Kushiel's Chosen

breast.
    How strange, how compelling a pain; to cause injury to a loved one.
    One thing else I did, when driven to it: I ran away.
    Properly speaking, I rebelled. I used to do it at Cereus House, and I did it at Delaunay's. Although I will say, if I may, that there was more in it than simple rebellion. It was a game, with my lord Delaunay; if I succeeded at it, there would be no repercussions.
    I was no child, now, to run to Night's Doorstep and the comfort of Hyacinthe's antics. Still, it was a comfort to slip unnoticed from under the eyes of my well-meaning guards, go to the stable and convince the simple lad, Benoit, to saddle a horse for me. I led the gelding cautiously into the street, where Benoit considerately latched the gate behind me.
    Once astride, I was free.
    I rode away from the Palace, exhilaration singing in my veins, hard put to remember the last time I was well and truly on my own. It is an oddity, how having retainers binds one. Without their concerns to think of, I had only my own. I made my way to the river, and followed it to the market square, where criers hawked their wares.
    It was the doves that put it in my head, dozens upon dozens of them, caged offerings huddled against the cold. Choosing the smallest out of pity, I paid for a gilt cage.
    "My lady has an eye," the vendor said obsequiously, transferring the bird. "This one, he is small, but he has a will to survive."
    "Elua hear you, and grant it is so." I smiled, leaning down from my mount to take the cage in hand. The gelding snorted and tossed his head. "This one is for Naamah."
    The vendor performed an elaborate bow, smiling at me sidelong. My dove rattled his wings against the gilded bars and the gelding shied, shod hooves ringing on the cobblestones; people cheered as I kept my seat. I was a dreadful rider, once. That was before I fled Waldemar Selig's steading on pony-back, through the direst winter. I have spent a good bit of time astride, since then. Strange, to look back and see how skill was acquired; at the time, I only thought to stay alive.
    With my head up despite the snapping cold, I rode through the streets to the Temple of Naamah. If people called out and saluted me along the way, it was not because I was the Comtesse de Montrève or Phèdre no Delaunay-they could not see, from the street, my tell-tale gaze-but only because I was young, and beautiful, and I rode without care, bearing a dove for Naamah.
    The Great Temple of Naamah in the City is a small structure,-but lovely with gardens; even now, with winter's breath in the air, it held warmth and bloomed. I gave my mount over to a stable-lass who met me with lowered eyes, and walked alone to the temple, carrying the birdcage. An acolyte met me at the door.
    "Be welcome," he said, bending in his scarlet surplice to give me the kiss of greeting. His lips were soft, and I knew, in a way, I was home. He looked at me out of eyes the color of rain-washed lupine, eyes that studied my own. "Be welcome, anguissette, and give honor to Naamah."
    I took his arm in one hand, carrying the gilded cage within my other, and entered the Temple of Naamah. Up the long corridor we walked, to the vast statue that awaited us at the end: Naamah, her arms spread wide in greeting and embrace. There, beneath the oculus, we awaited the priest.
    Priestess, it was; I knew her when she emerged, attended by acolytes. Long hair the color of apricots, and green eyes tilted like a cat's; she had been an acolyte herself, when I was dedicated. The priest who had dedicated me had died of the fever during the Bitterest Winter, as so many had done. "Well met, sister," she said in a murmurous voice that nonetheless carried to every corner of the temple, and kissed me in greeting. I gripped her elbow with my free hand, steadying myself; it had been a long time, and the presence of Naamah's Servants was a heady thing. "You wish to rededicate yourself?"
    "Yes," I whispered, holding aloft the gilded cage. "Can you tell me if it is Naamah's wish that I do so?"
    "Ah." The priestess fingered the collar of her scarlet robe and turned to gaze up at Naamah's face, welcoming and benign above us. "In the City alone, there are many hundreds of Naamah's Servants," she said softly. "Three hundred at least in the Thirteen Houses of the Night Court, and for every one who serves at that level, there are others who aspire to lesser heights. In Namarre, they number in the thousands. No village throughout the land, I daresay, but