Kushiel's Chosen

lip against tears. "No, my lord," I said when I was sure my voice was steady. "I am troubled by ill dreams, is all. I've not been sleeping well."
    Drustan frowned slightiy, brows creasing where a line of blue dots bisected them. "Breidaia wanted to come, but I asked her to stay. Would that I had let her. She is skilled in the speaking of dreams."
    "I remember," I murmured. She was his eldest sister, who had dreamt of Hyacinthe on an island. Moiread had been the youngest, but she was gone now, slain in the fighting outside of Bryn Gorrydum. We both remembered, silent, and then I gave myself a little shake. "It doesn't matter, my lord. I don't remember them anyway."
    "You have no D'Angelines gifted in the matter of dreaming?"
    "No," I said automatically, then laughed. "There are, actually. It's not a quarter where I would think to seek aid, but yes."
    "Your dreaming self seeks to tell you something your waking ears will not hear." Drustan's tone was serious. "You should go to them."
    "I'll think on it," I said.
    I did think on it, and dismissed the idea; and woke again that night with my heart racing, cold sweat on my skin and my mind a perfect blank.
    Dispatching Ti-Philippe to the Palace to send word to Ysandre that I was ill, I went instead to Gentian House.
    Although I was raised in the Night Court, of the Thirteen Houses, Gentian was the one I knew the least. Mystics and visionaries number among her adepts, and many of them join the priesthood of Elua when their marques are made. Indeed, the priest who taught me as a child was a former Gentian adept. What her patrons sought, I never knew until then.
    Fortun looked askance at me as we stood before the entrance on Mont Nuit, bearing a subtle bronze relief with the insignia of the House; a gentian flower circumscribed by a full moon. "You are certain of this, my lady?" he asked doubtfully. I didn't blame him. 'Twas passing strange indeed, for one of the foremost courtesans of the realm to go seeking solace at the Night Court.
    "Yes." A hint of coolness in the spring breeze made me wrap my arms around myself and shiver. It had gotten worse, since the day Marmion was exiled; I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept through a night. "Drustan is right. I can't go on thusly."
    "As you wish." Fortun gave a bow, and knocked upon the door.
    Inside, I met alone with the Dowayne, a tall man with greying hair and leaf-green eyes. He had a trick of gazing at one out of the corner of his eyes, as if he saw more on the periphery of his vision than straightward.
    "Comtesse Phèdre no Delaunay de Móntrève." He gave my full name and title in a melodious voice, no trace of surprise in it. "Gentian House is honored by the presence of Naamah's esteemed Servant. How may we please you?"
    I told him about the nightmares, while he gazed at a sunbeam slanting across the open air. "Can you help?" I asked when I had done.
    "Yes." He looked remotely at me, face upturned to the slanting light. "Any adept of Gentian House is trained to aid a patron in giving voice to night's visions. What manner of adept would please you? I will have a selection arrayed for your pleasure."
    I blinked, startled; I hadn't thought that far. "It matters not. Naamah's Servants have no preferences," I added with a faint smile.
    "Every patron has a preference." Wrenching his attention from the sunbeam, the Dowayne looked me in the face without smiling. "Male or female, young or old, fair or dark."
    I shook my head. "My lord, I have known all these things, and none pleases me any better than the other. I am here for my dreams. Choose whom you think best."
    "Very well." Rising, the Dowayne went to the door and murmured something to an apprentice. The lad went running, and presently returned with a young man in tow.
    All the adepts of the Night Court are beautiful, and Raphael Murain nó Gentian was no exception. He was near to my own age, with straight ash-brown hair that fell shining almost to his waist and long-lashed grey eyes. He smiled at me with a sweetness that put me in mind of Alcuin, and I felt the sting of tears. That was another thing; with this lack of sleep, I was altogether too near to crying in my waking hours.
    "Does he please you?" the Dowayne asked, watching me carefully with his sidelong gaze.
    "Yes," I murmured. Raphael Murain bowed, shining hair falling forward over his shoulders, and took my hands, raising them to his lips to kiss them. I felt his breath play over my knuckles, a warm exhalation