So don't assassinate the little bugger.
I bared my teeth in a smile, inclining my head. "My lord Duc."
By rights, he should have responded with the same courtier's bow with which I had greeted the Queen and Cruarch; instead, he lifted one hand in a lazy, languid gesture. "Hail, Prince Imriel."
If the gesture was meant to offend, it was somewhat undermined by what followed, for the other two present were Drustan and Ysandre's daughters, my young cousins.
"Imriel!" Heedless of the protocol of adults, Alais, the younger, launched herself at me with a shout of delight. "Welcome back! I missed you!"
I caught her, staggering a bit under her weight, and tried to fend off her kisses. Slight though she was, at ten years of age, her exuberance carred an impact. "Hello, Alais."
"Did you bring me a puppy?" she demanded. "You promised you would, from the spring's litter in Montrève."
"I forgot," I said honestly. "But I wasn't expecting to be here so soon."
"Oh." Her violet eyes, like unto the Queen's, darkened. It was her only resemblance to Ysandre. For the rest, she looked purely Cruithne, like her father. "Of course. I'm sorry, that was thoughtless."
"That's all right," I said. "I'll remember, next time."
"Well met, cousin." Sidonie, the elder, greeted me, extending her hand with a coolness that belied her twelve years of age. I bowed over it.
"Well met, Dauphine," I said politely to her. If there was any other way to deal with the Dauphine Sidonie, the Queen's Heir, I hadn't found it.
"Have we done here, Ysandre?" Duc Barquiel asked pointedly. "May we dispense with the children and proceed? There is a matter of state at hand."
The Queen leveled a look at him that would have quelled a less insolent soul. "And it is a matter of importance that House Courcel stands united in this time," she said. "You know my feelings on this, Uncle."
He grimaced. "All too well."
I didn't give Ysandre enough credit. There was treachery and betrayal and blood feud in her history, too. She had always stood above it and sought to break the cycle that continued it. That was why she wanted me found—to bring me into the fold of House Courcel, to acknowledge to the world that the innocent should not be persecuted for the sins of their parents. I should have respected that, and I did; still, it was hard to be grateful for a gift I would rather not need.
Ysandre beckoned to an attendant. "Please escort the princesses forth and seal the room."
"Oh, please!" Barquiel L'Envers gestured at me in disgust. "You don't mean to—"
"Barquiel." It was Drustan who spoke; one word, uttered in his soft Cruithne accent, but there was the full weight of the Cruarch's authority in it. The Duc subsided. The attendant escorted Alais and Sidonie from the room, closing the doors firmly behind them. Drustan took a deep breath. "Please, my friends, be seated."
We all sat.
Without preamble, Ysandre related the news. In truth, there wasn't much to tell. A little less than a week ago, she had received a letter from Lorenzo Pescaro, the Doge of La Serenissima. He had sent one of his swiftest couriers; there, it seemed, his sense of urgency ended. In the letter, the Doge wrote that he regretted to inform her majesty that he had received notice from the Priestess of the Crown that Melisande Shahrizai de la Courcel was no longer present in the Temple of Asherat.
I felt sick.
Joscelin uttered a violent oath. "That's all?"
"Nearly." Ysandre sighed. "He claims to have had the Priestesses of the Temple questioned. They disavowed all knowledge of Melisande's disappearance, and he was satisfied with their answers."
"A priestess may lie as well as a priest," I said, remembering Brother Selbert.
"I know." There was kindness in Ysandre's regard. I looked away, finding it hard to bear. "But Lorenzo Pescaro reckons it is a D'Angeline matter, and little concern of his. He will not challenge the Temple of Asherat over it."
"Well, someone aided her," Phèdre mused aloud. "It's her way. She wouldn't leave without a plan in place, not after fourteen years of biding her time." She glanced at Joscelin. "Do you remember Allegra Stregazza's warning?"
He muttered under his breath.
"What?" Barquiel L'Envers' voice cracked.
