frowning. A good Cassiline warrior, he took stock of his weapons first. They were gone, daggers and sword both, and the steel vambraces from his forearms. Then he saw me.
"Where . . .?" Joscelin's voice cracked. He paused and cleared his mouth, drug-dried, working his tongue and swallowing. "Where are we?"
"I don't know," I whispered, not sure if it was true. Outside, hoof beats; a team of four? There were too many beats, steel-shod and martial. Soldiers rode with us, a dozen at least.
"Melisande," he said remembering. "Melisande Shahrizai."
"Yes." That, too, I whispered. Memories crowded my mind, beating like dark wings. I had never, until that awakening, known what it was to despise the very nature of what I am. Even now, in cold and pain and misery, I could feel the residual languor of my body's infinite betrayal.
Naive as he was, Joscelin was no fool; he was young enough to learn, and he had served a time in Delaunay's household, where even a fool might gain some measure of wisdom. I saw understanding dawn on his clear-cut features. "Did you give her Rousse's message?" he asked quietly.
"No." I shook my head as I said it, and couldn't stop, shaking and chattering, huddling in onto myself. "No. No. No."
This was beyond his ken. Alarmed, Joscelin reached out for me, drawing me back to the warmth of the blankets, piling them around me and at last, when my shaking continued unabated, wrapping his own arms around me and rocking me to stillness, murmuring meaningless sounds.
It was true.
Everything, everything else she had desired of me, every betrayal flesh could afford, she had had. Numb and heartsick and broken, I had yielded it all.
But not that.
I think, at the last, she even believed it. I remembered her relenting, lifting up my drooping head by a clutch of hair, that beautiful face and merciless, gentle smile. I had pleaded my voice raw; I could only shape the word and beg with my eyes. "I believe you, Phedre," she had said, caressing my face. "Truly, I do. You have only to say the word, if you want it to end. You have only to say it."
If I had, if I had said it, given the signale, I would have given her the rest. So I didn't.
And it didn't end. Not for a long time.
I remembered it all now, but I had stopped shaking. I carried the memory of it inside, like a cold stone in the center of me. Joscelin grew suddenly aware of the situation and awkward with it, giving my shoulders a brusque chafing and withdrawing his embrace. He didn't move far away, though; we had nothing here but each other. I watched him repress a shiver and silently unwrapped one of the blankets, handing it to him. He didn't refuse, but drew it around him and blew on his hands.
"So you don't know what's befallen us?" he asked eventually. I shook my head. "Well," he said resolutely, "let's see what we can learn." He blew once more on his hands to warm them, then pounded on the side of the cart and shouted. "Heya! You, outside! Stop the cart!" The wooden clapboards rattled under his assault; outside, I could hear the shuffle of riders, and a muttering. "Stop the cart, I say! Let us out!"
A tremendous blow from the other side shocked the boards. A quar-terstaff or a mace, at least; Joscelin snatched his hands back, stung by the reverberation of the wood. Another fierce blow descended onto the taut canvas, landing on his shoulder with a dull thud. Grimacing, Joscelin rolled out of the way of a second blow.
"You in the cart, keep it down," a male voice said in a soldier's clipped tones, "or we'll beat you like badgers in a sack. Understood?"
Joscelin crouched low beneath the canvas, eyeing it warily as he tried to track the shadow of a weapon above him. "I am Joscelin Verreuil, son of the Chevalier Millard Verreuil of Siovale, member of the Cassiline Brotherhood, and you are holding me against my will," he called. "Do you understand that this is both heresy and a crime punishable by death?"
The weapon—a staff, by its reach—came down on the canvas again with another muffled thump. "Shut up, Cassiline! Next time, I aim for the girl."
I caught Joscelin's arm and shook my head at him as he opened his mouth to retort. "Don't," I murmured. "Don't make it worse. There are a dozen or more fully trained, armed and mounted soldiers out there. If you're going to play the hero, at least pick a moment when you're not outnumbered and trapped like a... like a badger in a sack."
Joscelin stared at me. "How do you reckon the odds?"
"Listen." I nodded around the cart. "Horses, and armor creaking. Four before and four aft, two on the sides, and I've heard at least two riding scout. And if they're under Melisande's orders, likely they're D'Aiglemort's men."
"D'Aiglemort?" He was still staring, but he had the sense to keep his voice low. "What's he to do with it?"
"I don't know." Cold, sick and weary, I huddled under my blankets. "But whatever it is, they're in it together. They brought down House Trevalion, and his men killed Delaunay and Alcuin. He bid for Ysandre's hand. I think he means to have the throne, one way or another. And if they're D'Aiglemort's men, you may be sure they're well-trained."
