Kushiel's Dart

came at last to Ysandre de la Courcel. I watched her, and her face showed no more emotion than a cameo on a brooch as she turned it to her grandfather. Her voice was like cool water. "Let him be banished," she said.
    I grew up in Cereus House; I knew well how to reckon steel beneath a fragile bloom. That was the first time I saw it in Ysandre de la Courcel. It was not the last.
    "What say you?" asked the King of his Parliament. None spoke, but with judicious nods, their hands opened, turned palm outward. The King spoke again, his voice stronger. "Marc de Trevalion, for your crimes against the throne, you are banished from Terre d'Ange and your lands are forfeit. You have three days to clear the border, and if you return, there shall be a bounty of ten thousand ducats on your head. Do you accept these terms?"
    The once-Due de Trevalion looked, not at the King, but at his granddaughter, the Dauphine. "You jest," he said, his voice trembling.
    She made no reply. The King drew his chin into his beard. "I make no jest!" His voice echoed in the rafters. "Do you accept these terms?"
    "Yes, my king," Marc de Trevalion, murmured, bowing. The Palace Guard closed round him. "My lord . .. my daughter knew nothing! She is innocent in this matter."
    "We shall see," the King repeated, weary again. He waved his hand without looking. "Begone from my sight."
    A whispered consultation took place at the table. They had planned to call Baudoin next, I knew; Delaunay had had it from a friend who drew up the lists. But they changed their minds, and called instead Bernadette de Trevalion, his sister.
    I would have known her for Baudoin's sister, for they looked much alike, but her manner was as shrinking as his was wild. It was not easy having the Lionesse of Azzalle for a mother, I thought, if one was not the favored cub. Within several minutes of questioning, it was obvious that she had known as much as her father, and done as little. I watched closely this time, saw the old King look to his granddaughter, saw her faint nod. The vote fell out the same: banishment. Father and daughter would survive, albeit cut off forever from the land that nurtured us, whose glory ran in our veins like blood. I thought of Thelesis de Mornay's poem, and wept. Unseen in the crowd, Alcuin put his arm about me and steadied me.
    Baudoin de Trevalion was summoned.
    Like his mother, he made the most of his chains, letting them clank as he strode into the Hall. He was beautiful, and magnificent in duress. A sigh echoed through the room.
    "Prince Baudoin de Trevalion," the King said aloud. "You stand accused of high treason. How do you plead to these charges?"
    Baudoin tossed his hair. "I am innocent!"
    Ganelon de la Courcel nodded to someone I could not see. From the wings, Isidore, Due d'Aiglemort, approached the floor.
    His face was like a mask as he inclined his head to Baudoin, then bowed to the King and gave his testimony before the High Court. Only his eyes glittered, dark and impenetrable. It was the same story Caspar had told: a soldier's drunken boast, a loyal Due's investigation. Baudoin flushed, and stared at him with hatred. I remembered that they had been friends. Isidore d'Aiglemort withdrew, and Melisande Shahrizai was summoned.
    It is so clear in my memory, that day. How much of it they knew, I am not certain-nor have I ever known-but House Shahrizai had come out in her support, and Melisande was surrounded by her kindred. As so often happens in the old lines, they bore the stamp of a common heritage, and the Shahrizai made a splash amid the Hall of Audience, with their blue-black hair and their long, brocaded coats of black-and-gold. All of them had the same eyes, too; set like sapphires in pale faces. In none did Kushiel's flame burn as fiercely as it did in her, but it burned in them all, and I was grateful for Alcuin's arm.
    I do not think Melisande Shahrizai could ever manage a true semblance of modesty, but she came closer than I would have reckoned. With downcast lashes, she answered the questions of Parliament, laying out a tale of an ambitious Prince in the thrall of his powerful mother, allies to be made, and a throne to be won. The letters, she said, he had showed her in boast, to make good on his claim.
    Whatever the truth of it, she spoke naught he could dispute. If Baudoin had glared his hatred at the Due d'Aiglemort, it was nothing to the rage that purpled him as he listened to her litany. In the end, it was enough and more. With