Kushiel's Chosen

Prefect's own words, years ago. It is killing you," I added softly. "And I cannot bear to watch it. If I could change what I am, I would. But I cannot."
    "Neither can I," he whispered. "I swore my vows to Cassiel, not the Prefect, and the one I've kept is the only one that matters in the end. Phèdre, if I could be as other D'Angelines, I would. Mayhap it is killing me to stay, but leave you?" He shook his head. "They laid down their swords. You ordered it, and they did. Not the Unforgiven, I know what they hold true. Kushiel's hand. They have their redemption to think of. But the Yeshuites ... they despise you, and yet, they obeyed."
    I had forgotten it, until then; forgotten the ringing in my head, the bronze edge of power that shaded my desperate words. I ran my hands blindly over my face. "I know," I murmured. "I remember."
    Until he took me into his arms, I did not realize my body was trembling. I laid my head on his chest, and the worst part of a long-pent fear and tension went out of me with a shudder, grounding itself in his warmth. Joscelin tightened his arms and stared over my head into the fire. "It scares me too, Phèdre," he said. "It scares me, too."
    I fell asleep curled in his arms, and knew no more that night, wrapped for once in Joscelin's protection and the sound of his steady breathing. Would that it were always so, though I think I knew better, even then, than to hope for as much.
    In the morning, Fortun shook us carefully awake and Joscelin disengaged himself from me, limbs stiffened by long inaction. I knelt in my blankets and dragged my fingers through my disheveled hair, watching him rise to commence his morning exercises, movements growing increasingly fluid as his muscles loosened and blood flowed, reinvigorating his limbs. His face was calm and expressionless.
    Whatever had passed between us, nothing had changed.
    We were four more days on the road, riding swiftly for Marsilikos, and I was heartened once we passed beyond the bounds of Camlach and into the province of Eisande. Elua forgive me, but I had too many bad memories that lay close to the Skaldic border, and the fealty of the Unforgiven had unnerved me. My chevaliers watched Joscelin and me as warily as they might the weather, but he was closed once more, cordial and distant. I daresay they held him in a greater degree of respect, having seen him do battle. Once we regained Eisheth's Way, we made our lodging in travellers' quarters, and I had a room to myself and a great empty bed.
    A funny thing, that; I have been a courtesan all my life, and yet, I never passed a night entire in another's company, not until I was a slave in Skaldia. My patrons are not the sort to desire their beds warmed after pleasure.
    Well, I have endured worse hardships than a cold bed, and I was not going to press the matter. Let Joscelin stand at the crossroads as long as need be, for while he stood, he stood at my side, and when all was said and done, for all the guilt I felt, I was grateful for it. One day, he must choose, and I was not so sure as I had been what path it would be.
    Nor where mine would lead without him.
    So we rode onward, and this time, when Ti-Philippe sniffed the air, 'twas no jest; we could smell it, all of us, the salt tang of the sea.
    We had reached Marsilikos.
    Of all the cities in Terre d'Ange, it is one of the oldest-a rich port from time out of mind, since the Hellenes began to conquer the sea. Tiberium held it, too, but since that mighty empire fell, it has belonged to us. It has a deep, protected harbor, and by tradition, the Royal Fleet anchors along the northern coast, warding off the threat of piracy. Ganelon de la Courcel ordered the fleet to the Straits after Lyonette de Trevalion's rebellion, fearing to trust to the loyalty of Azzalle. Ysandre, who restored peace in the province, had returned the Royal Fleet to its proper berth. Small wonder that my chevaliers were excited. For them, it was somewhat akin to returning home.
    Indeed, they knew the city well, and pointed out its marvels to me as we rode, skirting the bustling quai, where a fish-market to fair boggle the mind was held. There, the Theatre Grande, where players and musicians flocked every season of the year, and competitions were staged in Eisheth's honor. There, the ancient Hellene agora, where orators and Mendacants still held forth, and people gathered to listen. There, just off the shore, a tiny, barren island, sacred to Eisheth and dedicated to fishermen.