Kushiel's Dart

cunning
    And I unaware
    Until your heel caught my knee; I buckled,
    Falling,
    Vanquished; O sovereign adored,
    To be pierced ecstatic by the shaft of victory;
    Sweet the pain of losing,
    Sweeter this second struggle . . .
    O, dear my lord,
    Let this breast on which you have leant
    Serve now as your shield.
    Melisande had not lied about the book. If Delaunay had written these lines, surely he had written them for Rolande de la Courcel, who had died at the Battle of Three Princes. Rolande, whose word Delaunay had upheld, when he went back for Alcuin. Rolande, whose wife Delaunay had branded a murderess, whose father the King had ordered Delaunay's poetry anathematized.
    No wonder he hadn't dared banish him.
    A small sound caught my ear, and I spun about to see Alcuin standing stock-still and open-mouthed. Too late, I closed the book.
    "You shouldn't have done that," he said quietly.
    "I had to know." I closed the coffer and latched the lock. "It's what Delaunay taught us to do, after all," I added, returning his gaze defiantly. "Help me put it back."
    He hesitated, but the long bond of tutelage between us won out; Alcuin came over to give me a hand up, steadying me while I returned the coffer to its dusty resting-place. We replaced the other books and the tall chair, erasing the evidence of my trespass, then listened. All was quiet.
    "So." I folded my arms. "Delaunay was Prince Rolande's beloved. What of it? Rolande de la Courcel has been dead fifteen years and more; why does House Courcel still traffic with Delaunay, and award him couriers and Cassiline Brothers and the like? And why does he make peace with the Due L'Envers, who is brother to his equally dead enemy, the Princess Consort?"
    Alcuin's gaze looked past me. "I don't know."
    "I don't believe you."
    He looked straight at me, then. "Believe as you choose, Phedre. I made Delaunay a promise, too. Who told you? Melisande?" I didn't answer, and he frowned. "She had no business. Would that I could tell the difference between amusement and ambition in that woman. I'd sleep easier for it."
    "What I now know," I said, "half the peers of the realm knew already, and I think no one is anxious to kill for it. Isabel de la Courcel had her revenge, when she had his verses banned. Thelesis de Mornay told me Delaunay might have been the King's Poet, if matters hadn't fallen out differently. It's what he became instead that is dangerous to know."
    "And do you suppose Melisande Shahrizai isn't clever enough to send you fishing for it?" Alcuin raised his brows.
    I felt a chill at the thought, and kept my silence. Alcuin had said he would tell me what he knew when I made my marque; he had promised not to speak of it before then. The long-ago prophecy of Hyacinthe's mother echoed in my memory, and I was suddenly afraid to tell him what Melisande had given me. "Will you tell Delaunay?" I asked instead.
    He shook his head somberly. "It's your decision. I'll have no part of it, Phedre. If you're wise, you'll tell him. But I'll leave it to you."
    With that, he left me, feeling more alone than ever I had in Delaunay's service.
    In the end, I temporized.
    I told him everything, all that I could remember, except the part about Prince Rolande and the book. He made me go over the Duc de Morhban's Masque a dozen times over, at last giving up and turning his attention to the diamond-spangled cloth, turning it over in his hands and shaking his head.
    "What will you do?" he asked at last.
    I'd had a little time to give it thought, and clasped my hands together, gathering courage to voice it. "My lord," I said, keeping my voice steady. "In the Night Court, when an adept has made their marque, they may stay in the service of their House, and rise within its ranks until such time as they choose to retire. I don't... I don't wish to leave your household."
    Delaunay's smile was like the sun rising after the Longest Night. "You wish to stay?"
    "My lord." I swallowed against the lump of mingled fear and hope in my throat. "Do you permit it?"
    He laughed out loud, drew me into his arms and kissed me on both cheeks. "Do you jest? Phedre, you take enough risks to turn my hair grey with fright, but I'm the one who taught you to do it. Since you will take them whether I will it or no, I would sooner you do it under my roof, where I can safeguard you somewhat, than anywhere else in the realm." Delaunay stroked my hair. "I'd half-thought I might lose you to your Tsingano boy," he said, not entirely in