Kushiel's Dart

there was a darkness in him that surfaced only sometimes, and we who attended his moods closer than a farmer watches the weather knew well enough not to rouse it.
    "Were you there, my lord?" I ventured at length.
    He answered without turning around, and his voice was flat. "If I could have saved his life, I would have. We shouldn't have been mounted, that was the problem. The ground was too uncertain. But Rolande was always rash. It was his only flaw, as a leader. When he led the third charge, he got too far ahead; his standard-bearer's horse stumbled and went down, and we were held back in getting around him. Not long . . . but long enough for the Skaldi to cut him off." He turned back to us with that same somber look. "On such small things, empires may hang. For want of a sure-footed mount, half the scions of Elua have their gaze set on becoming Prince Consort and claiming the throne through marriage; and Princes of the Blood like Baudoin de Trevalion scheme to take it by force of acclaim. Remember it, my dears, and when you plan, plan well and thoroughly."
    "You think Prince Baudoin wants the throne?" I asked, startled; after more than three years, I still found myself struggling to grasp the shape of these patterns Delaunay studied. Alcuin looked unsurprised.
    "No. Not exactly." Delaunay smiled wryly. "But he is the King's nephew, and I think his mother, who is called for good reason the Lioness of Azzalle, would like to see her son seated upon it."
    "Ahhh." I blinked, and at last this pattern-Baudoin's actions, Delaunay's presence at the Midwinter Masque-came clear to me. "My lord, what has that to do with Skaldic raiders on the eastern border?"
    "Who knows?" He shrugged. "Nothing, perhaps. But there is no saying how events in one place may affect what happens elsewhere, for the tapestry of history is woven of many threads. We needs must study the whole warp and weft of it to predict the pattern on the loom."
    "Will the Skaldi invade?" Alcuin asked softly, a distant glimmer of fear in his dark eyes. Delaunay smiled kindly and stroked his hair.
    "No," he said with certainty. "They are as unorganized as the tribes of Alba before Cinhil Ru, and lords such as the Comte de Ferraut and Due Maslin d'Aiglemort hold the passes well-defended. They have built their strength since the Battle of Three Princes, that such may never occur again. But it is something to note, my dears, and you know what we say about that."
    "All knowledge is worth having." I knew it by rote; if Delaunay had a motto, that was surely it.
    "Indeed." He turned his smile on me, and my heart leapt at his approval. "Go on and entertain yourselves, you've earned a respite," he added, dismissing us.
    We went, obedient to his words, though reluctant, always, to be denied his presence. For those who never knew him, I can say only that there was a charm about Delaunay that compelled the affections of all who surrounded him; for good or for ill, I might add, for I knew later some who despised him. But those who hated him were the sort who envied excellence in others. No matter what he did, Anafiel Delaunay did it with a grace that eludes most people in this world. A panderer, his detractors called him, and later, the Whoremaster of Spies, but I knew him better than most, and never did he conduct himself with less than perfect nobility.
    Which is part of what made him such a mystery.
    "It's not his real name," Hyacinthe informed me.
    "How do you know?"
    He flashed me his white grin, vivid in the dim light. "I've been asking." He thumped his slender chest. "I wanted to know about the man who took you away from me!"
    "I came back," I said mildly.
    Delaunay, to my great annoyance, had been amused. My first escape had been planned with much forethought, executed while he was away at court by climbing out a second-story window disguised in boy's clothes purloined from Alcuin's wardrobe. I had studied a map of the City and made my way on foot, alone and unaided, all the way to Night's Doorstep.
    It had been a tremendous reunion. We stole tarts from the pastry-vendor in the marketplace for old time's sake, running all the way to Tertius' Crossing to crouch under the bridge and eat them, still warm, juices dripping down our chins. Afterward, Hyacinthe had taken me to an inn where he was known to the travelling players who lodged there, strutting about and making himself important by knowing bits of gossip this one or that would pay to hear. Players are notorious for