Kushiel's Chosen

Rinforte will know, they keep records of their own. 'Tis a grave thing, to desecrate the Royal Archives!" She scowled, and I'd not have liked to be held accountable for the crime. "Rinforte will know. Do you want me to send notice when it conies, young... Phèdre, was it?"
    "Yes, my lady," I murmured. "If you please."
    I wrote out my name and address for her Siovalese assistant, who held the bit of parchment on which I'd written like it was a precious thing, and grinned at me. "Don't worry," he said. "We'll find it."
    So I left them, the Royal Archivist muttering in a fury, and her smiling assistant.
    I had learned a great deal in the pursuit of knowledge that eluded me.

EIGHTEEN
    Gaspar Trevalion heeded my invitation shortly thereafter, paying a visit.
    A confederate of Delaunay's from the beginning, he was the closest thing to an uncle I had ever known. I received him warmly, and bid Gemma fetch out our finest wine to serve. After I had poured for him and we were seated, after he had suitably admired the bust of Delaunay that ever watched over my sitting room, I asked him the question that had been burning in my mind.
    Gaspar Trevalion, the Comte de Forcay, frowned into his wine. "Ysandre kept Solaine Belfours on because I interceded on her behalf, Phèdre."
    Sipping my wine, I nearly choked. "Why?"
    It is a vivid memory for me, kneeling forgotten in a corner at Solaine's country estate, while the Marquise paced the room with gleaming eyes, switching her riding crop, and deciding to accept the offer of the Lioness of Azzalle to commit high treason and put the imprimature of the Privy Seal on a forged letter to the Khalif of Khebbel-im-Akkad.
    "Because she begged me to." Gaspar met my eyes firmly. "Yes, I know. She was Lyonette's creature, and nearly acted treasonously on her behalf. But it never happened, Phèdre. You know it and I know it. Solaine knew it wouldn't when she asked Baudoin's escort as surety. Lyonette de Trevalion would never have risked her son thusly." He spread his hands. "Lyonette was her sponsor, and a powerful one. What could she do? She dared not risk a flat rejection. So she said, and I believe her."
    I stared at Delaunay's marble face and wondered what he would have thought.
    "Phèdre." Gaspar's voice was gentle. "She was less complicit than my own cousin in Lyonette's scheme. I convinced Ysandre to reinstate Marc as Duc de Trevalion in all but name, with his grandson's inheritance clear. I would have been remiss if I'd let Solaine bear the punishment House Trevalion evaded. She was fostered at Trevalion, do you understand?"
    "Yes." I did, though I didn't like it. The ties of noble fosterage were complex and binding, second only to marriage; and maybe not even that. The bonds of matrimony could be dissolved easier than the bonds of childhood debts and loyalties. "I understand."
    "Good." His expression cleared. "Now, why is it that you ask?"
    This, at least, I could answer honestly without throwing suspicion on the present. "She was one of my patrons, my lord. And Delaunay did not trust her, but bid me watch her carefully. He stood ready to intercept that letter to the Khalif, you know, had it been sent."
    "I know. And I stood with him. But it wasn't." His tone put an end to the matter, and we turned our conversation to more pleasant topics. I put a good face on it, talking lightly of affairs of the Palace. But I could not shake my deep unease, as I did not think it was conscience that had moved Solaine Belfours.
    I did not know if it was conscience that had moved Gaspar Trevalion.
    That night, I told Joscelin all that I had learned, and his face grew tight and drawn, the white lines forming. He paced the room like a caged tiger, splendid in his wounded anger. I sat quiet and watched him. Whatever I thought of the letter of Cassiline vows, I respected their nature. Joscelin, outcast and anathema, in violation of the vows of obedience and chastity, had never, in his darkest hours, violated the central precept of Cassiel: To protect and serve.
    When at last he sat down and buried his face in his hands in despair, I stroked his hair, the wheat-gold strands that fell loose and shining over his strong hands where they covered his face.
    "Don't," Joscelin muttered, shuddering hard. He lifted his face, taut with rage and anguish. "Phèdre, don't. I can't bear it."
    Neither could I, so I did the only thing I could, and left him alone.
    I was drowning, and no hand would reach out to clasp mine. I