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God.
    “Yes, your majesty,” I said, gazing up at her and feeling unbidden tears prick my eyes. “I found what I sought.”
    Ysandre nodded slowly and looked about the throne-room, the Companions’ Star in one hand, the necklace of Queen Zanadakhete of Meroë in the other. No one spoke; even Barquiel L’Envers did not crack a smile. “In your missive, wherein you admitted your guilt, you cited the rainy season in Jebe-Barkal as a reason you chose not to delay and return Prince Imriel into the custody of Lord Amaury Trente. Is it not so?”
    “Yes, my lady,” I murmured. “It is so.”
    “Well and good.” Ysandre dropped the necklace into the coffer I held still in my outstretched hands, closing the lid and nodding to a bowing attendant to take it. “Since your guilt is admitted freely, this, then, is my sentence. For the duration of a season, this season you were unwilling to squander for my kinsman’s safe return, you and your household will abide in the City of Elua.”
    Hyacinthe .
    “Your majesty!” I gasped “You can’t -”
    “ Enough !” Ysandre’s eyes flashed. “How much indulgence will you beg of me, Phèdre nó Delaunay? You were quick to boast of the Master of the Straits’ friendship; is it such a slight thing that three more months will jeopardize it? You will abide in the City for the duration of winter, and do you set foot outside the walls, you will be charged with treason. Is that understood?”
    “Hyacinthe gave his life for you, my lady,” I said. “For you, and for Terre d’Ange, that Drustan mab Necthana might ride to your aid and your side.”
    “No.” Something softened in Ysandre’s face. “He gave it for you, Phèdre. And I am not unmindful of the sacrifice he usurped. Nonetheless, you knowingly defied my will, and your transgression carries a price. I regret that Hyacinthe son of Anasztaizia must bear the cost-but it is on your head, and not mine. Will you abide by my judgement?”
    I bowed my head, feeling the cold marble beneath my knees. It was bitter-and it was fair. “Yes,” I whispered. “I will abide.”

Ninety-Two
    WHEN POETS sing of the Bitterest Winter in Terre d’Ange, they mean the winter before the Skaldic invasion, when sickness ravaged the land, when Melisande Shahrizai and Isidore d’Aiglemort betrayed it, when Ganelon de la Courcel, the old King, died.
    For me, it was this one.
    It began with Ysandre’s dismissal, and the long walk back through the throne-room, through the Palace halls. I had been too quick to boast of my composure under the stares of my peers. These cut hard and deep, and the whispers had turned cruel.
    “Phèdre. Phèdre.”
    No wonder I had been unable to find Hyacinthe in my dream. The way back was longer than I had imagined, and there were more steps to retrace. For Imriel’s sake, I kept my shoulders squared and my head high, and blessed for the thousandth time the presence of Joscelin. The whispers ran off him like rain, and he met eyes contemptuous of his downfall with a cool disinterest. He had already lived through his own personal hell. There was nothing with which the peerage of Terre d’Ange could threaten him.
    I could have said no. Ysandre could have clapped me in chains; she would not have done so. I knew that as surely as I knew that Melisande would abide by her oath. If I had gone to Hyacinthe then and there, Ysandre would have allowed it. Afterward, I would have paid.
    And I could not blame her for it. I had defied her, behind her back and to her face, forcing her hand in a state forum. She was the Queen of Terre d’Ange. Such actions could not go unpunished, not without breeding repercussions that would plague her reign for years to come.
    In the eyes of the realm, the punishment was a light one. If I had refused to submit, if I had defied her once more, it would have been more grave. I might have been stripped of my rank and holdings. I would surely have lost the fosterage of Imri.
    It was bitter, and fair. I made my choice knowing it. I wondered if she knew that nothing would grieve me more than knowing Hyacinthe’s suffering endured unnecessarily, and I myself the cause of it. Mayhap she did; there is Kusheline blood in House L’Envers, and along with it comes the keen awareness of pain. Mayhap it was Kushiel’s will in the end, that I myself might know what it was to have an innocent suffer for my own transgressions, for even Kushiel’s Chosen is not immune from his justice.
    I do not