Kushiel's Dart

Naamah's patrons, garbed in exquisite finery, awaited in breathless anticipation. Now I was a condemned murderess and an escaped Skaldi slave, awaiting the judgment of the heir-apparent of the realm, the very gown on my back there only by courtesy of the scapegrace of Night's Doorstep.
    Only the scarlet mote in my eye and the unfinished marque that twined my spine gave tongue to what I was; Delaunay's anguissette the only such born in three generations.
    We told our story, Joscelin and I, to Thelesis de Mornay in her carriage. Not the whole of it nor the details of our escape, but the gist of what mattered to the throne of Terre d'Ange. She listened intently, turning aside now and then to cough.
    She believed; of that, I had no doubt. But would Ysandre de la Cour-cel? I had not met her, and could not guess.
    The carriage drew round to a seldom-used entrance to the Palace, where we were met by guards in House Courcel livery, midnight-blue with the silver insignia. Delaunay's lessons were not lost on me; I looked closely, and observed somewhat. Each of them bore on the small finger of his left hand a silver ring.
    "The Dauphine's personal guard," Thelesis said, stifling a cough. She'd seen me looking. "They may be trusted."
    The Courcel guards checked us for weapons. Joscelin handed them the bundle of his Cassiline arms with a curt bow, and Hyacinthe gave them the dagger at his belt, sliding another out of his boot and gave it over with a shrug. I bore no weapons, but I had Trygve's dagger in a sack with the other Skaldic items, and protested its removal, for those were our only proofs.
    "I will take custody of these things," Thelesis said firmly, and the guards did not demur, nor did they search her. She was the King's Poet and the Dauphine's confidante, and above suspicion.
    Thus were we issued into the presence of Ysandre de la Courcel.
    I had seen her at a distance, from hiding, and at the trial of House Trevalion; still, I knew not what to expect. It was a formal audience room to which we were conducted, albeit a small one. I learned later that we were in the King's quarters, and not the Dauphine's. I learned why, too. But for now, my worst fear was allayed; no other D'Angeline nobles were present. We would be heard, at least, and not seized upon entry.
    Ysandre de la Courcel sat on a high-backed chair, flanked by a half-dozen guards in royal Courcel livery, all bearing the silver ring. Her face was cool and impassive, with all the pale beauty of her L'Envers mother's line. Only her long, slender neck bore the stamp of House Courcel, who took the swan as their emblem.
    "Your highness." Thelesis made a deep curtsy. "From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for granting this audience."
    "We appreciate your service to our House, King's Poet. Who do you bring before us?" Ysandre's voice was as I remembered it, light and controlled. She knew. The question was a formality.
    "Phedre no Delaunay. Joscelin Verreuil of the Cassiline Brotherhood. And . . ." Thelesis de Mornay hesitated at Hyacinthe, not sure how to name him. He stepped forward and bowed.
    "Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia, of Manoj's kumpania ."
    A Tsingani designation; I'd never heard him use it before. I'd never known his mother's name. But I'd no time to sorrow, for Ysandre de la Courcel's gaze was fixed on me, deep violet eyes burning like embers in her pale face. If we were guilty, mine was the gravest betrayal in her mind, that was clear.
    "You," she said. "You, to whom Anafiel Delaunay gave his name, stand convicted of killing him, who was oath-sworn to ward me with his life. How do you plead to that, anguissette ?"
    It gripped me like a wave, a nameless emotion, rising from the souls of my feet to lift the very hair on my head. I had lost nearly all that I loved, had been through torture and slavery and the brutal killing cold of Skaldi winter to meet this accusation. I held her gaze and gave it back, a wash of red filming my vision, the words I'd been entrusted with so long ago coming to my tongue. "In the name of the King's cygnet, his only born, I bring you a message, your highness. When the Black Boar rules in Alba, Elder Brother will accede!"
    The words rang in the small room, oddly resonant. The Courcel guard shifted, and a curious expression crossed Ysandre's face. "Yes," she said. "I know. Quintilius Rousse sent another messenger. Is that all you have to say?"
    "No." I drew a deep breath. "But it is the message I was charged to bring, many weeks