Kushiel's Chosen

to see him again; his quiet smile, dark eyes calm and steady in his blue-whorled face.
    "It is good," he said softly in Cruithne, a tongue we shared, "that we gather to celebrate your courage, Phèdre nó Delaunay."
    I thought of Ysandre's ride between the black shields of the Unforgiven, her upraised profile defying the troops of Percy de Somerville, and shook my head. "If I have seen aught of courage, my lord Cruarch, I have seen it in your lady wife, who is my liege and sovereign."
    Drustan's dark eyes crinkled with amusement. "Do not say it, or she will be vexed with you; it is her wish to give you your due." He turned to Joscelin, clasping his forearms. "My brother," he said simply. "If you were less skilled with blades, my heart would have died within me that day."
    "And the heart of Terre d'Ange with it," Joscelin murmured, returning his grip hard. "I am passing glad to be here today, my lord Cruarch."
    With that, Drustan turned to Ti-Philippe; I did not hear what he said, for I was caught up in a whirl of greetings, hands proffered, cheeks pressed close to give the kiss of greeting. There were people there I had not seen for nearly a year-indeed, faces I had last seen gloating over the falling-out I had staged with Ysandre and Drustan. Such is politics. While the fate of the realm hangs in the balance, these things continue. It seemed much longer than a year gone by. I saw the faces of those who knew-Lord Amaury Trente, Lady Vivienne, others who had been present on our terrible race across Caerdicca Unitas-and saw the same knowledge reflected in their eyes, how near a thing it had been. They had been there, in the Temple of Asherat-of-the-Sea, where Benedicte de la Courcel nearly gained the throne of Terre d'Ange.
    For the rest, it was merely a poet's tale.
    A ten-day siege laid to the City; how quickly and easily people forget! Ysandre's ride had done that, had rendered the whole of Melisande's vast and intricate scheme no more than a misunderstanding, one man's treasonous folly, a footnote in the annals of history. Now, seeing the ease and merriment of the D'Angeline nobles, I understood the true import of her actions.
    Not all had forgotten, for Barquiel L'Envers was there . Our eyes met in the crowded ballroom and he inclined his fair-cropped head, according me my due. We had gauged each other wrongly, he and I, and both of us knew it. If our methods were unorthodox, still, our ends had been the same.
    Nicola L'Envers y Aragon had tried to tell me as much, and I would not hear her; I had learned that much in the thetalos, the cost of my pride and the ghost of Delaunay's ancient enmity. Small wonder, thinking on it, that I half-thought I had conjured her image between us. But I was wrong, for Nicola was there, amused at my blinking startlement across the crowd; I could not help that my blood beat faster in my veins at it.
    I'd no time, though, to speak with Nicola or any number of other guests before the bell rang to summon us to the table. Ysandre and Drustan presided at either end. As her nearest kin and a ranking Duc, Barquiel L'Envers sat at the Queen's right hand and I was across from him at her left in the place of honor; it would have made me nervous, save that Joscelin was seated beside me and Ti-Philippe across from him, alit with unabashed merriment. It was an exceedingly fine repast and the liveried servants circulated with flawless efficiency, pouring wine like water. Course upon course was served; lark and pheasant in delicate pastries, smoked eel, a rack of lamb stuffed with currants and a crumbling white cheese, roasted bream, quivering jellies flavored with nutmeg and bay leaves ... I cannot remember what all we ate nor all we discussed, save that the conversation sparkled and the plates and goblets gleamed, and there is a glow on that night that endures in memory.
    When the last course had been served and the last dinner platter cleared, Ysandre de la Courcel clapped her hands. Servants came round again to fill our glasses of cordial and set out dishes filled with candied orange and lemon peel, arranged to resemble bunches of flowers with sugared violets at their centers. Partway down the table, Thelesis de Mornay rose and bowed, commanding our attention as she announced the entrance of Gilles Lamiz, her gifted apprentice-poet. We dipped our hands in the finger bowls of rosewater before applauding politely.
    I had seen the young man before in Thelesis' quarters; he assisted her in many