"There were rumors." Phèdre glanced at me. "She took the Veil of Asherat, claimed sanctuary, and made herself into a mystery. A legendary beauty, bereft of her child, condemned by her country—"
He stared incredulously at her. "A cult of worship?"
I felt sicker.
"Well, a very small one," Phèdre said. "She wouldn't cultivate it, that would skirt too close to blasphemy."
"No." The Duc shook his head. "Oh, no! Not even Melisande—"
"Oh, she would. It's a means to an end." Phèdre rose without thinking, pacing the room. She wore a familiar look, vivid and distracted. "Have you sent for Duc Faragon?"
"Yes. He's coming from Kusheth. He should arrive in a few days." Ysandre watched her. "Do you think the Shahrizai are involved?"
"No." Phèdre frowned. "On the balance, no. Melisande hasn't trusted them fully since Persia's betrayal. She didn't trust them with the knowledge of Imriel's whereabouts, and I doubt she would with this."
"Mayhap," Ysandre said. "I'd like you to be there when I discuss the matter with him."
"As you wish, my lady." Phèdre tilted her head, thinking. "I'll write to Allegra today; and Severio, too. Among the Stregazza, they're two I trust. If we leave immediately after speaking to Duc Faragon—" "No."
Joscelin's voice cut through hers like a blade, flat and implacable. Among the four of us in the room, only Phèdre, lost in thought, failed to startle at it. She blinked at him, uncomprehending. Barquiel L'Envers opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as Drustan shook his head in warning.
"No," Joscelin repeated, sounding weary this time. "No. We are not going to La Serenissima. We are not embarking on another search for Melisande Shahrizai. No."
"But I can find her," she said simply.
"I don't care." He held her gaze. "Isn't this why you extracted a promise from her? You claim to understand her. You thought it worthwhile. Do you have so little faith in your own claim? Will you once more risk everything we have?"
Everyone was silent.
Phèdre closed her eyes briefly, then opened them and looked at me. I clenched my hands into fists, afraid of what she would say. I didn't want her to go to La Serenissima. I didn't want her to chase after the damned spectre of my damned mother. But my heart was in my throat, choking me speechless.
"No," she whispered at last. "You're right."
I unclenched my hands and breathed a sigh.
"Well, and that was hardly my intention!" Ysandre's voice was acerbic in the aftermath of tension. "What I want is your counsel and your wits, Phèdre. Here, beside me, in Terre d'Ange, serving the interest of the nation. Do you understand?"
She inclined her head. "Your majesty."
"Oh, stop that!" Ysandre said irritably. Gathering herself, she turned to me. "Imriel, heed me. I have kept the news silent for some days, but I cannot for long. The members of Parliament must be notified. There may be… renewed suspicion."
Barquiel L'Envers raised his eyebrows.
"I understand," I said to the Queen, ignoring him.
"Good." Ysandre nodded. "I wish you to know, also, that we do not share this suspicion. The throne of Terre d'Ange stands behind you, privately and publicly."
To my annoyance, I felt tears sting my eyes. For the first time, I caught a glimpse of the courage and nobility in Ysandre that inspired such loyalty in those I loved. Once again, I had to look away. "Thank you, my lady."
"No thanks are needed," she said. "But there may be duties in the bargain. You are a Prince of the Blood and a member of House Courcel. There are those who should be reminded of this." The Queen of Terre d'Ange stood, and we all stood with her. "We will speak more of this anon," she said to me, and to Phèdre and Joscelin, "You will abide in the City of Elua?"
Joscelin gave his sweeping Cassiline bow, arms crossed.
"We will, my lady," Phèdre said.
With that, the Queen dismissed us. It was a quiet ride back to the townhouse. What Phèdre was thinking, I could not guess. Joscelin looked stoic. I reached over and squeezed his hand in silent thanks. He gave me a brief nod and the hint of a smile, and I felt better.
In the small courtyard at the front of the house, our outriders dismounted and the stable-keeper Benoit came to unhitch the carriage horses. It was crowded with all of us present and so much horseflesh milling around. Benoit squeezed past one of his charges as Phèdre made her way toward the door.
