Kushiel's Dart

searing my skin. Pain, and pain alone, pure and red, flooded me, washing away my guilt.
    Before me, Kushiel's stern face swam in the blood-haze of my vision; behind me, the same face was echoed in the bronze mask of the priest wielding the flogger, with a cruel and impersonal love. My back was ablaze with agony, awful and welcome. I do not know how long it lasted. An eternity, it seemed, and yet not long enough. When the priest stopped, the leather straps of the flogger were wet with my own red blood, and drops of it spattered the altar.
    "Be free of it," he murmured, voice muffled behind the mask. Taking up a dipper, he plunged it into a font of saltwater, pouring it over my flayed skin. I cried out as the pain multiplied five-fold, salting my open weals; cried out and shuddered, the temple reeling in my vision.
    Thus did I make my atonement.
    When I returned to the safekeeping of the Palace, I was calm with it, empty of the terrible sickness that had eaten at my heart for many days, suffused with the simple languor of childhood after the Dowayne's chastiser had done with me. Joscelin glanced at my face once, then looked away. At that moment, I did not care. I was content.
    "News," Hyacinthe informed me; it wasn't news that would wait. "The Dauphine . . . the Queen, I mean, has given out that she's retiring to one of the Courcel estates to mourn for a fortnight. She's summoning a council of the peers she dares to trust. And we're to attend it."
    We went.
    The numbers, I sorrow to say, invited to attend that council were pathetically small. If it were a simple matter of state, I daresay Ysandre would have trusted others, but the matter of d'Aiglemort's betrayal was too grave. Thelesis was there, simply because the Queen trusted her. Gas-par Trevalion, whom Delaunay had trusted. Percy de Somerville, who looked older than I remembered, and less hardy. Barquiel L'Envers, whom would not have trusted, were the choice mine. There were two only whom I did not know by sight, for they came seldom to the Palace, though I had heard Delaunay speak of both with respect; the Duchese Roxanne de Mereliot of Eisande, who is called the Lady of Marsilikos, and Tibault of Siovale, the scholarly Comte de Toluard. Were it not for Ganelon's funeral and Ysandre's coronation, they would not likely have been summoned so quickly.
    Also present was the Prefect of the Cassiline Brotherhood, tall and severe, with a face that looked carved of ancient ivory and eyes like a stooping hawk's. Bound in a tight club, his hair was entirely white, with the yellow tinge that age sometimes brings, but his carriage was as erect as a young man's.
    The estate that Ysandre de la Courcel had chosen was one of the King's hunting lodges in L'Agnace. It was well done, I thought, for it was gracious and secluded, with a discreet staff that was removed from the arena of politics. Also it was not far from de Somerville's estate, and his long history of loyalty to the throne was beyond reproach.
    L'Agnace, in the person of de Somerville; Azzalle, in the person of Trevalion, and de Somerville's son Ghislain by proxy; Namarre, represented by L'Envers, and Eisande and Siovale. Kusheth, I thought, was not represented. Nor was Camlach. There was no one Ysandre had dared trust.
    These tallies I made later, when the council had begun, for they assembled first, waiting on the Queen's arrival. She had chosen one of the larger rooms, comfortable and well-appointed, but informal; there were chairs and couches both, that guests might situate themselves as they chose. Light refreshments were served and the wine poured, and then the servants withdrew.
    I was there when Ysandre de la Courcel entered, for she kept the three of us in attendance, not wanting word to leak in advance of her arrival. She bid her Cassiline guards-for she had inherited those who served the King-to await her outside, then stood before the doors and gathered herself, schooling her features to calm. No older than I am, I thought, and pitied her.
    But she was the Queen.
    Ysandre entered the room, the unlikely three of us in tow, and the Queen's Council was met.
    It was strange, standing behind her, to see these seven peers come instantly to attention, offering deep bows and curtsies.
    "Rise, gentles," Ysandre said. "We will not stand on ceremony here. You may find it difficult indeed, when I have told you why I've asked you here."
    "Phedre!" Caspar Trevalion's voice rang out with unadulterated surprise, and to