His face showed perplexity in the dim light. "I thought you were but a Servant of Naamah."
"Did you learn nothing of what we were about in Delaunay's house?" I asked bitterly. "Better if I was and had stayed in the Night Court, gone to Valerian to be a whipping-toy to ham-fisted tradesmen. Then Melisande Shahrizai would not have had me to use as her hunting dog, and flush out Delaunay's allies."
"Is that what happened?" He checked himself, shaking his head. "Phedre, you couldn't have known. Anafiel Delaunay should have, to use his bond-servants that way. It's not your fault."
"To blame or no," I said softly, "it doesn't matter. I was the cause. Delaunay is dead, and Alcuin too, who never harmed anyone in his life, and everyone else foolhardy enough to serve him. I caused it."
"Phedre . . ."
"It's getting darker." I interrupted him, holding my hand out. It was harder to see than before. "Mayhap they'll make camp, come nightfall. We've been going north, I think. It's colder than in the City."
"Camlach." He said it grimly.
"It may well be. They would be wary, inside the borders of L'Agnace; they ordered us to be silent, not still. They fear detection. If it's so, they might be less cautious in their own province."
"Delaunay taught you well," he murmured.
"Not well enough."
Worn out with fear and pain, I dozed for a time, waking only when the cart came to an abrupt halt. Utter darkness surrounded me. Then came the sound of men and chains rattling, and the rear gate of the cart opened. I squinted into blinding torchlight, flames streaking my vision.
"Come out," a harsh voice said from behind the swimming flames. "You first, girl; come out slowly."
Still clutching my blankets around me, I crawled out the back of the cart to stand blinking and squinting in the firelight, half-frozen and covered with straw. Rough hands took hold of me, guiding me toward a campfire. A helmeted soldier handed me a waterskin, and I drank greedily.
"All right, all right, easy, Cassiline." They were more cautious, allowing Joscelin to emerge, but he came docilely enough, his first concern for my safety. He was a Cassiline Brother and I was his charge; no matter what had befallen him, obeying that oath was foremost. I saw it in the relief in his face.
As my eyes adjusted to the firelight, I saw I had guessed near enough. There were some fifteen soldiers, in unmarked gear, but professionals all. One tended a stewpot over the fire, while others saw to the horses, and a full half-dozen surrounded Joscelin with drawn blades. Our encampment was in a rocky valley, mostly frozen turf with a dusting of snow, and wooded mountains rising all around. Searching the mountainsides, I saw no other fires flickering. We were alone here.
"Come on, Cassiline. That's right." From his tone of command, I took the soldier chivvying Joscelin along at sword-point to be their leader. "Here, give him a drink," he added, catching a waterskin that someone tossed him. "There you go."
Joscelin drank, but I could see the banked fury in his face. He handed the waterskin back to the leader. "In the name of the Prefect of the Cassiline Brotherhood," he said quietly, "I demand to know who you are, and why you have done this to us."
Laughter rose around the campfire.
"In the name of the Prefect of the Cassiline Brotherhood," the leader echoed him in mincing tones, then struck Joscelin a sharp blow to the head with one gauntleted fist. "In the borders of Camlach, the only order we obey is the order of steel, Cassiline!"
Joscelin's head snapped back at the blow, and his eyes glittered. "Then give me mine, and try its mettle!"
Encouraging shouts came from the soldiers, but their leader shook his head regretfully. "I'd like to, boy, for you're angry enough to try for my head, and it would be an entertaining challenge. But my orders are to keep you alive." He jerked his chin at me. "You, girl; you need to use the latrine?"
Unfortunately, I did. For anyone who has never had to relieve themselves in the watchful presence of an armed guard, I do not recommend it. Joscelin had an escort of six, but he is a man, and considerably more accustomed to such company.
Thus humiliated, I was ushered back to the campfire and issued a bowl of stew. I ate it and said nothing; silence is the first skill I learned. In the Night Court, silence is common wisdom for a child; in Delaunay's household, it was taught us for other reasons. Joscelin followed my lead and held his tongue, until the leader beckoned for a flask one of his soldiers carried.
"You're to drink some," he said, holding out the flask.
It gleamed in the firelight. I could guess what was in it; more of the drug we'd been given before. Joscelin looked up remotely beside me, and I could sense his body coiling.
"No," he said mildly, and exploded into action, lunging forward to deliver a sharp chop to the leader's throat. The man staggered backward, struggling for breath, and the flask fell with a faint chink to the ground.
