Kushiel's Chosen

shining in the bright sun, driven by men and women both.
    And in the lead rode Drustan on his black horse.
    He wore the trappings of the Cruarch of Alba; the scarlet cloak that spilled over his mount's hindquarters, the gold torque at his throat and a simple circlet of gold pinning his straight black hair. Intricate spirals of blue woad decorated his features, entwined his bare brown arms. Drustan mab Necthana was unquestionably Cruithne, whom scholars call Picti and name barbarians. I could not help but hear murmurs among the gathered nobility.
    But along the way, the D' Angeline people threw a flurry of spring petals and shouted themselves raw in adoration, because Drustan mab Necthana had brought an army of Cruithne to our aid when the civilized folk of Caerdicca Unitas wouldn't even muster a delegation to cross our borders. And he married Queen Ysandre de la Courcel, who loved him.
    We waited as the Alban procession made its way to the very foot of the gates, and the crowd fell silent. Ysandre stood tall and slender in the colors of House Courcel, backed by her Palace Guard. Astride his black horse, Drustan sat motionless, and the Albans lowered their banners as King and Queen gazed at one another, their eyes speaking silent volumes.
    Ysandre broke it first, opening her arms. "Welcome, my lord!" she cried, and her voice caught a little at it. A clarion blast of trumpets rose skyward and Drustan mab Necthana laughed like a boy, swinging down from his mount and taking Ysandre in his arms. We cheered as they kissed, cheered and cheered again, and I prayed that the tears in my eyes and lump in my throat were due more to joy than envy.
    In the days that followed, there was feasting and celebrating sufficient to delight even the most libertine of souls. No talk of Naamah's Service now; I was at Ysandre's bidding, and busy enough for two. There were far more translators now than before, but Drustan had brought two hundred Cruithne in his entourage, and my skills were sore needed.
    We had greeted each other, Drustan and I, and I was surprised to find how deeply glad I was to see him. Our eyes met in that familiar understanding; his dark and quiet in his tattooed face, like those of his sisters and his mother, who saw true things in their dreams. We both smiled a little, and then he took my hands and I gave him the kiss of greeting. There were murmurs at that, too, but Ysandre's calm mien silenced them. When he greeted Joscelin as a brother, I saw Joscelin smile for the first time in days.
    For all that, I had precious little time to speak to Drustan mab Necthana, and I fretted at it, longing, as I never thought I would, for the fearful days when he was a deposed heir unable to move his allies, and I the terrified emissary of an embattled Queen, wholly unsuited for my role. It is a time I never thought I would wish to revisit-and yet, it seemed to me in retrospect, I had friendship and companions about me, instead of pageantry, court politics and dire intrigue.
    I'd had Hyacinthe ... and Joscelin. One I had lost, and the other, I was losing.
    At night, I had nightmares still. I woke bathed in cold sweat and could not remember.
    At the Palace, I attended court functions and watched, while those I suspected-Barquiel L'Envers, Gaspar Trevalion, Percy and Ghislain de Somerville-surrounded Drustan, speaking to him sometimes as a companion of war, sometimes as the Cruarch of Alba, feeling him out for trade, attempting to discern the hierarchy of power that supported his rule and forge alliances therein. Drustan handled it with deceptive skill, masking a calm intellect behind his woad markings and less-than-fluent D'Angeline; and little passed between them that was not heard and noted by Ysandre. Still, they played the game, and all the while before the impassive faces of the Queen's Cassiline attendants. I watched them all, and never a flicker of interest crossed the features of the latter. It did not allay my fears.
    I tried to delve into the buried secrets of Lyonette de Trevalion, and got nowhere.
    It was Drustan himself who took notice of my condition, hearing me stumble over a simple translation for one of his trusted lieutenants, a high-ranking lord of the Cullach Gorrym. We were at a state dinner, and he drew me aside.
    "Phèdre." His voice was concerned. "You look unwell. I think maybe Ysandre asks too much of you."
    He spoke D'Angeline, though my Cruithne was better. My eyes welled at the simple kindness and I bit my