Kushiel's Chosen

its sheath as he drew it. "David de Rocaille," he said softly. "Turn and face me."
    The remaining Cassiline backed slowly away, covering Ysandre's retreat. In the stillness, David de Rocaille turned to meet Joscelin Verreuil.
    Outside the practice fields of the sanctuary, where they are raised and trained under the eye of the Prefect, no one living has ever seen two Cassiline-trained warriors do battle. It is a spectacle capable of bringing an entire riot to a standstill-and that, in fact, is exactly what it did. D'Angelines, Serenissimans, mercenaries ... all of them, quarrels laid by as they watched in awe, stepping back to give the combatants room.
    I gripped the balcony railing so hard my fingers ached, and watched it happen.
    It is to this day one of the deadliest and most beautiful things I have ever witnessed. Their blades flickered and clashed in patterns too complex for the eye to follow, while they moved through form after form, those movements drilled into them from boyhood onward. On his side, Joscelin had the vigor of youth; but D'Angelines are not quick to age. De Rocaille was a man in his prime, his strength not yet faded, fighting with nothing to lose.
    "Anathema!" he hissed as their blades locked. "You betrayed the Brotherhood for one of Naamah's pets!"
    "I honor my vow to Cassiel," Joscelin said grimly. "How will you answer for yours, oath-breaker?"
    David de Rocaille answered him with a clever twist, slipping his blade loose and stepping back to aim a great blow at Joscelin's head; Joscelin ducked and spun, de Rocaille's blade passing harmlessly above his half-shorn hair, striking on the rise at his opponent's midsection. The other parried ably and they fought onward, whirling and dodging. It was an odd-looking match, David de Rocaille the model of austerity and competence in his grey Cassiline garb and Joscelin in rough-spun attire, his tangled locks still streaked with walnut dye.
    In that disparity, however, lay the other difference between them. For all that de Rocaille had twenty years on him, the bitter wisdom of experience was Joscelin's. David de Rocaille had spent his life waiting attendance on the regents of Terre d'Ange.
    He had never drawn his sword to kill.
    Joscelin had.
    I'd been with him when he fought Waldemar Selig's thanes, alone and unaided in a raging Skaldic blizzard, one of his greatest battles still, and one unheralded by poets. I had been there when he fought the Tarbh Cró in Alba, defending with blood and slaughter myself and the family of Drustan mab Necthana, who hailed him as brother for it. And I had been there on La Dolorosa, when he assailed it with bared daggers alone, fighting to win my freedom.
    He knew what it was to fight for love's sake.
    Slowly, ever so slowly, the tide began to turn against David de Rocaille. He who had nothing to lose had nothing to gain, either, save death. Still the bright blades flashed, wielded in dueling two-handed Cassiline grips, subtle angles and interplay half-lost on the watchers; still they maneuvered around each other in a series of intricate steps and turns too numerous to count. But David de Rocaille had begun to despair, and it showed in his face.
    It was hard, Elua knows, harder than many things I have done, to turn away from that fight and gaze out over the Temple. Several hundred people with less invested in that battle could not do it.
    I knew who could.
    With their strength united under Cesare Stregazza's command, the Serenissiman contingent had surrounded Benedicte's retinue. Most of those had surrendered by now, vastly outnumbered, and I saw a gathered knot around Prince Benedicte himself, fallen and bleeding from many wounds, his chest rising and falling slowly as he labored for breath. I saw the mercenaries who had attacked Ysandre's party slinking backward along the Temple walls, making for the exit. I heard the shouts and curses of the Serenissiman Guard outside the doors, now trying in earnest to keep out the pressing citizenry and tradesfolk. I heard a rising murmur from the Temple and had to look back.
    On the floor, David de Rocaille mounted a furious defense, regaining ground, transforming his despair into wild energy, going on the attack; he was smiling, now, with clenched teeth, the way a man will smile facing his death. Step by step, he forced Joscelin backward....
    This, I saw, and all of La Serenissima watching it. It hurt to look away again, but I did.
    And I saw Melisande Shahrizai in her blue gown and