Kushiel's Chosen

in it. Melisande's face swam in memory behind my closed lids, sublimely amused. True scion of Kushiel's line, she would have understood it as no other.
    "Remy found a carriage." Joscelin changed the subject. "I sent him to Emile, from Hyacinthe's old crew. He still has the stable in Night's Doorstep."
    "How much did he spend?"
    He shrugged. "He got it for a song, he said, but it's in dreadful shape. They think they can repair it. Fortun's grandfather was a wheelwright."
    I ran my hands through my hair, disheveling the mass of sable curls. I didn't care for this penny-counting, necessary though it was. My father had been a spendthrift, which was how I came to be bond-sold to Cereus House as a child; it made me wary of debt. Still, I didn't have to like it. Joscelin watched me out of the corner of his eye. "How long, do they think? I should send word to Ysandre."
    "Three days, mayhap. Less if they've naught else to do." He made an abrupt movement, gathering the tea tray. "It's late. I will see you in the morning, my lady."
    There were barbs on the words, his formal address. I endured them in silence and watched him go, leaving me alone with the remorseless pleasure of my pain.
    It took only two days to restore the carriage to a presentable shape, sufficient to arrive at the Palace in a style befitting the Comtesse de Montrève. I sent word to Ysandre, and had a reply by royal courier that afternoon, granting an audience on the morrow. He stood waiting while I read it, elegant in blue Courcel livery, and bowed graciously when I told him to tell the Queen I would be honored to attend. There was a trace of curiosity in his eyes, but he didn't let it show in his manner.
    That there were stories about me, I knew full well. Thelesis de Mornay had included my tale in earliest drafts of the Ysandrine Cycle, the epic poem documenting Ysandre's tumultuous ascension to the throne in the midst of war. There were other stories, too, passed about by word of mouth. Most of my patrons were discreet, but not all.
    So be it. There is no shame in being a Servant of Naamah, nor an anguissette. We are D'Angeline, and we revere such things. Other nations reckon us soft for it; the Skaldi found otherwise. But too, it is as I have said-our blood has grown thick with mortality, and one such as I, marked by a celestial hand, was a rarity.
    It is not a thing, I may say, in which I take pride; I grew up in Cereus House, where the crimson mote in my eye marked me not as Kushiel's chosen, but merely as one flawed beyond the canons of the Night Court. It was Delaunay who changed that, and named me for what I was. And in truth, I have no special gift beyond the transmutation of pain, which has been as much curse as boon to me. If I am skilled at language and logic, it is because I was well taught; Alcuin, who was a student with me, was better. It is only a quirk of fate that left me alive to exercise them, while he and Delaunay perished. Not a day passes but that I remember it. I would give up all that I have gained to change that past. Since I cannot, I do the best I can, and pray it does honor to their memories.
    It was strange to have the Queen's Guard bow at the Palace gates, to be met by liveried servants and enter the halls with an entire entourage in tow. If Joscelin was grave, Phèdre's Boys were on their best behavior, trying hard to look dignified. I didn't worry about Fortun, sober by nature, but Remy and Ti-Philippe had a talent for mischief.
    Ysandre received us in the Hall of Games, a vast, colonnaded salon where the Palace nobles liked to gather for gaming and conversation. I spotted her with two of her ladies-in-waiting, pausing to observe an intense game of rhythmomachy. Her own Cassiline guard, two Brothers clad in ashen-grey, stood a discreet distance away. Not young, either of them, but their straight backs defied age. Few of the Great Houses follow the old traditions any more, sending their middle sons to serve Cassiel.
    "The Comtesse Phèdre no Delaunay de Montrève!" our escort announced loudly.
    Heads turned, a few murmurs sounded. Ysandre de la Courcel came toward me with a smile. "Phèdre," she said, grasping my hands and giving me the kiss of greeting. There was genuine pleasure lighting her violet eyes when she drew back. "Truly, I am happy to see you."
    "Your majesty." I curtsied. Ysandre looked much the same; a little older, worn by the cares of the throne, but with the same fair beauty. We were nearly of an age, she and