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of my marque etching my spine, thorny and intricate, accented with crimson droplets. It was limned by Master Robert Tielhard himself, before he died; it is a crime now, to duplicate it for any but an anguissette . The Marquists’ Guild voted it so.
    And I am the only one.
    I twined my hair behind my neck in a lover’s-haste knot and knelt on scrubbed flagstones before the whipping post. Without further breach of protocol, a masked priest lashed my wrists to the post, tying them tight with rawhide thongs. My arms were stretched, pulling at their sockets, and my breath came quick and hard.
    Then came the scourging.
    They are masters of the art, Kushiel’s priests-for an art it is, although ignorant people may believe otherwise. At the first stroke of iron-tipped lashes against my back, I cried out, jerking against my bonds. Pain, blessedly welcome, burst across my skin.
    “My lord Kushiel!” I gasped. “Forgive me, for I do not know your will!”
    The lashes of the flogger fell upon me again, too quickly for readiness; I discerned a man’s touch in it. Streaks of fire laced my vision and my breath burned in my lungs, forced out in an involuntary cry. The rough wood of the whipping post pressed against my cheek. Again he struck, and again. Agony blossomed in me with an unbearable pleasure. I heard my own voice whimpering, and a priest’s sibilant whisper above it, reminding me.
    “Make now your confession.”
    “My lord Kushiel.” Sunk on my knees, I craned back my head, seeing my own arms foreshortened and Kushiel’s serene, pitiless face far beyond, floating in a haze of red. “Ah!” The iron-tipped lashes curled about my ribcage, biting deep. “The path is too dark, my lord, and I am afraid!”
    No mercy. The flogger struck without pity, a whistling crack in the air, spattering wetness as it kissed my flesh. My head fell forward to hang upon my breast and I wept for shame.
    “My lord Kushiel,” I whispered, hearing my voice broken and small, clotted with tears. A shudder of release wracked my pain-stricken body as I uttered the fearful words. “I wish in my heart that I were no longer your Chosen.”
    There was a pause, the chastiser’s rhythm broken ... and then the air sung and the flogger came down hard, bursting against my lacerated skin in an explosion of pain. Once ... twice ... thrice, and it was ended, leaving me limp and gasping as I sagged in my bonds, feeling at peace.
    “Be free of it,” a voice murmured. I heard the sound of a dipper plunging, and then searing agony as saltwater was poured tenderly over my weals. Once more my body jerked and I flung back my head, seeing Kushiel’s unaltered countenance through tear-streaked eyes.
    It was done. I sank back onto my heels, lassitude infusing my limbs as the priests untied my wrists. With impersonal care, they helped me dress. The touch of my undergarments set off waves of pain.
    To my surprise, one of the priests dismissed the others with a wordless gesture. When they had gone, he reached up and drew back the hood of his robe, removing his bronze mask. A mortal face, strong and stern, framed with iron-grey hair, regarded me.
    “Phèdre nó Delaunay, Comtesse de Montrève.” Unmuffled by the mask, his voice was deep and resonant. “I am Michel Nevers, foremost among Kushiel’s priesthood in the City of Elua. I would speak with you.”
    “My lord priest.” I curtsied, swallowing against the discomfort. “As you please.”
    The chamber to which Michel Nevers escorted me was dimly luxuriant, lit with too few lamps and hung about with tapestries. There were bookshelves on the walls, laden with well-tended volumes, the bindings cracked and much repaired. I saw a copy of Sarea’s illustrated History of Namarre , that contains the story of Naamah’s daughter Mara, Kushiel’s handmaiden and, some say, the first-ever anguissette .
    “Drink.” The priest Michel poured me a glass of strong red wine. “It strengthens the blood. And you have need of strength.”
    Obedient, I sipped, and then drank deeper, tasting in the wine the bursting life of the grape, nourished by sun and rain, fed by dark earth enriched with death’s decay; the soil of Terre d’Ange, moistened by Blessed Elua’s own blood. Earth the womb that begot him, blood and tears the seed that quickened him. These things I tasted, and the violent death of the grape, the lusty joy of the commonfolk that crushed it, the vintner’s careful lore, time and the slow wisdom of