Kushiel's Dart

realized, when they'd met at the Palace, that he quite despised her. I wondered if it was because she had mocked his vow of celibacy, or for somewhat else. "I protect and serve," he said savagely.
    Melisande arched her brows. "Oh, you protect well enough, but I'd ask better service, were you sworn to attend me, Cassiline."
    Delaunay coughed; I knew him well enough to know it hid a laugh. I don't think Joscelin did, but he was filled with enough ire at Melisande's teasing that it hardly mattered. Oddly enough, it cheered me to know that despite consorting with House Courcel and Cassiline Prefects, Delaunay's sense of humor was undiminished. I liked Joscelin a little better for keeping my secret and his brief moments of humanity, but he needed to unbend a bit further if he wanted to avoid making a fool of himself in Delaunay's service.
    Or of me, I thought glumly.
    "The Longest Night, then," said Delaunay aloud, collecting himself enough to divert attention from poor Joscelin and smooth the awkward moment. He grinned at Melisande. "You don't do anything by halves, do you?"
    "No." She smiled complacently back at him. "You know I don't, Anafiel."
    "Mmm." He sipped at a glass of cordial and eyed her thoughtfully. "What's your game with Quincel de Morhban?"
    Melisande laughed. "Oh, that... as to that, it's nothing more than
    Kusheline politics. The duchy of Morhban holds the Pointe d'Oeste, and reckons its sovereignty thusly, but the Shahrizai are the oldest House in Kusheth. Phedre's presence will remind him that we trace our line unbroken to Kushiel, no more. I may wish a favor some day; it is good to remind one's Due that there is merit in boons granted to ancient Houses."
    "No more than that?"
    "No more than that for the Due de Morhban." She toyed with her glass and smiled idly in my direction. "My other reasons are my own."
    Her smile went through me like a spear. I shuddered, and knew not why.

THIRTY-FOUR
    When poets sing of the winter upon whose threshold we stood, they call it the Bitterest Winter; indeed, so it was, and I pray never to know one more bitter. But as the days grew ever shorter, we knew naught of what was to come. Betimes I have heard people bewail the fact that our destinies are shrouded in mystery; I think, though, that it is a blessing of sorts. Surely if we knew what bitterness fate held in store, we would shrink back in fear and let the cup of life pass us by untasted.
    And mayhap there are those who would claim'twere best were it so, but I cannot believe it. I am D'Angeline to my core, and we are Elua's chosen, descendants of his seed, bom to the soil where his long wandering ended and he shed his blood for love of humankind. So I think, and betimes I believe it. I cannot do otherwise. Though I think they would have laid long odds on my chances in Night's Doorstep, I survived the Bitterest Winter, and I must believe, as survivors do, that there is reason in it. Were there not, the sorrow would be too much to bear. We are meant to taste of life, as Blessed Elua did, and drink the cup of it to the dregs, bitter and sweet alike.
    But these beliefs came later, and are the fruit of long thought. Then, life was sweet, spiced only with apprehension, and tempered only by the gall of petty jealousy.
    In the days before the Longest Night, my coming assignation was much on my mind, and I fretted over the preparations until Delaunay, exasperated, sent word to Melisande, who replied-by courier, for once-that she would see to all that was needful for my attendance at the Due de Morhban's Midwinter Masque. I remembered the cloth-of-gold gown she had sent for my assignation with Baudoin de Trevalion, and was comforted in part; in another part, I was no less uneasy in mind, for the fate of Prince Baudoin remained fresh in my memory.
    Delaunay, for his part, was amused by my worries, when he paid them heed, which was seldom. Whatever the game in which he was immersed, Melisande Shahrizai played no direct part in it by his reckoning, and there was naught he wished of my other patrons. The game, it seemed, had moved to another level, one to which I had no access.
    With snow in the mountain passes, there came the resumption of Skaldi raiding parties, and the Allies of Camlach began to ride once more under the Due d'Aiglemort's banner. This we heard, and in slow, creeping whispers the name Waldemar Selig surfaced in the salons of the City: a rumor still, nothing more, a name heard too oft to be ignored on the lips