Kushiel's Avatar

there was no intrigue, no plot, behind Imriel’s abduction, come to a terrible fruition.
    Branching paths, and each one lying in darkness.
    It is said the Mahrkagir searches for the perfect victim ...
    What was Kushiel’s Chosen if not that?
    Ah, no, I thought; Blessed Elua, no! It is too much to ask; too much!
    And even as I thought it, the emptiness was filled, a vast inrushing presence of joy and love and light, more light than I could bear. It swelled within me, lovely and unbearable. Filled with presence, I was vastened, conscious of an overarching pattern that encompassed all of life within it; all of love. Love, and all that it entailed; the complicated ties that bound us to one another, that begat life, loyalty, compassion, and sacrifice in its truest sense. I had not believed it possible, until then. I did not think it possible for a mortal being to contain such glory. What was it that filled me? Not Kushiel, no, nor Naamah, but Elua, Blessed Elua, the bright shadow whom they all followed, all of them, revealing at last the immensity of his plan, filling and surrounding me, golden and irresistible, filling my soul with radiant light, filling my mouth with the taste of honey, setting my heart to beating like a hummingbird’s wings, yes, yes, yes.
    No, I thought. Tears stung my eyes. No.
    It is too much.
    I drew in a breath and heard the air rasp in my lungs, and the presence eased, loosening its grip, beginning to fade like the dying strains of a beautiful song. Forgive me, I thought, desperately grateful, forgive me, Elua my lord, thank you for your compassion, for understanding, I swear to you, I will heed you in every action, I will pour incense upon your altar every day, I will say a thousand prayers in blessing ...
    The presence continued to fade, withdrawing in regret, all of it. Farewell , I heard, final and unarguable, farewell . And it was not only Elua, Blessed Elua, but the others, too-Kushiel, the bronze wings beating their last in my bloodstream; Naamah, her enigmatic smile fading.
    All of them, leaving me forever.
    And the dull grey emptiness waiting to take their place.
    “All right!” I clenched my hands, nails digging into my palms, not realizing I’d spoken aloud. “I will do it.”
    “Phèdre?”
    It was Joscelin’s voice, low and concerned. I blinked at him through my tears, unsteady in my chair at the massive inrushing presence that filled me, vastening and painful, but there. I was not abandoned, no, and I was myself. “Yes?” I whispered.
    “I thought ...” His beloved face was perplexed. “You were just staring, at nothing, and for a moment I thought ...” He shook his head. “I thought I saw the mark, Kushiel’s Dart, the scarlet mote in your eye ... it was disappearing, I swear it, shrinking before my eyes. I saw it dwindle to a pin-prick, and then ...” Joscelin touched my cheek, wondering. “Then it returned.”
    “Yes.” Giddiness and despair made my voice strange. “I suppose it did. Oh, Joscelin ... you’re not going to like this.” Before he could ask what, I turned to the Lugal. “My lord Sinaddan,” I asked him in Akkadian. “Would you perchance know anyone willing to guide us to Daršanga? Not as an embassy, but as merchants with human goods to sell?”
    Valère L’Envers had already begun to smile, anticipating her husband’s denial, when the Lugal of Khebbel-im-Akkad gave a thoughtful nod. “Yes, my lovely lady translator,” said Prince Sinaddan. “As it happens, I might, for the right amount of gold.”
    Somehow, I was not surprised.
    Thus ended our fête in Nineveh, with our entire company thrown into disarray.
    It was Lord Amaury Trente who spoke most bluntly to me, once he grasped my plan. “You understand that I cannot countenance it?” he said, pacing and frowning. “It is little short of madness, Phèdre. If I had an ounce more sense, I’d have you clapped in chains.”
    “I understand, my lord,” I said calmly to him.
    He shook his head. “You know that the Queen would never permit such a thing? Name of Elua, I’m not even sure that Shahrizai she-devil would ask it of you!”
    “I know, my lord,” I said. “It is not Melisande Shahrizai who asks it.”
    Lord Amaury sighed. “All right, then; listen to me, Phèdre nó Delaunay. I have agreed to pay the asking-price of Prince Sinaddan’s guide, who may I add, is a misbegotten Persian-born brigand who would sell his own mother for gold. He was one of the mountain-guides on