"My lady," he called. "A man came while you were gone and gave me somewhat for you."
Phèdre turned. "What man?"
Benoit shrugged. "He wouldn't say, so I didn't open the gate to him. He handed me this through the portal and said it was for you. Then he left." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a small parcel wrapped in oilskin and tied with twine. "Here."
"Ah, Blessed Elua," Joscelin muttered. "Not again."
"Should I not have taken it?" Benoit asked anxiously. "I didn't let him in."
"No, that's fine, you did right." Phèdre took the parcel and caught Ti-Philippe's eye. He nodded and beckoned to Gilot and the others. "Benoit, tell Philippe exactly what the man looked like. How tall, how old, the color of his hair, what he was wearing—everything you can remember. Did you see which way he went?"
"No." He sounded miserable. "Sorry, my lady."
"That's all right. Just tell Philippe everything you can remember." She glanced at Joscelin with a trace of defiancé. "We do have to look."
He crossed his arms. "You'll notify the Captain of the City Guard," he said to Ti-Philippe. "Not that I expect it will do much good."
"Yes." Ti-Philippe looked a trifle bemused. "Notify him of what, exactly?"
Joscelin eyed the parcel in Phèdre's hand as though it were a live adder. "I've no idea, but we're about to find out."
With careful fingers, Phèdre untied the knots that bound the parcel and unwrapped it. Inside the oilskin wrapping was a velvet pouch with a drawstring. She opened it and spilled the contents into the palm of her hand.
Gilot gave a low whistle.
It was a large diamond, strung on a length of black velvet cord, old and worn, fraying at the ends. Phèdre stared at it without speaking, her eyes wide and dark. There was a slip of parchment caught in the mouth of the pouch. She withdrew it, smoothed it flat, and read what was written on it.
"Is it signed?" Gilot asked.
"No," she murmured. "It didn't need to be."
"Well, what does it say?"
She looked up. "'I keep my promises."
Chapter Four
They found the messenger in a wineshop that day, deep in his cups, and learned that a stranger had paid him a gold ducat to deliver the parcel. All he could say was that the man wasn't D'Angeline. From there, although they searched the City, the trail went cold.
I learned the story from Gilot, who had it from Ti-Philippe. The diamond had been a patron-gift from my mother, long ago. Phèdre had worn it until the day she gave the testimony that condemned my mother to execution.
"In front of the Queen and the peers of the realm," Gilot related with relish. "She dropped it at your mother's feet and said, 'That is yours, my lady. I am not.' After so long, can you believe she kept it?"
"Yes," I said shortly. "I can."
I could, because Phèdre kept things for remembrance, too—painful things. There is a small carved dog of jade that was the Mahrkagir's gift to her. I was the one who brought it out of Daršanga, but she kept it, along with an ivory hairpin.
It is important to remember.
Phèdre told me as much the night of the slaughter there, in the small hours, before the Tiberian chirurgeon Drucilla died. Remember this, she said. Remember them all.
I thought about that in the days after the diamond was delivered, and wondered what it was that my mother remembered, and if she had learned anything by it.
The news of her disappearance was released quietly. There was no great outcry of shock and condemnation, for which I was grateful. She had been gone for a long time, and most people's memories are shortlived. Still, wherever I went in the City, there were whispers of renewed speculation.
On the fourth day, the Shahrizai arrived, and we were summoned back to court.
It was the first time I had encountered my mothers kin.
The meeting was held in the Queen's formal chambers. Duc Faragon had brought an impressive retinue, and there must have been a score of the Shahrizai among them. The stamp of my mother's House was unmistakeable.
Duc Faragon was venerable, his skin wrinkled like parchment, his hair a rippling silver. Still, he was solid and doughty, and his eyes were undimmed. The kindred who ranged behind him were younger. The women wore their black hair loose, while the men wore theirs in a myriad of small braids, falling like linked chains to frame their faces. All of them were clad in black velvet adorned with gold brocade, the colors of the House.