Kushiel's Chosen

facing the Master of the Straits, crossing the Skaldi camp by night-have filled me with as much fear. I clung to Serena Buonard's grief as we journeyed by gondola along the Great Canal, to my faith in Fortun's analysis of the guardsmen's testimony, to the memory of a dream, of Percy de Somerville's smiling face and the cloying smell of apples. If I am wrong, I thought, Blessed Elua forgive me, but if I do not speak now, others may die.
    At the gates of the Little Court, I showed my letter, keeping my countenance serene. I had alerted men of the guard once; I would not do it twice. Let Benedicte handle it, once he knew. We were admitted forthwith, and ushered into an antechamber-and there we waited. Fortun fingered the leather casing that held our maps, if the proof of our investigation should be desired. Remy gave me a quick, nervous smile. I went over the words of my presentation in my head, over and over, and did my best to repress a desperate wish that Joscelin were at my side.
    If, if, if.
    "Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève," a steward announced, opening the doors onto the throne room.
    I rose, Remy and Fortun falling in behind me, and made my entrance. It was an elegantly proportioned room, not too ostentatious, but with all the touches of D'Angeline nicety. There were joint thrones, side-by-side, one slightly smaller; it would have been appropriate, for a D'Angeline noble wedding into the cream of Serenissiman peerage. Prince Benedicte sat his, the larger throne, with the upright carriage of one who had been a soldier. Quintilius Rousse had told me as much. He had the Courcel mien, his face lined with age, but noble still, once-dark hair gone iron-grey. I had seen his brother King Ganelon before he died; I'd have put Benedicte at younger than his sixty-odd years.
    "Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève," he said, greeting me in a rich voice. "Well met."
    His D'Angeline bride stood with her back to us, handing off their infant son to a nursemaid; a charming touch, I thought. She turned to take her seat on the lesser throne, and the silver netting of Asherat's Veil flashed, clear glass beads refracting the light.
    "Your Highnesses." I made a deep curtsy, and held it. Behind me, I heard my chevaliers bend their knees, I spoke without rising, glancing up under my lashes. "Your highness, Prince Benedicte, I have dire news to report. There is a treason within the very heart of Terre d'Ange, that has born seeds even within your own guard."
    "Yes," Benedicte said gravely, looking down at me. "I know."
    I had opened my mouth to continue; I had not expected his reply and was left on an indrawn breath. With one graceful gesture, his bride drew back the Veil of Asherat, baring her face to smile at me.
    What you seek you will find in the last place you look...
    "Hello, Phèdre," said Melisande.

FORTY-ONE
    1 stood as frozen and dumb as if the earth had dropped beneath my feet.
    And I understood, too late.
    I had been played from the very beginning.
    On his throne, Prince Benedicte shifted, nodding toward the back of the room. Only then did I hear the sound of the door being barred, the footsteps of guards and the sliding rasp of weapons drawn; only then did I hear the soft, shocked breathing of my chevaliers behind me.
    And on Melisande's beautiful face, a trace of pity.
    It broke my paralysis. I spun to face Remy and Fortun, one word bursting sharply from my lips: "Run!"
    If, if, if. If Joscelin had been with us, they might have done it, might have broken free. There were only ten guardsmen; L'Agnacites, members of the garrison of Troyes-le-Mont, their loyalty bought and paid for. He was a Cassiline, trained to fighting in close quarters, and seasoned in too many battles. They might have done it.
    Or Joscelin might have died with them. I will never know.
    They fought well, my chevaliers. What would have happened if they had gained the door, I cannot say. They might have escaped the Little Court alive. I like to think so. They had surprise on their side, and quick-thinking agility. But I had signed their death warrants when I brought them with me into the presence of Prince Benedicte's new bride, and I had seen it writ in her expression, his nod.
    I made myself watch it. I was responsible.
    My steady Fortun, who had learned my lessons all too well. He went straight for the door, using the strength of his broad shoulders to push his way through, wounded thrice over before he got close. Remy wrested a sword from one of