The other soldiers moved belatedly to surround the whirling Cassiline as Joscelin fought with hands and feet, limbs moving in a blur of precisely executed movements.
He might have succeeded, against fewer men; six or eight, I would even believe. He'd taken them by surprise. But their leader got his wind back and his voice. Roaring, he waded into the fray, kicking a loose blade away from Joscelin's reaching grasp. "Ware your swords, you idiots! Don't let him get armed!" They surrounded him, pressing him hard, and then someone brought the pommel of a dagger down hard atop his head, and Joscelin sagged to his knees.
Cursing, one of the soldiers he'd injured stepped up and drew back his blade to run him through.
"Stop!" I hadn't even realized I was on my feet until I heard my own voice shout fiercely. The man stayed his hand; they were all staring at me. I had remembered the rest of it, and drew up the few ragged ounces of dignity I could summon. "If this man dies, you'll be accountable to Mel-isande Shahrizai for it," I said coldly. "Sooner or later, one way or another. Do you want to take that chance?"
The soldier considered it and glanced at his leader, who nodded. He sheathed his sword. At a word, the leader had the flask retrieved. "Hold him," he ordered, and two men wrenched Joscelin's arms behind his back, while two others held him. The leader uncorked the flask and grabbed Joscelin's chin, forcing the neck of the flask between his teeth and tipping it while another soldier pinched his nostrils shut.
Joscelin choked and sputtered, clear liquid spilling out the corners of his mouth, but a good deal of it went down his throat. It took effect quickly, and he pitched forward onto the ground.
"Tie his arms behind him," the leader ordered. "He'll give us less trouble." He came toward me, holding out the flask. "Lady, I hope you'll not give me the same."
"No, my lord." It was the first time I could recall using a formal address sarcastically. I took the flask from his hand and drank.
He took it back, eyeing me wryly. "You needn't take that tone, you know. I've treated you fair and kept my men off you, and it's the last kindness you're like to see, where you're going, lady. It's a strange way to keep someone alive, that's all I've to say."
That much I heard, and then darkness claimed me. I was vaguely aware of being lifted and slung back into the straw of the cart, feeling Joscelin's limp form near me and hearing the gate chained behind us.
Slipping down into unconsciousness, I heard again what I had remembered: Melisande's voice, at the end, tender and rich.
"Don't worry, my dear, I'd no more kill you than I'd destroy a priceless fresco or a vase," she had said, somewhere beyond my failing vision. "But you know too much, and I can't afford the risk of keeping you here. It may not be much, but believe me when I say I'm giving you the best chance I can to stay alive. I'll even leave you the Cassiline, and pray he does a better job protecting you than he's done so far." Her fingers, twining in my hair, cruel and sweet. "When it's over, if you live, I'll find you. That much, I promise, Phedre."
Elua help me, but then, even then, there was a part of me that hoped she would.
The Night Court taught me to serve, and Delaunay taught me to think; but from Melisande Shahrizai, I learned how to hate.
My memories of the remainder of our journey are blurred. Wishing to take no further risks, the Camaeline leader kept us confined to the cart and drugged, allowed full consciousness and freedom only long enough to eat, drink and relieve ourselves. I knew that the terrain grew harsher and we entered the mountains from the steep angle of the cart and the swearing of soldiers. I knew that we went further north from the cold that gripped me night and day, even in my drugged and bloodstained dreams.
But I didn't know where we were bound until they released us, stumbling and blinking in the bright light of day, on a snowy plain beyond the Camaeline Mountains.
Eight men, thewed like iron and clad in furs, sat arrayed in a semicircle atop tall, shaggy horses, watching us. One of them, whose yellow hair was bound with a bronze fillet and whose mustaches flowed luxuriantly, tossed the Camaeline leader a stained leather sack that clinked with coin and made a comment to him in a gutteral tongue. Joscelin's lips parted and he frowned, straining to understand.
I understood. It was Skaldic.
He had just paid the purchase-price for two D'Angeline slaves.
FORTY
From the speed with which the transaction occurred, I had no doubt that it was prearranged. The Camaeline leader handed the bag of coins to his second to count; at his affirmative nod, the leader cut the thongs that bound Joscelin's wrists and ordered one of his men to leave our baggage. He fetched a wrapped bundle, the hilt of Joscelin's sword protruding, and dumped it unceremoniously to the ground. At a word, they wheeled their party and struck out toward the mountain pass, the rearguard keeping a vigilant eye on the Skaldi, who watched them go impassively.