Kushiel's Dart

but a different gesture, one that Delaunay had taught me, the salute one makes to a foreign prince.
    He knew it, somehow. I saw it, saw it in his measuring gaze. He was handsome enough, for a Skaldi, was Waldemar Selig. Tall and hale, in his middle thirties, with eyes that thought in a strong-featured face. His hair was a tawny brown, bound with a gold fillet, his beard combed to two points, both twined with gold wire. He had a sensual mouth, for a warrior. For a Skaldi. But his eyes, they kept their own counsel.
    Joscelin swept his Cassiline bow, which served all purposes for him; it mattered naught. For the moment, it was me upon whom Waldemar Selig's thoughtful gaze rested. I saw his eyes shift to study my own, the left one. He saw the scarlet mote, and noted it.
    "You give me two more mouths to feed, Gunter Arnlaugson?" he asked lightly; laughter answered, and Gunter flushed. I understood it. He did not know what we betokened, but he had not mismeasured our value. He had simply not determined whether or not he wished to acknowledge it.
    But Gunter was no fool, nor a man to be taken lightly. "She is trained to please kings," he said, and paused. "My lord."
    Sovereign words, and ones I uttered so thoughtlessly. Gunter did not. He had said what the Skaldi had not yet voiced. He knew. He had said as much to Joscelin. It was something else, to say it before Skaldi, who had never had a sole ruler. I understood, then, the full import of his gift. He was acknowledging Waldemar Selig a King.
    Waldemar Selig shifted in his thronelike chair, still temporizing. He didn't need exotic furs to set him off; his movement shifted the flames in the great hearth behind him, casting light like shadow. "And the lad?"
    "A lord's son," Gunter said softly, "and an oath-sworn warrior-priest of the D'Angelines, bound to the girl. He will guard your life as his own, do you but keep her safe. Ask your thanes, if you do not believe."
    "Is it so?" Waldemar Selig asked the White Brethren, his thanes with the snowy wolf-pelts draped over their shoulders, wolf-masks over their own heads. They stirred and muttered. His gaze fell back to me, curious and wondering. "Is it so?"
    I do not think he expected an answer; Gunter had not told him I spoke their tongue. I curtsied to him again. "It is so, my lord," I said in clear Skaldi, once again ignoring the sound of surprise about me. "Joscelin Verreuil is a member of the Cassiline Brotherhood. Ganelon de la Courcel, who is King of Terre d'Ange, does not stir but two Cassilines attend him."
    It was a gamble, truly. But in his demeanor, in his very self-control, I saw a hunger for a more civilized society, to impose upon his people the structures that allowed for a glory not wholly won by iron and blood. Joscelin, following my lead, merely bowed again.
    "You speak our tongue," Waldemar Selig said softly, "and trained to serve kings. What does it mean?" Another man might have said it for effect; he meant it. His gaze probed my face. "I would send one such as you, if I wished to tempt my enemy to foolishness. How do you say, then, that you came to be a slave?"
    It was not a question I had anticipated, though I should have, knowing as much as I did of him. There is a time to dissemble, and a time to tell the truth. Looking at his eyes, I gauged it was the latter. "My lord," I said, "I knew too much."
    My whole history lay naked in those words, for one who knew to read it. If Waldemar Selig did not, still he recognized the language in which it was written. He nodded once, as much to himself as to me. "That may happen," he remarked, "if one is trained to serve kings." The great hall stirred at that; he had acknowledged Gunter's words, and my own, for truth. But no one disagreed. "And what of you?" he asked, then, switching his focus suddenly to Joscelin. "How do you come before me?"
    If I had had reason to doubt the Cassiline's quickness of wit-as opposed to his propensity for swift belligerence-I could only praise him now. Joscelin turned to me and spoke in D'Angeline. "Tell him that I am oath-sworn to guard your life," he said. "Tell him that it is a matter of honor."
    I turned back to Waldemar Selig, who held up one hand. "I ... speak a little ... of your tongue," he said haltingly in D'Angeline. "You must speak ... a little of mine, to hear this." He switched then to near-fluent Caerdicci. "Do you speak the scholar's tongue, D'Angeline? I understand what you say."
    Joscelin bowed, unable to keep his eyes