Kushiel's Chosen

harm."
    "You know this to be true?" Firelight washed his face, etching in shadow the severe Camaeline beauty of his features. Some of us live closer in the hand of those we serve than others; this Captain was one such. Whether he had broken faith or no, I could see the bright edge of Camael's sword hovering over him.
    "Yes." I said it firmly. What he was asking for, I could well guess; the stern truth of Kushiel's chosen, a terrible justice. I did not think it wise to tell him I was as much Naamah's Servant as Kushiel's, that the immortal hand that pricked my left eye with a crimson mote had led me not to pass sentence on the errant scions of Elua and his Companions, but to find luxuriant pleasure in enduring pain. But I thought of the Rebbe, and the depth of grief in his eyes, and I did not doubt the truth of my response. "Yes, my lord, I know it to be true."
    "Madness." He shook his head, then looked squarely at me. "We will allow them passage. My lady, what else do you ask of us?"
    Ah, Elua; such power, and so useless to me! If I could have put a name to an enemy who could be fought with cold steel, I would have. The ancient Hellenes claimed that the gods mocked their chosen victims. I never quite understood, until then, the double-edged curse of my gift. Melisande, I thought, would have relished the irony of it.
    There remained, though, that which I had come for. "My lord," I said, leaning forward. "I am in search of the garrison of Troyes-le-Mont, those guardsmen who were on duty the night that Melisande Shahrizai escaped. I am given to understand that some number of them requested service among the Unforgiven, pursuing the remnants of Selig's army. What can you tell me?"
    "Ghislain's lads." Tarren d'Eltoine surprised me with a fierce, bleak grin. "You're hunting traitors. I knew you would be about Kushiel's business, my lady. Yes, I've two under my command, and there are some few others, I think-three or four-scattered among the garrisons of Camlach. Would you speak with those here at Southfort?"
    "Yes, my lord Captain. Please." After so long, I nearly felt dizzy with relief at tracking down at least two of the missing guardsmen. Barquiel L'Envers, I thought, I owe you for this tip. Pray that I use it better than you used my information regarding Marmion Shahrizai.
    "They're loyal lads, to the bone, and I'm willing to swear as much, but mayhap they'll point your trail for you. I'll arrange for it first thing in the morning." The Captain stood and bowed. "Is there aught else?"
    "No," I said automatically, then, "Yes. Do you promise me that no one of your men will seek vengeance against Josceíin Verreuil for his actions?"
    "Do you jest?" His eyes gleamed; he did have a sense of humor after all. It was simply a uniquely Camaeline humor. "If I am not mistaken, they are badgering him even now to show how he managed to hold off half a dozen of the Black Shields."
    "Seven," I said, meeting his amused gaze. "It was seven, at least."
    Tarren d'Eltoine laughed. "He should have been born Camaeline."
    High praise, indeed. I mulled over in my mind whether or not to tell Josceíin.
    That night, I slept in the Captain's own quarters, listening to the wind out of Skaldia blow through the pines. It made me shiver in my marrow, and wish I were not alone beneath the fur-trimmed covers. I think, sometimes, I will never shake the cold of that Bitterest Winter. Though the lash-marks of my final assignation had faded, my shoulder ached; the old wound, where Waldemar Selig's blade had begun to carve my skin from my flesh. 'Twas but a memory, but even so, I felt it. I heard the sounds of a nightbound garrison, the call and response of guards, the occasional staccato beat of hooves, and saw light streaking against the darkness as a torch was handed off. I didn't guess what they were about, then. There was a watch set on the Yeshuite encampment, an uneasy truce.
    I had gone to speak with them, along with Josceíin, and explained the nature of the misunderstanding. They were holding funeral rites for the slain, and though I spoke in their own tongue, most would not even look my way.
    At length, one of the men came to address me, a barely contained rage in his face. I knew this man. He was the one who would have slain the kneeling guard "Yes, we hear what you say, D'Angeline," he said, making a term of contempt of it, not deigning to address me in Habiru. "Do you not see that we sit in grief for the dead?"
    "You could have told them!" I