Kushiel's Chosen

flood into the Temple as the great entrance doors opened in the antechamber; I heard the muted roar of the gathered crowd in the Campo Grande outside. I heard it rise as the procession drew near and the Dogal Guard formed a double line, protest breaking against the wall of shields and spears. I saw the Priestess of the Crown take up her place before the altar, flanked by her chosen, while acolytes and attendants made ready to receive the royal retinue.
    I saw them enter the Temple.
    Ah, Elua! They were all there, all of them. Cesare Stregazza, still the Doge, and a frail woman at his side who must be his wife; Marco and Marie-Celeste, with Severio proud beside them. Others I knew by sight, knowledge garnered, it seemed, so long ago: Orso Latrigan and Lorenzo Pescaro, once contenders for the Dogal Seat, defeated by Marco's bid, and others, too, members of the Hundred Worthy Families and the Consiglio Maggiore, noblemen from the Six Sestieri, attired in garish splendor, embittered or sycophantic according to their natures.
    And there were D'Angelines. Oh yes, there were D'Angelines.
    It took me aback, to see Ysandre de la Courcel enter the Temple of Asherat; to see, after so long, all the glory and beauty of Terre d'Ange, my homeland, personified in my Queen. She wore a gown of pale lavender with a cloak of green, Elua's color, laced with gold brocade, and even from my poor view on the floor of the balcony, I could see the workmanship was exquisite. A simple circlet of gold sat atop her pale blonde hair and a gold mesh caul bound it, and her profile was breathtakingly pure.
    I had forgotten, somehow, that Ysandre was no older than me.
    Along with a handful of D'Angeline nobles and a file of men-at-arms, who took posts at the rear of the Temple, four Cassiline Brothers accompanied her to a place of honor to the right of the Doge and the Doge-elect on the dais. With their ashen-grey attire, hair bound in neat clubs at the napes of their necks, daggers at their waists and swords at their backs, they were nearly identical, all of an age, somewhere betwixt forty and fifty years, I guessed. Any one of the four might have been David de Rocaille ... or none.
    And then Prince Benedicte's party entered.
    I hadn't been sure, until then, if Melisande would dare it. I should have known that she would. She came in on the arm of Benedicte de la Courcel, tall and hale in the blue and silver of his House, his erect carriage belying his age. Her gown of deep-blue velvet matched his doublet, and her head was lowered modestly, the shining Veil of Asherat hiding her features; but behind, ah! Her hair hung loose and unbound, falling in gleaming blue-black waves to the small of her back.
    Melisande, I thought, laughing silently, tears in my eyes; oh, Melisande!
    When all was said and done, there was no one to match her.
    My heart beat quickly in my breast and my breath came hard and fast, making my mouth dry. Desire beat in me like a pulse, remembering her hands, her mouth, her scent. But I had been Naamah's Servant for a long time too, twice-dedicated, and I knew what it was to endure yearning as fierce as pain. A coterie of guardsmen surrounded them, clad in the livery of House Courcel. I marked their faces well, and saw many of the veterans of Troyes-le-Mont among them as they took their place amid the jostling throng of noble retinues at the back of the Temple. Benedicte and Melisande mounted the dais to the left of Marco and Marie-Celeste Stregazza, their strong allies and reunited in-laws.
    Last to enter was the double line of the Dogal Guard, securing the doors against an already-roaring crowd in the Campo Grande. I heard crisply shouted orders and injunctions as they did and guessed-rightly, as it happened-that at least one unit of the civic Serenissiman Guard was posted to ward the doors outside.
    Inside, it grew quiet, save for the rustle and murmur of several hundred bodies gathered in one place and the hiss of incense burning, the slight crackle of candle flame. From my hidden perch, I gazed down at the gathered tableau. A chair had been provided for Cesare Stregazza; I could see the peaked crimson cap atop his thinning white hair, the Dogal Seal flashing gold on his trembling hands where they rested on the arms of the chair.
    He had asked my aid in keeping it, the canny old manipulator. Of a surety, what he had intended was not what I had in mind; but it was the course that had offered itself to me, and I had no other