Kushiel's Dart

found her, in an isolated hold in southern Kusheth, preparing to journey, as Marmion and Persia had said he would.
    That much, they knew, having aided her; not enough to convict her. Word spread like wildfire through Troyes-le-Mont as Melisande was brought into the keep. Everyone knew something, it seemed. And no one knew enough. Melisande played a deep game. The edifice of proof of her guilt had crumbled on the battlefield.
    "I'm sorry," Ysandre said compassionately to me. "I would have spared you this, if I could."
    I drew a deep breath and shivered. "I know, my lady."
    The hearing was held in the throne room, cool and dim behind thick stone walls, lit by lamps and torches even in the heart of summer. I stood behind Ysandre's throne, behind her two Cassilines and the rank of her Courcel guard. Even Joscelin was no comfort in this, although he stood close at my side.
    Quincel de Morhban came forward to bend his knee before Ysandre, pledging his loyalty. What he said, I cannot remember; all my senses were fixed on one point in that room. He stood aside, then, and Melisande Shahrizai came forward, flanked by his men, though they dared not touch her.
    "Lady Melisande Shahrizai." Ysandre's voice, cool as a blade, cut through the flame-streaked air. "You stand before us accused of treason. How do you plead?"
    "Your majesty." Melisande curtsied, smooth and graceful, her face calm and lovely, "I am your loyal servant, and innocent of the charge."
    I could see Ysandre lean forward. "You are charged with conspiring with Isidore d'Aiglemort to betray the nation and seize the throne. Do you deny this?"
    Melisande smiled; I knew that smile well. I have seen it a thousand times, waking and sleeping. Torchlight glimmered on her hair and her ivory features, making twin stars of her deep blue eyes. "For a thousand years, House Shahrizai has served the throne," she said, and her voice was like honey, rich and sweet. We who are D'Angeline, we are vulnerable to beauty, always. I could hear the assembled crowd murmur. "His grace de Morhban makes charges, but he offers no proof, and has much to gain, if his loyalty and my estates alike are at stake." Melisande turned out her hands in an eloquent gesture, lifting her gaze to Ysandre's. Such surety, such confidence; her guilt lay buried beneath the battlefield, in the long sleep of death. "Where was he, when battle was waged for D'Angeline sovereignty? Yes, your majesty, I refute the charge. If he has proof, let him offer it."
    How much, in truth, de Morhban had guessed, I was not sure; but I knew then how much he had told her: nothing. The isolation that had protected Melisande had made her vulnerable, and Quincel de Morhban had disarmed her in the only way possible. He had kept her shrouded in ignorance.
    "You are charged too," Ysandre said, watching her closely, "with conspiring with Waldemar Selig of the Skaldi."
    It took Melisande by surprise. I could see her eyelids flicker. Then she laughed, easily and gracefully. "Does the Due claim as much? Well might I say it of him, or anyone, your majesty. It is an easy charge to make, that may not be gainsaid by the dead."
    "No," Ysandre said. "Not de Morhban."
    Melisande grew still, her gaze sharpening as she regarded Ysandre. "Do I not have the right, your majesty, to know who accuses me?" she asked, her voice low and dangerous.
    Ysandre did not waver, but made a slight gesture with one hand. The rank of her guard parted in front of me, and I stepped forth trembling.
    "I do," I said softly, meeting Melisande's eyes. I raised one hand and grasped the diamond at my throat, tearing it loose with one sharp jerk. The velvet lead broke, and I held the diamond in my hand, cords trailing. I tossed it on the flagstones between us. "That is yours, my lady," I said, taking a shuddering breath. "I am not."
    In the profound silence of the throne room, Melisande Shahrizai went a deadly white.
    To her credit, she gave no other sign, but stood unmoving as the two of us looked at one another. Then, impossibly, she gave a short laugh and looked away. "My lord Delaunay," she murmured, gazing into the distance. "You play a considerable end-game." No one spoke as her sapphire-blue gaze returned to rest thoughtfully on me. "That was the one thing I couldn't fathom. Percy de Somerville was prepared for Selig's invasion. You?"
    "I saw a letter you wrote to Selig, in your own hand." My voice was shaking. "You should have killed me when you had the