Kushiel's Chosen

of pleasure at my acceptance.
    It is very effective, the training of the Night Court.
    The Dowayne told him of my nightmares and my wish to recover them and discern their meaning; Raphael listened as grave as a physician, and turned to me when he was finished. "It is needful that you pass the night in Gentian House, my lady," he said softly. "Such dreams will not come when bidden, but as the course of their nature dictates. I must needs sleep beside you, and breathe the air of your dreams. Is this acceptable to you?"
    "You will inform my man-at-arms?" I asked the Dowayne.
    He nodded. "He may reside in comfort in the retainers' quarters, or depart and return in the morning. The choice is yours."
    "Bid him return in the morning." I took a deep breath, and turned to Raphael Murain. "I place myself in your hands."
    Raphael bowed again, solemn as a priest.
    So it was that I signed the Dowayne's contract and made arrangements for the payment of the fee, and afterward, I was escorted to the baths. One does not hasten pleasure, in the Night Court. I luxuriated in the hot waters and the attentions of a skilled apprentice, while a pair of House musicians played softly on harp and flute. When I was done, I was given a robe of heavy silk to don, and served a light meal with wine. There was some whispered discussion outside the door, and then Raphael Murain came in to join me, and two apprentices appeared to dance for our pleasure, a boy and girl no older than fifteen, clad in veils of filmy gauze.
    "It is a part of their training," he told me in his soft voice, a glimmer of amusement in his grey eyes. "But they are nervous, I think, at performing for Phèdre no Delaunay."
    "Are you?" I asked, a little reckless. He shook his head and smiled. It made me like him better, for some reason.
    It was strange indeed, to be a patron of the Night Court, and I struggled to relax. I, who could surrender my will in an instant to a patron's desires, was hard put to accept indulgence. Raphael watched me and cocked his head, hair falling to one side, and beckoned to an apprentice to issue a request. In this place, his soft voice commanded. Taking my hand, he led me to his quarters, where silk hangings swathed the walls in dim colors and lamplight flickered on a rich, velveted pallet. A boy sat cross-legged in the corner playing a lyre, and a young female adept knelt abeyante beside the bed, warming a bowl of scented oil on a brazier.
    "My lady," Raphael whispered, undoing the sash of my robe with skilled, gentle hands and sliding it from my shoulders, kissing me softly. The robe pooled around my feet, and for a moment, his eyes gleamed. I could hear the adept draw in her breath. He loosed my hair, gathering it up in both hands, the rich, dark mass of it. "Naamah's blessing is upon her servants." Kissing me again-he had lips as soft as a woman's-he urged me gently to the pallet. "It is not yours only to give, but to receive."
    I lay down, obedient, and felt the young adept's hands spread warmed oil over my skin, fragrant and pleasing. I had not known, until then, how much tension my body held; even the bath had not assuaged it. Bit by bit, it eased beneath her skillful massage, muscles easing one by one, until I lay upon my belly, loose-limbed and languorous, watching Raphael move gracefully about the room. He opened a coffer on his nightstand and withdrew a lump of resin, placing it in a small brazier, and the sweet scent of opium filled the room, a thin line of blue smoke redolent with visions. The music slowed, the lyricist's fingers wandering dreamily.
    Growing light-headed, I sprawled at ease beneath the adept's slow-kneading hands; she bent low, when Raphael was not looking, to place a kiss at the base of my spine where my marque began, and I could feel her breath warm against my skin.
    When her hands bid me turn over, I made no protest. I lay languid and waiting, watching Raphael Murain remove his clothing as the adept-I never learned her name-performed the arousement, hands slick with oil sliding over my body; my breasts, nipples taut and upright, my hipbones and the flat hollow of my belly, clever, oiled fingers exploring the valley between my thighs, parting me as one would open the petals of a flower. All the while, he smiled at me, undressing slowly to reveal a body lithe and boyishly muscled, the tip of his erect phallus brushing his belly. When he turned, I saw the marque of Gentian House limned on his spine, complete even to its